Mistress of the Stone

by Maria Zannini

  “Are there werewolves on the island?” Luísa asked.

  Daltry stiffened for a moment before regaining his confidence. “What know you of werewolves, little girl?”

  She laughed, seemingly delighted with the conversation.

  “Paqua raised me on shapeshifter stories. He told me werewolves can’t control their change. That’s why they have to live apart from humans. And—and,” she said excitedly. “They like to eat virgins!”

  Daltry busted into laughter, unable to contain himself. “Virgins! My, my. Well, I suppose there might be truth in that, though I think you might have misunderstood the context of the word, eating.”

  She frowned at him. “What else can eating mean?”

  He smiled at her kindly. “You really are a virgin, aren’t you, kitten?”

  She drew back, insulted. “You’re in no position to mock me, sir.”

  Daltry pulled at the shackles on each wrist. “It does appear that way, Miss. I seem to be at your every whim.”

  Luísa blew out a breath, and her expression stiffened before sneaking a look behind her. Her eyes lit with mischief and Daltry could sense she plotted something new.

  “You are at my service, aren’t you, Capitán?”

  “So it seems.” He tugged again on the chains holding his arms hostage.

  “And I would be doing you a favor if I offered you some relief from these chains.”

  “You would.”

  “Then perhaps you could do me a favor too.”

  One brow lifted. What was she up to?

  “What favor do you ask of an imprisoned wretch?”

  “Your silence, Capitán.”

  Daltry tilted his head with amusement. “I would be the soul of discretion, Miss. What am I to be silent about?”

  She drew closer with breath so gentle it stole his own. Before he realized it, her soft lips pressed against his. His wolf side ached to come out, but he fought back the urge. Instead, he leaned as far forward as he could and kissed her back.

  The girl looked as if she were going to swoon until she wrapped her arms around his neck. Her lips separated from his, but still she didn’t let go.

  “I never knew kissing could be like this.”

  “Release me, and I can show you more than kissing.” The words were laced with craving.

  Luísa got off her tiptoes, then ran her hands down his chest. “Your word, sir. You won’t tell anyone I kissed you.”

  “And risk my ’nads for defiling a virgin? Aye, Miss. Your secret is safe with me.”

  She smiled at him. “Thank you, Capitán Daltry. I’ll see about getting you a respite from these chains, at least for a few minutes.”

  Boldly, Luísa stroked the rough burr on his cheek, then laughed. “Paqua and his silly superstitions. You don’t have enough of a beard to be a werewolf, Inglés.”

  She opened her mouth to say something else when the Coral rocked hard to port. Luísa fell against Daltry’s chest. He wanted to protect her with his body, but the chains held him in place.

  “We’re under attack. Unlock these shackles, Luísa!”

  “No! You’re safer here, Inglés. I’ll come back for you as soon as I find out what’s afoul.” She darted for the ladder, crashing into it instead when a second volley hit the Coral.

  “Luísa!”

  “I’m all right,” she said, looking a little stunned. She stole a glance at him once more before disappearing through the hatch.

  A single drum rattled in fervor while men shouted from the rat lines. A ship in sight. An enemy. And he was stuck here.

  Chapter Seven

  Blast this wicked fog. It had caught them unawares. They’d pay dearly for that blindness. Luísa raced to the wheel, the sailing master leaning into a turn with all his weight.

  The enemy had struck two lucky blows. But now the rough of the sea had given them some time to plot. The roll of both ships put them out of range at least for the moment. The time to act was now. But instead of turning to fight, the Coral was fleeing.

  Why?

  Paqua was at Barbosa’s neck, spitting out orders. The only thing in Luísa’s mouth were curses.

  “Blast it, Paqua! Why are we showing our heels? We’re fit to fight.”

  “Are you daft, girl? Did you not feel the weight of that last blast? We’re outgunned. Whoever that spider is, she’s in a heavier class than we can challenge.”

  “If she’s heavy, she’s also slow. And two can play hide and seek in this fog. Let’s circle around and take her while we can.”

