Immortal War

by Justin Somper

  “Yes,” Cheng Li said. “It’s your friendships with pirates like Molucco and Cate, Bart, and me. That doesn’t mean you owe a fortune to the Federation.”

  “Perhaps not,” Connor said. “But this war has already claimed the lives of Molucco Wrathe and his brother Porfirio. It’s claimed Bart Pearce and John Kuo and hundreds, if not thousands, of others besides. We have to put a stop to this right now. We need to make safe the oceans for the future. I can’t think of a better use for Molucco’s money than that, can you?”

  Cheng Li was, uncharacteristically, silent. He thought he knew what she was thinking—what she would have said to him were Ahab Black not with them in this room. Connor, you’re a dhampir, you’re immortal. You’re going to need that money! But he knew better than that. He’d had a glimpse of his own death. And it didn’t terrify him half as much as the thought of losing this terrible war. If he had to die to bring about peace, so be it. He’d be joining the ranks of his dear friends and respected comrades. He’d have played his part in pirate history in a greater way than he could ever have imagined.

  “Is there something you’d like me to sign?” he asked Commodore Black.

  “Absolutely,” said Black, sliding a contract across the table, along with his fountain pen.

  Connor took Black’s pen and, after a cursory glance over the text, signed his signature with a flourish.

  “Excellent!” Ahab Black said, taking back the contract, folding it, and stowing it away safely in his pocket. “Okay, Tempest, well, it’s customary for you to kneel at this point…”

  “Wait just a minute!” Cheng Li said. “You’re going to perform Connor’s investiture here and now? Doesn’t all his money at least buy him a proper ceremony?”

  “Like yours?” Black asked. “I remember that day, before John Kuo’s untimely death. The sun was shining and the academy chefs surpassed themselves with their canapés. No, Commodore Li, I’m afraid this is a time of austerity. There won’t be any more grand events like that until—unless—we achieve peace on our terms.”

  “It’s okay,” Connor said, falling to his knees. “I’m not so good on big occasions.” He smiled reassuringly at Cheng Li. “You know that.”

  He’d rarely seen Cheng Li seem so sad or worried. His attention was distracted as Commodore Black unsheathed his sword and began to speak more formally.

  “By the powers invested in me by the Pirate Federation, I, Commodore Ahab Black, grant Connor Tempest the title of Captain in perpetuity.”

  Black lifted his sword and brought its cold metal face flush against the side of Connor’s neck.

  “Plenty and satiety,” Black said, then moved the sword to the other side of Connor’s neck. “Pleasure and ease,” he continued. Then he moved the tip of the sword to Connor’s chest, right above his fast-beating heart, where it abutted the silver braid on Connor’s uniform. “Liberty and power,” said Black. Then, in a more avuncular voice, “You can get up now, Captain Tempest!”

  “Wait!” Cheng Li cried. “What about the rest of the investiture? In your head and in your heart through to travel home in peace and harmony?”

  “You’re a Federation officer,” Black said. “I think I can leave you to fill in any blanks. I’ve got a check to deposit and a war to win. Congratulations, Captain Tempest! And thank you on behalf of the Federation and the Alliance as a whole. Your role in this victory will not be overlooked.” He reached out to shake Connor’s hand, then strode toward the door. At the threshold, he gave a quick Federation salute, then continued on his way into the night.

  Connor rose to his feet, dazed. His first thought was: I’m a captain now. His second: I’ve just signed my own death warrant.

  Cheng Li shook her head with irritation. “He didn’t even stop to tell us what plans he has to find you a ship.”

  Connor shrugged. Cheng Li was right, as usual, but he had other, darker thoughts to contend with. Thoughts that were too dark even to share with her.

  “You see?” Lola said, settling little Hunter on her lap. “He’s fine now that he’s sitting up with us, aren’t you, darling?” She blew a little raspberry in his ear and the infant smiled in delight.

  “I think he was just missing his mum,” Holly said.

  “Shall we continue?” Nathalie gestured toward the cards.

  “Yes,” agreed Lola. “We mustn’t leave Jack Tar hanging.” Steadying Hunter on her knee, she reached forward and turned the next card.

