A Pirate's Curse (Legends of the Soaring Phoenix)

by ML Guida

  The bald pirate pointed at her. “She’s the witch.”

  She winced.

  “Aye,” the short squatty one nodded, his jowls jiggling. “She’s Knight’s daughter. Palmer wants her.”

  “My father? Is he alive?”

  “Somewhat,” the blond pirate shrugged. “You’ll be joining him soon, bitch.”

  “Palmer can’t have her,” William growled and stepped in front of Hannah.

  The blond slowly moved his fingers one by one into loose fists. “So, sweet lass, you like to play rough, do you?” He smiled. “I prefer it that way. So does Palmer.”

  Imagining what Palmer considered rough, Hannah sucked in her breath.

  “Hannah,” Doc urged.

  She stepped around William, pulled out her dagger and threw it. The bald vampire screamed as the dagger hit him in the face. Blood dripped from his right eye socket. He covered his eye, staggered, tore out the dagger. “I’m going to rip your throat out, bitch.”

  The blond rushed Hannah, but William blocked him with a swing of his sword.

  The flaxen pirate righted himself and lunged at Hannah. Doc swung out his leg between the bars and tripped the fair man. He crashed to the ground.

  Hannah raised her cutlass, but hesitated.

  “Do it,” Doc urged.

  She closed her eyes and brought the sword down. The man groaned. She opened her eyes. The cutlass cut deep into the back of the man’s neck, blood seeping down past his collar onto his back.

  The bald vampire flew out at her. She drew on her power again and slashed her cutlass, slicing his arm. The vampire howled. Doc aimed his pistol and fired, hitting the man in the temple. Blood trickling down the man's face, he crashed to the ground.

  “Now, Hannah,” Doc panted. “Finish what you started, before he gets up.”

  Hannah glanced at the bald vampire. He had dragged himself to all fours.

  Her stomach churned, but she gritted her teeth and propelled the cutlass down again and again. Blood splattered onto her hands, her trousers, the floor. Her arms ached. She brought the cutlass down one more time. The man collapsed and his head rolled to the side. Bile rose up her throat and she dropped the cutlass.

  The fair pirate lunged, forcing William to back up against a wall. William slashed his sword, but the man gained ground on William. He cornered him and hoisted his sword high over his head. Hannah focused on his word, drew upon her powers and flicked her wrist. The sword flew out of his hand, soared across the room and embedded in the opposite wall.

  The blond whirled around. “What the—”

  Before he finished his sentence, William cleaved his neck. His head thudded to the floor and it rolled across the brig. Hannah covered her mouth, refusing to give into her rebelling stomach.

  “Are you all right, lass?” William placed his hand on her shoulder.

  She swiped her mouth. “There’s so much blood.”

  William picked up her cutlass and handed it to her. “No one ever gets used to it, except, maybe Palmer. You’re more than up for the task. Kane would be proud of you.”

  She nodded. She wished Kane was there with his arms wrapped around her, whispering everything would be fine. But he wasn’t.

  “So, mademoiselle, you’ve turned pirate. You’re no longer a lady. You’re a meurtrier, a murderer. Are you a prostituée as well?”

  William slammed his pistol against the bars again. Jacques stepped back. “Shut up, D’Aubgine or I’ll shoot your arse.”

  Jacques muttered under his breath.

  Gunfire exploded above deck. Screams erupted.

  William ran out of the brig.

  Hannah chased after him. “You can’t leave us.”

  He climbed the ladder. “Stay here. I’ll be back.”

  Cold chills gripped her. Wetness slid down her upper lip. She rubbed it and blood smeared onto her finger. With Kane drinking from her and making love to her, and using her powers, she was so weak. She lowered her cutlass, her fingers losing their grip and her legs wobbled. She sagged against the wall and stared at Doc and the men locked in the brig. What if more demon pirates came? Or Palmer himself? Was she strong enough to fight them?

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  “William, wait,” Hannah yelled.

  But William ignored her, running up on deck to face demon pirates. Now, she was truly on her own. She and Doc glanced at each other. “Doc, have you fed?”

  Doc struggled to stand up against the wall. “Aye, just takes time to heal.”

