My Big Fat Supernatural Honeymoon

by My Big Fat Supernatural Honeymoon(lit)

  And Roman sailors and soldiers began pouring across the bridge, roaring out a battle cry.

  Cecilia pulled her pistol and cutlass. The pirates—her pirates—were already shouting and rallying to meet the invasion.

  Captain Salvius hadn’t moved from where he stood, still watching the three of them on the quarterdeck. His face was weathered, ageless, and very hard.

  “As you said, Captain, your men are mortal now,” he said. “Mine aren’t. Stand them down, Liam. There’s no need for deaths.”

  “I could send you to the bottom with a broadside. Short range. No misses.”

  “You could,” Salvius said, and grinned. “For all the good it’d do you. By all means, waste the shot and powder, if you’ve an excess.”

  Liam made no reply for a few seconds, and then, “What terms?”

  “Throw down arms and none of you will be harmed. I’ll release you to sail off as clean as you please, once I have what I want.”

  Down on the decks, men were fighting, but Cecilia realized with a chill that they were also being hurt, maybe dying. She could see blood streaking the decks, and the Romans, despite being shot and stabbed, continued to press ahead with their attack. They would win. There was no other possibility.

  Liam knew that too; she could see it in the stiff, angry set of his shoulders. He clasped his hands behind his back.

  “And what is it you want, Salvius?”

  Salvius shook his head. “After you throw down arms and give your surrender.”

  Argyle took hold of his captain’s arm. “Don’t,” he said. “We can shake them. We’ve done it before.”

  “We’ve done it when we were invulnerable to shot and steel,” Liam said. “We’ve done it when the Mourning had the devil’s wind at her back and healed herself from the wounds she took in battle. We can’t do it now.”

  They stared at each other, and then Liam shook off his first mate’s hand. He took in a deep breath and said, “The ship is yours. You have my parole. Call off your sea wolves.” And he put his cutlass and pistol down on the deck.

  Salvius gestured to another uniformed Roman standing nearby, who gave some blasts on a shrill whistle; the attacking Roman sailors and soldiers backed off, giving the crew of the Sweet Mourning time to pull together in a defensive line and drag their wounded and dead out of the way.

  “Throw down your arms, men,” Liam shouted. “Do it now!”

  Cutlasses, daggers, and pistols rained to the decking, some reluctantly. Cecilia realized she was still clutching hers, and forced herself to bend and lay them on the wood.

  When she straightened, Argyle was still holding on to his, and Liam was facing him, sober and steady. “It’s an order, damn you.” Liam’s voice unexpectedly softened. “Duncan. Put aside your weapons. I swear, I will not let him take you aboard that ship.”

  Argyle finally nodded, one sharp, convulsive nod, but his eyes were still wild and strange. He let his sword and pistol fall and assumed a stoic parade rest, as did Liam, as Captain Salvius moved through the crew of his own ship and crossed the temporary wooden bridge—the arpax?—and stepped onto the deck of the Sweet Mourning. He advanced toward the stern of the ship, sandaled feet thumping on the wood in confident strides, and his red cloak billowed behind him like a flag.

  When the Roman stepped onto the quarterdeck, he smiled, and turned toward Cecilia.

  “I am Aulus Salvius Lupus,” he said. “I have the honor to be trierarch of the Roman vessel Aquila. And you would be… ?”

  She licked her lips and tasted salt, either from sweat or sea spray. “Cecilia Lockhart. Wife of Captain Lockhart.”

  “Wife?” Salvius cut a look toward Lockhart. “Indeed. My congratulations. And how long since the happy day?”

  “One,” she sighed.

  “Ah, that’s good. Then he won’t miss you much,” Salvius said, and nodded to his second in command, who simply grabbed Cecilia, pinned her arms to her sides, and shoved her into the midst of a wedge of Romans, who closed ranks around her. “These are my terms, Liam. The witch goes with us, and I leave the rest of your crew untouched.”

  The color drained from Liam’s face, leaving him as white and hard as bone. “Aulus,” he said, low in his throat, “if you don’t release her now, this will go badly. Very badly.”

  “I agree,” Salvius said pleasantly. “Very badly indeed, for you. I’d rather not wash the decks with your blood, Liam, but one way or another, I’m having your witch.”

