“I’d sell you my left nut for a decent price,” Salvius said, and grinned with all his teeth.
“Tempting, dear man, but no, I already have a perfect set of my own which you, despite your best efforts, have yet to take from me. No, my interest is in a woman.” Low’s gaze fixed on Cecilia, and she deeply, deeply wished it hadn’t. “That one would do nicely.”
“Not for sale.”
“But everything on the Aquila is for sale,” Low pouted. “Don’t be cruel, Salvius. It doesn’t become you nearly so well as it does me.”
“I said the witch is not for sale.”
Low’s eyebrows rose. “Witch, is she? Well, then. Even better. I’ve been shopping for one of those for a long time. They go bad so quickly, like unsalted meat.”
Cecilia threw a frantic glance toward the stern. Far in the distance, she could see the dim outline of a ship. The Sweet Mourning was following, but it was too far away. Much too far.
Low laughed at something Salvius said in Latin. “Language, Captain,” he chided. A plank was being put across from the Withered Rose to the Aquila by two silent, shadowy crewmen, and Low uncoiled himself from his catlike pose on the figurehead and glided to the railing. He leaped flat-footed up onto the narrow plank. It was unnatural, the way he balanced, and as he got closer Cecilia realized that there was a lot more unnatural about him. For one thing, he had a kind of black glow to him, a shadow clinging to him like a gray veil. For another, he moved like nothing human she’d ever seen, all boneless grace. Tigers moved like that.
And then she saw his face clearly, and her breath locked in her throat, because his eyes were clouded with white cataracts. The eyes of a corpse, in the face of an angel.
“Hmmm,” Low said. He stalked around her, examining her far too closely for any comfort. “I suppose she might do. How much?”
“Ten thousand pieces of gold.”
“Far too rich for my poor coffers.”
“Then get off my ship,” Salvius said pleasantly. “Maggot-meat.”
“Your skills at salesmanship are second to none,” Low drawled. “Is she virgin?”
“No idea. Want to check?”
They both looked at her thoughtfully. Cecilia’s eyes widened. “I’m not!” she yelped. “I’m the wife of Captain Liam Lockhart, and I’m—”
Low took a sudden step toward her, and those pallid eyes glowed. He didn’t say a word to her, but she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak for the dreadful weight of fear that crashed in on her.
“Well,” Low said to Salvius, “I suppose I might be able to manage the price. Throw in a couple of slaves. I’m getting peckish.”
“Need every hand I have.”
“Oh, bollocks, Aulus, you can grab slaves anywhere, and I know you use them up regularly. A couple of juicy ones won’t be missed.” He flicked an elegant, pale, dismissive hand at the Roman.
“One slave.”
“Agreed.” Salvius snapped his fingers, and shouts passed along the length of the ship. Someone pulled up an iron grating, and after a short delay, a pallid, filthy specimen dressed in a tattered loincloth was pulled up and dragged to be presented to Captain Low.
“Perfect,” Low said, and reached out to lay a hand on the slave’s shoulder, a creepily friendly sort of gesture.
Salvius struck it away with the flat of his sword. “Take your pleasures on board your own ship, not mine,” he barked. “You two, take him over to the Rose.”
He speared a couple of his soldiers with a stare, who then reluctantly took hold of the slave and marched him to the narrow plank. He tottered unevenly across to the other ship.
“Poor bastard,” Salvius said without any real emotion. “Very well. That was a good-faith gift. I’ll see my gold now, Captain.”
Low’s milky eyes went half-closed, and Cecilia thought she saw a spasm of anger go through him, quickly gone. But he held up his hand in graceful surrender. “Very well,” he said. “I’ll go assemble the payment. But don’t think to cheat me, my antique friend. You know what I do to those who don’t hold their bargains.”
Salvius nodded once, sharply. Low turned and glided across the deck, to the plank. He crossed without pause or misstep, perfectly balanced, and leapt lightly down on board the Withered Rose.
Salvius cursed under his breath. At least, Cecilia assumed it was profanity; it was Latin, and it sounded far too vicious to be anything else. He paced, back and forth, and the statue’s blind blue eyes followed him with so much intensity that Cecilia could almost feel the hatred.
“What happens if he touches you?” she asked Salvius. He glanced over at her, and a corner of his hard, thin mouth curled.
