The Jinxed Pirate (Graylands Book 2)

by M. Walsh

  (as if you’re any different)

  —but she wasn’t going to do anything about it.

  As she was about to leave, she noticed the small rabbit still hiding under its brush. It was looking at her and shaking. She wanted to pet it or give it food, but when she took a step toward it, the rabbit ran away as fast as it could.

  She returned to the camp, telling herself she’d only stay until Madoc.

  * * *

  That night, Tobias Dust knocked on the door to Clara Shade’s caravan. He saw light through the windows and sensed she was awake—and no doubt, disturbed by their new guest. If the reavers had leaders, he and Shade would be it, and they shared the closest bond.

  He stepped inside, and there was a coolness to Shade’s trailer. It was dim, and the inside had a hue of purple at all times. Dark curtains hung throughout, creating a foreboding mood. Much of this was deliberate. In their carnival, Shade had fashioned herself as a fortune-teller, and she believed it served her purpose to create a hint of mystery and danger for her visitors.

  There was another reason for the coolness. Dust found her sitting in her usual seat, looking bored and impatient, rapping her fingers against the circular table where she looked through a crystal ball and read palms or tarot cards.

  “You convinced her to stay,” she said.

  “And why not?” he asked. “She is our kind.”

  “No, she’s not,” she replied, her voice harsh. “She’s a succubus. You know as well as I do those whores cannot be trusted.”

  “She’s actually only half-succubus,” he said, sitting on the sofa near the end of the caravan. “She’s also half-orc.”

  Shade’s pointed eyebrows arched, pronouncing the lines in her forehead. “Orc?!” she repeated. “And you want her to stay with us?!”

  “I find her interesting.”

  “We should kill her,” she said, standing up and pacing around. “Summon Flint, Coal, and Ashe. Drag her out, take her head, burn whatever’s left, and be done with her.”

  “You’re overreacting.”

  “You’re underreacting,” she growled. Shaking her head, she said, “A succubus-orc … that’s unheard of. How … why..?”

  “She believes her creator intended her to be some kind of assassin,” he said, yawning. “I can see the logic. Succubi and incubi would make perfect infiltrators—if they weren’t so craven and incapable of combat. Hence, crossbreed with an orc and you have a perfect killer.”

  “I’m glad you find this girl so fascinating,” she said, frowning. “She’s dangerous.”

  “Not to us,” he said. “She won’t attack us unless we threaten her.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because she is at least half succubus,” he said. “You know as well as I they try to avoid conflict if they can—just like we do. She may be partially orc—which means she’s probably quite strong and capable—but she’s not going to cause us trouble unless she sees us as a threat.”

  Shade grumbled, not satisfied with that response.

  “And yes, I did try looking into her mind,” he continued. “I know you’re wondering.”

  Her eyes narrowed, and she sat down in her seat. “I didn’t think you could look into another demon’s soul.”

  “I can’t,” he said. “But I was able to sense her feelings. She’s unsure of herself, I saw that much. She’s suffered some kind of loss recently. I couldn’t see what, but she’s confused and uncertain.”

  “Even if she isn’t a threat, why keep her around? Succubi don’t feed the way we do. She might bring us unwanted attention.”

  “I think she might be useful. A crossbreed between a succubus and an orc is a rare combination. I think she might be worth keeping around.”

  He looked out the window. He could see his own caravan where Lily was sitting inside. He pictured her by the candlelight, feeling lost and alone, and reflected on their talk earlier that day.

  “There’s something about her,” he said, though more to himself than to Shade. “More than just being a crossbreed. There’s something unusual about this girl. Something … I can’t place …”

  He trailed off and glanced at Shade. She glared at him, looking confused and not at all comforted by his fascination in their guest.

  “Give her time,” he said. “I’d like to get to know our new friend a little better. Worse comes to worst, we’ll kill her and be done with it.”

  22

  The tower in Mannix Square appeared larger and more threatening up close. Its apex reached into the night sky and looked like a devilish creature that may swoop down and eat anyone who came too close. Whoever built it knew how to make someone feel small, and Krutch guessed this was something Sebastian Clock relished.