  Liam kept his calm, somehow. “Why?”

  Salvius shrugged. “Profit. I expect the Dutchman will be along, soon enough, and Mad Peg, and all the rest, sniffing around for some hope of being freed of their eternal and well-deserved damnation. She’s a valuable commodity.” His voice hardened to ice and glass. “So don’t stand in my way.”

  Liam looked at him as if he’d gone mad, or sprouted horns. “Commodity? What the devil do you mean?”

  “She’s a curse-breaking witch.”

  “She’s not!”

  “She broke yours, didn’t she?”

  “It was—” Liam controlled himself with difficulty. “It was an accident, you fool!”

  Salvius shrugged. “Still.” His smile widened, and grew chilling. “I’ll try to keep her chaste and untouched until she’s back in your loving arms. Unless of course she proves as difficult to control as your fine first mate, there. In which case I shall have to use persuasion.”

  Liam, without a sound, calmly bent, picked up his cutlass from the deck, and rammed it home in a gap of Salvius’s armor with a savagery that took Cecilia’s breath away.

  Argyle grabbed Liam and dragged him back. Salvius looked down at the sword, driven to the hilt against his side, and pulled it out with a smooth, slow motion. Blood slicked its surface, but he showed no sign of pain. He tossed the cutlass to Liam, who caught it deftly out of the air and brought it immediately to guard. “Just for that, you can’t have the witch back at all. I’ll sell her to the Dutchman, or whoever else pays the best price for her services. Whatever those services may prove to be in the end is none of my affair.”

  Argyle had pinned Liam’s arms behind him and was holding on with leverage and his full strength, whispering in the man’s ear. Cecilia tried to struggle free, but the hands holding her were big, capable, and far too strong.

  Aulus Salvius Lupus led the way back across the bridge of the arpax himself, and Cecilia found herself carried along like luggage. The massed smell of sweat, leather, and metal was almost overwhelming, and when she could catch a breath of sharp salt air, she was grateful.

  She was dumped without ceremony by her guards so suddenly that, combined with the violent pitch-and-roll of the Roman ship, she fell face forward, catching herself at the last minute with her hands on sun-warm wood.

  “Tie her to the mast,” Salvius said. “Up arpax and rig for sail.”

  “Sir.” The soldier closest to her saluted with his fist over his heart and repeated the order at top volume; two men grabbed her, lashed her tightly to the huge mast, and left her there as they went about their business. The Aquila’s boarding ramp creaked up, drawn by ropes and pulleys, and the ship pulled away from Liam’s and heeled over, heading south with the wind. The speed was incredible—supernatural, as if the Aquila was driven by nuclear-powered engines. Something Liam had said came back to her: the devil’s wind.

  The Sweet Mourning fell behind quickly.

  Facing Cecilia, about a dozen feet away, was a very curious thing: a large marble statue of a woman—a goddess, maybe—with curling upswept hair and a beautiful, empty face, her arms outstretched as if reaching for the sun. It was a beautiful piece of work, so lifelike, Cecilia could almost feel the whisper of the breeze that ruffled its draperies—elegantly rendered, almost lifelike…

  … and then the stone eyes blinked.

  It’s the sun, Cecilia thought, and looked away. It wasn’t. When she returned her attention to the statue, it was staring at her. Cecilia had been sure there were blan
k ovals in the face before, but now they were eyes. Blue eyes, the milky color of sea-blue chalcedony. Not quite… real.

  The statue didn’t speak, or move. It just… stared.

  Cecilia became gradually aware of someone else nearby, an island of stillness in a sea of moving sailors. Captain Salvius. He stood, legs apart, feet braced, arms folded. Staring hard at the statue.

  “What is this thing?” Cecilia blurted.

  “Ah, you should be honored. Not every day you meet a genuine goddess,” he said. “Her name is Larentina.” He walked to the statue and caressed its cheek with one blunt fingertip. “Have you missed me, my love? Yes, of course you have. You see, I have to speak for Larentina because cruel Jupiter tore her tongue out for speaking ill of his romantic adventures.” The statue closed her eyes, as if determined to shut him out. “Jupiter, now there’s a god a man can respect, eh?”

  “I don’t understand. She’s a statue.”

