Blackheart

by Raelle Logan

  “Grayson, turn this bloody brigand ship toward Legend,” Lochlanaire droned, annoyed by his request.

  With Grayson’s departure, as he gruffly shouted orders to the crewmen, Siren looked to Lochlanaire for an explanation. “Legend? What’s Legend?”

  “Legend is the island carved in the signets’ gold.”

  Siren’s eyes dipped to her finger, only then realizing that her sister’s ring was not decorating her hand. “You stole Shevaun’s ring? You said we would speak to Grayson together.”

  “Yes, but since you lolled in sleep after my bedding of you, I proclaimed it shrewd to seek an immediate answer without you.”

  Blushing, Siren sashayed to Lochlanaire. Her fingers snaked down his arm. With little effort, she lifted his hand off the ship’s tiller and withdrew the signet of his pinky, using her enfolding mouth and teeth as he had hers countless times. Lochlanaire’s breath faltered, his legs weakening. Removing the signet from her mouth, Siren shoved the ring onto her finger, leering, witnessing his hunger for her.

  “Still suspect of me?”

  “Do I possess a reason not to be?” Siren declared.

  He wrapped one arm around her body and jerked her to lie against his chest. The wind murmuring through her hair, Siren faced forward. Lochlanaire steered the ship. It was while embroiled in tranquility that her eyes drifted to the carved figurehead. Siren saw the glimmer of a pistol, which was lantern lit and held in the grip of a man who stood partially secluded by a wine cask’s rim. The weapon appeared to be fully trained on her husband. Chilled, Siren recognized the fiend. Fright flooded her heart, for with a flick of the monster’s finger, Lochlanaire would be dead, the shooter unknown, never seen. Dipping his wrist, the libertine poignantly navigated the pistol, beckoning for her to come to him.

  She could see no other recourse, for he’d kill Lochlanaire if he squeezed the trigger. Siren kissed her husband’s lips, and slipped under his outstretched arm as he shifted the tiller. She trotted off the bridge and raced to the ship’s harshly diving stem, tempting no intrigued attention to herself.

  Crimping the ship’s rail under bloodlessly whitening fingers, Siren stared straight ahead. She searched the night-darkened sea, her torment heightened by the slayer that skulked about the ship.

  Thorn un-cocked the pistol, leering.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Masked Evils

  Thorn’s pistol gestured for Siren to step closer, for she stood aboard the quarterdeck alongside Satan’s Victory’s skeleton figurehead. From the corner of her eye, Siren saw his demand and slid toward where he hunched, sheltered to sight of witnessing crewmen and her unsuspecting husband.

  “Shrewd of you, lady. Your lover would be flounderin’ in Lucifer’s cavern had you not come to me,” Thorn announced.

  “I could do little else for fear of your tyrannies,” Siren icily rebuked.

  “So, you’re wedded to Lochlanaire…lawfully, that is.”

  Siren nodded but only meagerly, not seeking to summon anyone to the truth that she spoke to the leviathan. “I was permitted little choice.”

  “Lochlanaire enslaved you in wedlock, did the rake?” questioned Thorn.

  “Yes. He did.”

  “You suggest, lady, that you were not itchin’ for a lusty union between yourself and Lochlanaire. I profess this as heresy. Starvation for him scalds your gorgeous eyes, Siren. Was stranglin’ him in your arms your insidious longin’ by conceivin’ his child in your womb?”

  “What do you ask of me, charlatan? I’ve nothing to left to say,” Siren growled, disgusted by his disgraceful dissertation.

  “Oh, you’ve much to reveal. I’ve overheard somethin’ miraculous, Siren. If I understand correctly, there are rings aboard this very ship of which possess a seafarin’ chart carved in their lustrous gold. Those rings, I’m told, are jewels you guard. Am I mistaken?”

  Word, apparently, traveled fatally aboard ship. “I have one signet. The other halos Lochlanaire’s pinky,” admitted Siren.

  “These rings are jewels belongin’ to King James II?” Thorn rubbed his scruffy chin, thoughtful.

  “Yes.”

  “And the island they sequester is…?”

  Siren hesitated to answer, but dared not defy this rake. “Legend. Grayson took both signets and searched charts until he unveiled the correct island they depict.”

  “Legend Island, eh?” Thorn’s eyes descended Siren’s hourglass body.

  Siren nodded.

  “And we journey to Legend?”

  “Yes. I convinced Lochlanaire to see that it is worthy to explore the island and capture whatever it secludes so we may ferry it to Zore for ransom, freeing my sister and Lochlanaire of Zore’s ghoulishness.”

