by Sara Reinke
* * *
Rafe’s eyelids fluttered open. His mind was dazed, still mostly submerged in unconsciousness, and he struggled to remain awake. If I faint, I am dead. Please, God, just let me keep awake.
Pain wrenched his gut, and he twisted feebly, too weak to even cry out. The poison was wracking his form. The sensation of heaviness against his chest was nearly overpowering now, and every effort at breath seemed excruciating and laborious.
He moved his hand slowly, weakly, his fingertips scrabbling against the soft, earthen ground. He had been dragged, lifeless and limp, to the cellar of Isabel’s house. Here, he had been locked in a store room and left to die.
“The poison is not quick, nor is it kind,” Isabel had murmured to him, her lips brushing against his ear in a cruel mockery of a farewell kiss. “But then again, neither is love, is it, my darling?”
He had no idea what kind of poison he had ingested, or how much of it remained in his stomach. He knew that if his body had not already absorbed a lethal dosage, however, there was only one way to prevent it.
He opened his mouth, slipping his forefingers between his lips, reaching toward the back of his palate. He felt his throat constrict in a reflexive heave, and then he jerked as he retched, the frothy contents of his stomach spewing out of his mouth. He lacked the strength to lift his head, and he choked. He spat violently, and again, shoved his fingers down his throat. He managed to get his arm beneath him, to prop himself somewhat upright as he vomited, but the effort drained him, leaving him nearly swooning.
I cannot faint, he thought, shuddering, the thick flavor of regurgitated brandy vile against his tongue. If I faint, I will die. My only hope is to sick enough of the poison out of me.
Again, he slipped his fingers into his mouth; again, his stomach knotted in a painful, stabbing heave. Again, thin, foamy bile retched out him, and again, he crumpled, exhausted and trembling from the effort.
He forced himself to vomit until there was nothing left to come up, until he collapsed to the floor in a shivering, gasping heap. He had no idea if he had acted quickly enough, or if it was too little, too late. He closed his eyes, too weak to even turn his face away from the splattered pool of his own mess.
He dreamed of Kitty, of the afternoon aboard El Verdad when Eduardo had played the guitar, and he had taught Kitty how to dance while discussing la tauromaquia, the bullfights in Spain. He imagined her slight, delicate weight, her feet poised atop his, her body in such close, pleasing proximity that he could feel the promising swell of her breasts press against his chest. He remembered draping his uncuffed hand lightly against the inner curve of her waist, and cradling her bound hand in the other. They had moved together, stiffly at first, because they had both felt somewhat awkward, but as the music had progressed, they had both relaxed. Before long, he had been gazing into Kitty’s sea-foam green eyes, into the broad measure of her delighted smile as he had turned her about and the melody from Eduardo’s guitar had been complemented by the harmony of Kitty’s laughter.
He dreamed of that afternoon, his exhausted, hurting mind drawing him back to a fonder place and a far better time. He dreamed of her fragrance, and the way sunlight had spilled through the stern windows and infused in her hair. Someone was knocking at the door in his dream, a firm and insistent rapping, but Rafe paid it no mind. Whoever was there could wait. He wanted to enjoy this moment; he wanted to savor it. He imagined closing his eyes and drawing Kitty near as she tilted her face slightly and spoke against his ear: “Rafe, are you in there?”
Rafe opened his eyes, blinking blearily. The captain’s quarters aboard El Verdad were gone; the sweet refrains of Eduardo’s music, and the even sweeter sensation of Kitty’s warmth against him were all gone. He lay face-down on the dirt floor of Isabel’s store room, next to a drying puddle of vomited brandy.
The dream was over, but the heavy knocking persisted, each fervent pound reverberating inside Rafe’s aching head.
“Rafe, can you hear me?” someone shouted through the wood. Claudio, Rafe thought dimly. It is Claudio…
He groaned, moving his hand feebly, struggling to lift his head. “I…I am here…” he tried to call out. His voice came out as little more than a croak, and the effort to speak left him slumped against the ground again. The knocking abruptly ended, and Rafe lay in the dark silence, trembling in the dirt. He is gone. He thinks I am not here, and he has gone away. Oh, God, Claudio, come back! Please come back!
“Come…back…” Rafe whispered, his mind abandoning him again. He only dimly heard the door to the storage room unlock and the rapid stomping of Claudio’s footfalls as he rushed to the younger man’s side.
