My Big Fat Supernatural Wedding

by L. A. Banks

  "But if there's a chance it could save you, maybe I should talk to him—"

  Argyle took her firmly by both arms, looking her straight in the eyes. "It's not for you to save us, lassie. Everyone saves themselves. Everyone. Look to your own skin, and don't you worry about—"

  He winced suddenly, and looked around toward Captain Lockhart.

  So did every sailor visible on the deck of the Sweet Mourning, an eerily orchestrated turning of heads.

  Captain Lockhart was watching them, leaning on the rail. If he was in pain, there was no way to tell from this distance.

  A sigh rattled uneasily out of Argyle's narrow chest, and he rubbed the area over his heart.

  "He's jealous." That made her feel annoyed and flattered at once.

  "Aye. Knew that already."

  "Then why parade me around like this?"

  "Had to be sure, didn't I? I've been doing a bit of thinking, too, lass, on behalf of the crew. Most don't find half a life to be worth liv­ing. Not if there's a chance of ending it. So I've a mind to . . . pro­voke a reaction."

  "Does the captain know what you're doing?"

  He let out a soft bark of laughter. "Conspiracies on a sailing ves­sel get you flogged, or worse. We're having a theoretical discussion, like two people of reason. Do you trust me?"

  "Of course." She did, she found, crazy as that was.

  "Then stand fast, for I'm about to betray a man I've served for close on three hundred years. For his own good, mind."

  She was about to ask what the hell he was talking about when Ar­gyle yanked her forward and, quite firmly, kissed her.

  He was clumsy, and she could tell his heart wasn't in it, but he made it quite a show. She stood shocked, wondering whether she ought to push him away, but it didn't matter. In the next heartbeat he was lurching away with both hands clutching his chest. He hit the rail and slid down to an awkward sitting position, panting. Cecilia lunged toward him and then hesitated. What was she supposed to do? Feel for a pulse? Take his temperature? How did you diagnose a dead man, anyway?

  Under the red coat, she saw the grubby white shirt flower with fresh blood. Gouts of it. Argyle gasped in shallow breaths, color gone a pale, unsettling green. All around them, sailors groaned and slumped and fought back cries of pain.

  "What did you do?" she cried, and grabbed Argyle's lapels to shake him. "Oh my God, what is this? What's happening?"

  "Proof," he said, white to the lips. "Proof he loves you. You have to find a way, lass. Don't let him put you off the ship before you do. Break the curse. It's all on you now."

  Lockhart was on the quarterdeck, clutching the rail. She saw his knees bend and then straighten with what must surely be a superhu­man effort. When his voice came, it sounded angry and ragged. "If you want the woman, Argyle, take her below and ride her proper. Get out of my sight, the both of you!"

  Cecilia bolted up, furious and wild. "You're an unbelievable bas­tard!" she screamed. "He's your friend!"

  Lockhart jumped down from the quarterdeck and stalked toward her, sinuous as a cat. If he was hurting—and he had to be, because Argyle was still white to the lips and panting with pain—he was hid­ing it under a mask of pure fury. "Woman, if you fancy rough trade with my crew, there should be a lottery. Wouldn't want anybody say­ing it wasn't fair."

  Well, if Argyle had wanted to provoke a reaction, he'd certainly succeeded. She cast a tormented look down at Argyle, who was try­ing to say something. She read his lips in the moonlight. Finish it.

  Lockhart was coming. She dodged around him, charged through the black door and down the narrow passage. She burst into her tiny cabin and slammed the door. Then slammed it again, just for the catharsis of it. "He's trying to save you!" she shouted. Slam. "You don't deserve him, you black-hearted, cold-blooded—"

  "Bastard," Lockhart finished, cool and low, and caught the door on its last slam. "I did hear you the first time." She gasped and pulled back. "Mistress Taylor—"

  "I'M NOT MARRIED!" she shouted, at the end of her patience. "You know, curse or no curse, I'll bet you've always been like this. A cold-blooded, vile little leech, feeding off of others. That's what a pi­rate is, a parasite—"

  "You seem drawn to parasites," Lockhart observed, and set his shoulder against the doorway. "Young Master Taylor, for instance. But then, he must have other talents you enjoy."

  She felt a blush burn across her face and down her throat. "I haven't. Not that it's any of your business!"

  "Indeed not. Nor would I care."

