Sky Pirates

by Liesel Schwarz

  “We call forward the Summoner!” Crowley said, breaking off his soliloquy.

  Another robed figure stepped forward and, for the first time, Patrice felt a shudder of apprehension. The man in the robe said nothing, but Patrice could feel the thrum of true Shadow power that emanated from somewhere deep within the folds of his hooded cloak.

  “Is there someone here who would call upon the Darkness for assistance?” Crowley gave Patrice a meaningful look.

  “Ahem. I do,” Patrice said. His voice cracked and he had to clear his throat, which was sticky and dry from the smoke.

  “Have you brought us a relic?”

  Patrice felt inside his breast pocket and pulled out a scrap of dark blue fabric that had been torn from the ceremonial robes Elle had worn that night in Constantinople when everything had changed. He had found the scrap of fabric in the rubble afterwards and had carried it with him all this time as a bizarre keepsake. Of all the women who came and went through his life, Elle was the one constant. He could not be rid of her, no matter how he tried. And the strange thing was that he did not want to be rid of her either. Her presence was in his blood, a hunger that would not abate.

  Crowley made an elaborate gesture indicating that Patrice should hand over the scrap of fabric to the Summoner.

  Carefully, Patrice laid the scrap on the outstretched palm of the cloaked man before him.

  “You seek the woman to whom this belongs?” the Summoner said.

  “I do,” Patrice said.

  The Summoner held the fabric to his face and inhaled deeply. Then he threw his head back and howled. It was an unnatural sound that grated the soul, pitched somewhere between nails scraping on chalkboard and a scream. Patrice felt his blood curdle, but somehow he managed to hang on to his composure.

  The Summoner broke off his howl and for a moment there was nothing but complete silence in the chapel. The air became even hazier and then the ground trembled, making the items on the altar quiver and jingle.

  From the floor a dark shadow rose up. At first, it was just an indiscernible black mist, but it grew and took shape until it resembled a rather dangerous-looking black dog.

  “Arise whelp of Cerberus. Son of the Guardian of the Underworld!”

  The outline of the dog seemed to be fighting with itself as it moved and morphed, folding over itself as it materialized before them. It sprouted two heads, each splitting in half to reveal two massive sets of jaws lined with terrible teeth.

  The hound stared at the Summoner with no small measure of expectation in its eyes.

  I have been summoned …

  The voice of the creature rasped and wheezed inside Patrice’s mind.

  The Summoner smiled and threw the scrap of fabric into the air.

  The dog lifted its two heads and caught the fabric in one of its mouths. With a sharp snap of its jaws, it swallowed the strip of cloth.

  “Find the woman who last wore that and bring her to me,” the Summoner commanded.

  “Um, and she must be hurt as little as possible,” Patrice interjected.

  There was a collective gasp from those assembled, and Patrice suddenly wondered if

  he had spoken out of turn.

  The hound rose slowly and padded across the chapel to where Patrice stood frozen to the spot. It lifted its heads; endless seconds ticked by as it sniffed at Patrice, pressing its noses into his clothing.

  Patrice did not move. He did not even dare to breathe. The hound was filled with a strange swirling power that felt very much like the darkness which swirled within his own body. The presence of another creature confined in the space of the chapel that drew its power from the same source as him made him want to claw and scratch at his skin, but he held himself in check, because those teeth looked incredibly sharp and the creature they belonged to looked as if it would not hesitate to use them.

  The hound turned away from Patrice and inclined its heads slightly at the Summoner.

  So it shall be done, it whispered. Then it promptly disappeared out of the chapel doors in a trail of swirling blackness.

  The chapel went silent for a few moments. The only sound that could be heard was the rapid breathing of some of the ladies.

  “Brothers and sisters, the Dark Lord Baphomet has blessed us with the presence of one of his most favored demons! We should give thanks to him,” Crowley exclaimed. He started his soliloquy again and pretty soon the mass was back in progress.