  Thorn was doubtful that Zore would be silenced of his inane passion for Lochlanaire’s spilt blood. For too many years he’d been embroiled in bloodlust. “What did you tell Lochlanaire of me?”

  Fearful of his suspicious voice, Siren mulled on whether she should enlighten him or not. “Everything except your name.”

  “Unwise, lady. Remember, I pledged to kill him if you said anythin’ and therefore your sister’s life you sacrifice?”

  Siren reprimanded, “You cannot think I would believe anything you say. And you’ve no right to threaten me. You’re a cutthroat beast.”

  “Aye, I’ve every right, Siren. I grip this pistol, this loaded pistol, which could end your life under one shot seizin’ your heart’s beat. You, Lochlanaire, your beloved sister and your unborn babe could die. Is this what you ask of me with your foolish desecrations?” questioned Thorn.

  “No.” Siren quaked to her soul. “I…apologize for my treachery. Please forgive me.”

  “You’re wise to plead for mercy, Siren. I was, however, certain that you would proceed against my wishes and discuss me with Lochlanaire. However, owin’ to the truth that I hold all the cards in my blood-soiled fist, I expect you to, from this moment forward, obey my orders, or I’ll dispatch you and Lochlanaire, enticin’ your dear sister to her death at Zore’s sword. Understood?”

  Siren gulped. “Understood. What do you want?”

  “To learn each step Lochlanaire intends to position. Legend Island, you say. Just what does the island seclude?” Thorn asked.

  “We suspect a treasure is somewhere entombed.”

  “Oh? And what summons your intriguin’ conclusion?”

  “The signets. My mother said fortune would reign upon us if we coddled them. I could not say what her words implied ‘til I accidentally anchored the rings. They bare the island when chained together as one.”

  “Zore knows about the chart’s existence?”

  “My sister told him there is a treasure to be found,” spouted Siren.

  “You trust she’s tellin’ the truth or is her oath a falsehood, spoken so to alleviate herself of further tortures executed by Zore?”

  Siren stuttered, “I…truly cannot say.”

  “Fair. Return to his arms, Siren. I shall beckon when desirous. Remember, henceforth, Lochlanaire’s life lies in my palm. Should I be identified by anyone aboard this ship, you’ll see the end of those you love, whether or not you were privy to speakin’ my name,” Thorn reprimanded.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Siren saw Thorn fade amid the shadows that no lantern light shimmers. She withdrew to the stairs and then to the captain’s quarters. Inside the cabin, Siren beat her fists against the window’s frosty glass until her flesh felt raw. Tears flooded her eyes. Siren crumpled on the floor.

  Surreally remembering when she’d dueled the ghoul and he’d confessed that his name was Thorn, Siren suddenly saw his ripping gray eyes as she’d danced in the embrace of someone similar who appeared at the masquerade on Pirate Quay. Is this traitor that chivalrous nobleman and if so, why would he kill those men who labor aboard Lochlanaire’s ship? Thorn said the murders were reflections of kills that Lochlanaire once executed. Why torment Lochlanaire for his assassin past? At the masquerade, the gentleman who d
anced with her said his name was Wolf, not Thorn, and he’d worn a blond wig, covering his hair. Surely, they’re not the same person. Could they be, or was she so shaken by the demon who endangered them that she envisions phantoms where no gargoyles linger? Despaired, Siren tugged herself off the wood floor and faced the window. Lightning brightened, piercing magnificently swishing waves.

  Lochlanaire entered his cabin.

  Siren turned toward him but hesitated to speak her mind, fretful of Thorn discovering her treason hurled against him. She bit her lip.

  “A blow assails the ship, Siren. You’d best remain sheltered,” Lochlanaire cautioned.

  Siren nodded. Hurriedly, she announced, “Lochlanaire, the ghoul haunting your ship…I…think I’ve seen him previously at Pirate Quay.”

  He lunged to a standstill near the door. “At Pirate Quay?”

  “Yes. At the masquerade, you left me on the dance floor after our quarrel over Claressa, remember? A man danced with me. He questioned me about our journey and you. I hailed it innocent, mere conversation. But suddenly I remember his appearance. He seems to match the man that I fought aboard your ship, the villain who says he’s slaying here for the purpose of tormenting you with your past assassinations.”

  Disconcerted, Lochlanaire struggled to regain a memory of the man she’d danced in the arms of while at the masquerade. All he could dredge to the surface, regrettably, was his jealousy that she had been cradled in the arms of someone other than him. “I cannot recall the man.”

