by Ed Gorman
"You've forgotten quite a bit of it since you've bedded down in Davy Jones' locker."
She brings her knee up into his groin, hoping his instinct remains if nothing else human does. He bends and lets out a grunt of laughter as if surprised to find that he still cares about such things. At least there's that. It's all she needs to wheel aside and reach beneath the bed.
Those new teeth are growing in him once more, all of them curved and stuffed down his throat, perhaps into his chest as well, wrapped around his heart. He is nothing but fang, inside and out.
She goes right for the ash wood stake and the twice-blessed iron pike, filling each hand. He lets her. She knows that he's letting her, and that perhaps this is the last act of the man he'd once been, fighting the demon. A moment's hesitation so that she might do what she's best at.
But she's wrong, of course, as she remembers that now. She's mistaken each night. He's only allowed her this period of grace so that he might swoop upon her in one lissome pounce.
Her hands tighten on a stake of ash but she's unable to use it as he squirms against her, already sneaking out from under the bed. His muscular forearm holds her down as if preparing for some assertive lovemaking. His mouth slips to her ear and he hisses more words, but she's straining so hard that she can only hear the mad rush of her own desperation.
He gnaws and scratches, licking the way he used to do in the tropical mornings. This is a foreplay and hunger of a different, ravenous kind. He moves from her neck to her lips, where he forces his tongue roughly against her own. She tastes the malignancy within and tries to bite down on it, but he wafts aside. She chokes on sediment and seaweed.
Such a strange dance. Mama is screaming now. The room fills with the overpowering stink of rotting fish. She hauls her arm back and drives forward, stabbing repeatedly with the stake. But she never touches him. He is smoke, even as his arms encircle her.
"It's time, Cassie."
"Like hell, you sodding corpse!"
He nudges her back upon the mattress, all those many teeth biting into her chest at once. There is no pain, only a consuming sense of eternity that's more hideous than anything she's ever known. His tongue snakes its way deep into the wound, and she shrieks and weakly struggles as her own blood splashes into her eyes and mouth. The cage of fangs grows around her heart.
~ * ~
Crimson awoke with her fist throbbing, two fingernails split and peeled back. She'd gouged them into the sharpened piece of ash and it took some minutes for her to clean the splinters out of her hand. She quickly dressed and crossed to the main thoroughfare and continued on past the promontory. The rapists were still hanging, now with their eyes pecked out.
She met with a porter at the L'Hotel D'Avignon and paid him to take a note to the Maycombs and awaken them at this early hour if necessary. It wasn't. Maycomb was already up while his exhausted wife slept on.
He met her in the lobby, gave a stilted but mannered bow, and said, "Lady Crimson."
"All right, I'll take you to the damned island," she told him. "Once there, you've got five hours of daylight to find your daughter and compel her to return with you. If you fail to return in that allotted time, believe me, sir, I won't wait an extra minute for any of you."
"Thank you."
"No, Mr. Maycomb, hold your thanks. I fear you might wind up cursing me to your grave for ever having agreed to aid you in this venture."
His chin snapped up as if he'd been struck. "Well then, exactly what made you alter your decision?"
She started to answer and then thought better of it. There are some things that can't be explained and shouldn't be lied about. "We'll leave tomorrow morning. With good weather it should only take four days. Perhaps less if the crew is worth their ballast."
"You've a ship already in mind?"
"Yes, with a captain much more commendable than old Dobbins, I assure you."
"I believe you."
"I've still yet to formally hire him but he is available, and I feel there'll be no obstacles so long as you meet his charter price."
"I heard the fishermen saying there are storms to the south."
Her heart raced with the idea of it, but she declined further comment. She noticed the silver cross around his neck as it clinked against a stone medallion. She didn't recognize the odd symbols.
"And who is that helping to guard your soul?"
Maycomb's cheeks took on a healthy pink glow. "Anu, mother of the Celtic gods."
"Don't know her. Are you a Christian or a pagan?"
"Neither," he admitted. "Or perhaps both, I'm not quite certain even at this stage of my life."