“Rafe!” Claudio cried, falling to his knees and getting his arm beneath Rafe’s shoulders. As he forced Rafe to sit up, Rafe opened his eyes again, twisting at the pain the sudden movement brought him, and choking for breath.
“Easy, lad,” Claudio whispered, drawing Rafe against him. Despite his age, there was still and imposing and impressive strength in Claudio’s lean, sinewy form, and Rafe found comfort against him, the sort of solace a son might find from the throes of illness or injury in his father’s firm embrace.
“Poison,” Rafe croaked, shivering. “Isabel…she…”
Claudio nodded, turning his face down toward Rafe’s. “I know, hijo,” he said, stroking his hand against Rafe’s hair, calling him son. He glanced over his shoulder and Rafe followed his gaze to see Isabel, her hands bound behind her back, being shoved into the room by Eduardo and two other strapping crewmen from El Verdad. She’d been tussling with them, apparently; her hair was askew, her dress rumpled, and she shrugged her shoulders mightily to wrench loose of their grasps as she stumbled in unwilling tow. She opened her mouth, drawing a sharp breath to rail at them and then saw Rafe―alive and conscious. Her eyes widened in stunned surprise.
“Rafe…!” she exclaimed, her pallor drained ashen in that shocked moment. “H-how…?”
“I…I sicked it up,” Rafe whispered, feeling his tenuous grasp on consciousness waning. “As much as I…I could…I…”
Isabel’s brows narrowed. Again, she struggled against the sailors as they caught her by the arms. “It does not matter,” she snapped, spitting at Rafe. “You are too late, anyway. All of you―too late!”
“Can you walk?” Claudio asked. “Lean on me, hijo. Come on now, try.”
Rafe rested heavily against Claudio as the boatswain helped him stagger clumsily to his feet. His head was swimming, his stomach cramping at the effort, and he groaned, his knees buckling. Claudio’s strong arm was there to catch him, to keep him upright and help ease his unsteady feet beneath him once more as they limped together to the door.
“He…he took her,” Rafe whispered. “Cristobal…he took Kitty…”
“I know,” Claudio said.
“Please…Claudio, please, I…I love her…”
“I know, hijo,” Claudio told him gently. “We will get her back.”
Isabel had heard him, to judge by her expression―a cross between murderous fury and despair. As Claudio helped lead Rafe toward the door, she thrashed against the crewmen restraining her, her face flushed with rage, spittle flying from her lips. “You will never catch Cristobal!” she screamed. “He means to deliver her to the great Abdul Aziz in Lisbon and then your English whore will beg for death!”
Claudio bristled at this, his entire body stiffening. He turned, leaving Rafe to support himself against the storeroom doorway and walked toward Isabel, closing his hands slowly, deliberately.
“I took him to my bed, Rafe―your own brother between my thighs!” Isabel screeched. “He brought me pleasures I have never known before―a better lover ten-thousand fold than you will ever be! He will let Abdul Aziz take that espantapájaros―your scarecrow bitch―over and over until she is broken and―”
Claudio swung his fist around and punched her mightily in the face, with all of the force he would have offered a man. Isabel’s voice cut abruptly short. There
was a soft, moist crunch as her nose broke and then she crumpled in a lifeless heap to the floor.
Claudio turned around, crossing himself. “May the holy Father show more gracious restraint than I could muster, Señora,” he muttered, returning to Rafe’s side.
“Abdul Aziz…” Rafe gasped, his eyes widening in horror. He knew the name, had heard it before―over and over from Cristobal since their plot against John Ransom had hatched, in fact. Abdul Aziz bin Malik had indoctrinated Rafe’s father into the world of high-seas piracy. He was the most notorious pirate in the world. “Cristobal, he…he means…”
Claudio shook his head, slipping his arm around Rafe’s waist once more. “Later, Rafe,” he said. “Let us leave here.”
Rafe noticed for the first time that Claudio’s face was bruised. Dried blood crusted on the corner of his lip, and his eye was swollen and blackened. “Madre de Dios,” he said. “What happened to you?”
Claudio only shook his head again. “It is a long story,” he said. “And they have a good hour’s lead on us. I will tell you once El Verdad is underway.”
“What about…?” Rafe glanced over his shoulder as Claudio led him from the room. Isabel remained where she had fallen, face-down in the dirt, motionless against the storeroom floor.
“La Condesa?” Claudio said, and he snorted. “We will lock the door behind us and trust that no one else holds a key.”