  She slapped Cintas, the sailing master, across the back then took the wheel from him. “Ready about, Cintas! Make that rudder scream in the wind. Quartermaster! Call the men to stations.”

  “Belay that order, both of you!” Paqua pulled Luísa off the wheel. “We’ll not go looking for trouble.”

  “Are you mad? It could be the brigands who took Papa. Or Saint-Sauveur. We could take that bastard down and drown him to Davy Jones’s locker once and for all.”

  “Which is exactly why we’re running. Saint-Sauveur has a frigate the size of Gibraltar, with guns to match. Did you forget what she did to the Persephone?”

  Luísa tugged on her co-captain’s shirt collar. “We have the advantage, Paqua. We can take her. I know we can.”

  He peeled her fingers from his collar and cupped her hands in his. “No, preciosa. Trust me on this.” He showed her the chicken foot at his throat. “If that ship finds us, you are doomed.”

  “Me?”

  “Aye, Luísa. I have seen it.”

  The men stood slack-jawed and worried, knowing their captains weren’t in accord. Some clenched to rigging, others to their side arms. All of them anxious for a decision.

  “As you will, Captain.” The words tasted like ash in her mouth. She lowered her eyes and then her voice. “Let us flee like cats in a storm.”

  “’Tis a shame you don’t have the sense of a cat.” Paqua rousted the men to attention. “Keep a weather eye. We’ve not lost the bastards yet.”

  Dooley craned his neck starboard. “We’ve not lost them at all, sir. I see something!”

  A half dozen men squinted and stretched over the rail as far as they could. Luísa wished she could tear a hole in the fog’s veil for one good look, but all she could see was the gray breath of Neptune.

  “I see nothing, boy.” Paqua yelled back, worrying Khourru’s foot between knotty fingers.

  Dooley didn’t breathe, didn’t blink, instead staring straight ahead as if he could burn a hole through the fog.

  “I saw something, Captain. I did. It was the black mast of a frigate.”

  Black Barbosa ruffled Dooley’s red hair. “Ye fancy danger where this is none, lad. We turned our rudder as soon as that first blast hit us. The Coral’s as fast as a dolphin in heat. I’ll lay odds we left that lumbering piece of ballast in our wake.”

  Dooley didn’t give up, refusing to leave the rail.

  Luísa put her hand on his shoulder. “Tomas is right, Dooley. I’ve not seen a ship yet that could catch us at a run. Fog plays tricks on us all.”

  Dooley hung his head. “Yes, Captain-ma’am. As you say.” He turned to walk away when a ball of iron flew past them and into the mizzenmast, cracking it in half. The blast knocked Luísa off her feet and into Dooley’s arms.

  They stared at one another, too shocked to speak as he helped her up. Another volley, but this one hit the opposite rail, hauling a man overboard.

  Paqua and Barbosa had every free man on ropes and rigging, while the sailing master heaved the Coral to where the wind blew strongest.

  “Get to the arms locker, Dooley, and pass out every musket and sword.”

  “Yes, ma’am!”

  “And Dooley…” Luísa braced herself against the rail. “You earned yourself a bonus today. I’ll never doubt those eyes again.”

  Dooley saluted. “Thank you, ma’am. I hope I live long enough to enjoy it.” He dashed to the armory.

  Paqua almost r
an into Luísa as she made to help with rigging. He grabbed her by the arm. “Go to your quarters, Luísa.”

  “I most certainly will not. What if we’re boarded?”

  “That’s why I want you in your quarters. I want you to hide behind that secret compartment where Inácio keeps his loot.”

  “I’m not hiding!”

  “And I won’t argue with you.” He pointed to a massive frigate now closing in on them. “They mean to board us, and I’ll need every man to keep them at bay. You’d only be a distraction and a burden to them. They’re sworn to protect you, remember? I don’t want them dying just to keep you from getting hurt.”

  “I can fight.”

  Paqua’s leathered hands cupped her face. He squeezed her cheeks, then kissed her forehead. “I know you can. But right now, I need you to hide. Please, Luísa. For my sake. For your father’s.”

