Reborn

by Kate Danley

  Reborn

  A Dead Man Adventure

  Kate Danley & Phoef Sutton & Lisa Klink

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Text Copyright (c) 2014 Adventures in Television, Inc.

  THE DEAD MAN logo is a registered trademark of Adventures in Television, Inc.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by 47North, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  EISBN: 9781477873564

  Cover design by Jeroen Ten Berge

  Table of Contents

  EPISODE 1

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  EPISODE 2

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  EPISODE 3

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  EPISODE 4

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  EPISODE 5

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  EPISODE 6

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  About the Author

  Kindle Serials

  EPISODE 1

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Black Sea, Sixth Century BC

  The drum beat in unending rhythm, matched by the sound of five hundred oars striking the water in time. A whip cracked the air, but not a single slave cried out. They never cried out, Captain Theophanes reflected. They never cried, never complained, just dropped dead if pushed too hard. It was a damned shame the overseer kept killing such fine stock.

  Theophanes looked down at the sea of corded, glistening arms as they pulled the oars, the blank faces without a single grimace. The anger flared inside him. These slaves were promised to him, but those damned passengers, those forty Byzantine lords, were going to kill them all before they reached Byzantium if they kept up this pace.

  At least he had the boat. Theophanes leaned his hand against a wooden pillar as the deck beneath him tilted with the rising sea. He stared at the carved symbols in the walls, the light from the swaying lanterns playing across their surface. One of the lords whose name he didn't bother to find out said the symbols were for protection.

  Theophanes pounded the pillar angrily with his fist.

  These Byzantine lords were proving to be trickier than he would have given them credit for. Oh, they’d played him for a fool, luring him into their service by paying in full before departure, throwing in the promise of ownership of the boat and slaves once they reached their final destination. The boat was the finest thing he had ever seen. Six stories tall. Large enough to easily fit the forty lords, their personal stewards, Theophanes' crew, and six hundred slaves—five hundred to row, one hundred as spares—in addition to horses, food, and cargo.

  The overseer's lash cracked again and one of the slaves keeled from his wooden bench onto the ground, his skull striking the deck with such force, blood spilled across the groaning boards.

  Theophanes roared at the overseer, "Who do you think you are, destroying my property? I'll take it out of your hide!"

  The overseer did not say a word, just motioned to a row of slaves sitting on a bench beside him. Two of them rose and silently walked over to their fallen comrade, picking him up by the arms and feet and carrying him up the stairs to toss overboard. Another slave stepped forward to take his place.

  Theophanes ground his teeth. The overseer never replied, never made any acknowledgment, just continued to push on. Theophanes realized that though he'd own the boat when they arrived in Byzantium, he'd have to buy a whole new lot to row it home, and he’d used up most of his money on whores before they left port.

  "Peace," said the steward at Theophanes' elbow, interrupting his thoughts as he placed his hand softly on the captain's sleeve.

  Theophanes jerked his arm away. These Byzantine lords never deigned to speak to him. They always pushed off their dirty work on their stewards, who scraped and bowed at Theophanes with false reverence. He knew they mocked him.

  "I shall take the matter up with my lords," continued the steward in soothing tones. "You have my word that after tonight, this matter shall be resolved."

  "Enough!" declared Theophanes. "I'll have no more of your promises. It is time I have a word with our 'honored' guests and let them know who is the master here! I'll not have their slave kill my slaves! I'll not put up with it a moment more!"

  He stormed up the steps as the boat tilted unnaturally. The roll of distant thunder shook the planks, and the first drop of rain hit just as he emerged from below.

  The forty lords stood on either side of the boat, perfectly spaced along the deck, watching the darkening horizon. They were dressed in robes of the finest white linen, embroidered with thread of spun gold and silver. The metal caught the flash of lightning. The thunder rumbled closer. Theophanes strode over to the nearest man, but as he opened his mouth, the lord stated in a droning monotone, "We must not be delayed."

  "If your overseer would stop killing my slaves—" began Theophanes.

  "We must not be delayed."

  "There is a storm rolling in and your man keeps killing our only means of transportation—"

  "We must not be delayed."