  The three women stared at the image of a young man, or perhaps woman, attending to a weak soul in his sickbed. “The Healer,” Nathalie announced.

  “So,” Lola said. “Death comes for the Healer. I wonder, who could it be?”

  “Mosh Zu Kamal!” Holly exclaimed, getting into the spirit. “He’s the most prominent healer we know, isn’t he?”

  Nathalie nodded. “He’s a strong contender.” She turned to Lola. “And I don’t mean to put a damper on proceedings, but wasn’t Olivier his protégé?”

  Lola nodded. “You make a good point,” she said. “But I think you’ve both overlooked the most obvious candidate.” She smiled before adding, “Grace Tempest.”

  “Of course!” Nathalie exclaimed, her face suddenly sober. “I’m sorry, Captain. For a moment there, I forgot she’s still your stepdaughter.”

  Lola shook her head. “In name only. Grace had her chance with me but she blew it. If the Mariner is coming to claim her, I’m not going to stand in his way.”

  “Shall we see if Jack has anyone else in his sights?” Nathalie suggested.

  Lola nodded, reaching out her hand once more. The card she turned revealed a sailor standing at the prow of a ship, looking out rather disconsolately across a vast ocean.

  “The Lost Corsair,” Nathalie said. “Also known as the Lost Buccaneer.”

  “Buccaneer?” Holly said. “That rings a bell!”

  Lola brought her hands together. “It’s perfect! Connor Tempest and his two friends called themselves the Three Buccaneers. Do you remember, girls?”

  “That’s right!” Nathalie said. “There’s Connor and his friend Bart. But he’s dead now, so it can’t be him.”

  “No,” Lola agreed, thinking briefly of the moment she’d claimed Bart’s life. “The other candidate is Stukeley.”

  Holly looked distraught. “Not just Stukeley! Stukeley made that speech when Bart was here. Do you remember… at Tiffin? And Lord Sidorio called Johnny the fourth buccaneer.”

  “Did he?” Lola said. “I’m afraid I don’t remember.” She shrugged. “But even so, you’d have to figure that Stukeley and Connor are the more likely candidates.”

  “Agreed,” Nathalie said with a nod.

  “What if it’s Stukeley?” Holly said. “Poor, poor Mimma!”

  “The auguries are even better than I expected,” Lola said, her voice drowning out Holly’s as she turned to Nathalie. “Victory is within our grasp and death is stalking both Grace and Connor. My dear, I simply couldn’t have wished for a better reading!”

  “You have only turned six cards,” Nathalie reminded her. “You have one left to turn.”

  “Of course,” Lola said, her fingers hovering above the cards once more. Her decision made, her fingers came down and flipped over the card. It was a picture of a constellation of stars, bright in the night sky. The stars had been rendered with silver leaf.

  Lola gasped. “No!” she said.

  “What is it?” asked Holly. “Is it a theme card?”

  Nathalie shook her head gravely. “No, dear, it’s another people card. This represents Orion…”

  “More commonly known,” Lola continued, her voice low, “as the Hunter.”

  “So does it mean death for…” Holly’s question was left unfinished. All eyes turned to the happy infant smiling and gurgling obliviously on Lola’s knee.

  “It can’t be true,” Lola said, tears welling in her eyes.

  “It needn’t be,” Nathalie said. “Remember, the Hunter is also a symbolic card. It could
refer to the death of any of the pirates who have been stalking us. In particular, the one who captained the first ship of Vampirate assassins.”

  “Cheng Li,” Lola said. “Yes, I suppose…”

  Nathalie spoke again, more forcefully. “Captain, even if the card does suggest Hunter may be in danger, we let the cards reveal their story to us as a warning. We can take steps to protect him.”

  “Yes.” Lola wiped her eyes dry. “Yes, dear, of course you are quite right.” She hugged Hunter more closely to her. “Nothing must happen to him. I will keep him with me at all times.”

  “Even in battle?” Holly asked. “Isn’t that putting him straight into the line of danger?”

  “We can take turns looking after him,” Nathalie suggested. “A twenty-four-hour rotation.”