  Luísa looked out to sea where the ghostly shape of a frigate spilled out of the thinning fog. She was big and she was French. Was it Saint-Sauveur? It looked like the Vengeance. And if they boarded them, the Coral was doomed. She was no match for something that big. Cannons aside, they probably had twice as many men at matchlocks and swords.

  The old man was right. Next to their loot, she’d be next for plunder. Women were a valuable commodity—especially virgins.

  “Be careful, Paqua.” She pulled him close to her and kissed his cheek. “Don’t you dare get killed by the likes of them.”

  “There’s not a Frenchman born yet who could get the best of me.” He patted her cheek. “Off with you now. I intend to teach some manners to those dandies.”

  Luísa made her way to her quarters, struggling to stay on her feet as more volleys rocked the Coral out of the water. Blast Paqua and his mollycoddling. They needed every blade to fight the French off. That included hers.

  What good would it do to save her skin if she drowned on a sinking ship?

  The frigate grew like a mountain out of the mist. She’d be upon them soon and then the battle would turn man to man. She threw open the door to her cabin and rustled through a chest where she kept her guns and powder.

  She pulled out two pistols, specially designed to fit her smaller hands, and loaded them with powder. Once primed, she wedged them on either side of her belt. Her knives were kept in a special leather wrap, an entire array of blades of every shape and size. These she wedged into every pocket and sleeve, hiding even two shurikens into the folds of her bandanna. Her dagger, the one Paqua said was magicked, she kept in her boot.

  All the extra hardware weighed her down, but she knew she’d be doffing them quickly once the battle started. She found two more pistols and tucked one under a bandolier and another in her breeches.

  If she had to load herself with one more weapon, she was sure to lose her trousers down to her ankles. She reached for her swords next when a crash threw her to the ground. A loud, grinding scrape cut across the side of the ship.

  They were being boarded.

  Musketfire and the scrape of blades echoed outside. Men rushed toward each other, a blood-curdling war cry on their lips. Luísa made the sign of the cross then grabbed two swords from where she dropped them.

  As she rose to her feet, two men sprang into her quarters. French cutthroats. How did they reach her so quickly?

  She lunged at the closest one and threw her sword at the second, spearing him in the gut. He was a goner, but the first man evaded her lunge then parried with his blade.

  He was good, matching her thrusts, stroke by stroke, but this was taking too much time. As the brigand moved in for another blow, Luísa feinted with one hand and reached up to her bandanna and threw the two hidden shurikens.

  One hit him in the throat and it must have been close to the jugular because the blood spurted out in a gush. The second bladed-star struck him in the eye, and that was all the stomach that Frenchman had left. He screamed like a burnt dog and became so disoriented he slammed right into the doorjamb, knocking himself out cold.

  Two down, and at least fifty more outside begging to meet their Maker. She sheathed her sword then lit the fuses on both her pistols. Let them kill her if it be God’s will, but she wouldn’t be meeting Him alone.

  Chapter Eight

  Daltry heard the call for arms and cannon ports lifted almost at once. They had picked up speed and for a few blessed minutes order had been restored.

  But all their efforts proved fruitless.

  Whatever ship lit upon them caught them again. The first volley crashed at the aft of the ship, then came a mighty crack and the roar of a mast hitting the deck. Men scattered and screamed. Was Luísa all right?

  Another volley, and again the Coral bobbed in the water. The gunners were good. Too good. If the Coral didn’t make haste, they’d sink her for sure.

  She must not have been in a good position to fire because no shots were returned. Daltry felt the ship lean into a turn, but it was too late.

  A low groan echoed on the starboard side as the enemy scraped along the Coral’s bulwark. They leaned side by side, popping against each other as the waves pushed them closer together.

  The top deck rang with war cries as men and steel clashed, and the ricochet of gunfire ate away at men’s nerves. He could taste their fear, a sick dread that wafted off the sweat of men in battle.

  Time to go.

  Daltry closed his eyes and sucked in a breath as the fire in his belly swelled. He stretched his neck feeling the cords of muscle thicken and grow. An arc of pain ripped through him, his body on fire. That was the way of it when he had to hurry. There was no time to let nature take its course. He let out a cry that transformed into a growl as his body succumbed to the wolf within.

