"Good plan." I sniffed the air. "Do you smell that?"
"Wood burning. Campfires, I think."
"A Boy Scout town?"
"I wouldn't bet against it. They have everything else here. Just name your fetish."
I knocked his arm. "It's called an alternate afterlife-style choice, remember? Or did you sleep through that part of orientation?"
Kris snorted. "When you choose to spend your afterlife living in a Southern manor, that's a lifestyle choice. When you spend it playing Confederate soldier or Billy the Kid, it's a fetish."
"Hmmm. I seem to recall a certain someone playing Billy the Kid sixteen years ago."
"It was Pat Garrett," he said. "And one night is not a 'life'-style choice."
"No, it's a fetish."
He slapped me on the rear and growled, "Watch it."
"Hey, I said it was a fetish." I grinned over at him. "Didn't say I objected."
We crested a small rise. Just below, in the glow of moonlight, lay the town of La Ceiba, a ramshackle collection of houses that were little more than huts--and decrepit huts at that. From the town came the raucous laughs, whoops, and catcalls of men trying very hard to have a good time, and downing massive quantities of alcohol to help them find it. The waver of candlelight blazed from the windows of a few of the larger buildings. Wood-fire smoke hung in a blue-gray haze over the town.
"Nineteenth-century frat party?"
Kris shook his head and guided my gaze to the water-front. There, crammed into the small harbor so tight they were double-and triple-parked, were a dozen or more boats. Not just boats, but spectacular wooden galleons, each with a dozen or more sails, and decks that were a veritable jungle of ropes. High atop the masts, flags fluttered in the breeze. From here, they looked like little more than brightly colored scraps of fabric. When I sharpened my sight, I could make out markings and designs--an arm bearing a scabbard, a skeleton raising a toast, several national flags, and on more than half, the ubiquitous skull and crossbones of the Jolly Roger.
Pirates.
21
THIS EXPLAINED LUTHER ROSS'S RELOCATION TO Roatan: the only route to the island was guarded by a pirate town. We now knew why that half-demon surfer had advised us to change our outfits before visiting La Ceiba. No part of the ghost world is off-limits, but just because you're allowed in doesn't mean you'll be encouraged to stay. Waltz into a themed afterlife town wearing your civvies, and you'll find yourself as welcome as a Mormon at Mardi Gras.
Themed afterlife towns were indeed a ghost-world Mardi Gras, a nonstop costumed paean to some romanticized bygone era. If you come to visit, you'd damned well better get yourself into the spirit of things...fast.
We slipped behind an abandoned hut on the outskirts of town and changed into more appropriate outfits. Kristof tried his damnedest to convince me to let him dress me, but I made him wait around the corner while I fashioned my own outfit.
"Still working on it?" Kristof called after a few minutes. "If you need help..."
I stepped around the corner. A slow grin swept over Kris's face. I'd dressed myself in hip-hugging calfskin breeches, knee-high boots, and a tight white laced bodice cinched at my waist with a jaunty black sash. Add oversize gold hoop earrings and a red bandanna, leaving my hair falling down my back, and I probably looked no more like the real Anne Bonney than Elizabeth Taylor looked like Cleopatra, but historical inaccuracy wasn't an issue--not in a place like this.
I surveyed Kristof's ensemble: a white linen shirt, black trousers tucked into low black boots, and a black naval jacket with brass buttons.
"Looks good," I said. "Now--Whoops. Forgot something."
I closed my eyes and conjured up two cutlasses.
"Hardware," I said, handing Kris one. I raised mine and sliced it through the air. "Think we'll get a chance to use them?"
"Only if we're lucky. But just in case we do, I'd better switch to this..." He closed his eyes and transformed the cutlass into a straight sword. He hefted it, spun it in his hand, then smiled, and lunged. "En garde."
"Uh, pirates, Kris, not the three musketeers."
"Close enough." He thrust the sword at an imaginary foe. "I always told my father those fencing lessons would come in handy someday."
"So you can really use that thing?"
He grinned. "Try me."
I raised my cutlass into something that vaguely resembled Kris's "en garde" position.
"Ready?" he asked.
I nodded. He lunged forward and knocked the cutlass so hard it flew from my hand, and left my wrist vibrating.
