Mistress of the Stone

by Maria Zannini

  Daltry didn’t flinch, only crossed his arms with cold assurance. “So I’ve heard. Didn’t think you’d be fool enough to come back for him though.”

  “I do not abandon my family.”

  His brow softened and beneath it a spark of understanding lit his eyes. “Then we have something in common, kitten. I too have someone I’ve come back for. And I could use your help to free her.”

  “My help? Bah! Your tricks for capturing my brethren are legendary. Do you honestly think I’d fall for your lies?”

  He moved toward her with the stride of a predator, his steely amber eyes locking onto her as if she were prey. Even his shadow had weight.

  In that split second, Luísa wondered if she’d have time to scream. To her relief the door burst open. Paqua stood at the front of several men, all of them carrying matchlocks.

  “You’ll move away from the mistress of this ship now, Capitán Daltry.”

  Daltry stepped back from Luísa, tossing the pistol to the mattress and lifting his hands to show he had no other weapons. “I meant no harm to the…” He paused and stole a glance her way. “To the lady.”

  Bastard! Was that mirth in his voice?

  Paqua gestured with his firearm for Luísa to come to him. She complied without argument.

  The men moved in like a wave, surrounding Daltry on all sides.

  “You recuperate remarkably fast, Capitán Daltry. We thought you near death.”

  Daltry nodded in response. “I mend quickly.” He tugged at either sleeve on his shirt with the subtle indignation of a gentleman. “You might say it runs in the family.”

  Paqua holstered his weapon and walked up to their prisoner. His expression flattened, and the breath seethed out of his flared nostrils in a rattle. Luísa knew that look and she knew what came next. She took another step back. Before anyone could react, he landed a square fist on Daltry’s jaw.

  It should’ve been enough to knock him to the floorboards. The Englishman staggered, but he didn’t fall. More importantly, he didn’t fight back. Smart man.

  Paqua was small and lean and well into his forty-second year, but no one could mistake his strength. She’d seen him send many a man on a long sleep, but this one only stumbled, his jaw slightly reddened. This from a man who not but a few hours ago had one foot in the grave.

  “Hombre lobo,” Paqua’s voice rumbled deep from his belly. “Think I don’t know what you and that French blasphemer are?”

  The men mumbled amongst themselves. Werewolf.

  Luísa’s throat tightened. Silly superstitions. Was this what he was worried about? Paqua often beguiled the crew with legends and island lore. The old man believed in the werewolf, swearing on the Rosary and his bag of magic bones that he had known them flesh and bone.

  Paqua spat at Daltry’s face and cursed him. “If you get near the lady again, I’ll cut off your bollocks and feed them to the crows.” He nodded to the quartermaster. “Take him below and lock him in irons. His nursing is over.”

  They dragged him out, but Paqua stayed behind.

  As soon as they were alone, he lashed out at Luísa. “You’re a fool!”

  “Well sink me! How could I know he’d recover so quickly? He lay near death. You saw him.”

  “A werewolf. I saw the signs in my tea leaves this morning, but I didn’t want to believe it.”

  “Now who’s being the fool, Paqua? I didn’t see any claws or long fur. You said yourself the werewolf reveals himself at the slightest provocation. Daltry took your blows and taunts without showing the least aggression.”

  “He must hide his wolf side with a mask, something to quash the fervor of the beast. Was he wearing a talisman, or did you hear him chant a spell?”

  “No, but…” She walked over to where she had tossed the pouch of herbs, then handed it to Paqua. “This was hanging around his neck. It’s wolfsbane, isn’t it? I thought maybe he kept it as protection.”

  Paqua’s craggy eyes widened. “Clever.”

  “I don’t understand. Wolfsbane kills werewolves, doesn’t it?”

  “Not in the hands of someone who knows how to use it.” Paqua opened the little bag and pulled out a pinch of the feathery remains. He took a single fragment of crushed wolfsbane and placed it between his teeth. One taste and then he spit it out, throwing the rest of the pouch back on the table. “He stays in chains. Get the information you need quickly. We must drown this demon before it’s too late.”

  “You really think he’s a werewolf?”