  The woman who admitted Patrice inside stepped up to the altar. She was no servant, but a priestess of some sort, he saw now. She threw her cloak back to reveal that she was completely naked. The flickering candlelight played off the contours of her oiled skin, highlighting the curves in an exceedingly erotic way.

  The other women in the chapel took this to be a signal, and they threw off the last remnants of their own clothes, much to the delight of the male attendees.

  Patrice took a step back in order to avoid being hit in the face by a flying stocking.

  The woman in the cloak dragged the velvet cloth with the silverware off the altar and flung herself onto it, where she spread her legs in a theatrical manner. The imps threw back their cloaks to reveal their own nakedness and within moments, the three of them were writhing together on top of the altar lustfully.

  In response, the members of the congregation fell upon one another with great enthusiasm. Within moments, the Black Mass had descended into an unattractive and undignified orgy.

  Patrice had to sidestep the mottled, pasty limbs of a couple who were flailing and rutting on the floor by his legs.

  He curled his lip in disgust. The smell of sweaty bodies and coupling, mingled with the cloying incense, was suddenly too much for him to bear. He liked to think of himself as avant-garde, open-minded in every sense, but while what was happening before him was certainly risqué, it was also utterly devoid of any sophistication or style. And lack of style was the one thing he could not abide.

  He fought his way through the writhing limbs to retrieve his coat, and he was out of the chapel before anyone could stop him.

  In the vestibule, he paused and took a few deep breaths. The smell of wet cobbles and Paris at night, just detectable from the crack under the door, was like a balm to his poor, tortured olfactory organs. With an immense sense of relief, he pulled on his coat and stepped though the door into the street.

  Mr. Chunk was waiting for him inside the motor. When he saw his master he stepped out and held the passenger door open for him. From the blue glow of the reactor, Patrice noticed with relief that his man had kept the boilers hot and ready to go.

  “Bless you, Mr. Chunk,” he said, as the man held the door for him.

  “Everything all right, sir?” Chunk said as he got into the driver’s seat.

  “Mr. Chunk, I think I might need a drink after all that. I think I saw a wine shop on the main road, just before we turned into this alley.”

  “Right on, sir,” Mr. Chunk said as he regarded his master in the novel little rear-view mirror the motor sported. He engaged the gears and the Rolls Royce pulled off with a satisfying roar, leaving the smut and banality of the Café de l’Enfer behind.

  The wineshop was little more than the front room of a house. It was sparsely furnished with benches and tables rattling on the naked floorboards, but it was clean, and a fire glowed in the fireplace. Above all, it was mercifully quiet.

  The shop owner wiped his hands on his black apron and poured Patrice a generous shot of cheap cognac. “You look like you need it, monsieur. You are as white as a ghost,” he said.

  Patrice took a deep gulp of the cognac, allowing the alcohol to cleanse and disinfect the back of his throat where the horrid bitter perfume taste of incense still clung.

  He looked down at his hands, which were shaking faintly. That dog creature had scared the living daylights out of him. It had stared at him with such intelligence, such knowing in those few moments, that Patrice had almost felt its thoughts. He had no doubt about the message the cr
eature wanted to convey: They served the same master. The dark power that flowed through Patrice flowed through the dog too and that bothered him slightly.

  He wasn’t sure, but he sensed that the dog knew who or what it was hunting too. He had sensed its glee at the thought of tracking her …

  Someone coughed gently beside him, catapulting him back to the present.

  He looked up. An old man in a frayed green coat was sitting next to him.

  “Bonjour, monsieur,” the old man said.

  Patrice glanced up at the clock. It was indeed morning—very early in the morning.

  He gave the man his most dismissive nod, turning away to ignore him, but the old man would have none of it.

  He stuck out his hand. “The name is Jack. I have other names too, but you may call me that for now.”

  Patrice frowned at him and did not extend his own hand to meet the greeting.

  “No?” Jack looked at him with amusement. “Oh, we can shake hands later. For now we don’t know one another that well. But we will soon. Oh yes we will.”

  “If you’ll excuse me, I would prefer to drink alone,” Patrice said with as much icy politeness as he could muster. He balled his hand into a fist. The next step would be violence; he had just about had his fill of irritating people for one evening.