"Hey!"
I ducked to grab my cutlass, then stopped as I felt the tip of his sword pressed against my throat. Still crouching, I looked up at Kristof.
"It would seem, sir, that you have me at a disadvantage."
"So it would."
He slid the sword tip down my throat to my chest, and traced a line down my cleavage, caught the edge of the bodice, and plucked it off my breast. The moment his attention was diverted, I flipped backward, grabbed my cutlass, and sprang to my feet. Kris lunged, sword raised. I feinted and swung around him, then lifted the cutlass blade to the back of his neck.
When he felt the blade shift, he ducked and spun, sword raised. We sparred for a few seconds. Then he caught the underside of my cutlass and knocked it from my hand. I quickstepped backward--and slammed into a wide tree. Kristof lifted his sword tip to my throat again.
"Mercy?" he asked.
"Never."
Kristof laughed and slid the blade down my chest again. This time, he snagged the first lace on the bodice, and sliced through it.
"Kris..."
He caught the second lace on his sword tip.
"Kris..."
"Oh, you know I won't do anything," he said. "Won't even try. Not until I know you're ready. I just like to..." A small smile as he pressed against me. "Remind you. In case you've forgotten what it was like."
That was one reminder I never needed. I'd had lovers before and after Kristof--never many, I was always too particular to share my body with just anyone--but Kris was the only man I'd ever lost control with, the only one I'd never been able to get enough of. And now, feeling him hard against me...
Oh, to hell with this.
I tilted my hips up. Kris pressed closer, letting me lift my legs and wrap them around him. I wrapped my hands in his hair and kissed him. Kris moaned and slid his hands into my breeches, and grabbed my rear, pulling me tighter against him.
Then he tensed, resisting. After a moment's hesitation, he tugged my arms down and stepped back.
"You aren't ready," he murmured.
"No?"
I took his hand. He let me slide his fingers under my waistband, then jerked his hand away and took another step back.
"I don't mean ready for a five-minute bang against a tree, Eve. That's not good enough. I want you back. For now and forever. I mean that."
"Kris, I've told you--"
"You don't want that kind of relationship. Yes, you've said it. Over and over. We couldn't make it work the first time, so we shouldn't try again. A nice, pat excuse--"
"It's not--"
"Since when have you ever failed at something once and given up? It's an excuse, Eve--a simple excuse for avoiding the very complex problem that's you and me, and everything we did and didn't do once upon a time. You aren't ready yet. I know that. And I'll wait until you are." He gave a small smile. "It's not like I'm going to run out of time."
"I--"
"Speaking of time, though, you have a job to do, so I'd suggest we stop screwing around--or talking about why we aren't screwing around--and get back to work."
Our goal was, of course, to get passage to Roatan, preferably that night. So we started down to the wharf. The first three pirates we passed did double-takes at my outfit, but only murmured greetings and kept walking. When we drew within twenty yards of the harbor, we had to pass a grizzled old salt with an eye patch. He heaved to his feet and blocked our path,
hand on his sword. Unlike the others we'd seen--who'd had the look and dental work of men who'd never seen the Jolly Roger outside a movie theater--this guy could have been the real deal, with blackened teeth, swarthy battle-scarred skin, and serious hygiene issues...which probably explained why he'd been consigned to harbor duty.
"Avast!" he growled, voice thick with a near-impenetrable accent. "Who ye be?"
"Visitors," I said. "We just arrived, and we wanted to see the ships--"
"Not dressed like that, ye ain't, missy."
"Our outfits may be somewhat anachronistic," Kristof said. "Yet certainly no worse than others we've seen so far." He glanced over the pirate's stained and ragged ensemble. "Excepting your own fine attention to period detail, of course."
The pirate's lip curled. "Don't give a damn about yer britches, lad. It's hers that's t'problem. No wimmin pirates allowed here. Only wenches."
"Wenches?" I said.
"That may be your usual policy," Kristof said. "It may also explain the notable lack of female companionship available in your fine town. Might I suggest you reconsider--"
"I'm not reconsidering anything, lad. Either she changes herself into a proper wench, or ye best be reconsidering staying in La Ceiba."
