Pirates were not welcome in Port Royal since the antipiracy laws of 1687 were passed in Jamaica, unless they were being hanged, so we busied the ship for departure to Santo Domingo to outfit the Moon Hunter as a merchant ship and disguise our armaments. Jova moved about the ship more and more as the days went on, and once, I even caught him smiling as he played with Garlic on the deck. Our Bogeyman was in good spirits, an absolute necessity for what I had planned for him. The Howler and I deemed it unnecessary to tell him about our mission, and after being put off once, Jova merely shrugged, content to wait to learn of our mission and for the plan of attack when we were ready to tell him.
We decided to wait for morning to sail to Santo Domingo, and the crew bedded down for the night, except for a watchman, whom I made sure was not either of the two assassins or Big Belly Bart. Jova had been adopted by the crew, as his apparent slavery at the hands of an ocean spirit made him a sympathetic figure, and he was invited to bunk in the crew’s quarters. I followed the Howler back to the captain’s cabin.
“What are you doing?” she asked, putting a hand on my chest as I bent my head to enter the cabin.
I smiled coyly and raised an eyebrow. “What am I doing?” I said. “That would be providing a valuable service to my captain.”
The Howler shook her head. “We can’t.”
“What do you mean, we can’t?” I said. “You are the captain. You can do anything you want. And besides, I would just be following orders.”
“It is not going to happen,” the Howler said. “We cannot risk the crew losing respect for me by thinking you are bedding me.”
“But, I have bedded you,” I said. “And quite well, I might add.”
She nodded, and finally the barest hint of a smile formed. “I know that, Sirius,” she said. “But I am the captain now, and I cannot consort with my crew. You’ll have to sleep in the crew’s quarters.”
I could see she was not going to be persuaded—at least not tonight. So I swallowed my pride and found a secluded spot to sleep on deck. After a few hours the ship was quiet, and all on board were asleep, including our faithful lookout. Only the moon’s light followed me as I snuck back to the Howler’s cabin. I was nothing if not persistent. Turns out I did not have to do much persuading as the Howler was waiting for me with her cabin door slightly ajar. I slipped quickly inside and pressed the door shut quietly.
“Are you ready to follow my orders, Mr. First Mate,” the Howler said, her nightshirt dropping to the ground.
“Yes, Captain,” I replied, tugging at my belt. “Sirius Sinister at your service.”
“Good,” she said. “I order you to service me.”
“As you wish,” I replied.
“But, quietly.”
I folded my breeches and placed them on her nightstand. “But, of course.”
I sneaked out of her quarters the next morning before dawn, and when the captain took the bridge a little later, she did so with a smile. We reached Santo Domingo and docked at a deserted wharf, then dispatched some of the crew to get supplies to ply in Port Royal. We did not need much since it was all for show, and other members of the crew busied themselves with changing out our sails, and Jova took it upon himself to repaint the name of our craft. We were the Moon Hunter no longer, as the goblins may have recognized that as the Howler’s ship. Instead, we would sail to Port Royal as the Dancing Swan.
After a few short days, the Dancing Swan was ready for her journey to Port Royal. I took roll as we readied to set sail, and began cursing soundly.
“What is it?” asked the Howler as she and Jova came up to where I stood on the deck.
“It seems we are missing three crew members,” I said. “Big Belly Bart and his two assassin friends did not return from town today.”
“Maybe they are just running late,” Jova suggested.
“Maybe,” the Howler said. “Or more likely they are trying to tip off our enemies in Port Royal that we are coming.”
“They can only travel by ship and cannot have much of a head start if any, so let’s get the Dancing Swan underway,” I said.
“Can you tell me now just who these enemies are in Port Royal?” Jova implored. “I would like to know who I am facing. Don’t I at least deserve to know that?”
The Howler and I exchanged glances, and I shrugged, deferring to my captain.
“Sure,” the Howler replied as she signaled the crew to set sail. “My sister was kidnapped by a horde of bloodthirsty goblins, and we are going to rescue her.”