  Frustrated, Theophanes turned to his first mate, who was manning the tiller. He looked up as the storm clouds rolled fast over the sky, blocking out the moon and all the stars, and shouted, "Why didn't you inform me of this coming storm?"

  "I am sorry, Captain!" the man replied, shouting as the wind carried away his words. "There was no warning. I fear we have angered the gods!"

  "Delay is unacceptable," the lord said.

  The silence hung between them as angry as the sky above. A wave crested the deck, the boat lurched, and the water of the Black Sea pooled around their feet.

  The rain began to fall in huge sheets, slanting sideways as the gale struck the ship. Theophanes grabbed on to the railing as another wave crashed. The forty lords stood as if rooted to the boat, impassive to the howling wind and rolling thunder.

  Theophanes cocked his head. He heard something—a noise. Beneath the rage of the storm. The sound of metal up
on metal. It seemed to be coming from below. He strained his ears. There were angry shouts.

  Mutiny! he realized. Theophanes drew his cutlass and ran towards the stairs just as a horde of armed soldiers poured from below. He recognized their faces, the faces of the stewards who had served their lords so faithfully until this point. Yet now they were dressed in the vestments of the religious and bore naked steel in their hands. Theophanes stepped back, looking for a defensible position. With a fierce battle cry, he ran at the closest man, but after briefly crossing swords, the steward ran past him and straight towards a lord.

  Theophanes stood in confusion, but then the words of the steward who had spoken to him below rang in his head. You have my word that after tonight, this matter shall be resolved. The steward had tried to tell him. If these fools killed his slaves or his paying passengers…If these stewards were leading his slaves in revolt…Theophanes did not complete the thought.

  "Protect the passengers!" Theophanes shouted at his crew. They pulled out their swords, battle cries tearing from their throats. Each bolt of lightning lit the deck, showing the chaos as stewards and sailors clashed.

  Yet the lords did not budge. Their lips moved silently in unison, whispering some prayer, Theophanes supposed. It would take more than a prayer to get out of this mess, he thought.

  One of the stewards shouted at him, "This boat must not reach Byzantium—!" He did not complete the thought. The warning he shouted at Theophanes distracted him and he did not see the sailor who came up from behind and ran his knife across the steward’s throat. The steward fell, choking on his own blood as it poured down his open windpipe.

  "Damn you!" shouted Theophanes at the sailor, wondering what the hell the steward had been trying to tell him.

  Theophanes ran below. All his slaves were there. He breathed a heavy sigh of relief. Those stewards and lords could kill each other off for all he cared, as long as his property remained intact.

  The beat of the drum continued and the oars continued their unending dip and row. And then, suddenly, they all stopped. The drums, the rowing, everything was silence. The slaves released their oars in a single movement and stood as one. They reached beneath their seats and removed five hundred swords.

  And then, in unison, they all turned and looked at Theophanes.

  A chill ran down his spine.

  There was something wrong with their eyes. Their eyes were dead. Blank.

  And then five hundred slaves blinked as one.

  Theophanes held up his cutlass, his heart beating like the drum in his chest. He slowly backed out of the galley, but his foot slipped on the stairs. Five hundred lips curled. Five hundred faces transformed from impassivity to wolflike hunger.

  Theophanes turned and ran as he heard the quiet shattered, as all those slaves broke out in bloodthirsty cries. He felt the echoes of their feet on the wood beneath him. He felt the boat thrum with their war lust. He felt them coming.

  He reached the safety of the deck and stood, ready to take up arms with the stewards to stop whatever dark magic gripped this boat. Raising his cutlass, he ran at one of the lords, but the lord tilted his body to one side and Theophanes' strike passed harmlessly by his ear. Theophanes lifted to his sword and swung again. This time, the lord brought his arm down on Theophanes' elbow, knocking the sword harmlessly to the side, and then thrust the palm of his hand into Theophanes' solar plexus. Theophanes gasped, coughing. The lord fixed Theophanes with a stare, raised his arm, and pointed two fingers at the captain. Theophanes tried to raise his sword to thrust once more but felt a searing pain, first in his back, then in his belly. He looked down to see a metal blade covered in blood, his own blood, looking up at him. A hand was placed on his back, bracing him, as it pulled the sword out again.