  “You need to get your strength back.” She stared at Jacques and his men in the cage. They were the means to speed his recovery, to keep him alive and to keep the curse at bay.

  Jacques glared. “What exactly are you going to do, mademoiselle?”

  “Save my friend.” Hoping the men didn’t guess she didn’t know how to use it, she cocked her pistol. “I’ll keep them at bay, Doc.” She walked over to the cell and unlocked it, aiming the pistol at Jacques.

  “Mademoiselle, if you think…”

  “If you try anything Jacques, I’ll plug a hole in your chest. Now back off.” Her breath was erratic, but she refused to allow Doc to be vulnerable. She held her pistol steady.

  Doc slipped inside and dropped down next to an unconscious sailor. “Just a few more drops and I’ll be fine.”

  Jacques folded his arms across his chest. “So, now you’re aiding vampires?”

  She tilted her chin. “Kane and his crew are not like Palmer.”

  Jacques shrugged. “Palmer and his men are a simply a means to an end.”

  “You’re all heartless fiends.”

  Jacques hissed and clenched his fist. He was everything she loathed.

  Doc quickly fed on the sailor, wiped his mouth on his sleeve and stood. He took a deep breath and stretched. “’Tis done. I’m healed. Let’s go.”

  Hannah nodded. She stared at the sailor. His chest rose up and down. Still alive. Good.

  She locked the door again. Jacques threw himself at the bars and shook them. “I promise you I’ll soon be free.”

  “You actually trust Palmer to free you? You’re a bigger fool than I thought.” She offered him a pitied smile.

  Doc exited the brig and she followed his massive bulk up the stairs, despite the clanging of swords, firing of pistols and the shouts of angry voices. The smell of gunpowder permeated the air and firing of cannons thundered in her ears. Her heart pounding, she gasped for breath, praying Kane was alive. Please, let him be alive.

  Cannons fired again, the ship rocked and she stumbled backwards, reaching for Doc’s shirt. “Doc.”

  He whirled around and gripped her arm before she fell backwards down the stairs head first. “Lass are you all right?”

  “Yes, I’m fine.” But she was far from fine. She wanted to throw her cutlass down and hide in Kane’s cabin. She wanted Kane so badly. To feel his arms around her, telling her she was safe.

  Doc ran through the opening into the fray, his sword high over his head. But she slammed her back against the wall. This wasn’t like fighting Jacques and his men. They were humans. She was going to step out and fight vampires, vampires who wanted to rip her throat out or drag her captive to a bloodthirsty demon.

  Taking a deep breath, she clutched her cutlass with both hands and stepped into the battle. Men fought in pairs, circling each other engaging in a dance of death, lunging, nicking, piercing, the tips of their blackened swords shouting of the wounds and the promise of more to come. The burning flames highlighted the men’s darkened faces and the dead and injured, but ’twas the offal streaked deck that made her gasp, bile threatening to shoot up her churning stomach.

  Pistols fired and smoke rose around them. Gritting her teeth, she scanned the moonlight deck hunting for Kane. But there were too many shadows twisting and flickering in confusion. She saw a man raise his machete over his head, step on a man’s right arm and pin him. The fallen man’s blond hair flared out onto the deck.

  Sean!

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nbsp; He lay on the deck, his left arm twisted and cut deep, blood pooling onto the wood. She drew on her power and flicked her wrist. The machete flew out of his opponent’s hand and lay at her feet. The man blinked and stared at his hand. Rolling to his side, Sean kicked his leg, knocking the brute to the ground. He jumped to his feet, grabbed a sword and cleaved the man’s head.

  Hannah’s stomach lurched and she swallowed down bile.

  “Hannah, get out of here,” Sean ordered. He headed for her, but an enemy blocked his path.

  Ignoring him, she tightened her grip on her cutlass, edged farther into the carnage and scanned the melee of vampires fighting to death, searching for Kane, willing him not to be among the dead.

  “Look out,” Sean cried.

  A vampire swung his sword at her, aiming for her neck. Hannah raised her cutlass and blocked his strike. Surprise reflected in the man’s eyes, but they narrowed and she saw her death. Drawing upon her power, she hoped to even the odds and escape with little damage. The man lunged again and again, forcing Hannah back. Each time, his sword came closer and closer to slicing into her tender flesh.