  Paqua’s brow crinkled to crocodile skin. He bent his head and sniffed her. “Querida. He’s already put his mark on you.”

  Chapter Three

  Daltry followed without a scuffle. There were only four of them, brandishing matchlocks primed for firing, but he had no reason to bolt yet. There was time enough to steal the girl, but how he’d get her off the ship was a different quandary.

  His wolfsbane had been seized. He’d have to rely on meditation and breathing to keep the beast inside him under control.

  Thanks to his sister, his need for the drug had diminished, but he wasn’t free of its addiction. Soon need would overwhelm good sense. Wolfsbane had kept his animal side in check, but the price for that control earned him an inhuman addiction to the herb. Wolfsbane was a tether and a trap for the damned.

  He tested his chains. Old iron and poorly made too. When the time came, he’d have no trouble escaping. Rusty shackles were no match for him in his altered state, but he needed to bide his time. Luísa sailed into more trouble than she knew. If Saint-Sauveur caught whiff of the Coral’s whereabouts, the sea would not be vast enough to stop him.

  Mice scampered in the darkness, scrambling for a safe haven from a gray striped cat with a crooked nose. Puss prowled the corridors of the ship with the arrogance of ownership. It padded up to Daltry then stopped, turning its head to hiss at him and administer a cat’s contempt.

  Daltry hissed back, greeting Puss with a warning growl and the fangs he allowed to grow incrementally. Puss understood immediately. The cat’s back arched in defiance before vaulting away. Predators knew their own kind.

  The scent of mold and sweat permeated the support beams and the straw at his feet. Men had been kept here. They left behind their blood and piss, markers for the next wretched occupants.

  He’d heard the Coral didn’t trade in flesh, but she did hold prisoners, English seamen, among others. Inácio Tavares had no love for the English or the French, though it had been said he’d become less brutal once his daughter joined his crew.

  Daltry scowled. He could understand bringing a son into the profession, but a daughter? Luísa had the looks men dreamt of in their sleep. The crew of the Coral were either blind or went to bed every night with their hands on their rudders as they stroked themselves to distraction.

  He froze and listened to far-off steps. A visitor. Daltry sniffed the air, recognizing the scent at once. The shaman. The stories surrounding Paqua were renowned. Many believed he protected the Coral, and perhaps he did. The Coral and her crew had been untouchable for more than five and ten years. Exactly the number Paqua had been aboard.

  Long moments later, the hatch opened and a ladder scraped down one side. The shaman descended, stepping into the half-light of a dim lantern like a wraith on a blood trail. He still wanted another piece of Daltry.

  He said nothing at first, strolling around Daltry as if he were examining a slab of beef at market.

  “Luísa doesn’t want me to kill you yet.”

  “Wise woman.”

  The painted man glared at him. “Why did Saint-Sauveur shoot you?”

  “Does he need a reason? Saint-Sauveur is French.”

  Paqua spat at Daltry’s feet. “Shapeshifter demon. You and Saint-Sauveur are cut from the same pelt.”

  Daltry felt his chest tighten. His lip curled involuntarily when Paqua pierced him a knowing look. How did he know?

  “Yes,” he said slowly, savoring the word. “I’ve heard the stories abou
t you and that false priest. You sail the waters, but your feet prefer the smell of grass and forest.”

  “Check your rations, old man. Some molds bring on madness.”

  That remark earned him a blow to the belly.

  Daltry groaned, hoping his eyes hadn’t fallen out of their sockets. “Easy to beat a man when he’s in chains. A pirate’s way, isn’t it?”

  Another blow. This one connected with his jaw. Daltry never did know when to shut up.

  “Perhaps you’d like to discuss a different topic, Inglés.”

  Daltry rolled his head up and spit out the blood in his mouth. “How about this one? If you care anything at all about the girl, you’ll get her out of these waters before the blood moon.”

  Paqua grabbed Daltry by a hank of hair and threw his head back. “Blood moon! What happens on the blood moon? Out with it!”

  A subtle growl escaped him before he could choke it back. “What do your little bones tell you, priest? They warned of danger, didn’t they?”

  Paqua nodded. “On the next full moon.”

