Siren's Song

by Trish Albright

  Birdie entered a moment later from the reception office, followed by two men. “Sorry to disturb you, Miss Stafford.”

  Alex went on instant alert, sliding a knife from her wrist sheath, her hands thankfully hidden by the large mahogany desk.

  Birdie never called her Miss Stafford.

  Unless there was trouble. It was one of their codes.

  Knife in hand she reached for the gun holstered under the desk. They didn’t keep much of value at the office on the wharf, but she had wages for her crew, and that was enough to tempt any thief. Today it seemed there was a party of two.

  “We have company,” Birdie explained. One man pushed a gun into Birdie’s back, forcing him farther into the room. “Sorry, Captain. They got the jump on me.” The second man closed the door behind them. Since the office was just big enough for a desk, some shelves and two large chairs, it instantly felt crowded. Alex stayed perfectly still, waiting for one of them to make a mistake. Or for Birdie to be safely away from the gun.

  “Don’t worry, Birdie. These things happen.” She smiled at the men, her gracious smile. It took them off guard. “Can I help you gentlemen?”

  “We’ll kill him if you try anything sneaky, lady,” the man with the gun said.

  “I see that.” Alex breathed slowly through her nose, trying to slow the anger and energy coursing through her. “What is it you want?”

  “Whatever’s in that safe behind you,” the other said.

  Alex leaned and turned her head to look at the early Gainsborough landscape behind her. Then she turned back, her face quizzical. “You mean behind the painting? I didn’t put the safe there. It would have been too obvious.”

  The man with the gun gave a momentary glimmer of panic. Birdie snorted with disgust. “Aye, they must think we all be idiots.”

  “In any case, I already paid my crew for the week. We don’t have anything here but documents and paperwork. Boring stuff really.”

  “We want the map,” the nervous gunman said.

  “Shut up, ya idiot,” the other told him. He was clearly the leader. Much calmer.

  “I have lots of maps,” Alex offered. “Right there on the shelf. You can look for yourself. Charts to just about every known land.”

  “There’s a specific map,” the leader said.

  “Ah. I see.” Alex studied them quietly, wondering how Paxton had found her. She took a chance on fishing out the truth. “The mermaid map, perhaps?”

  Slow satisfaction spread across their faces.

  “Aye. That’s the one. Hand it over, and I’ll not kill ya. Least not today.” He poked at Birdie with his gun. “Him, I’m not so sure about.”

  Alex made eye contact with Birdie and shrugged, her face dispassionate. “He’s old.”

  Birdie’s captor wheezed. “She’s a cold one.”

  “Stop with your yappin’!” the leader shouted. “I see what you’re trying to do.”

  “I’m just trying to be helpful, gentlemen, and get this cleared up with the least amount of tragedy. In fact, if you both leave right now, I promise not kill you,” she smiled encouragingly. “Least not today.”

  They laughed. “Aye, you’re a sassy one. But time to give in. We were told the safe is behind the painting.”

  “Oh,” Alex said. “Well, that’s true.” They nodded, finally getting her concurrence. Then she explained further. “But not this painting.” She nodded to a smaller one on the wall behind them. “That painting.”

  The two villains turned in sync, and Alex fired a shot at the gunman before he had a chance. She regretted that she had to kill him, but shooting his hand or somewhere else could make him accidentally trigger the gun, and it was too close to Birdie for her to take a risk.

  The leader panicked and pulled his gun on her, destroying the leather of her chair by putting a bullet right where her heart had been. Alex hit the floor hard, sliding on her back, knife wielded.

  “Birdie! Down!”

  The old man didn’t listen. He hurled himself at the second opponent with enough force to crash through the door to the outer office. Alex bent her knee, pulled a smaller pocket pistol from her ankle sheath, and scrambled to her feet in time to see Birdie flying in her direction. She stepped backward to let him go by, and he landed with a mouthful of curses on top of the dead man.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Bloody, damned, foul hell, yes!”