"One will get you tied in the faggots and burned alive in Mother Europe. The other might get you hacked to pieces on one of these islands."
"We'll have to see which happens to me, won't we?"
She nodded. "I'll be watching," she said, and turned away to make preparations for a voyage into black, insane waters.
4
Some pirates were so wealthy they were able to custom-build their galleons and run a crew of two hundred men. However, most favored the smaller Chinese style of vessel, which resembled a large junk—three masts with four-sided sails of bamboo matting and spacious quarters for the Captain and his family—with room for ten or twelve cannons.
The San Muy Malo was a variation on this basic model, with regular sails and a huge hold for extra cargo. Crimson liked the ship—it only took a crew of twenty and was easy to handle. It had recently been dry-docked and the keel scraped of barnacles and tarred against sea worms. She knew several of the men already and was in good standing with them. Captain Hedrick proved to be a course little snippet of a man but his reputation was of fairness and that's all she asked for. The price of rental was as steep as she expected but she didn't bother to haggle. It wasn't her coin. Let Maycomb argue if he wanted.
He didn't. He and his wife arrived on time at the docks and unlike most of the rich wayfarers, they carried little excess baggage. Crimson and Welsh watched them board and each became tangled in private thoughts for a time.
"You're in a dark mood this morning, lass," he said.
"Just hoping they find what they expect.”
“But you think not?"
"I think there's regret and heartache in store."
"He may be a bit toplofty but he's no fop," Welsh said. "His back isn't bowed. Carries 'imself well and so does she, for that matter. Neither makes a complaint. That's rare where their breed is concerned."
"You sound as if you respect them."
"In a fashion, I suppose I do." Welsh shrugged and scratched at his beard, found something alive and squirming within and flicked it out. "At least they've brass and money for this crusade, however foolhardy it may turn out in the end. Kin often get to meddlin' about where they ought not to. A long way to come for a daughter of age, I'm thinkin'."
"If only we all had parents so obligated and devoted."
He surprised her by letting out a guffaw that shook him down to his boots. After all these years he was still trying to cover his embarrassment about not caring for her mother at the end. It ate at him, she realized, and she hadn't helped matters. She should let it rest, if she was able. Welsh gave a stupid grin and said, "There's a storm lookin' for us."
"There always is."
"Let's do what we can so it'll not be findin' us."
"Too late, I fear," she said.
It took him back. "Now why ye be sayin' that?"
"I dreamed of Tyree again last night."
He became genuinely irritated at that and brought his fists up as if to strike her. His one eye burned with frustration. "Not that nonsense again, girl! It's time to be done with it. You've gone months without any proper sleep. He was a good man but he's forty fathoms dead now. You've listened too much to slaves' chatter. The rest of that twaddle is all in your 'ead."
"Maybe so."
"Come on now, let's board and get this trip over with. I've an Irish lass in St. Christopher's
who'll be missing my company till I return."
"How much does she cost?"
"A tidy sum and worth every bauble I drape at her feet."
They boarded with their gear and kept mostly to themselves for the first day. On the second they chose to dine with the Maycombs and drink a bit with Hedrick and his crew. The rum helped keep Crimson's dreams at bay. Afterwards, she and Welsh remained together in the bow, watching the horizon and seeking the ghosts waiting up ahead. He could sharpen his sword for hours on end and found some sort of solace in it. They had nothing but calm seas and clear afternoons, brilliant moonlight at night, and a demon wind filling their sails.
On the third day, a storm rose from out of the south and struck the San Muy Malo with vicious swells. The black burgeoning clouds became threaded with silver and lustrous bone. Lightning ripped the skies and left glowering afterimages behind. Hedrick and his men had their hands full keeping her steady and bucking the savage winds. Rain thrashed and the heavens turned a muddled scarlet as coiling shadows glided across the waters. Twice men cried out that they'd seen mermaids off the starboard bow. A harpooner stood ready.