  “The blood moon. When the gate between the living and the dead opens wide.” He hesitated. “With the proper sacrifice.”

  Daltry didn’t see the next blow coming. When he came to, Paqua was gone.

  How long had he been unconscious? He watched the hanging ropes and chains sway back and forth with the roll of the ship. They were in smooth waters with a good wind at their back—Saint-Sauveur’s favorite hunting ground. Daltry’s neck muscles tightened. The fools. He had to get them to turn around. There was no point in sacrificing all of them just to get the girl.

  His skin prickled, and a growing sense of agitation fed an overwrought imagination. Inch by inch his control weakened. Worse yet, the hunger for the wolfsbane grew stronger.

  He smacked his lips, trying to swallow the sharp tang in his mouth. One thin trickle of sweat slid down his jaw. Not good. He needed that wolfsbane.

  The crew sounded busy. Sails were being unfurled and stores tied down. There was every manner of squawk and bellow from beast and quartermaster alike. The winds had freshened, hell-bent on driving the Coral to her doom. They sailed without effort, so the Persephone had to be gone by now. And his crew had not been brought aboard, or else they’d be here sharing his lovely accommodations.

  He hoped they were still alive even if it had to be in chains. They had already suffered much at the hands of Saint-Sauveur. Many had died trying to keep the Frenchman from reaching the Persephone.

  In the end, it didn’t matter. Saint-Sauveur had boarded the Persephone as calmly as a morning stroll along the Seine. His loaded matchlock already had its fuse lit by the time he reached the quarterdeck.

  Daltry had to turn his back on him when two men with cutlasses attacked him from the rear, a near fatal error in retrospect. He heard a sharp crack and then his flesh sizzled as if it were on fire, raking the left side of his spine. He dropped to his knees and turned around, just in time to see Saint-Sauveur grinning with delight. The bastard saluted him.

  “You should have never come back, mon ami. The pack stands with me.” They were the last words Daltry remembered before he lost consciousness.

  The pack! Wolves who couldn’t see any farther than the ends of their noses. Saint-Sauveur had promised them a way to break the curse, but it meant giving the Frenchman eternal life and absolute power. They’d be trading one demon for another. What good was free will if one man controlled their fate?

  Daltry squeezed his eyes tight then opened them. There was little light in this hold other than the dim yellow glow from an oil lantern and the pinhole streaks of sunlight that pierced the hull. His eyes burned, blurring his vision when he struggled to make sense of his surroundings.

  Every little sound seemed louder, scratching against his bones like a knife.

  And his smell grew sharper. His wolf side ached to come out, even while his human side yearned for the bitter taste of the wolfsbane. Two sides fighting for control of a body that shivered with need.

  He pulled against his chains. How long had he been here? And how long had he been without a measure of that herbal venom? The Persephone’s surgeon knew about his dependence, but probably hadn’t dosed him, thinking his captain was past saving.

  Damn his luck. He needed it. Even a small amount would curb the hunger and return his control.

  Daltry yanked at his chains. He’d have to turn if he wanted to break free and once he did, his wolf side might not wish to return to his frailer human skin. It hurt to be human. Right now, it hurt a lot.

  His nose twitched when he caught the whiff of a visitor. Male, young and scared shitless.

  A redheaded boy popped out from the hatch and two wide eyes stared down at him.

  “Come down, lad. I don’t bite.” He lied.

  The lanky youth slid down the splintered ladder, plopping to his bare feet.

  “You’re English,” the boy said.

  “Aye. As are you, it seems. What’s an English lad doing on a Portuguese pirate ship?”

  “It’s a mixed crew,” he said with sullen adolescent bravado. “Captain Tavares fetched me aboard six years ago when they took down the Victory. My mates were sold into slavery, but the Captain kept me. Said I was to keep his daughter company.”

  Daltry tilted his head with a saucy look of approval. “I’ve seen the Captain’s daughter. Not a bad sentence. Wish I had fared as well.”

  “The Miss doesn’t like our kinsmen much. But she’s always treated me well.”

  A blush bloomed over the boy’s face.

  Daltry smiled.