  She stared at the man’s blade, not sure if she could concentrate while fighting for her life. The man jabbed his sword, slashing her thigh. Hannah faltered from the burning sting, falling onto her knee. Victory blazed in the man’s eyes as he swung his sword. Hannah pushed out her shaking palm and threw all her power into the man. His mouth fell open and his eyes widened as he flew backwards, slamming into the bloody fray.

  Hannah caught her breath. Her thigh throbbed and blood trickled from the wound. She wiped her forehead and stared at the Fiery Damsel. Somewhere on board was her father was in pain, alone, possibly even dying. She had to get him out of there. He had always doubted her, but now, she was his only hope.

  Without thinking and before her courage died, she ran across a boarding plank to the burning Fiery Damsel. Black smoke engulfed her and her eyes burned.

  “Hannah, no!”

  She grimaced. William. But with the smoke hiding her, he’d not be able to stop her. She ducked between fighting men, praying she didn’t run into Palmer. Through the smoke, she spotted the bulkhead and a doorway. Ignoring the pain in her thigh, she raced to the doorway, but her right leg wobbled and she collapsed onto the deck. She dragged herself to her feet and with a limp, sprinted to the blackened doorway.

  Dampness and mustiness reeked inside. And something else, more foul. She wrinkled her nose and her stomach swirled. Darkness loomed in the stairwell. She glanced over her shoulder. The smoke was dissipating and any minute, she’d be discovered.

  Hannah clamped her jaw tight and descended down the creaking steps blackened with filth. The smoky salt air lessened as the dampness and mustiness grew stronger. She came to a landing. The soft glow of a lantern revealed swinging hammocks and trunks pushed against the wall, but the lantern failed to show what lay behind the hammocks. She swallowed, wishing her father was here rather than in the underbelly of the Fiery Damsel.

  She inhaled a deep breath of foul air and plunged further down the stairs. The stench of urine gagged her. She was close. She tightened her grip on the cutlass. At the bottom of the steps, she backed up against the wall and her hand shaking, she thrust her cutlass out in front of her. Gulping air into her lungs, she waited for her eyes to adjust to the murkiness, but she only saw blackness. Sharp breathes echoed in the darkness. Someone watched her. Swallowing, she edged back up the stairs and seized the nearest hanging lantern.

  She held up the lantern and froze. Chains dangled from hooks on the wall. On a rusty wooded table, there were whips and canes, but what stole her breath were the branding irons. Red, brown and yellow blotches stained the floor. A room of horror that put Jacques’ dungeon to shame.

  Another gasp came from the darkness. Gripping the lantern handle tight, she turned, preparing for the worst. She wasn’t disappointed. A beaten man hung shackled to the wall, a leather choker sparkling with gems around his neck. His breeches were torn and his torso was battered and bloodied. He raised his head and stared at her with one good eye through his stringy hair. “You’re Hannah?”

  She took a step back. “How did you know?”

  “I’m Lark Fey.” He tilted his head back. “Lucky me, I’ve the gift of sight and got to be a guest aboard the Fiery Damsel.”

  She frowned. “Meaning?”

  “Palmer captured me to force me to find you and your father.”

  She gripped her cutlass tighter. “So, that’s how you found us in Saint Kitts.”

  “I’m sorry to say, but yes. Torture can be very persuasive,” he said. He stared across the room. “Especially when Palmer’s hurting someone else.”

  Hannah followed his gaze. A man was stretched out on a rack, his arms high and wide over his head and his legs wide and pulled downward. She sucked in her breath. “Father?”

  “No, ’tis my friend, Ronan Macmillan.”

  She gasped. “Is he dead?”

  “No, he’s one of the crew of the Soaring Phoenix, immortal, so Palmer can torture him over and over again, knowing he’ll heal.”

  Her gut twisted in knots, bile swarming and burning within her.