Kristof opened his mouth to argue, but I shushed him with a look. Flexibility is the key to progress. So I slipped behind the nearest hut, and made a few minor alterations to my costume. The shirt, boots, and earrings stayed. The breeches gave way to a peasant skirt. A few necklaces and I looked as darned wenchy as I was getting. As for the cutlass, well, as much as I hated to part with it, I reminded myself that I could conjure it up anytime I felt the need.
I stepped from behind the hut.
The old pirate ogled me with a gap-toothed grin. "Now, that's more like it, ma beauty." He elbowed Kristof in the ribs. "Got yerself a damned fine wench there, lad."
"Uh, thank you."
"So, sir," I said. "Perhaps, if you have a moment, you'd be kind enough to tell us how we could get to Roatan."
"Roatan?" His face scrunched up. "Why ye want to go to Roatan? All t'action be here, on this side o' the bay."
"Perhaps," Kris said. "But we really must get to Roatan. Is there a ship we could charter?"
"This ain't t'yacht club, lad. Ye don't charter a pirate ship. Ye wants passage, ye gots t'earn it, by going on account."
"Going on account?"
The pirate slapped Kris on the back. "Joinin' a crew, lad. Joinin' a crew."
"I...see. Well, thank you very much for your time. Mind if we take a stroll along the harbor?"
"Stroll away. Ye wants to be joinin' a crew, now, ye lets me know, an' I'll set ye up." He slid a sly smile my way. "And I'll look after yer wench while yer at sea."
We thanked the old pirate and headed to the wharf. If we couldn't charter a ship, we'd need to steal one. Unfortunately, it quickly became obvious that every ship was guarded by at least two men, and the galleons were packed in so tight that the moment we boarded one, we'd be beset by attackers from the others.
I turned to Kristof. "They might not encourage rentals, but I bet we can find someone willing to bargain."
"Up to the taverns, then?"
I nodded.
We picked the largest of the three taverns along the main road. A sign at the door warned against the use of weapons, magic, and supernatural powers of all kinds. Kristof vaporized his sword, then pulled open the door and ushered me inside.
22
INSIDE, THE CLATTER OF STEEL MUGS COMPETED WITH the roar of voices raised in laughter and anger. The air was thick with cigar and wood smoke. Did pirates smoke cigars? Didn't look authentic, but obviously someone had decided it was, and that was good enough for them. A themed afterlife town should never be mistaken for a historical reconstruction. It's a theme-park version, like Disney's Pirates of the Caribbean ride...before they sanitized it for the age of political correctness.
As we stepped inside, all conversation near the door stopped. The silence rolled across the room until every mouth had closed, every eye turned to check out the new arrivals. They went first to the male half of the party, and the testosterone wafted up thicker than the cigar smoke. In a dive like this, when a new man walks through the door no one wonders what kind of conversationalist he'd make or sizes him up as a potential poker dupe. No one even wonders whether they could con him into buying a few rounds of grog. Instead, the thought going through every man's mind is "Hmm, wonder if I could take him in a fight." And, as most turned away without so much as a second once-over, the overwhelming decision was "yes." This wasn't a contender--good size, good structure, but too old, too soft, and, my God, look at those hands--is that a manicure? Only the smallest and oldest of the men let their gazes linger, but even those soon recognized a Wall Street wimp, no matter what costume he chose to cloak himself in.
Attention went next to the living, breathing piece of potential pirate booty. A few looked away after the briefest glance. They liked their women smaller, cuddlier, blonder. But most kept looking, a few perking up enough to slide off their stools.
"That yer wench?" barked a big man, spattering rum in his thick black beard as he spoke.
"Uh, er--" Kristof glanced at me, checking to see how much trouble this would get him into later, then responded with a gruff "Aye" and steered me toward the dark end of the bar.
"Bit tall, ain't she?" the man called after us.
"Not for me."
A tall, rangy blond with a red bandanna slid off his stool and dropped into Kristof's path. "Not for me, either."
Kris led me around him. As we passed, the man glided behind me and grabbed my ass. Didn't pinch and duck out of the way. Just grabbed with both hands and held on, chortling. I slowly looked over my shoulder, meeting the man's grin with a baleful stare.
"Uh-uh," Kris whispered by my ear. "Can't break character. Allow me. Please."