  The second man was already escaping out the front. She jumped behind the desk, grabbed her knife belt and attached it.

  “Take care of this.” She indicated the man on the floor. Then she ran.

  Her office was on the second story of a small building on the wharf, in a space shared by several other merchants. The villain was escaping out the front door. She leapt off the stairwell of the low second floor and landed in the center of the entrance, gaining precious time and surprising a bespectacled building mate coming in.

  “Excuse me.” She nodded past the man, dashed out, and jumped the entry steps at top speed, pistol in hand. With a rushed breath, she shouted for help. “Someone stop that man!”

  No one did.

  They never did.

  Damned if she was going to let him go. She had questions she wanted answered. And she had an arsenal on hand. Decent odds all in all.

  She turned and sprinted after him down a narrow alley.

  Joshua had enjoyed the last couple hours with Stephen. A few pitchers of ale had softened the ride from Kent and relaxed the men into an easy comradeship. Stephen was entirely likeable—sharp-witted, loyal, curious about the world, humble about his knowledge, and completely dedicated to his sister. Joshua gathered it was mutual.

  They weren’t far from the Stafford office when Joshua thought he heard a strange pop. In other circumstances, he would have guessed a pistol, but shook the thought off, thinking he was not completely in charge of his wits after a few glasses of ale. When a woman flew out the building in front of them like the devil was at her feet, he pulled the rein on his horse.

  “Wasn’t that your sister, Stephen?”

  Alex was unaware of anyone other than the man she pursued. She threw her first knife and got lucky. It hit the man in the calf. He cursed and limped, and turned his gun on her. She was ready. She aimed, shot her pistol, and hit her target strong and clean. The gun flew from his hand, followed by a pained cry. She pulled another knife, preparing. He pulled the bloodied one from his calf, holding it up protectively, inching toward his fallen pistol.

  “Take it easy,” she said. “I just want to talk.” Before she could say another word he hurled the knife. With surprising accuracy.

  Alex dove to the ground sideways, and the blade caught the material of her left sleeve. Too close. Don’t underestimate him, she thought. She looked up, and he had the gun in hand, aimed her way. Twenty feet. Damn. Definitely too close.

  A shot went off as she rolled away, hoping it would miss. She finished the movement by rolling onto her feet, another knife ready. Her next image was of the man crumpling to his knees, gun arm wobbling until the weapon fell loose and hit the turf.

  She rushed to him, upset, looking around to see what happened. That’s when she saw him. High on his white horse, riding toward her. Bloody Brit. What the hell was he thinking?

  In fury, she shouted. “You killed him!” Clearly not the thanks he was expecting, as he shouted back.

  “He was going to kill you!”

  “I had it under control! I wanted him alive. For information,” she panted, a little breathless from the run, and the near injury.

  Worthington examined the man’s hand where she had hit him moments before, then looked her in the eye, only inches away before stating quietly and searchingly, “It is you.”

  “Of course it’s me,” she responded. “Who else has my aim?”

  He shook his head, seemingly in disbelief. Back in Morocco, she had thought him a different man. She had thought he liked her. They had kissed. She doubted he even remembered that part. Sh
e had been young and stupid. Now shoulder to shoulder with him over the dying man, his presence was still unnervingly attractive, particularly this close. Which, she decided, made her old and stupid.

  Alex felt for a pulse at the fallen man’s throat. Still there. She shook him by the collar and slapped his face. Not too hard of course. He was dying after all. God help her. She was probably going to hell after today.

  Eyes fluttered open. “Too late.” The man smiled up at her with yellowed, crooked teeth. It was not a smile of regret. It was a smile of success. It sent chills down her spine.

  “Too late for what?” Alex asked. When he laughed, she shook him with increasing fear. “Answer me. Too late for what?”

  “Boom. Boom.” He said the words like an innocent child. Then closed his eyes again. Dead.

  “That was odd,” Joshua commented.

  Boom, boom? Alex went cold. Her ship. Could they know about the load of dynamite?