Jova nodded. “Oh,” he said, suddenly looking a little pale and sitting down on the deck. “Glad I asked.”
Unfortunately, as we made to leave Santo Domingo, the weather turned for the worse, and we were forced to harbor the Dancing Swan in the protection of the island rather than risk facing the perils of the open ocean and the storm passing just to our south. The weather relented after only a day, but it had seemed like an eternity even for the immortals on board. We had lost valuable time and did not know if James Sullivan aka Big Belly Bart and his cohorts had gotten off the island before the storm hit.
The Howler looked noticeably anxious, and as we finally steered the Dancing Swan toward Port Royal, I could only pat her shoulder reassuringly. In reality, it did not matter if Big Belly Bart had left before us or not—the goblins would be ready. But there was no way they could prepare themselves for the living embodiment of fear that was Jova the Bogeyman. But then I wondered—looking out upon the amazing clear blue-green waters of the Caribbean—just what did a goblin fear anyway? If we wanted to rescue Cornelia and escape with our lives, we had better figure that out.
The voyage to Port Royal was slow, as the wind was not in our favor, but finally the harbor came into view. We docked quickly, and Jova and I, with Garlic padding alongside us, headed for the harbormaster’s office to register the Dancing Swan for trade. The crew made a great show of unloading semiempty barrels and crates, while a few key members readied the weapons belowdecks for the raid on the Gallows Club. Jova and I were in and out of the harbormaster’s office in a few moments. The harbormaster did not question us or seemingly give us a second look, yet I sensed treachery in him as he gave us a cursory wave when we walked out the door.
“Something is amiss,” I said to Jova. “That was too easy.”
Jova shrugged. “Perhaps any trade at all is welcome in Port Royal. Gold is king here. Don’t be so suspicious.”
I glared at him. “Suspicion has kept me alive for a few centuries now,” I said. I looked back and saw the harbormaster whispering in the ear of one of his minions. I thought he looked in our direction as he did so. My instinct told me that we did not have much time to find the Gallows Club and Cornelia.
Port Royal was truly bustling with activity as we walked back to the Dancing Swan. Huge brick homes, like ones back in England, lined the streets, and signs of wealth and opulence were everywhere. One house seemed to be three or four stories tall, and the huge gate in front of it looked to be painted with real gold. We passed a crew of laborers filling in some marshland in preparation for another manse. There were easily thousands of homes in this town, and the solution when they ran out of land was apparently to make more land. I snorted to myself—not the best idea to construct heavy buildings over what amounted to fill, sand, and water, but lots of gold tended to addle the brain like a fine wine where wealthy mortals were concerned.
“With all these houses, taverns, and stores, how are we going to find the Gallows Club?” I wondered out loud.
Jova shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe we could just ask someone.” He nodded casually to sailors and others who passed by, staring a little too long at a beautiful woman whose services he could not afford, despite her inviting glances. “Hmm,” he said. “She looks friendly enough. Let’s ask her.”
I fought off the urge to smack him in the back of his red-streaked he
ad, instead tugging on his shirt to get his attention. “Really?” I said. “Ask a common harlot?”
“She seemed very willing.”
“Jova,” I said, “that might be true, but get focused here.”
Who would have thought that I would be the voice of reason? I continued, “But there is a tavern a little way ahead that my instinct tells me is the place to find out what we need. Just follow my lead, don’t call attention to yourself, and above all—do not provoke a fight, got it?”
“Spoken from the vampire assassin in the group,” Jova said with a wink. “You have me confused for someone else—I am a frighter not a fighter!”
I laughed and put my arm around his shoulder. “True,” I said. “And I have mellowed with age, haven’t I, Garlic?” Garlic merely barked once and shook her head. The truth was that I was on a mission and would not jeopardize it by being out of control. I smiled—as long as there wasn’t a naked woman around, I was actually pretty clearheaded. Just then, I saw the tavern I remembered up ahead. I glanced at the sign and grimaced at the painting of a smiling Death holding a drink with eerie smoke rising from it.
“Death’s Door,” Jova said with a nervous laugh. “These must be your kind of people.”