  Crossing the drawbridge, he noted the moat surrounding the tower was filled with a steaming green fluid that had a distinct, bitter odor. He couldn’t guess what it was, but he suspected anyone who tried swimming in it would be in for a cruel surprise of some sort.

  The rest of the world seemed to disappear as he climbed the stairs leading to the entrance. Mannix Square and whoever was in it might as well not be there. There was no Seba. It was just him and the sinister structure that contained gods only knew what within. Standing before the massive doors, with monstrous statues of roaring lions at either side, he was half-tempted to turn tail and run.

  “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he murmured. A part of him wished Audra was there to reassure him, but he put that aside. “I’m Krutch Leeroy … and that’s supposed to mean something.”

  Taking a breath, he went to knock on the doors, but they creaked open and it was Gojhi Olgorn who met him there. The well-dressed Graigman looked him up and down, and there was a moment he worried he misinterpreted everything and came to the wrong place at the wrong time.

  “Mr. Leeroy,” said Gojhi. “You’re expected.”

  “They actually had you down here waiting for me?”

  There was a flicker of irritation in the Graigman’s eyes as he replied, “Yes. I was told to bring you upstairs.”

  Krutch nodded and entered, feeling like he was swallowed by the place. Upon stepping into the main hall, he was struck by a profound coldness in his blood and doubted it was the cooler mages he’d been told about.

  The hall was a dim room with a shiny floor of dark green marble. There was a high ceiling and pillars lined up and down to the left and right. More devilish statues looked down from up high. Walking through, he felt as though he was being watched—and not by the Wraith Guards posted throughout the room—and thought he heard growling and hissing coming from the shadows beyond the pillars.

  “So,” he choked out. “Is Sebastian Clock a sorcerer or something?”

  “No,” Gojhi replied.

  “Really..?”

  “Yes, really. Some low-level mages are employed for menial tasks, but Mr. Clock has little interest in the Black.”

  “Could’ve fooled me,” he muttered.

  At the end of the main hall, where another pair of Wraiths stood guard, was a stairway. At the first landing was a barred door. Gojhi slid open the bars, and Krutch was led into a room that was little more than a cramped box. For a moment, he thought he’d been led into a dungeon cell, but Gojhi followed, closed the bars, and worked a set of levers in the corner.

  Loud creaking and grinding sounded, like metal scraping against metal, and the tiny room jumped. It shook and jerked and then lifted into the air. Caught off guard, Krutch stumbled and pressed his back against the wall.

  “What the hell is this?”

  “With proper application of gears and pulleys,” Gojhi said. “We have fashioned a device that can take us to the upper levels of the tower without walking up the stairs.”

  The lift screeched and swayed as it traveled up the tower, sounding like some kind of wretched banshee. They passed numerous floors on their way up, and Krutch felt queasy, keeping his back pressed against the wall and braced for the sudden drop if the thing
collapsed.

  The ride seemed to go on forever. He didn’t keep count, and he couldn’t tell what was on any of the floors they passed. They came to a stop on a narrow hallway leading to another set of imposing doors. Gojhi slid the bars open, and Krutch didn’t even try to hide how eager he was to get off.

  By this point, he was feeling frustrated and irritated, like he was dealing with an elaborate show. The absurdly large tower, moat, demonic statues, Wraith Guards, narrow hallways, imposing doors, fancy lifts of gears and pulleys …

  He thought of Jacob Daredin and his scary tower by the Blind Cliffs and remembered the freakish “evil” appearance the sorcerer indulged. How much of that was just for show, he wondered. What kind of loon so blatantly advertises himself as an “evil” sorcerer? The kind of guy who thought sacrificing a woman would make him a god so he could take over the world—that was who.

  And now here he was, about to meet a man who was the big boss of a notorious city of pirates and thieves, who dwelled in a ridiculous black tower and forced anyone who came to meet him to go through a show of spooky statues, moats, and needlessly big doors.

  He wants me scared before I even walk in, Krutch thought. He knew this game, and he felt more annoyed than anything else.