Welsh kept rubbing at his eye patch as if the thunder were getting inside his head. The riggers kept busy with the tangling sails and Crimson and Welsh helped out on deck working the lines. Elaine Maycomb was sick for most of the day, but her husband stayed up top asking if there was anything he could do to be of assistance. There wasn't, but Welsh had been right, Maycomb was no fop.
The harpooner threw twice but came up with nothing. You could hear his curses above the storm throughout the entire ship. Maycomb kept an early watch and Welsh relieved him. The gale continued through the night but ended abruptly on the afternoon of the fifth day. Benbow Island came into sight and Hedrick and his crew set adrift a mile and a half offshore.
Ragged and rocky and much smaller than Crimson had thought, it rose like a raging stone fist from the sea. She kept hearing splashes but could sight nothing in the dark waters: no sharks, dolphins, barracuda or manatee. They cast nets and came up with almost nothing. The Captain approached and said, "We're here. The skiff has some provisions but not enough for a lengthy stay."
"Don't worry, we'll set sail again by mid-morning tomorrow."
Hedrick's eyes nearly glowed with relief. "Good, I'd forgotten how little I liked this part of the ocean."
"My first time down this way."
"These waters cause fever, I'm inclined to believe. Nothing good's ever come from this place, so far as I know." Leaning in close, he touched her shoulder and parted her hair to speak directly in her ear. "Row to the far side and wait in the shallows. Whatever you've been asked to do, say you were unable to do it, take what coin you can, and let's be off."
"Captain, I'm only here to bring a message. I've failed in my missions before but I've never quit and run."
"You've never had an assignment like this one before, I'm sure."
She leaned back against the mast, the breeze clawing at her hair. "That's true," she admitted. "And I'd prefer never to have another."
"That's a hellish hunk of rock out there. Villaine was a damn fool to base himself upon it. The only way to reach the village is to go through the jungle to the west, up along the bluff. The area's all stone, they say, with a lengthy set of steps carved into the volcanic rock itself."
"Have you been on isle?"
"For sod's sake no, what reason would I have? Before Villaine there was nothing here but a skinny tribe of savages, bands of slave-traders, bloodshed and a mess of stewing rumors and hearsay. I've trouble enough in the civilized nations without this lot. He keeps two armed guards that are rotated every eight hours, I've been told. No doubt they're all bunglers. You can't keep a steady watch in this sort of heat. Most likely you'll find them sleeping."
"Somebody stopped Maycomb's agent."
"Ah," Hedrick said, "he's probably shacked with one of those primitive girls, the lucky bastard. They got ways to woo a man and make him feel like a king, wearing nothing but grass skirts."
Crimson nodded and made her way back to the bow. Welsh waited there, still pulling gnats and lice from his beard. He asked, "Are ye gonna send the Brit off on his own?"
"I told him I'd do so."
"That's not what he hired ye for though."
"Maybe not, but I gave him my conditions before we left Port of St. Christopher's. He agreed to them."
Welsh stared over the side, where the mermaids had supposedly been spotted. "You've your own course to follow."
"Don't we all."
"Ain't it the truth."
He looked at her closely but said nothing more. His hands seemed steady but hers felt weak and quivery. They faced into the wind and caught sea spray as the ship rocked and creaked. The anchor chain clapped against the hull. It might've been a fair evening any other time. Air rushed past and fluttered their clothing. The rains had churned the depths and dredged the rotting bottoms, and the stink of dead fish was heavy in the breeze.
She turned and went below deck, greeted some of the mates in passing, then stopped before the Maycombs' small cabin and knocked lightly. Elaine Maycomb answered and moved aside without a word, her fingers flapping against a blue kerchief that danced and snapped.
Her husband was cleaning his pistol with a rag soaked in oil. He rose and said, "Lady Crimson."
"Mr. Maycomb, the other day you asked if I'd ever been in love."
"Yes, and I apologize for my ill manners. I never should have broached such a subject. Forgive my impertinence."
She shook her head. "Not at all. You've obviously heard of the recent loss of my husband."