  “What about baby Evil?” asked Holly. “Shouldn’t we protect him, too?”

  “The card was the Hunter,” Lola said. “He’s the one in danger.”

  “Should you turn another card?” Holly inquired. “Just to check?”

  Lola shook her head emphatically. “No more cards.”

  “We agreed at the outset,” Nathalie said. “We were playing sevens. The cards made a pact with us to reveal their story in seven scenes. And so they did.”

  Holly nodded, her eyes turning once more to Lola’s sweet little boy. It was unthinkable that he might be in any danger. This game had been fun at the start, but it had taken a rather nasty direction. The captain and Nathalie seemed utterly confident that the cards spelled victory for the Vampirates and death for Grace and Connor. But hadn’t they also placed Olivier and Stukeley in the danger zone? Maybe even Johnny, too. Although the others had seemed to believe the reading, Holly was less convinced. It seemed to her that there were many possible ways to interpret the macabre cards. The whole game had left her with an increasing sense of unease about what lay ahead. But, she reflected—as Nathalie cleared away the cards—she was only a beginner. And, based on this experience, this was not a game she would want to play again anytime soon.

  35

  THE LAST FEAST NIGHT

  Not for the first time, Grace experienced frustration that there was no mirror in Lorcan’s cabin. Perhaps there was still time to return to her own room and change her dress. She had made as much effort as she could muster out of respect for the traditions of Feast Night. Nonetheless, she wasn’t convinced that, had Darcy been here, she’d have been allowed to step out of the cabin looking like this. She had liberated her hair from its utility ponytail but it still looked rather wild. She had run out of time trying to tame it into submission. Her dress was plain navy blue—a good cut and color but, she had no doubt, too simple for her friend’s tastes. She imagined Darcy shaking her head and giving her a few stern words about how standards must not slip, even in the midst of war. The only jewelry Grace was wearing was Lorcan’s ring. In this respect, at least, she was confident that she had done the right thing. Nothing could, nor should, compete with the beautiful diamond.

  Grace’s thoughts of Darcy turned to wondering about how things were going at Sanctuary. Seeing the sleeve of Lorcan’s uniform poking out from his open wardrobe door, Grace stepped forward. She felt another flash of guilt at her hasty departure from Sanctuary. She had yet to make an astral journey to Mosh Zu to explain her actions. Her excuse was that she didn’t want to disturb him at this crucial time. Well, that was part of it, she thought, as she pushed Lorcan’s uniform back inside the wardrobe and turned the key. She reflected on the extent of her journey; when she had first arrived on The Nocturne, it was Lorcan who had been the one to lock her in her cabin. Now she was the one with the key, putting away her boyfriend’s clothes.

  Now Lorcan stepped out of his washroom, smelling of his light woodsy cologne, and walked over to her. He brought his arms about her waist and kissed her neck.

  “You look gorgeous,” he said. “In case you were wondering.”

  She twisted around in his embrace and caught full sight of him. It was something of a shock to see him out of his serge uniform and back in the more formal attire of Feast Night.

  “So do you,” she said as his lips met hers. As they kissed, her eyes closed. When she opened them again, she was overwhelmed—as she invariably was—by his beauty.

  “I guess we should get going,” Lorcan said. She could hear the reluctance in his voice and sensed that, like her, he’d be far happier remaining here with her in his cabin.

  “Yes,” Grace said. “If you still think it’s the right thing to do.”

  There was a flash of weariness in Lorcan’s eyes. “I’m afraid I do,” he said. “We must at least try to talk to him.”

  Grace reached out for his hand and squeezed it tightly in her own. They set off along the corridor, walking in the direction counter to the other Nocturnals, who were making their way down through the ship to the large dining room on the lowest deck. Some of the Nocturnals glanced curiously at Grace and Lorcan as the couple moved against the flow. Others were too preoccupied by their own concerns. Grace gazed at the stream of familiar faces. Despite the various cosmetics employed in an attempt to disguise their true state, the Nocturnals looked as frail as they always did at the outset of the Feast. It was, after all, when they were most depleted in blood and therefore at their weakest.