  Siren shrugged. “Perhaps it is of no consequence. However, the man that danced with me said his name was Wolf Larnon. Does this impart anything?”

  “Wolf Larnon?” Lochlanaire turned away so Siren couldn’t read his anxiousness. It was then that Lochlanaire realized--he should have known the man dancing with Siren. But since his memory is little more than pit of unspoiled evil, he did not recognize the brother of the man he’d dueled and was pitched into an insane asylum for murdering, the man who had him tortured for two years. Did he know Wolf Larnon? Unable to obtain an answer to his bitter question, Lochlanaire decided to speak with Grayson. Perhaps he could shed light where none dwelled. “I return to the helm. Siren, it is shrewd to arm yourself and remain distant of those who conjure harm.”

  Siren understood. Lochlanaire was warning her to keep shy of the deviant charlatan. Captivation, alas, crushed the talisman of valor and Siren could not obey as Lochlanaire suggested. She was Thorn’s captive out of terror for those she loved.

  ***

  As she discerned his retreat, Siren wondered at Lochlanaire’s actions after she’d admitted the name of the man who danced with her at the masquerade and that the ghoul haunting the ship might be the same serpent. Why did she sequester the intense feeling that Lochlanaire still hid some sort of villainy, if so, what? Who is Wolf Larnon and of what importance is he to Lochlanaire?

  Shrugging, Siren anchored down whatever she could within the cabin and sat on the bed. Her eyes drifted to the wrathful sea as it washed the window in trickling streams. Siren envisioned blood streaks wispily descending that chilled glass.

  ***

  Lochlanaire fled aboard the bridge, stepping straight to Grayson. The two men wrestled against the ship’s untamed tiller in an attempt to keep the ship on its course amid the storm. Shouting, Lochlanaire asked, “Siren just informed me that the mercenary walking our ship could be the same man she danced with at Pirate Quay. That man gave her his name, which was Wolf Larnon.”

  “Wolf?” Grayson yelled, rain streaking his face.

  “Have I met Wolf Larnon? Would I recognize him if I saw him?”

  “No, Lochlanaire, and I admit, neither have I met him. All I’m aware of is the reprehensible oath he swore of which condemned you for the slaughter of his brother, and his vengeance that pitched you into the crypt of Heathgate.”

  “Then neither you, nor I can point him out. Siren’s the only person who may possess his identity, if Wolf is aboard this ship.”

  “Aye, Lock. Nevertheless, our mercenary could be lyin’ so to cover his detestable tracks, lurin’ us in an erroneous course by want of trickery. Remember the initials carvin’ the chests of the dead men were a T and a B. Those do not fit Wolf,” reminded Grayson.

  “It could all be false, the phantom’s admissions to Siren, the carved initials, even the name of the man she danced with on Pirate Quay.”

  Grayson nodded his rain-sodden head. “I imagine that nothing our slayer would say could anyone trust as true. This said, Lochlanaire, there is the remote chance that he’s actually Wolf Larnon. If so, he’s without mercy and on a definite hunt for blood. Your blood.”

  “She’s being used as bait for which to brutalize me,” Lochlanaire proclaimed.

  “Possibly more than that. He could be tyin’ her in his twisted tales, goadin’ her to tell you whatever he wishes.”

  “It is a labyrinth of vile deceptions. Siren’s scared, Grayson. Since he’s attacked her previously, the bastard is not above harming a woman. She’s aware of his offense, frightened, perhaps, of forsaking his wrath.”

  “It is quite the maniacal trap our mercenary webs.”

  Poising their attention to the storm-swept ship, Lochlanaire and Grayson were both troubled.

  Lochlanaire worried for his wife’s sanity and the sincerity that she’s being pursued by the brigand hunting him, anxious for her and the child she carries.

  Grayson feared that with two killers loose who chase Lochlanaire relentlessly, how would he keep his brother alive? He could not guard Lochlanaire of the depravities cursing the ship. He dreaded the worst, that Lochlanaire would stumble to his death, either by Zore’s sword lance or at the command of the villain roaming the ship, unyielding in his wickedness. Whether it was Wolf Larnon or a fiend unknown, it is a goblin disguising witchery sullying his heart and blackguard soul.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Child Nearly Lost

  After the storm dispatched, Siren was allowed to bathe. Such is a rare luxury aboard a vessel, and only undertaken with rain filling the casks to overflowing. In the captain’s quarters, an oval tub was prepared by buckets of water, some steamy hot, others cooling. Siren could hardly wait for the men to depart, the bath looked so inviting. Once they finished dumping their buckets, she scampered to the entry, shutting the door. Siren ripped her clothing off her body and dipped first one leg and then the other inside the tub, sinking amongst celestial waves. She washed her hair, using lavender soap and soaked in lavishness, bubbles popping beneath fluttery hand, her head propped against the ornate tub back. She did not open languid eyes as the door crept open, assuming Lochlanaire entered. A man’s palm strangulated her mouth from behind. Siren was jarred to sit up but she was not permitted, scared this cad bore satanic lechery in mind. She cursed herself for forgetting to lock the cabin door.