Kristof turned his best stare on the idiot. "Please remove your hands."
The guy just gave a big "make me" snigger.
"And apologize," Kris said.
A roar of guffaws rose from the audience.
"Hey, Pierre," a pock-faced man called. "Are ye shivering in yer boots yet? I know I am."
Another round of whoops and catcalls. Kristof waited for the laughter to wane, as calm and steady as a seasoned substitute teacher faced with an unruly class.
"One last time," he said. "Please remove your hands and then apologize to the lady."
"Oooh," someone called. "Better listen, Pierre. He might--"
Kristof grabbed Pierre by the collar and hurled him along the bar, sending rum bottles flying like bowling pins. For the next five seconds, numbed silence fell over the tavern as the men picked their jaws up off the ground. The pock-faced pirate recovered first, snatching the stool nearest him and charging. Kristof caught the stool and swung it. The man on the other end was a bit slow on the uptake, not letting go of the stool even when his feet left the ground. For a big guy, he sailed over the bar with remarkable grace, though his crash landing sounded pretty awkward.
By then, Pierre had rolled off the bar and was coming at Kris. Kris swung the stool into the side of Pierre's head. The pockmarked pirate stumbled from behind the bar and turned on Kristof, but a wiry old man jumped the pirate from behind, obviously deciding this seemed like a good opportunity for some personal payback.
Before you could say "bar brawl" the place erupted. I hopped onto the bar for a better view, using knock-back spells to stave off any stray bodies that flew my way.
As much as I prefer playing over spectating, there's something to be said for sitting back and enjoying a good brawl. Especially if Kris was doing the brawling. Diving, ducking, fists flying, bottles smashing, wood splintering, he plowed through the room, grinning like a kid in his first schoolyard dustup, grinning through every blow--delivered or received.
The fight petered out as most brawls do, the instigators sneaking away or being dragged off by friends, everyone else crashing
from that first adrenaline explosion, unable to remember what dragged them into it in the first place. Kristof emerged from the fray. He sauntered toward me, hair rumpled, shirt torn, a wide "damn, that was fun" grin on his face. When I smiled back, he picked up his pace, then swooped me off the bar and onto a stool. As he pulled another intact stool from the debris, a tankard was slapped onto the bar and we both jumped.
There stood a plump, dark-haired woman a few years older than me, squeezed into a barmaid costume several sizes too small, her breasts barely contained by her tight bodice. She smiled and held out a second tankard and a dusty bottle of rum.
"House tradition," she said. "Victor gets the last bottle left unbroken."
Kris murmured his thanks as she opened it.
"Not bad fighting," she said. "For a sorcerer."
Since Kris hadn't cast any spells, there was only one way she could know he was a sorcerer.
"Blessed be, sister," I said.
Her grin broadened, revealing a missing canine. "Haven't heard that in a while. They still use that up there?"
I shook my head. "Only the humans."
"Well, blessed be, sister." She patted my hand. "Been a long time since I saw a witch, too." She glanced at Kristof. "So that's all over, then? The feud?"
"Between witches and sorcerers? Nah. They're just as arrogant and nasty as they ever were." I smiled at Kristof. "But sometimes you can make an exception."
She poured our drinks.
I looked around the tavern. "Have you...been here long?"
She let out a long whoop of a laugh. "You mean, what the hell am I doing in a shit-hole like this?"
"I wasn't going to say it."
She leaned over the bar, lowering her voice. "You wanna know why I'm here, hon? Take a look around. See the male-to-female ratio? This place is Alaska without the snow." She capped the bottle. "So are you folks visiting? Or passing through?"
"Passing through. We were hoping to visit someone over on Roatan, but..." I glanced around. Most patrons had either scurried off into the night or were still finding a place to sit, free of broken glass and splintered chairs. No one was paying any attention to us. "Seems we've run into a problem renting a ship. I don't suppose you know any way we could rent--or 'borrow'--one."
"Borrowing's your best bet." She lowered her voice and set about wiping the counter. "Not easy, but there's one possibility. The Trinity Bull. Owned by Pierre, the half-demon with the wandering hands. He keeps it in a bay west of here, down the coast a bit. Secluded spot. Usually only one guard--a new guy."
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