  Theophanes fell to his knees, gasping. Looking up, he saw his attacker, a slave, walking away dispassionately. The lord smiled, and Theophanes reached out towards him, not sure if he wanted to kill him or beg for mercy. The bottom of the lord's shoe in his face was the reply.

  Theophanes fell and the cold, wet deck of the ship pressed against his face. The only warmth he felt came from his own blood as it poured out and pooled around him. He groaned, no one caring that he lay there dying, using his body as higher ground as they fought. He coughed and the taste was metallic.

  As the world darkened, he saw one of the steward-priests stand upon a crate. The steward raised his hands to the sky and shouted at the storm, his words lost in the wind and the rain. But the heavens listened. The lightning struck the steward, passing through his body, then flowing out until it encompassed the entire boat. Theophanes felt himself sliding as the deck listed. He cried in pain as he struck the rail, as the salt water poured into his wounds. Still the boat sank. The last Theophanes knew was the water of the Black Sea claiming him, pulling him down into its everlasting embrace.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Dallas, Present Day

  Tanis Archer threw her apron down on the counter. "Fuck this."

  "Tanis, get back here!" her boss called. The line of people waiting for their iced soy lattes with extra shots of bullshit wrapped around the entire coffee shop.

  "I'm out, Ray!" Tanis shouted over her shoulder as she grabbed her purse from under the counter, long black ponytail swinging. "Do you understand the concept of 'I quit'?"

  "Come on, Tanis. Quit after Bethany shows up," he pleaded. He was sweating through his ironic hipster T-shirt.

  She put her hand on her hip and sneered at him with her red-painted mouth. "I have got a shit-ton of people showing up for dollar drafts in celebration of my birthday tonight, and I am not spending one more minute in this goddamned dead-end armpit to nowhere. I should have quit three years ago."

  Ray pointed his tattooed finger at her. "Ain't my fault you stuck around."

  "Ain't my fault your head is stuck so far up your ass, you didn't know a good thing when you had me." Tanis' Dr. Martens clomped on the sticky linoleum as she strode to the door, flipping him the double bird.

  The bell tinkled cheerfully as she slammed her hands against the glass and stepped into the blazing heat of Dallas in July. She jumped into her pickup truck and revved the engine. Its diesel engine vibrated like a Harley and it roared out of the parking lot, tilting on its oversized wheels as she hooked the corner tight.

  Tanis tried not to think about what she'd just done and how she was going to break it to her mom. She'd probably have to find another place to live. She looked into the rearview mirror and flattened her Bettie Page bangs nervously. Hopefully, she'd be able to hide the fact that she’d walked out on another job until after her twenty-fifth birthday tomorrow. It wasn't her fault she was too busy to get to her classes at the community college. It wasn't her fault that Ray had said she could either work a double shift at the coffee shop tonight or quit and she chose to quit. It wasn't her fault.

  She pulled up in front of her mom's town house. Her mom said she could stay here as long as she was in school and held down a job. Tanis leaned her head against the steering wheel.

  Her mom was going to kill her.

  They’d had a knock-down, drag-out battle this morning. Her mom said six years was too long to waste on an associate’s degree. Tanis didn't even want to think about what her mom would do when she found out the truth. Tanis had gone to the career counselor that morning, ready to come home with all the facts about why her mom should get off her fucking back.

  Instead, Mr. Pasty-Faced Career Center had looked at her from across his desk with great big sympathetic eyes.

  "Well, young lady, seems you certainly have been exploring your options," he said, spreading out five pages of transcripts as Tanis slouched in a plastic, statically charged chair that shocked her when she first touched it.

  "So tell me what I can use to get a degree," she said.

  He shook his head. "I'm afraid none of these is particularly useful…"

  "What?" Tanis snapped, pointing at the papers. "I have over a hundred and twenty credit hours
. What the fuck do you mean none of them is useful towards a degree?"

  "Now, now, little missy, none of that language here," he said, taking off his fat, Coke-bottle glasses and wiping them with his brown polyester tie. "I'm just here to help."

  "Well, fucking help me!" Tanis said. She couldn't believe this guy.

  He pointed at the papers. "You never progressed beyond hundred-level courses in any of these. Just a smattering of info across all of our rich academic options."

  "What do you mean?"