  "Yeah, well, you cared just now, didn't you? When Argyle had his tongue in my mouth?"

  She wanted to take that back, but it was too late. Lockhart was raising that famously satirical eyebrow at her, intending to lock all of his anger and jealousy and emotion inside. She lunged up off the bed and came very close to touching him. "You cared. You damn well care right now, too."

  Very close. He didn't move back. Each deep breath she took strained the seams of the bodice and crossed the narrow fraction of an inch between them. A bare whisper of a touch. Oh yeah, he was in pain. She could see it flickering in his eyes. There was fresh blood staining his shirt, and smeared dark across his faded blue coat. She heard the slow patter of drops as they splashed on the leather of his boots.

  "You're killing us," he said. "You're as much a witch as that sea hag we put over the side."

  "I certainly hope I am, because I curse you, too! I curse you to have what you want. Go on, condemn yourself to feel nothing, noth­ing, forever—"

  He captured her face between his hands and stared into her eyes. "Too late to feel nothing. Whether you're a witch or a saint, I don't know, but you're . . . inside me—"

  His knees gave way, and he hit the deck, gasping. Cecilia followed him down and caught him as he swayed. "I'm not a witch," she said. "I'm definitely not a saint. I'm just. . .just a dreamer. That's why I said yes to Ian. Because ... it was a dream come true."

  "Argyle's a dreamer," Lockhart said. "He thinks ... it will all end well. . . but—" His breath caught hard. There was blood pouring out of the wound under his shirt, not just a trickle but a flood. He was dying, and it was because of her. "I'm not a dreamer, Cecilia."

  She braced him on her lap, stroking his hair. This was too hard. Too much. Maybe half a life was better, maybe never having passion or love or life again would be all right, if only you didn't have to go through this. She never wanted to feel her heart come apart like this again.

  He was bleeding, great gouts of it flooding hot across her lap. Time was running out. His dark eyes opened, wild and beautiful and full of warmth. Full of life. "Argyle tried to stop me, you know. She begged for mercy, but I wouldn't hear her, I made myself cold, so cold, and I watched the sharks—"

  "Liam, stop it; just—look, I know what to do. I'll go. I'll take a boat and I'll leave—"

  "You should have gone before you smiled."

  "Liam—"

  His eyes stayed open, but the pupils slowly relaxed, eclipsing the brown with black. A sky without moon or stars. She felt unnaturally calm, and everything seemed so bright, so sharp, so still. His long hair curled around her fingers, warm and intimate.

  "You have to live," she told him. "It doesn't end this way. You have to live."

  She let Ian out of the hold at dawn, because she needed him. It took more than two to sail a ship of this size, but at least the sails were still set, and after some trial and error, she found she could steer the ship into the wind. Her arms ached with the effort, but it kept her from thinking.

  She'd waited all night for the fairy godmother to drop in, pro­nounce it all a terrible mistake, and wave her magic wand. But it wasn't a Disney movie after all. It was a story about a curse, and blood, and pain, and it wasn't going to end well.

  Cecilia put Ian to work gathering up bodies.

  "We should dump them overboard," he called up, panting, as he dragged another body to the port rail. He no longer looked elegant and princely. He looked fey and dirty and
savage, and she didn't imagine she looked any better.

  "No," she said. She wasn't giving them to the sharks. As Ian reached for Argyle, she snapped, "Don't touch him!"

  "What, is he some personal friend, Cess?"

  She pulled one of Lockhart's deadly-looking pistols from the makeshift leather belt wrapped around her waist. "I swear, if you call me Cess again . . ."

  He held up filthy, bloody hands. "Right. Whatever, Captain." He put a lot of contempt into it, but she was the one with the pistols. She'd spent the night clearing away all of the weapons she could find and locking them away in Lockhart's cabin. She was wearing his tri­corn hat. It did a good job of keeping the sun off of her nose, and besides, it smelled like him, and she found that an odd comfort.

  "Crazy bitch," Ian muttered. She fired the pistol, bracing it with both hands. The mule kick of it stung. She was aiming for him, but she missed, and it gouged an impressive chunk out of the railing next to him. "Hey!"

  "Hey, what?" she challenged, and pulled the other gun. "Warning shot. Next time I see daylight through your chest. Be nice."

  The sails flapped. She'd lost the wind. She put the pistol away and turned the wheel to find it again.