“If you’re wise, you’ll try very hard never to find out,” he said.
She heard the thud of boots on the plank between the two ships, and looked up to see that Captain Low was returning. Another man was with him, struggling under the weight of a heavy chest green and slimy with mold. They were both shrouded in shadows, and Cecilia couldn’t get a clear look at the second man’s face.
Low stepped onto the deck of the Aquila and took in a deep breath with evident satisfaction. “It’s a tidy ship you run, I’ll give you that, Salvius,” he said, and waved at his sailor, who grunted and let the heavy wooden trunk thump to the deck. Cecilia felt the weighty impact through the soles of her feet. “As you asked. Now, I’ll take my goods.”
Salvius didn’t move. He stared on at the other man, chin lowered, eyes fierce and wolflike in the dying sunlight. “Open it,” he said. “I’ll see the gold first.”
Cecilia pulled in a breath and pressed against the ropes. She felt the one she’d been working on give… slightly.
Not enough.
Low’s man opened the chest, and the Roman soldiers and sailors nearest to it to catch a glimpse let out an approving murmur as the thick glow of gold caught the sunset. “Stir it,” Salvius said. “To be sure it’s gold all through, and not your dinner leavings.”
Low pulled his cutlass and stirred the gold, then reached down and pulled handfuls from the bottom, letting coins slip carelessly from his fingers on the way up. “Agreed?”
Salvius seemed to think about it for a long, uneasy moment, and then nodded. Two of his own soldiers grabbed the treasure dragged it out of the way, put it next to the statue, and stood at rigid guard.
Edward Low strolled slowly toward Cecilia. His dead eyes were the color of moonlight. He flicked his long fingers against the frayed part at her waist, smiling. “So nearly there, little witch,” he said. “And so far away.”
She turned her face away as he swung his cutlass, fast as a lightning strike; she felt it bite through the ropes and into the mast not more than a half inch from her arm. The bindings slacked, and she staggered as its support was removed.
She tripped over the mess of falling rope and almost pitched forward into Low’s waiting arms. A hand pulled her aside at the last instant, and she caught a flash of steel, Roman red, and armor.
Salvius. “I said it before. Pleasure yourself on your own ship,” he said flatly, and drew his sword as Low advanced on him. Low grabbed the sword in one hand as Salvius stabbed, and the entire blade turned first a sickly green, then brown… then just dissolved in the Roman’s hand.
“Careful,” Low said. “Someone might be hurt, Captain.”
Salvius was pinned against the side of the ship. Low put those pale, destroying hands on either side of him on the rail of the ship, which turned a withered ancient gray, like old bone, and began to dissolve into wormy dust. He leaned forward, putting his face very close to the Roman captain’s.
Salvius didn’t blink, or flinch, but Cecilia saw it cost him a superhuman effort.
Low laughed, deep in his throat. “Don’t toy with me,” he said softly. “You wouldn’t like how I play.” He turned to Cecilia, moonstone eyes glowing. “Time’s up, kitten,” he said. “I’d take your arm like a gentleman, but the results would be—unpleasant, as you’ve seen.” He nodded to the plank, an
d the creaking, rotten shape of the Withered Rose beyond. “On your own, or be carried by my man. Or rot here.”
Salvius cleared his throat. “He means that last literally, girl. I’ve seen him reduce a man to maggots and bones in seconds. Don’t test him.”
“Conscience?” Low asked mockingly. “From a man who’s fed children to the sharks rather than bear the price of their grain? Salvius. You have no higher ground on which to stand.” He made a gesture, as if he intended to put his hand on Cecilia’s shoulder; she instinctively flinched away, and he drove her relentlessly toward the plank.
And to her surprise, he winked.
She nearly fell, she was so shocked by it, and yelped when hands closed around her arms from behind and lifted her neatly up onto the boarding plank. Low’s shadow-sailor who’d carried the chest—only his hands felt oddly familiar. Cecilia turned and peered at him, trying to see underneath the disguising smoke, and caught a glimpse of his dark, sparkling eyes.
“Shhhh,” Liam warned her. “No time. We need a way to stop Salvius. Do you know of one?”
“Why ask me?” she whispered back fiercely. “I was a prisoner!”
“Aye, but an observant one. Resourceful. Well?”