  As the rest of the crew continued moving down the ship, Grace and Lorcan reached their destination—the captain’s cabin. The door was ajar. Either Obsidian Darke was about to emerge or he had anticipated their arrival.

  “Captain?” Lorcan said tentatively.

  There was no answer.

  Grace realized with alarm that there was a third possibility: The captain’s cabin had been breached. She turned to Lorcan in alarm. He squeezed her hand and called more loudly. “Captain!”

  Still no answer. Grace felt her heart hammering, wondering what might be waiting for them inside the captain’s cabin. She had a deep sense of foreboding about this night, and with every step she took—with every beat of the music—that sense of foreboding only grew more intense.

  “Come on,” Lorcan said to her, his voice deep and calm as he drew his hand free and pushed open the door to Obsidian Darke’s cabin. Her heart still beating wildly, Grace followed him inside.

  The first section of the cabin—containing the captain’s polished wooden table and chairs and the fireplace—was deserted. In the center of the table was an oil lamp, illuminating a number of charts. It was a sight that Grace had glimpsed before, many times. It took her back to the very first time she had dared to enter the captain’s cabin.

  Lorcan turned to Grace curiously, asking softly, “Where is he?”

  Grace thought she knew. Ahead of them lay a pair of thick curtains. Grace moved toward them and parted the material, beckoning to Lorcan to follow. As she had expected, Obsidian Darke was standing on the balcony outside, his hands resting on the ship’s vast wooden steering wheel. This was where she had first seen him, almost a year ago now. Then he’d been clad in a mask, cape, and gloves and had cautioned her “not to be alarmed by my appearance.” Now it was his human face that turned to meet them.

  “I’ve been expecting you,” he said. There was something in the way he said it that confirmed and intensified Grace’s ominous feelings about the night.

  “We need to talk to you,” Lorcan said.

  “I know what you want to say,” Obsidian answered. “But it’s out of the question.”

  Lorcan hesitated. “I know how powerful you are, Captain, so it doesn’t surprise me if you have read my mind, but I’m still going to voice the words.”

  Grace looked from one to the other, willing Lorcan to draw upon all his remaining strength. Looking at him now, he seemed weary to her. She couldn’t be sure if this was the outcome of a war of attrition with Obsidian Darke over the best way to steer their forces or simply his own urgent need to take blood from his donor, Oskar.

  Lorcan stole a quick glance at Grace, then turned back to Obsidian. “It’s our opinio
n that tonight should be the last Feast Night,” he said.

  Obsidian nodded but was silent. Even if he had predicted their plea, he would grant them the courtesy of listening to it.

  “At least until this war is over,” Lorcan continued. “I know the importance of Feast Night to you, but I think the crew needs to feed more often in order to keep strong in case of attack. And I just don’t think it’s appropriate for us to give such time to this ritual with everything else that’s going on around us right now.”

  Obsidian waited, as if to ensure that Lorcan was finished. Then he nodded and began his answer. “I knew this was what you were coming to suggest, but I cannot agree. With everything else that is going on, the ritual of Feast Night has never been more appropriate, nor more important.” He paused. “Feast Night has been at the heart of the way this ship has run since it first set sail. It symbolizes the difference between our way of being and that of those who oppose and seek to undermine us. The only time Feast Night has been disrupted has been when they have sought to do so. I will not—I cannot—countenance this kind of change. We might as well sound the bell of surrender and let go of all we have held true for so long.”

  Lorcan tried once more. “You recognize that these are changing times. The threat we face from Sidorio’s troops is unprecedented. You have embraced change before, when you stepped out from behind your mask and showed a human face to the world. Others would have thought that was inconceivable, but you knew you had to do it.”

  Obsidian’s voice was heavy as he replied. “There are others who would still challenge that decision. But you’re right. I had to change. I had to become a different kind of leader. I acknowledge that and I take responsibility for it, whatever the consequences. But I do not view Feast Night in the same way. As long as I am captain of this ship and commander in chief of this quadrant, Feast Night remains.” His long hair rippled in the night breeze. He turned his dark eyes toward Lorcan. “I trust that, while you disagree with me, I still command your loyalty, Commander Furey?”