  She dropped the man’s collar and his head hit the ground with a thud. Not bothering to explain, or even retrieve her weapons, she ran. Faster than she had ever run in her life.

  Alex made for the water. It was less than two hundred yards. Her ship was in the Pool of London, a very congested area of the Thames. They had just loaded cargo today, so the ship was still close to port, only a hundred feet out. But how to get to it quickly? Smaller barges and launches carted people and small freight.

  Alex squinted, trying to see who was on watch. She didn’t see anyone. There should have been at least four crewmen. And one on land. Good God. She prayed they were okay.

  Running parallel to her ship, she searched the nearby docks. She saw his feet first. He was resting against a wood pole, his hat pulled down over his eyes, head dipped over chest. One of hers. Alex called his name, already knowing. Not wanting to believe it. She forced herself to lift his hat. To look at skin no longer supple with warmth. To see his mouth no longer stretched in a smile, but sagging, eerily cool to the touch. Blood had dried at his throat, and the slit that caused his death was covered by a decorative scarf made, she knew, by his younger sister in Baltimore. Her throat tightened unbearably.

  Whitley.

  Alex bit back the cry of pain and the tears that threatened to burden her vision. Carefully, she covered his face again and looked out to her ship with determination.

  In a red-hot flash, a path across the water manifested in her vision.

  Alex ran to the farthest edge of the dock and boarded the nearest ship. Thankfully, it was American. She shouted out who she was and what she needed, giving them little time to affirm or deny. Fury overwhelmed sanity and burned with increasing ferocity as she saw a stranger running across the deck of her ship. Without thinking of the consequences, she found the fore topmast mainstay. It was one of the longest ropes. Ignoring the shouts of the crew, she climbed the square shrouds as high as she could, and did something she never would have done had she stopped to think about it.

  She swung.

  Somewhere, midair, she thought, big mistake.

  Alex made it within reach of her ship. Unfortunately, her landing position required her to drop a good number of feet to the hardwood deck. Wood she had picked out herself because of its hardness. Wood that lived up to its reputation.

  She dropped, rolled, and rolled some more until she hit the farthest rail. Her bones jarred, her body shook, and her legs were more than a little wobbly when she stood. Testing that her rope-burned hands worked and the knife belt that bruised her hips was still in place, she headed below deck.

  There was no time to take satisfaction over her first ship-to-ship mainstay swing, as Alex quickly realized she was alone and she didn’t know how many enemies still lay in wait.

  Joshua had never met anyone who could move so fast. Even after calling Cyclone, she was steps ahead of him. As she dropped from one ship onto another he realized she was insane.

  And God help him, he was going to save her, even if it was from herself.

  Joshua spotted a flat barge, not far off the dock, slowly making its way out to midriver between the docked ships. Some of the men yelled when they saw Alex flying onto the ship. He hoped that meant they were friendly. He called out, getting their attention. Then he did something he never would have done had he stopped to think about it.

  He spurred Cyclone to top speed toward the edge of the dock. Then jumped.

  Somewhere, midair, he thought, I’m a genius.

  Then he landed.

  Fortunately, Cyclone had excellent courage, aim, and landing skills. Unfortunately, for Joshua, he didn’t accurately calculate the force of landing and having his horse stop instantly on a moving seacraft holding five men. Cyclone stopped dead.

  Joshua kept going. And going.

  Into the inky, polluted depths of the Thames.

  Chapter Twelve

  Alone on the deck of her ship, it was unnaturally quiet, despite the crowd of other crafts jostling for position on the Thames. Guarded, Alex made her way slowly aft, listening for movement, praying she was mistaken, but knowing there was at least one enemy aboard. The sound of wood cracking caught her ear as she made way to her cabin. Someone was in there. And in a rush. She snuck into the chart room next door and secured a gun from her weapons cage.

  Creeping back, she waited outside for some indication of where the occupant was and when he would come out. Sudden and continued crashing trumped her patience. She opened the door quietly and pushed with her foot.