“The statue,” she said. “I think it’s the statue—he said it kept death from taking him.”
Captain Low, who’d been listening closely from where he stood just a foot away, still on the deck of the Aquila, nodded and moved back toward Captain Salvius. “One more thing, my lovely,” he said, and lunged past Salvius to lay both his hands flat on the stone breasts of the marble statue. “A, very nice. Fine piece of work.”
The stone vibrated, cracked, and exploded into white dusty powder and chunks of stone, and left…
… a goddess. Tall, slender, with hair as red as the sunset glaring behind her, and milky blue eyes and marble-fair complexion. She was dressed in flowing, night-black draperies, and as Low stepped back from her she took in a deep breath, let it out, and fastened her merciless gaze on Captain Salvius. Chaos broke out-men screaming, wailing, some throwing themselves to the deck and begging for mercy.
Not Salvius, though. He stood and faced her as she came toward him.
Liam grabbed Cecilia and hustled her across the plank, yelling over his shoulder, “Ned! Damn you, don’t dally!”
But Captain Low wasn’t hurrying. He was watching the goddess Larentina as she reached out to tap her cool white fingers on Salvius’s forehead.
He fell to his knees, swayed, and went down hard. Face down.
“Ned!” Liam yelled again. “She’ll take you too!”
“Yes,” he said calmly. “I’m considering it.”
Larentina advanced on him. Low raised his eyebrows.
“Reconsidering, actually.” Low backed away, leapt onto the plank, and ran lightly across it to drop onto the rotting, filthy deck of his ship next to where Cecilia stood with Liam’s arms around her. Low pulled the plank away from the Aquila and let it splash into the water—it was already rotting from the touch of his hands. He leaned on the filthy railing and watched Larentina stalk the decks of the Aquila, relentless and beautiful, sending the crew to their long-delayed and no doubt well-earned deaths.
Larentina paused in her killing to look sharply across at them, and Cecilia felt a chill as if death were passing its shroud over her face.
But in its wake, she felt oddly restored. Her crippling thirst was gone. So were her aches, pains, sunburns, and when she licked her lips, she found them damp and supple.
“I think I’m in love,” Ned Low sighed, and then shook his head. “Too clever by half, our friend Salvius. Not to mention careless. But I suppose he had to keep her close, or he’d have lost control.”
The Aquila was sinking, rolling drunkenly in a sea that was suddenly churning with waves. And sharks. Cecilia turned away from the sight and buried her face in Liam’s chest, and he wrapped her tightly in his arms.
She felt the wind snap the threadbare sails of the Withered Rose taut, and the gruesome ornamental skeletons dangling from the yardarms clinked their macabre music. Ned Low was watching her and Liam, not the wreck of the Aquila.
“I’ll take you back to your ship,” Low said. “As we agreed. Then we’re squared, Lockhart. The next time I catch you in my grip, you’ll rot like the rest. You and the witch.” He hesitated, then said, “Unless she really can break curses, that is.” It was half a question.
“No,” Cecilia said. “I’m not a witch. Sorry.”
“Ah,” he said, and shrugged. His lovely young face smiled, but the dead man in his eyes didn’t. “Pity.”
Low made a languid gesture. Up on the deserted quarterdeck, the wheel turned, and the Withered Rose heeled over in a course change, making for the distant speck of sail that was the Sweet Mourning.
A fresh sea breeze blew over the deck, temporarily washing away the filthy stench, and tattering Liam’s clinging shadows. Cecilia looked down at herself; she was wreathed in the stuff too, like a damp fog. She tried fanning it away, but it seemed to have a mind of its own. “Ignore it,” Liam said. “It’s when it disappears you have to worry. That’s when Ned decides to make sport of you.” He sounded grim, and his eyes were dark and haunted. He cupped his hands around her face. “Cecilia. I’m sorry it took so long. Ned’s no easy mark and nobody’s ally.”
“Then why did he help you?”
Liam took in a deep breath. “I struck a bargain. It was the only way to get to you. Salvius’s ship was too fast. Ned Low was the closest rescue I could find.”
Oh no. “What did you promise?”
“Nothing I can’t afford to lose.”
Oh, Cecilia doubted that.