"I have, and I'm terribly sorry."
"Please explain to me what you were told. I fear that certain chatter may have sullied my standing."
Elaine Maycomb appeared as if she might exit the room. She released the kerchief and it swayed and spiraled as it dropped to the floor. Rats squeaked nearby. She placed her hand on the door latch but only to retrieve some object hanging from the handle. It was a chain with a dangling silver cross.
"When I learned that Daphna had fled with Villaine," Maycomb said, "I questioned a number of my colleagues both in the States and back in Britain for any information about him. We learned of his personal history, his criminal escapades, and of Benbow's renown."
"All of this must have been rather startling, to someone of your ilk."
"We were terrified for our daughter, as we mentioned, but I was prepared for what I must do. Our confidential agent mentioned your name in passing as someone that he, or perhaps we, might want to contact if he initially failed in his task. I suspect he was quite dismayed about going up against Villaine and his men. He knew a privateer such as yourself, who handles odd commissions and matters like this, would be much the wiser in these circumstances. That's proven to be the case. I should have listened and never sent him in alone."
"You're of the opinion that he's dead.”
“Yes."
"But what were you told of me specifically?"
Maycomb replaced his pistol oil and rags, then took out a whetstone in preparation to sharpen his sword. "That you had lost your husband less than a year ago." He didn't hold back in the least, and there was no embarrassment in him as he spoke. "That he was the victim of the Loogaroo, the Blutsauger, in these waters where demons and the ghosts of slaves still wander."
Crimson stepped across the small room to the porthole. There was another chain with a silver cross hanging there, protecting the opening from evil spirits trying to force their way inside. Perhaps Anu, mother of gods, was kept close to Maycomb's heart for a reason, whereas sweet baby Jesucould flit all about the place. The fading sunlight caught in the metal and gleamed red and running.
"And do you believe that?" she asked.
His voice dripped with the kind of sorrow that only men who've lost a great faith ever know. "Even in the hills and backwoods of Virginia I've seen strange things I'm not likely to repeat. As I mentioned, I spent a g
reat portion of my childhood in Scotland, and heard tales of the Boabhan Sith. Two men in the village I grew up in were supposedly taken by the beast. I've no reason to believe these stories are lies. One of the men was my very own uncle."
Elaine Maycomb, perhaps serving her only role in this conversation, once again managed to force herself to say that which Crimson could not utter. "Daemonia Wampyros."
Crimson's fingers began to twitch so she grabbed tightly to the hilt of her cutlass. "To be honest with you both, I don't know what truly happened to my husband Tyree. His ship was sunk by a raiding vessel not far from Benbow and the scuttlebutt that's traveled back to me has apparently trafficked much further as well. The yarns play upon my dreams."
"Have you searched for him?"
"No," she said. "A sailor's life leads to the bottom of the ocean. That's the fate for all of us. If you hunt the dead they might pursue you in turn. Worlds tend to meet in places such as these. In the Caribbean we see even more oddities than you might in Virginia, Mr. Maycomb."
"Of that I have no doubt." He withdrew a leather pouch and opened it before her. "Here, I thought we should finish our transaction before landing in the morning." The diamonds he poured into her cupped palms seized the dusk and dropped into her hand like clotted blood.
"Are you daft, man? Why the hell did you bring diamonds to the Basin?"
"I wasn't certain if the natives would accept gold coinage," Maycomb said. "If I ran into trouble on the island I knew I could count on diamonds to help me, either to buy my way out or to distract someone if I should find myself in a crisis. I'm certain some of Villaine's men can be bribed to allow me entrance to see my own daughter."
Crimson had to agree that such a show of wealth would be a powerful argument made on Daphna's behalf. She had no idea what sort of relationship Villaine and the girl might have by now. For all his society manners, Villaine could well be tired of his titled English prize, and the teenager might be pouting and whining to be allowed to return home to once again shop at London boutiques. Perhaps the diamonds would dazzle him more than her young splendors. That is, if he didn't just decide to kill everyone and take the booty by force.