  “Well, yes, now. Larentina came here to exact revenge over the sacking of her temples and raping of her virgin priestesses. Goddesses. So sensitive.” Salvius tapped his grubby fingernails against her flawless white bosom. “Didn’t turn out quite the way she expected, I dare say. Larentina’s our luck. So long as we have her, death can’t touch us. Even the gods have to let us do as we please.” He faced Cecilia squarely; she thought she’d never seen a man with eyes like those, light gray and as empty as polar ice.

  She drew in a steadying breath. “Are you sure you don’t want me to break your curse?”

  Salvius laughed. “Break all the other curses as you like, for all those sniveling fools like your precious Lockhart. Me and my men, we’ll still be a power on Neptune’s breast when the rest of you are gone whining to your graves. It’s not a curse to us, woman. It’s tactics.”

  He stalked away in a flutter of his bloodred cape, and Cecilia let out her breath in a slow, shaky sigh. She was facing toward the fishtail stern of the Aquila; over the curving coil of tail, she saw billowing sails. The Sweet Mourning was making her best speed to follow, but they were rapidly falling behind.

  “Liam,” she whispered. The world dissolved in sharp jagged colors as her eyes flooded with tears, and she bent her head and felt the pressure of panic weighing down on her.

  No, she thought, and got hold of herself. Liam wouldn’t panic. Neither will I.

  As she shifted uncomfortably against the tight ropes, she felt her thick piratical metal belt buckle catch and hold against the hemp looped around her waist.

  Was it even possible?…

  Gritting her teeth, Cecilia began moving her hips back and forth, concealing it among the dips and lunges of the ship, and sawed at the rope.

  This is going to hurt, some part of her complained. And she told it, Shut up and shimmy.

  WHEN SHE FINALLY STOPPED, IT WAS BECAUSE SHE absolutely had to—her stomach and hip muscles simply refused to move another twitch. It felt like she’d been pounded in the stomach with a croquet mallet. She could see fraying in the rope where it had abraded against the belt buckle, but she couldn’t tell from her angle whether it was enough. Probably not. Should have gone to the gym more, she thought dismally. A wave lashed over the side of the ship and splashed her arms, and the ropes. Not good. The wetter the ropes became, the tighter and stiffer they were when dry. Not that she really had any plan of what to do even if the ropes parted, barring diving over the side and swimming for Liam’s ship. But being free had to have more options available than being tied. Nobody paid the slightest attention to her. She’d become aware of thirst some hours ago, and now it was getting to be a real problem. Her mouth felt like cotton, and even with the occasional splashed wave, she was simmering in the sun, which was only partly blocked by the sail billowing and booming overhead.

  The sailors had water. She watched them dip it out of buckets set on deck, and stopped licking her salty lips when she realized she wasn’t getting seawater, but blood.

  The wind failed as night began to fall, turning the sky rich cobalt blue sprinkled with silver stars. Above her, the sails luffed and abruptly, the Aquila began to slow its knifelike progress through the water. Salvius frowned and looked up at the skies. Clear and cloudless. Even the waves felt unnaturally flat; the boat was hardly pitching at all now.

  “Oars out!” someone roared from behind her. “Best speed!”

  Cecilia heard the order echoed, over and over, growing fainter each time. Across from her, the statue’s eyes had opened again, and for an instant, Cecilia could have sworn that the marble face took on a tinge of color. That the lips tried to move. But then it faded, and it was just a statue with eerily animated eyes, staring at her as if she was supposed to do something.

  Which she couldn’t, of course. Could she?

  On the distant horizon, she thought she could still see the white flutter of sails. Liam wouldn’t give up. She couldn’t afford to, either. Cecilia tried moving against the rope again. It hurt a lot, but panic was a white-hot bubble inside her now, and she couldn’t be helpless like this, she couldn’t.

  A strand of rope parted. She felt it go, and was barely able to restrain a sob of relief—but that was only one strand of the twist, and there were more to go.

  I’m not going to make it, she thought, and felt tears trickle down her face. I’m going to die.

  The statue’s eyes opened and focused on her, and she heard it say, quite clearly, Free me and live.

  “Uh—” Cecilia sniffled and tried to clear her throat. “I don’t know how to do that.”