THE WITHERED ROSE GLIDED UP TO A BECALMED Sweet Mourning just as true darkness fell over the sea. The Mourning had lamps burning on board, giving the whole ship a party-barge atmosphere that left Cecilia with a sense of tremendous, knee-weakening relief.
She couldn’t wait to be off this filthy, diseased scow.
Mr. Argyle was at the railing, holding a lantern, his narrow, clever face tense and anxious. “The Aquila?” he asked.
“Historical,” Liam called back. “Coming aboard!”
Low sat at his ease and watched indifferently as Liam escorted Cecilia across the boarding plank and safely onto the deck of their own vessel. The crew closed around them protectively—amazing, considering a day ago they’d been willing to toss her over the side.
Maybe they just hated Edward Low that much.
She reached back for Liam, but he wasn’t there. He was still standing on the boarding plank, looking at her, and while her dark shadows had blown free the moment she’d stepped on board the Sweet Mourning, his still writhed around him like toxic smoke.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and his voice sounded choked and odd. “I’m so sorry, Cecilia. I love you.”
And he turned and went back to the Withered Rose.
“No!” she screamed, and lunged for the boarding plank. Liam grabbed it from the far end and shoved; it was still fastened on the Sweet Mourning, so it banged loudly against the wooden hull as it fell. “Liam, come back!”
Argyle was holding her still. “Lass,” he said somberly, “he can’t. Ned Low’s price. One had to stay, and he’s made the choice. He wouldn’t let anyone else do it for him. I tried. God’s witness, I tried.”
On board the other ship, Edward Low uncoiled himself from his perch and slipped down to walk to where Liam stood at the railing. He leaned casually against it, staring at Cecilia, and his moonstone eyes looked like twin moons reflecting the firelight.
“Do you believe in salvation?” he asked her.
She wasn’t in the mood for his banter. “Let Liam go! Please!”
“All that binds him here is his honor,” Low said. “But that’s as strong as chain, for him. I ask you again, little witch, do you believe in salvation?”
“Yes!” She choked on the word, and a frantic sense of terror. “Please. I’d help you if I could. I
really would.”
He studied her gravely. “I believe you would,” he said. “Although I’d never deserve it.”
“I’m not your judge. Please.”
Low glanced sideways at Liam. “Your witch bargains hard,” he said. “I’ll hold you to your word, Lockhart. One year of service on the Rose.”
One year? Cecilia’s heart turned to ice in her chest. She’d barely been able to stand an hour. What that would be like…
“I’ll stand by my word.”
“I know you will. You’re a man of honor.” Low put a mocking stress on the last word. “I never said when your service would commence, Captain.”
Liam didn’t move.
Edward Low rolled his eyes. “Leave, fool. I’m giving you parole. I’ll decide when to collect my debt.”
Liam’s wrapping of shadow blew away, and Cecilia caught her breath and squeezed Argyle’s hands in hers. Liam looked startled, and grim. “I suppose I should thank you.”
“Don’t,” Low said soberly. “I expect to see full service from you. Just not today.”
He made another of those eerie underwater gestures, and the fallen boarding plank rose up of its own accord and fastened back between the two ships. The ocean went as smooth and dark as painted glass.
Liam crossed over, dropped over on the deck of the Sweet Mourning, and Low reached out to put his hand on the plank stretched between them. It warped, molded, rotted, and fell away into dust and fragments into the waiting sea.
A devil’s wind filled the sails of the Withered Rose, and the dark ship glided away into the night, silhouetted against the stars, and then gone without a sound. Low might have raised a hand in farewell, but it was just a shadowy impression, quickly vanished.
Liam let out a slow breath and closed his eyes. “You’re an idiot,” Cecilia said.
He nodded. “I know.”
“I love you.”
“And so you should,” he said. “At great length.”
THE CREW THREW A PARTY FOR THEM—IMPROMPTU feasts of cold smoked ham and canned pineapple and rum. Lots of rum. Their version of an apology for the ruined wedding reception. Cecilia had just enough food to sustain her, and enough rum to settle her nerves. Someone started up a hornpipe, and there was a spontaneous effort at a jig, which Cecilia gamely tried at the urging of the crew. When she stopped, breathless and glowing from effort, she saw Liam looking at her with dark intensity from the other side of the crowd.
My Big Fat Supernatural Honeymoon Page 11