  Jack smiled. “Fair enough, I will leave you to your drink soon. But first we must speak about what you have just done.”

  Patrice looked at the man. “What do you mean?” he said.

  The old man chuckled. “Ah yes, don’t think I don’t know about that nunnery that hides just around the corner. Some dark things go on in there, I hear it told.”

  In the half-light of the low-burning candles, Jack’s face looked strange, slightly otherworldly. Patrice summoned a little of his power and reached out to him. He touched the man’s aura and recoiled as if he had been burned.

  Jack held up his hand. “It’s very rude to touch someone’s aura without permission, now isn’t it?”

  “Perhaps,” Patrice said. “What do you want from me, old man? Be quick about it before I send you back to the other side.”

  “Why did you summon one of the dogs of Hades, warlock? Do you know what evil you have just unleashed upon this world?”

  Patrice blanched. “How did you know about that?”

  “I know lots of things,” Jack said. “Now, why did you summon the son of Cerberus?”

  “I’m looking for someone,” Patrice muttered. He was growing rather annoyed with this line of questioning.

  Jack gasped. “You sent it after her, didn’t you? Do you even know what a creature like that would do if he found our Oracle?”

  Patrice swiveled around at the word. “Keep quiet!” he hissed. “You don’t know who else might be listening.”

  “I am listening too.” A tall man in a tatty carriage cloak stepped out of the shadows and stood behind Jack. His voice was little more than a whisper.

  Patrice felt the blood drain from his face. “You!” he muttered. “You’re alive?”

  “Oh, I’m not sure you could call him that,” Jack said. “Let’s say my friend over here is between worlds at the moment. A wraith, for lack of a better word. You know all about being trapped between to worlds, Mr. Chevalier. Don’t you?”

  Patrice was still staring at the wraith. Its face had grown pale and gaunt, and its dark hair hung in tatty strands into eyes that were dark and haunted. The wraith seemed to flicker slightly—as a lamp that was about to run out of spark would. There was no mistaking the features, though. It was Hugh Marsh, Viscount Greychester, or at least a shadow of the man he used to be. And he did not look happy at all.

  “Now, back to the subject. I really must protest the use of the hound,” Jack continued quite unperturbed by the shock on Patrice’s face. “The lady in question owes me a few favors and I really don’t want to see her ripped to shreds and devoured before I have a chance to call upon them, you see.”

  “What?” Patrice turned his attention back to Jack.

  “I said that I don’t want to see our young lady torn into a thousand doggie treats. For a Grand Master you really are very slow, sir,” Jack muttered.

  Patrice shook his head. “The hound has instructions to find her and to bring her to us unhurt.”

  Jack tutted. “So easily fooled? Did you specify how she was to be brought to you?”

  “I—I assumed unhurt meant alive and well,” Patrice stammered. A cold fear suddenly gripped his insides.

  Jack pursed his lips. “Oh, I do hope for your sake that is so. Unhurt can mean different things to different demons. And my friend over here will be most upset if she is damaged in any way.”

  Marsh let out a soft hiss in reply.

  “I know what I am doing. How dare you suggest otherwise?” Patrice said, indignant at the suggestion that he was not in control.

  “Oh, there is no need to be like that.” Jack leaned forward and tapped Patrice’s lapel with his forefinger. “I do hope you have procured a dog leash. The strongest one you can find,” Jack said.

  Marsh leaned forward and Patrice felt a chill run over him. “I am watching you, Patrice. If one hair on her head is harmed, I will tear you to pieces with my own hands.” His whisper was barely audible, but it was enough to strike a chilling fear.

  Patrice grew angry. “Enough!” he said. “You are no match for me. Look at you. You are nothing but a half-wasted shadow.”

  “Try me,” Marsh said. A deep anger simmered in his dark eyes.

  Just then, the shop owner cleared his throat. “Gentlemen. It is very late and I wish to close now,” he said pointedly.