  “Hannah.” Her name was more of a groan than a word. She lifted the lantern, but the light only illuminated a few feet in front of her. At another groan, she took a step forward into the blackness. Her hand shaking, the lantern swayed and cast dark shadows onto the wall and floor. As she moved closer, the glow shined onto a bent figure sitting in a wooden arm chair, half naked and barefoot. Deep lashes were embedded across his heaving chest. Was that a DF burned into his chest? His wrists were chained to the arms of the chair and his fingers laced through a thumbscrew. Crimson dripped down the length of the chair legs and pooled on the floor.

  Salt and pepper hair stuck to his head. The figure raised his head and glassy pewter eyes stared at her. Dried blood was caked on around his mouth, his right cheek black and swollen. “Father,” she choked.

  Her arm dropped, the lantern brushing against her knees. Her fingers slowly released the lantern and it crashed to the floor. She wanted it to fall over and burn the blasted ship to hell, but it stayed upright, the candle flickering. Pent up tears freely flowed down her cheeks. He was her last surviving parent. He didn’t always treat her well, but in his misguided way, he tried to protect her, afraid she’d be accused as a witch. She couldn’t lose him.

  A large thumbscrew imprisoned each knee and dried blood caked his shins.

  She half sobbed and ran to his side. “Father, Father, what have they done to you?”

  Her father stared vacantly. His hair stuck out in a greasy wave. The stench of body odor intertwined with blood and urine. Her father always took care in his appearance, scoffing at men who didn’t. Now, he was everything he never wanted to be—a filthy beggar, dependent on his captor’s mercy. But Palmer had none. She gripped his shoulder and tried shaking him, but he only moaned. “I swear I don’t know where she is.”

  “Father, father, ’tis me. I’m here. Look at me.” She put her hand on his right forearm. He winced and she yanked her hand. “I’m sorry. Father, please.”

  Her father blinked, his vacant eyes stared at her. His brows frowned and he moved his mouth silently, before he whispered, “Hannah, is that really you?”

  “Yes, Father, ’tis really me.” She cupped his cheeks, patted his hair down, wanting him to have some dignity.

  He stared at her with wonder.

  “Hannah, you’re here.” His face paled and his shoulders slumped. “You must get off this ship. ’Tis too dangerous. Go. Now.”

  “I’ll not leave you.”

  “You must,” her father panted. “He has the only key.”

  Hate swirled in her mouth. “Palmer?”

  “Yes, Hannah, please go.”

  She wanted Palmer dead. His head nailed to the Fiery Damsel’s bowsprit for all to see what happens to murderers. He deserved death, worse than death. A hell where he’d endure
every torture he put to others, over and over and over for eternity. She tilted her chin. “Father, I can free you.”

  He shook his head. “Don’t be a fool, girl. Leave while you still have chance.”

  Hannah sheathed her cutlass. She swallowed hard. His lack of faith didn’t surprise her, but she knew herself better now. She took a deep breath, tasting the stench of human gore on her lips. Drawing on her power, she stared at her father’s manacles. Tingles ran over her, warming her cold clammy skin. She flicked her wrist. Her father’s manacles clicked and fell to the side.

  His eyes widened.

  Hannah focused on the hideous thumbscrews imprisoning his fingers. Three large protruding studs held the device in place while two large bars crushed her father’s thighs. A crank was on one side which must raise the top bar. Her palms facing the device, she drew on her power. The hair moved around her face and electrical charges surged through her. The crank slowly churned. Her father yelled, but she refused to stop.

  Sweat trickled down her face. The energy swished through her. The crank creaked, raising the bar inch-by-inch. Her father quietly sobbed. Hannah’s stomach churned at his mangled flesh, sitting in a grimy puddle of dried blood.

  The crank stopped and the bar had risen five inches above her father’s thighs. She motioned with her hands and the metal device, covered with her father’s blood and flesh, moved away from his sagging body. She jerked her hands and it crashed to the floor.

  She dropped her hands and panted, catching her breath. Wetness trickled into her mouth. She wiped her nose, smearing the blood. Her power was depleting, but she wasn’t done yet and prayed she’d enough power to get her father and the other two prisoners out of here.

  “Hannah, my little Hannah,” her father sobbed.

  She knelt before him, careful not to hurt him. She wished Doc was here. “I’ll get you out of here.”

  “Hannah, I can’t walk.”

  “I know.”

  “Hannah,” Lark said.