  "Where are we going?"

  "That way," she said, and nodded at the horizon. "Funny thing about the planet, it's round. Sooner or later, we'll hit land."

  "Oh, great. Brilliant navigation. Here there be monsters." Ian swore and wiped his grimy forehead on an equally grimy sleeve.

  "Just keep in mind that out of everybody on this ship, J like you the least."

  They ate tough bread and salted beef in midafternoon, and drank enough water to fight off the sun's relentless glare. Nothing to talk about, except for Ian's periodic attempts to bait her into doing some­thing stupid. She was too numb to respond. She wanted to curl up somewhere and cry, but she couldn't. Lockhart wouldn't have ap­proved. Besides, she had to survive this. It had to mean something, in the end. It had to be . . . worth it. Worth that many dead men? You've got one hell of a price tag, honey.

  As the sun moved toward the western edge of the sea, Ian ambled off toward the poop deck—aptly named—and came down the lad­der fast. "Cecilia!" he yelled. "There's a ship!"

  "What? Where?" She turned, startled, and saw a small, iron gray freighter steaming toward them on the port side. "Oh my God!" Sal­vation. Civilization. Home. She felt tears burn, and then blinked them resolutely away. "Well, don't just stand there! Signal them!" Ian tore his shirt off and waved it energetically over his head, whooping.

  This was it. This was how the story ended. Yo-ho-ho, and a float­ing ship of the damned. It didn't seem right. She'd left Lockhart be­low in her cabin, silent and pale, and she wanted to see him again. She wanted to hear him say her name in that low, caressing tone, the way she'd heard it when she was sick and lost. She wanted . . . wanted . . .

  It came to her, finally, with the force of a sun bursting inside, that she wanted Liam Lockhart, in a way she'd never in her life wanted anyone else.

  "I love you," she whispered, and the tears spilled over. "You evil pirate bastard. You can't leave me like this. I love you, do you hear me? I love you. And I know you can hear me. Being dead is not an excuse. Now wake up!"

  She held her breath. Come on, fairy godmother, you dithering old biddy. . . .

  The moment came, and went. A gust of wind whipped tears from Cecilia's eyes.

  It was over. There was no magic, there was no happy ending, and she was going to get off this ship and go home and never, ever dream again.

  "They're coming!" Ian yelled, and swarmed down the ladder. "Slow down or something! Hit the brakes!"

  She turned the wheel and dumped the wind out of the sails, and the Sweet Mourning slowed to a hissing amble as the sun began to slip beneath the waves.

  "Um, Cecilia?" Ian was backing away from the starboard rail. "Remember when you said there were still pirates out here?"

  "Yeah?"

  "You might have been right about that."

  She rushed over to take a look. Yep, pirates. Not the quaintly cos­tumed kind. These were modern killers, at least twenty or thirty men armed to the teeth with modern weaponry. And worse, they looked like they knew exactly what they were doing as they lined up at the rail, grinning and gesturing.

  "Maybe we should run," Ian said. "We're fast, right?"

  "With a crew! The two of us are not a crew!"

  A hail of gunfire erupted from the other ship. She ducked. Ian hit the deck. Bullets gouged chunks from wood, and she felt flying splinters cut her arm.

  She lunged up, grabbed the wheel, and steered for the wind. Ian screamed as the deck heeled sharply and bodies rolled into him. Mr. Argyle slid sideways along the rail, and out of the corner of her eye Cecilia saw Argyle's hand grab the rail. That's it. I've gone totally around the bend. As she was debating it, Argyle raised his head and prodded at his chest with trembling fingers.

  "Christ," he said faintly. "That was fucking unpleasant. Remind me not to kiss you again."

  "Argyle!" She fairly shrieked it, and waved both arms over her head. "Yesssssss! Thank you!"

  He waved shakily and stood up. "Don't thank me, lass; I've only—" He threw himself flat as another volley of gunfire raked the ship. "What the hell have you got us into?"

  "Pirates!" she yelled.

  The pile of bodies Ian had made was squirming, men cursing one another in round, ripe accents as they fought to sit up. Argyle grabbed the nearest man and shook him by the shoulder. "Get in the rigging!" Argyle shouted, and favored a few more with kicks and foghorn-volume curses. "Come on, you sons of whores; we have fighting to do!—Fuck me, where's my pistols?"