  With one tug he broke the chains pinning him to the ceiling beam. He tore the shackles off his wrists, now too tight for comfort. His breeches stretched at the seams and his shirt, voluminous though it was, gave way to his increasing girth.

  Daltry jumped on the ladder and lurched up the rails two by two and climbed to the top deck.

  The Coral had been boarded and Daltry recognized her transgressor immediately. It was the Vengeance. Saint-Sauveur had found them at last.

  The Vengeance drilled into the Coral like a wedge, punching a hole in her that put half her cannons out of commission. She was taking on water. If Paqua didn’t surrender now, he’d lose the ship along with her hands.

  Three men dragged Luísa from the top; she, fighting them off with all she was worth. One man grabbed her around the waist, pinning her arms at her sides, while another man relieved her of half a dozen pistols and knives. Luísa kicked out, gaining purchase on the groin of the man in front. The man paled and crumbled to the deck.

  Daltry winced. That had to hurt. The girl kicked like a mule.

  He raced toward them, but he wouldn’t reach her in time. They were already at the ship’s rail ready to disembark. Paqua fought like a man possessed, jabbing and slashing every man in front of Luísa. He had nearly reached her when someone cracked a musket over his head. He fell face forward into her arms.

  Paqua slid to the deck and Luísa screamed in horror. Her legs buckled under her, and she tried to help the shaman to his feet, but she was surrounded in seconds.

  Dooley, brave and stupid lad that he was, took up where Paqua went down, and ran after the brigands, lunging on the back of the man who towed Luísa like a sack of grain.

  Another man pulled Dooley off and knocked him out with one blow. The brute pulled the boy’s head back by a hank of his hair and studied him. A sick grin crossed the man’s face as he threw the lad across his shoulder and took him too.

  Someone came up on Daltry, a one-eyed cook by the look of him, with a grimy apron and a meat cleaver in his hand. The poor bastard took one look and withered from fright, fainting dead away.

  Daltry relieved him of the cleaver and made his way to the ship’s rail. Saint-Sauveur was beating a retreat. They had gotten what they came for. The Coral was unimportant now.

  E
ven as Paqua’s men fought to hold the boarding lines between the ships, the Vengeance cut the ropes and drifted away from the Coral. The distance between them spanned too far. Daltry couldn’t leap the void, so he did the next best thing. He jumped into the sea.

  He didn’t allow his body to change back into human form just yet. Much as his wolf state hated getting wet, he needed his animal strength to reach the Vengeance before she put on speed.

  He climbed up the barnacle lined hull, his claws digging into the lapped seams of the ship. When he reached the top, he hung there, listening for movement.

  Saint-Sauveur left the Coral listing in the fog. He wouldn’t be expecting a stowaway.

  Daltry peered over the railing. The crew of the Vengeance were tending their wounded and making what repairs were needed. Still giddy from battle, they’d be fidgety and wary. He had to bide his time. He scanned the perimeter and let his wolf side recede from whence it came.

  His jaws ached as they molded themselves back into human form. Wolf muscles waned and the long dark hair on his face and body shortened to reveal the flesh of a man. His clothes were gone, except for his skivvies that now hung limply along his hips.

  Daltry waited for his moment, then climbed over the railing and hid behind a small currach. His eyes widened when he caught sight of Luísa, her body limp and in the arms of Saint-Sauveur’s first mate.

  Dooley, who had valiantly fought to save his mistress was strapped to a mast, his face pummeled by the master at arms until he slid against his ropes unconscious. Daltry feared the lad was in for far worse. If the chance arose to help him, he would.

  Daltry sniffed the air. Even in human form his sight and smell were sharper than the common man. But what he hunted was no common man.

  On a breeze, he caught a whiff of Saint-Sauveur and his head turned to the quarterdeck. His eyes narrowed when his rival turned in his direction as well, sniffing the wind, recognition on his face. Wolves at sea, the both of them. One seeking the scion who would free all wolves from turning involuntarily, the other desperate for the means to stop him. In the middle was Luísa, the one creature who could plunge the entire night realm to war.