  With a sigh, and low on patience, he pulled open the doors and entered Sebastian Clock’s private quarters expecting to be disappointed.

  * * *

  Krutch walked into the chamber and thought he’d been transported to a different building. In contrast to the rest of the tower, which seemed to revel in its sinister atmosphere, Clock’s chamber seemed more like an exclusive lounge for the elite and wealthy.

  The stone walls were covered by plaster and wood and painted with bright, warm colors. A fireplace in the corner crackled gently. Floor-to-ceiling windows allowed a spectacular view of Seba and beyond. There was a bar with a variety of liquor lined on an elegant glass shelf. Leather couches and a polished wooden table sat before a great shelf of books.

  At the head of the chamber, where Krutch almost expected to find a throne, was a massive desk made of smooth granite. On it were organized piles of papers and books, and on the wall behind the desk was a huge painted map of the entire Realm with Graylands in the center.

  Sebastian Clock stood by his desk, staring at a pocket-watch in his hand. He was middle-aged with short, well-groomed black hair that was streaked with gray. He had a hooked nose and trimmed beard that wrapped around his chin. He wore an immaculate white suit, save for a black vest and gray tie, and Krutch saw he had an impressive physique for a man his age.

  “Krutch Leeroy,” Clock said, his voice deep and gravelly. His greeting was pleasant enough, but Krutch could imagine how threatening his voice might sound when angered. “At last we meet.”

  Clock strode forward, with a gait that was almost a swagger, and extended his hand. Krutch accepted the handshake and tried not to wince at the crushing grip. Instead his pain manifested as an awkward grin, and he replied, “Okay.”

  “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t looking forward to meeting you,” said Clock. He was smiling, but it didn’t touch his eyes. “No offense, but I thought you’d be taller.”

  “I get that a lot.”

  “You know it’s funny,” he continued, not letting go of Krutch’s hand. “In all the years I’ve lived here, as far as I know, I don’t believe you’ve ever been to Seba. Am I wrong?”

  “I …”

  “Oh, there have been rumors and tales, no doubt. But I pride myself on being aware of the comings and goings in my city. I would like to think if the Krutch Leeroy ever truly came to Seba, I would be the first to know about it.”

  “Well …”

  “But here you are,” he said, still gripping Krutch’s hand. “I suppose it was only a matter of time before the legendary Krutch Leeroy … the infamous pirate lord … saw fit to inject himself into my city.”

  The fake smile never left his face. As he gave Krutch’s hand a final squeeze, his eyes gave away a flash of something predatory. It reminded Krutch of dogs marking their territory.

  “It is an honor to have you here,” he said, though Krutch doubted that. “Come. I’ll introduce you around.”

  Clock first led him to the bar, where most of the other guests had gathered. He recognized Harrison Elliot and Vincent Dune—who each greeted him with slight nods—but the third man was a balding fellow with a rat-like face and slight gut. Clock introduced him as Jemas Phelps, who ran some of the casinos in Roller’s Place.

  Sticking out from the other three was an imposing Goblin who stood off to the side. He wore dark and worn leather, and his face was grizzled and harsh with greenish-yellow skin and a pointed nose. His graying black hair, however, was silky and slicked back, giving him an almost regal appearance.

  “This is Vel-Etta,” said Clock. “Chief of the Rawstone Clan.”

  “I’ve heard much about you,” said the Goblin in a gruff, but eloquent voice. “Yes, the exploits of Krutch Leeroy are known even to my people.”

  “I’m flattered,” he said.

  “And I understand you’ve already met Jonathon Gash,” Clock continued, gesturing across the room where Gash sat by the fireplace with his Eldér servant, Tetra Serk, standing behind him. “You’ll have to forgive the presence of his bodyguard, but Gash refuses to go anywhere without her.”

  Gash glared at them from his seat, his long legs stretched out in front of him, but said nothing.

  “That reminds me,” said Clock. “Gojhi! Fix Leeroy a drink.”

  The Graigman poured Krutch something over ice that smelled formidable. He accepted the glass, but decided against drinking. If he was going to remember these people’s names and keep up with what was discussed, he needed to be sharp.