  Oh God, she'd locked them all away. "Take the wheel!" she shouted, and let go. More bullets whizzed past her as she ducked down the left-hand ladder. Argyle swarmed up the right. She pounded down the corridor to her cabin, fumbling with the massive iron ring of keys from Argyle's coat pocket.

  Hands slid around her waist, picked her up, and set her aside. Brown, scarred fingers plucked the ring from her grasp, expertly parsed the choices, and unlocked the door.

  Captain Lockhart looked her up and down, and his sun-browned face split into a wide, piratical grin. "That's my hat," he said, and re­claimed it. "Not to mention a few more things I want."

  He put an arm around her waist and pulled her close. She gasped. "Um, Captain ... I don't think we have time for—"

  Lockhart's grin turned sharply seductive, and he liberated the pis­tols from her belt. Took his time about it, too. She remembered to breathe when her ribs started to ache.

  "You'll need to reload," she said. "I shot at Ian."

  "Ah. Hit him?"

  "Missed."

  "Pity." Lockhart unbuckled the leather belt from around her waist. "You make a fierce little wench, Cecilia, but then, I did tell you, you had potential." He buckled on the sword, added the pistols, and kissed her. Brisk and efficient and warm, so warm.

  "Wait," she said, and caught his arm when he moved to duck back down the corridor. "You're alive, right?"

  "Aye," he said. "Mortal. And that means I can die, lass. Good tim­ing, eh? Bring more guns."

  "Well," Argyle sighed regretfully, "we were a bit out of practice. Haven't had a decent fight in decades, really. It was over too soon."

  He poured a tot of rum into a crystal glass and handed it across the table. Cecilia accepted it and knocked it back.

  "All together and drown the devil!" Argyle grinned and slopped more liquor into the glasses. "We'll make a pirate of you yet, lass."

  "I wish you'd warned me about the cannons," she sighed.

  "Don't be daft," Mr. Jacks said, his portly face red with drink. "Only managed one decent barrage. Didn't even get in a good broadside. Only the larboard guns. We carry fifty-four, you know. Haven't had to use more than a dozen in years."

  Cecilia shuddered, remembering that metal freighter—with no battleship armor—taking the full force of the cannonballs. "They didn'
t have a chance," she said.

  "Regrets, lass? You saw the holds of that ship," Argyle reminded her, and cut himself a slice of pineapple with his dirk. "They barely made an effort to rinse out the blood from their last massacre. Mind you, you should never let blood sit like that for long; it raises a terri­ble stink. Always clean up after yourself."

  "I'll remember," she said faintly.

  "Unsanitary bastards," he said, and bit into the pineapple. "Damn fine produce, though."

  Another dirk speared the unfortunate pineapple and moved it to an empty place. Cecilia looked over her shoulder just as Lockhart dropped into his chair beside her. "It's done," he said. "We're on course for Boston Harbor. Though what you mean to do when we get there—"

  "Go ashore," she said. "Use my ATM card. Buy some cute shoes. Get married."

  Argyle froze in midmotion. So, across the table from him, did Ian, who choked on a mouthful of rum. Mr. Simonds cheerfully slapped him on the back, hard enough to leave hand-sized bruises, while her former fiance coughed. "Easy, lad; she don't mean you," he said. "Ain't you relieved?"

  Lockhart rocked his chair back on two legs and balanced. "Got a plan, do you, Miss Welles?"

  "A pretty good one, as a matter of fact. And Ian, you're going to love this—it's even profitable."

  He stopped coughing. "Yeah?"

  "See, when we sail this ship into Boston Harbor and these men walk off this ship, it's going to raise some questions, right? Serious questions."

  "Absolutely," he said. "Like, who are they and where did they come from."

  "Two hundred men out of the past," Cecilia said. "Everybody will want to know their story."

  "Yes," Ian said slowly, and then leaned forward to stare at her. "Yes! Everybody! My God, think of the possibilities: book deals, movie deals, pricey talk show appearances, merchandising—" The light went out in his face, and he slumped back into his chair. "Damn. No way is anybody going to buy this stupid curse story, though. We're all going to end up in the loony bin."

  The pirates growled. Growled. "They'll take me to one of those hellpits when they pry my pistol out of my cold, dead hand," Argyle said. "I've seen what happens in madhouses."