  “You love the mistress of this ship, don’t you, boy?”

  “My name is Dooley, and I don’t love anyone.” He scrunched his lips, turning his mouth a scarlet red. “I said she treated me well. Don’t go adding any meaning to my words.” His scarred bony hands doubled into fists. He wasn’t about to back down, not with his honor at stake.

  “Relax, Dooley. I meant no harm. But I couldn’t blame you for falling in love. She’s a fine looking woman.”

  His face blanched and he leaned in conspiratorially. “Best she don’t hear you say that. She can cut a fly in half with a dagger.”

  “Mean, is she?”

  Dooley looked behind him, rolling his shoulders as if to hide under them. “Miss is a kind soul, but she don’t show it much. She don’t want the crew thinking her soft. But she nursed me once when I had the pox. Everyone else stayed away and some wanted to throw me overboard, but the Captain wouldn’t allow it. And the Miss never left me.”

  His eyes turned soft and watery blue. The boy loved her very much.

  Daltry was beginning to wish he had such a guardian angel right now. The breath rasped out of him in a shudder. So hot. How long could he last?

  His vision blurred once more. Instead of one boy in front of him, there were two. There was no time left. He’d let the animal out and take his chances.

  Dooley inched closer to him. “Are you all right, Captain? Your eyes look queer.”

  The sweat rained off his face and he lunged toward the boy, held back only by the chains. Dooley jerked away.

  “When I was brought aboard, I must have had a small pouch tied around my neck. It’s medicine that I need. Come, Dooley. Do a mate a favor and bring me that pouch. I can’t last long without it.”

  “If you had anything on you, the Mistress would’ve taken it. I’d have to ask her.”

  “No!” He didn’t mean to yell at him, but he was too far gone for diplomacy. Daltry took a deep breath, then let it out in short huffs. “No, Dooley. You don’t have to say anything to her. Just see if you can find the pouch and bring it to me. I need it, lad. I’ll die without it.”

  “I—I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Good lad. Go now. Go and fetch my medicine.” He licked his lips expectantly. Maybe there was a chance.

  Dooley turned to leave when the ladder shook anew. Litter and dust drifted in the breeze, a herald for the hurricane to co
me.

  Down came the long shapely legs of a woman, curves so lush he couldn’t find a straight line on her. She stood covered from head to foot in leather and felt, with breeches snug enough to leave nothing to the imagination.

  Her hands were gloved and her thigh high boots only accentuated the full curves of her bum. Every button on her shirt was fastened but to no avail. She’d probably been undressed numerous times in the silent minds of lustier souls.

  She had the face of an innocent, yet her eyes betrayed a deeper knowledge. He was sure nothing escaped their notice. Surer still that she was as unforgiving as she was lovely.

  Luísa gave Daltry a measured look, then glanced at Dooley. In her hand was his leather pouch.

  “That’ll be all, Dooley.”

  “But, Miss—”

  “I’ll handle this from here, boy. Off with you.”

  “Yes, Miss.” He saluted, two fingers at his temple, then scurried up the ladder and out of sight.

  Luísa turned, her arms folded tightly across her chest, bridging her breasts and raising them higher. Her hair was loose and full, framing a soft face and suspicious eyes. She smelled of sandalwood soap and mint and something more. He gazed down at her full bosom and tight breeches. A pirate’s garb did little to hide the woman inside. More was the pity he couldn’t appreciate it at the moment.

  “You don’t look well, Inglés.”

  “Let’s not play games, Luísa. I need what’s in that pouch.”

  She unfolded her arms and waggled the leather satchel in front of him. “This? Then Paqua is right. You are a werewolf.”

  Daltry grit his teeth. “The pouch, woman. Give it to me.”

  “Answers first, shapeshifter. Where is my father?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “Why is his name in your little book?”

  “I keep a lot of names in that book. I hunt pirates, remember?”

  “Why is my name in there?”

  He hesitated. Even if she knew the truth, she’d never believe him. “When I hunt a man, I like to keep an inventory of the things that make him vulnerable.”

  Her eyes grew dark and steely. “My father, heretic—his name was crossed off in your book.”