  The door swung open, and the man looked up from his destruction. Into the barrel of her gun. And smiled.

  It was safe to say that was not the reaction she was expecting.

  Alex stepped into the cabin. Her aim was secure, but her hand shook. Not because of his evil grin. Nor was it from fear. Okay, a little fear, she admitted to herself, straining for control. More than anything, it was surprise. And the recognition of the scar running down his cheek that she had left on him three years ago.

  He stroked it, as if remembering that moment as well.

  “Miss Stafford. This is an unexpected pleasure. You weren’t due back for several days.” He waved a hand inviting her in. “Not that I mind. My, you have grown up nicely.”

  Alex swallowed, her gun unwavering, even as he pulled out the chair by her small desk and took a seat like he didn’t have a care in the world, adjusting the cross-hilt, short sword at his side.

  “Mr. Paxton. This was an unwise move on your part.” Just as she spoke the words, she noticed the cabin door moving toward her and caught the motion of a third person revealing himself. The click of a trigger seemed to echo unusually loud in the space.

  Paxton stretched a leg to rest a foot on her desk. “Funny, my dear. I was just thinking that about you.” He waved his fingers to the corner. “Meet my associate.”

  “Lower the weapon, miss,” the man commanded.

  “It’s Captain,” Alex corrected, keeping her pistol directed at Paxton. “And I’ll take my chances.”

  Paxton said his next words simply. Without hesitation. “Kill her.”

  With swift reflexes, Alex dove at an angle toward the henchman and shot at Paxton in the same movement, certain she could get him. Unfortunately, Paxton seemed to have nine lives, and this one wasn’t over.

  She landed in a heap on the floor. Paxton’s man stepped on her hand and pressed his weight down until she was forced to release the weapon. Then he yanked her up by her hair, twisting one arm behind her back.

  With her chin thrust upward, her neck tilted back uncomfortably, her nearest weapon disarmed, and her archenemy still uninjured and advancing, Alex decided a little polite conversation might be helpful before she made her next move.

  “What do you want, Paxton?”

  He sauntered the three steps it took to reach her. “I want what you have, my dear.” He ran a finger down her cheek—a caress and a threat. Alex instantly thought not of the map, but the necklace she was wearing under her shirt. Her astrolabe. Would he recognize the symbol if he
saw it? She breathed slowly to hide her panic. She had kept the necklace on her body for safekeeping. Now that seemed a bad idea.

  “I don’t have anything.”

  Paxton grabbed her by the throat with one hand. He was taller than she was, but shorter than most of her brothers. Nearly six feet, she guessed. His chest was barrel thick with muscles. His arms flexed tightly under his light shirt. He was built tough. Standing on her toes to curb the power of his chokehold made her realize his strength and the ease with which he could toss her, should he so choose.

  “You’ve made this much more difficult than it needs to be, Miss Stafford. Whether you like it or not, you and I are connected. Only I’m destined to win. And you? You don’t even know the truth about your own mother. Or why she died.”

  Alex struggled for air, her eyes not leaving him, trying to discern if he really knew anything about her mother, or was bluffing. Her mother died ten years ago. What could he know about it?

  “Ah! I see now you’re interested?” He released his grip on her throat.

  Her voice rasped. “I don’t see why we can’t share information. Assuming you really have something to share.” Damn. He could be an expert now on all things prophecy related, and she still suffered from trying to be discreet, hiding what she knew, even from her family.

  “I’ve been following the prophecy for eleven years, Miss Stafford. I know a fair lot more than you, I’m guessing. But then, all the protectors of the prophecy seem to have taken a code of silence.”

  Alex stiffened. Did he know she was one of the protectors? Or at least she thought she was one. There were others? Did they know about her?

  “I’m not familiar with this prophecy. Can you please explain, Mr. Paxton?” It hurt, but she gave the gracious smile. She would put her newly acquired etiquette skills to good use even if it killed her—something that was looking to be a more likely scenario just now.

  Paxton trailed a finger down her throat to the collar, where the top button was undone.