  “Lay back, lady. Relax. The consequences otherwise could be disastrous,” broached a cruel voice.

  Siren recognized the phantom’s drawl. His fingers circled her thunderously pulsing throat. “Why do you accost me?”

  “I take extreme pleasure in the doin’, Siren. Gazin’ upon your naked, luscious person, I see why Lochlanaire is ravenous for your gorgeous body as the degradin’ animal he’s become. What man wouldn’t be scorched by passion for so tantalizin’ a beauty?”

  Siren felt disgraced by his declaration, but she refused to allow him to see her shame. “You touch me in any repulsive fashion and I’ll butcher you myself.”

  Thorn ridiculed, “Idle threats do not become those succulent lips of yours, Siren, especially when you are aware that any deaths will be executed by my hand, not yours.”

  “Are…are you the man who danced with me at Pirate Quay?”

  “What a perplexin’ question. Why do you ask?” inquired Thorn.

  “I think you are him. Your eyes mirror those of the man I danced with, but he said his name was Wolf Larnon. Who are you? What is your legitimate name?”

  Thorn chuckled an
d released her throat. He sauntered to the desk, crossing his linen-clothed legs at booted ankles. “My name is utterly irrelevant.”

  “Of what importance is the name Wolf Larnon to Lochlanaire?”

  “Lochlanaire’s not told you ‘bout him?”

  Siren was loathe to admit, “He hid that the name was familiar when I spoke it to him. I cannot understand why.”

  Thorn’s eyes wandered throughout the captain’s quarters. “My, oh, my, how must I explain…Wolf Larnon is Elias Larnon’s brother, or, he was. The Earl of Lancer, Elias, lady, was slain prior to a duel. The duel was to be a contest conducted between Lochlanaire and Elias, but it was unfairly fought. Elias, you see, collapsed to his death ere the clash could proceed to its honorable conclusion. He was stabbed, not pistol shot, which is the custom if the duel were justly resolved. They’d brawled nights prior to this, you see. Lochlanaire, I’m sure, claims to bein’ unable to remember why, though his wretchedness in the tussle cannot be forsaken, therefore; the duel was arranged.”

  “Why did Lochlanaire stab Elias?” wondered Siren.

  “I cannot say. I was not witness to the depravity. However, loss of chivalry demands satisfaction. At least, it does in Wolf’s mournful heart. Wolf swore to seize blood vengeance on Lochlanaire for his brother’s dreadful murder,” nonchalantly Thorn attested.

  “Murder? Is it possible that something terrible went awry and Elias died by want of his own poison?” Siren interjected, hopeful.

  Thorn shook his head. “Those witnessin’ insisted that Lochlanaire was guilty of the crime to which he stood accused.”

  “Accused?”

  He nodded. “Wolf was ravenous for blood and appealed for satisfaction for the dishonorable loss of his beloved brother.”

  “What was his satisfaction?” Siren probed further.

  Fingernail tapping his teeth, Thorn considered. “Ah, perhaps Lochlanaire should explain what was exacted of him as compensation for so devious a treachery. Lochlanaire’s crimes are so grisly; I wonder that a woman such as you can love a vampire who bears his viperous fangs so ferociously. Do you not seclude in your perfect breast forebodin’ that you could fall as his next victim? Ah, yes, I forgot, you are Lochlanaire’s next victim. Oh, but surely now that he’s sired a child who sleeps amidst your flawless body, Lochlanaire mustn’t surrender you to King William. Or will he? Do you solemnly swear, Siren, that because of the babe Lochlanaire will not reject you for his own despicable rewards? Dire questions, agreed?” Straightening, Thorn wandered to the tub and hunched, entrancing Siren’s eyes; his hand swished frothy water. “It is a pity that you’ve wedded the rake, Siren. We could have been far more to each other than merely slave and enslaver.” His fingertip snaked over her wet breast.