I smirked, vowing to tell Jova of my trip to Hell someday. Now, Persephone was my kind of people. “Don’t be a coward, Master Bogeyman,” I replied. “Just keep your head high and your mouth closed, and we will be fine.”
Jova nodded, and we ducked into the tavern. Heads instantly swiveled on thick, ropey necks, and a host of unfriendly eyes were upon us. I sized up a mix of immortals and mortals in this dastardly place, all of whom were heavily armed and all very interested in their new bar mates. Garlic trailed behind us, a low growl in her throat, ready to draw blood from any that dared threatened her. None dared.
“Barkeep,” I said, pounding my fist on the bar to get the attention of the hunched figure in the corner. “Two beers for me and my friend here to slake our thirst. And make it quick. We do not have all day.”
The barkeep rose to his feet, and his gargantuan frame kept rising and rising until it seemed his big blocky head was brushing the ceiling. His black face looked like it was hewn from a single massive piece of obsidian, smooth angles shaping a face, mouth, and nose. Dark, thoughtful eyes bored into my own, and a deep intelligence lurked behind them. He pointed his stubby finger, the size of a blunderbuss, and rasped. “No service.” The barkeep moved away, fingers deftly plucking empty glasses from the bar top despite their huge size. He collected gold from his patrons and, without even looking, tossed the coins over his shoulder where they clattered into his strongbox.
“Lovely,” I said to Jova, perturbed at being ignored. “Of all the bars to walk into—we pick a troll bar.” I turned back to the troll, who met my glare and extended a different finger. “What?” I said, ignoring his insult since picking a fight with a troll was literally like banging your head against a wall, and usually just as successful. “Is vampire gold not good here in Port Royal? Did you fall off your bridge and dent that stone dome of yours?”
The troll grimaced, or smiled, or maybe even frowned. I could not tell given the utter lack of facial expression particular to trolls. Jova on the other hand looked quite terrified as the troll lumbered back toward us. Reaching deep into his breast pocket and, I thought, glaring at me the whole time, the troll pulled out some reading glasses. I had expected a chicken bone or a club to bash my head in, so I was pleasantly surprised by Stone Brain’s educated ways.
Stone Brain reached below the bar and pulled out a piece of parchment. “By the order of the governor of Jamaica, no animals shall be allowed in public houses, inns, or taverns,” he read, looking down at me smugly. At least I thought his mug was smug.
“Why didn’t you say so, Stone Brain,” I replied. “She is not a dog—she is half vampire. So she can stay, and you need to get us some beers.”
The troll consulted his parchment and was clearly conflicted as to whether Garlic was a vampire or a canine under the law of Jamaica. He scratched his head, which sounded like someone rubbing two rocks together trying to make a fire. I looked carefully for a spark but saw none. Finally, the troll, after deliberating with himself, slammed down two beers. “You can stay for one drink,” he ordered. “You pay now. And my name is not Stone Brain, you ignorant boob, it is Oliver.”
I quickly paid Oliver his gold and reached for my beer, and as Jova and I went to take a seat at one of the wooden benches along the wall, we found our way blocked by three rather unfriendly pirates. “You need to leave now,” said one, pointing to the door. I assessed them quickly, seeing the three men were identical triplets. They wore cutlasses on their hips and stood with the easy confidence of men that did not lose a fight very often if at all. Two of them had straw-colored hair that was long, wild, and unkempt, but the middle brother had his blond bird’s nest pulled back into a greasy ponytail.
“Oliver said we can stay for our one beer,” I replied, staring into his eyes and causing him to look away. “And that is what we are going to do.” I rolled my eyes at Jova, who looked rather green around the gills. Jova’s hands were visibly shaking, drops of beer spilling out of his mug and into Garlic’s waiting mouth below. But, beer notwithstanding, Garlic was ready to back me up and was eyeing a tasty pirate leg.
The leader of the triplets put his hand on my shoulder and drew close, exhaling breath that could wilt a flower, and bringing with him the collective stench of the high seas. Clearly, if these three bastards had been baptized, it was their last encounter with clean water. I glanced down at his hand and smiled unnervingly. “I suggest you take your hand off me, my good man.”