  The only person Clock didn’t introduce was the huge man who kept his distance in the far corner of the chamber. He was tall and broad-shouldered, clad in heavy armor and holding a spear by his side. His hair was cut to dark fuzz on his scalp, and his face was grim, hard, and lined with scars.

  Krutch guessed that was Clock’s bodyguard, Vident, and only glanced in his direction. The death-glare he received told him all he needed to know.

  “I understand you and Dune had a close call the other day,” said Clock. “Isn’t that right, Leeroy?”

  “What..?”

  “You were at that saloon,” said Dune. “There was a brawl. I was informed you were involved.”

  “Sort of,” said Krutch. “Wasn’t really my fault.”

  “Must’ve been a sight,” Clock said, finishing his drink with a gulp. “Seeing the Wraiths in action. They are quite efficient.”

  “That’s one way of putting it, I guess,” he said.

  “You should’ve been here … what was it..? Two years ago, I believe,” Clock said. “There was trouble brewing in the Slums. Some agitators were riling up the other dirt-people who live down there, trying to inspire an uprising. Would you believe the little shits tried to march down Tramp Road and raid the blacksmiths for weapons?” He chuckled and continued, “Vincent and his Wraiths made short work of that mess. The piss-ants didn’t even make it out of the Slums. Took a week to clear the bodies. Isn’t that right, Vincent?”

  Although Clock addressed Dune, he never took his eyes off Krutch. Dune was stone-faced and didn’t bother opening his mouth, as Clock kept talking.

  “It put them back in their place,” he said. “We haven’t had a sniff of trouble from the Slums ever since.”

  Dune remained silent, and Krutch wondered, What is happening?

  It took a moment, but he realized Clock was sending him a message. Knowing he was at the saloon. Knowing he already met Gash. Bringing attention to Dune and the Wraiths.

  He’s letting me know he’s in charge.

  “It’s an interesting way of enforcing the law,” Krutch said. “Good way to keep the population in check.”

  To his shock, Dune seemed amused by the comment. Remembering Elliot’s insistence Seba wa
s an orderly city, he looked at the Magistrate to see if he had any comment. Elliot turned away to wipe his monocle, looking miserable.

  “It’s a distasteful way of doing things,” said Dune. “There’s no pride in butcher’s work.”

  Krutch was surprised to hear that coming from him. Dune looked like he was going to continue, when Clock said, “People who come to this city know what they’re in for. It’s important to remind them of consequences from time to time.” He paused to refill his glass and clapped. “Now! Everyone’s here. Everyone has a drink. Let’s begin.”

  They each took a seat at a round table set up in the center of the chamber. Gash was the first to sit, with Serk standing behind him like a sentinel. Vel-Etta sat next to him, and though he didn’t show it on his stretched face, Krutch knew Gash was displeased. Next to Vel were Clock, then Dune, Elliot, Krutch, and Phelps. Gojhi remained at the bar.

  “We play Liar’s Bluff here, Leeroy,” said Clock, shuffling the deck. “Name notwithstanding, it’s a gentleman’s game. A good way to test another man’s mettle. You a big gambler, Leeroy?”

  Red, yellow, and black chips were piled by each seat, and only then did Krutch remember he didn’t bring any money with him. For that matter, he didn’t even know how to play Liar’s Bluff.

  “Not really, no.” He hesitated, realizing that wasn’t the sort of thing Krutch Leeroy should say, and added, “I, uh, I prefer to gamble with my life, never my money.”

  Clock let out a laugh that sounded more like a bark. “Planning to save the gold our good Magistrate gave you, eh?” He let out another bark and dealt the cards. “I hope you’re not planning on making that a tradition, Harrison. Can’t be handing out free gold to everyone who walks into town. You’re liable to bankrupt the city.”

  Elliot kept his eyes on his cards and said in a low voice, “I was merely looking out for our city’s interests.”

  Clock stared at the Magistrate, a half-smile frozen on his face. He sucked on his teeth, as if there was a number of scathing things he could say in response to that, but couldn’t choose which one. He looked like he could just as easily reach across the table and smack Elliot in the face.