  Patrice downed the rest of his drink and rose. As he stood, Jack gripped his arm. “Remember to keep an eye on that dog. Do not let it turn on you.”

  “Excuse me.” Patrice freed himself from Jack’s grip and strode past them and out into the street. Enough was enough. He wanted to go home and slip in between his fine, crisp bed sheets and sleep until the sun burned away all the distasteful images that were swirling around in his mind.

  “Home. As fast as you can manage, Mr. Chunk,” he ordered. It was time to call an end to this night.

  CHAPTER 10

  It did not take long for Atticus Crow to spread the word that Elle might be hiding treasure maps in her cabin.

  The next evening, Heller’s lumbering frame filled the doorway to her cabin.

  “Cap’n said to ask you if you’d like to join him for dinner. The invitation is not optional. Just so you know.”

  “Tell the captain I’d be delighted to join him,” Elle said with a tight smile.

  “Well, come along then. Grub’s up.” Heller stood aside and indicated for her to follow.

  Elle pressed her lips together as she squeezed past him into the narrow passageway. Somewhere from deep inside the ship, she could smell meat in gravy cooking. It was strange how the smell of stew could penetrate almost anything, she mused. Her stomach grumbled in agreement.

  “Been holding out on us then, have you?” Heller said as they walked along.

  “Whatever are you talking about, Mr. Heller?” Elle said, looking up at him.

  “Oh come now. You didn’t think we would not find out, did ya?” he said.

  Elle just shrugged. It was good to know that news did not take long to travel on this ship, she thought. She might be able to use that to her advantage someday. Someday soon if she could help it.

  Captain Dashwood’s quarters were a revelation. Situated at the bow of the Inanna, his cabin had a bank of windows that lined the port side, which allowed him an uninterrupted view of the night sky.

  The captain was sitting in an overstuffed, purple Queen Anne chair, which was set at an angle to a Georgian writing table. To the other side of him was a large teak desk that was covered in all manner of charts and papers.

  “You sent for me?” Elle said, nudging the fine wool of the Turkish carpet with her boot. To the one side of the captain’s desk was a doorway that le
d to a room with a dining table and chairs covered in the same purple velvet as the one he was sitting in. To the other side, a set of polished wooden doors closed off an area which was presumably his sleeping quarters. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling and dainty spark lamps with fringed shades decorated the carved half-moon occasional tables against the wall.

  Dashwood’s quarters looked more like the boudoir of a French madam than a pirate’s lair.

  Dashwood looked up from the papers he was studying. “Ah, yes. Mrs. Marsh, do sit down.” He motioned toward a chaise longue that stood to the side of his desk, then he glanced at Heller. “Thank you, Mr. Heller, you may leave us now.”

  Elle perched on the side of the chaise, but kept her back straight as a ramrod. She focused on the oil painting that hung on the wall behind Dashwood’s head. It was of an ocean-faring ship—a schooner, if she wasn’t mistaken. The painting was from the days before the discovery of spark. Spark was the bright blue amalgam produced by the thaumaturgic melding of static electricity and aether. Centuries before it was discovered that spark had the ability to heat water quickly, great ships had sailed the oceans on missions of trade and war. The discovery of spark had brought the world into the Light. It had given man the ability to fly and had heralded a golden age entirely driven by steam. The freedom of taking to the sky and flying wherever one wanted had also opened up endless possibilities for making a living, and as ships grew bigger and faster, even despite the fact that piracy was a crime punishable by death, the number of pirates and the slightly more legal freebooters who made a living from procuring and hauling freight had grown steadily.

  She stared at the schooner against the wall. It was plowing through the waves of the ocean with spray on all sides. Empires had risen and fallen since those days. And as the realm of Light grew, so the Shadow realm retreated. She wondered what would happen once there was no aether left to make spark. No one seemed to be concerned about this. Instead, great industries forged ahead, sucking every bit of energy they could from the world, sparing no thought for the future.

  “I trust your accommodation is adequate and all your needs have been met,” Dashwood said politely, dragging her thoughts back to the present.