Jova gulped loudly. “We do not want any trouble,” he interjected.
The pirate suddenly dropped his hand from my shoulder and laughed. “No trouble,” he said. “You are a funny man. You cannot walk into Death’s Door without finding trouble. And you found us—I am Andrew, and these are my brothers, John and Little Jack, and we are the Trouble brothers.” I did note, for what it was worth, that Little Jack was three inches taller and at least twenty pounds heavier than his two brothers.
Jova raised his hands, and his eyes scrunched up tight in his head. I leaned back against the bar in anticipation of the Bogeyman springing to action. What would it be—a sea monster composed of the alley sludge bursting through the door to send the Trouble brothers running scared for their lives with their tails between their legs? Maybe a ghostly spirit of their ancestors composed of the tavern draperies frightening them into an early grave? Either way, I rubbed my hands together happily. This was going to be a sight to see!
Jova opened his mouth, but no sound came out at first. “I-I-I don’t understand,” he sputtered. “We are just simple merchants looking for a friend who belongs to the Gallows Club.”
If I wasn’t so shocked at this turn of events, I would have punched my blabby bogeyman right in the face before the Trouble brothers did so. Because as soon as Jova said Gallows Club, the room went as silent as the aftermath of the Widow Jenkins passing wind in the front row of the Sunday service. I could see Oliver moving glasses and tankards away from us and sliding bottles of his finest wines to a safe place in a well-practiced routine.
With his beady eyes, Andrew Trouble stared at Jova and exhaled deeply, again to my great chagrin. “You don’t say, funny man,” he said. “I know all the members of the Gallows Club. I am a charter member. Who is your friend?”
Jova thought quickly. “James Sullivan,” he answered coolly. “We are old chums.”
Naming Big Belly Bart was brilliant, I had to admit, because Andrew Trouble looked quite astonished. His mouth dropped open far enough that I could see his dentition matched his bathing habits. “Well, now, I am in the presence of a friend,” he said. “Because any friend of James Sullivan is a friend of the Trouble brothers.” He reached into his pocket, took out a gold coin, and h
anded it to Jova. “Tonight at dusk go down to the House of Angels, three blocks west of here, across from St. Peter’s Church. Show this coin to the man at the door, he will let you in, and I am pretty sure you will find old James. I heard he was back in town, but I have not run into him just yet. So, if you see him, tell him Trouble is looking for him.” With that he guffawed loudly at his joke, slapped Jova hard on the shoulder, and the brothers Trouble departed Death’s Door.
“Well, that was easy,” Jova mumbled.
I put my glass to my lips and drank, ignoring Garlic’s whine for a moment. “I guess bogeymen are good with trouble,” I agreed. I relented and set my beer down on the floor to let Garlic finish it.
Oliver, seeing the coast was clear of trouble and the Troubles, came over and began replacing his glasses and set another beer in front of me. He kept his voice low so only Jova and I could hear him. “If you are friends with that scoundrel James Sullivan,” he said, “then I am a dancing pixie.”
I smiled and raised my glass to him. “You do look very light on your feet, Oliver.”
“Quite so,” Jova added. “Even if you are a little big for a pixie.”
Oliver shook his head in mock disappointment. “Seriously, you are good men,” he said. “Trolls can see an immortal or mortal’s character by reading the expressions on their face. Vampires are easy to read—so emotional!” He looked at Jova with a steely glare. “You are a good man too,” he said, “but I am still not sure what you are!”
“A friend,” Jova answered, extending his hand.
“A friend is good,” Oliver said, enveloping Jova’s hand in his monstrous paw. “You can never have too many friends, especially in Port Royal. But, my new friends, you better have lots and lots of friends if you are serious about tangling with those nasty goblins at the Gallows Club.”
I pointed down at Garlic. “She is our secret weapon,” I said. Garlic licked her lips, looked up from her beer, and belched.
My Ex-Wife Said Go to Hell Page 13