  You do, the voice whispered, faint and cold. You will.

  The Aquila began to glide forward again, and she heard the rhythmic splash of oars driving it, along with the regular heartbeat of a drum.

  “Captain Salvius!” Cecilia croaked. He turned toward her. “What’s going on?”

  Salvius stalked up to her, full speed, grabbed her by the chin and slammed her head back against the mast. “If you ever talk to me again without my permission, I’ll have you screaming,” he said flatly. “My bed’s been cold for months.”

  She believed him, and it terrified her. She thought about Liam, about the rose-covered bed in his cabin, waiting for a night that might never come. About the gentle, fierce light of love in his eyes.

  There was nothing at all in Salvius’s eyes except calculation. She knew instinctively that if she showed him fear, weakness, it was all over.

  So she smiled. “I can’t imagine why,” she said. “You’re so charming and kind. The girls must be lining up to have a turn.”

  His teeth bared—strong, square teeth, surprisingly straight, considering that dental science hadn’t exactly been advanced in his day. “When I tell you to hold your tongue, hold it, or you’ll experience what our lovely Larentina did when Jupiter was displeased with her prattling.”

  From the bow of the ship, someone called out, “Sail, two points to starboard!”

  Salvius didn’t even look. “I expected him. That will be Ned Low and the Withered Rose,” he said. “Well, this will either be good business or bad, but either way, my lovely witch, you’ll be in someone’s bed this evening. You’d better pray that Low makes his usual pathetic show of force, then bids small, and that the bed you’re in is mine in the end. Low’s hard on his wenches.”

  Whereas you’re a great catch, Cecilia thought, but had sense enough not to say. Quite. “Another cursed ship? Is there a factory?”

  Salvius smiled, apparently amused by her defiance now. Almost indulgent. “Some of us are cursed by witches, some by gods, some by their own ill luck. The only thing we have in common is eternity. But the Withered Rose is in a class by herself. You’ll see.”

  Salvius went to see to preparations. The Aquila struggled against the flat sea, banks of oars propelling her sluggishly through the water, but the fast-approaching vessel seemed to be running under gale-force winds.

  As the ship neared, Cecilia began to see details, and wished she hadn’t. It was built along similar lines to the Sweet Mou
rning, but that was where the resemblance ended. Tattered rotting sails and bodies, some skeletons, dangled gruesomely from the yardarms like macabre wind chimes. The only sound it made, as it came frighteningly closer, was a hiss as it cut the water like a knife.

  It suddenly slackened its pace as it pulled near the Aquila. A wave of stench floated across the open water, thick and green and fetid, and Cecilia struggled not to breathe. The Mourning had been scary in the beginning, but this was—this was something beyond that. Beyond just cursed.

  This ship was damned.

  There was something very creepy about the crew of the Withered Rose too. They seemed to be unnaturally still at their posts. Cecilia’s eyes were drawn to a solitary man in the bow of the ship, draped on the rotting figurehead’s shoulder. He looked young—very young. Somehow, she’d been expecting someone of Liam’s age, or Salvius’s. But Ned Low—if that was him, and somehow she was sure it was—looked as if he’d barely seen his twentieth year. And he was very, very pretty.

  “Young, isn’t he?” Salvius asked, unexpectedly at her shoulder. “Old in all things vile, though. Some seek after evil, some are born prodigies. Edward Low was fathered by Pluto’s cold member, and no doubt of it. You’ve been very unlucky if he’s first to the table.”

  More goading. Cecilia tried to ignore it. She tensed as Salvius’s hand touched her cheek, and felt the ropes creak. She tested them, but they didn’t break.

  “Well met on favoring seas,” the young man on board the Withered Rose called. He had a rich, aristocratic English accent, reeking of insincerity. “How nice to see you again. Oh, do tell your poor slaves to leave off the oars. You’re not going anywhere, you know that.”

  “My poor slaves need the exercise,” Salvius said. “State your business, Captain Low, before I lose my temper.”

  Low laughed, and it was a gentle, evil sort of sound that had a lot in common with the reek of decomposition still drifting like fog from his ship. “My business? Captain, I am no crass merchant, I do not have business. I have—interests. And I heard you have something that could be of interest to me.”