The Vampire Files Anthology

by P. N. Elrod

  He was not conventionally handsome, maybe, but sharply intelligent, with black eyes deep and secret as the sea and a lovely kissable mouth. All in all, Liam looked utterly fantastic, and it gave Cecilia a goosebump-raising shiver of delight to see the sparkle of the gold ring on his left hand.

  We're married. Not exactly a match made in heaven, a formerly cursed pirate and a slightly plain, too-round corporate wage slave who'd spent most of her not-quite-thirty years cultivating a fluorescent light tan in an office cubicle.

  But when he looked at her, she felt like a goddess.

  Liam lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it, mouth warm and gentle on her fingers. "In your own time, my love," he said. "No hurry."

  "I'm ready," she lied with a smile, and he opened the door. He emerged first, then handed her out with the kind of flourish and elegance that she'd seen before only at Renaissance faires. On the other side of the press barricades, the cameras were eating it up. She was too terrified even to glance at the roaring crowd, but the pulse of strobes was so constant, it was like an extra sun.

  Liam squeezed her hand, held her gaze, and winked. He bent close, put his lips to her ear, and said, "It'll be over soon. And then we'll have our leisure."

  Cecilia fussed a little with her full silk skirts—a copy of a period wedding pattern from the eighteenth century, including a fiercely tied corset that had somehow managed to give her a dainty figure—and took his proffered arm to sweep past the rows of police officers standing at the barricades, heading for the wedding reception.

  The Sweet Mourning loomed at the end of the dock, a massive ship with her sails currently lashed down, though Cecilia could see men swarming up into the rigging like spiders.

  "That's odd," Liam said. "Should be an honor guard ready on the docks for our arrival." He pulled an elegant gold pocketwatch—his own—from his coat and checked it, frowning. "We're in good time, but not early."

  With every step closer to the ship, Cecilia felt a tingle of foreboding building to an outright shiver. The crew was moving at a frantic pace on deck. Liam speeded up the pace, taking long strides in his polished black boots, and Cecilia had to hustle faster, with one hand holding her veil on her head. The guests wouldn't be far behind, although getting through security would delay them considerably, not to mention all the traffic.

  The passenger ramp didn't lower for her, even when Liam shouted out a command. He cursed under his breath and gestured at the rope ladder hanging from the side of the massive ship.

  "Climb?" she asked. "In this dress? Are you kidding?"

  He wasn't. Her ascent wasn't nearly so graceful as his, and she was very relieved when he reached down to lift her the rest of the way and set her gently on the deck. The lift was performed one-handed. Liam was lean, but fearfully strong—cabled steel in those muscles.

  Liam hadn't said anything about missing his ship, but she could see the change in him now, the brightness in eyes she hadn't even noticed had dulled, the subtle energy that ran through him. This was his home, not the apartment they'd gotten for him near the harbor. Liam Lockhart belonged here, on this deck—not on land, with her. Just for a second, she felt as though she was about to cry. This is where he's happy. It made her feel small, and second place.

  Liam didn't notice. He'd been frowning and sweeping the decks with a captain's critical eye, and now he sent her a quick look of apology, and moved away from her to bellow, "Mr. Argyle, what the devil is going on here? Argyle!"

  Cecilia realized belatedly that the supplies for the reception were piled in an untidy mess toward the bow—catering tables, tablecloths, punch bowls, silver cups, streamers, battery-powered party lights, speakers for the music. There were also people cowering there as well. Catering staff. The DJ. The wedding photographer.

  As she stared in horror, a huge banner that read CONGRATULATIONS CAPTAIN AND MRS. LOCKHART fluttered from its place between the masts to the decks, was grabbed by two sailors, and flung onto the pile of reception debris.

  Cecilia gasped as a pair of strange hands closed around her from behind. "Beg pardon, ma'am," said a rough voice. She struggled, but that was about as much good as fighting the tide; he simply put his arms around her, lifted her off the ground, and carried her off.

  "Let go!" she screamed, and tried to twist to see Liam. She heard a clash of steel, and shouting. "Liam!"

  "Quiet," her captor growled, and clapped a hand over her mouth as he hurried her down the darkened hallway, kicked open the door to the captain's cabin, and dumped her inside. "You've caused enough trouble already."

  She fell to her hands and knees, twisted around, and glared back at him. He was a smallish man, compact and muscular, with wild dark hair and slightly mad eyes, arcane-looking tattoos crawling in a blue ring around his throat and down his chest.

  In other words, scary.

  "Stay here, witch," he ordered, and slammed the door on her. She tried the handle as soon as she heard his footsteps thump away, but of course, it was locked.

  Perfect. Just perfect.

  In the corner of the room, Cecilia spotted her blue suitcases—delivered ahead of time, thankfully—and charged for them. She skipped past the lovely going-away outfit and went for the blue jeans and comfortable white shirt at the bottom of the stack of clothing. She'd brought her own boots this time, and found a thick pirate-style belt in one of Liam's chests to finish out the ensemble.

  Taking off the cute wedding lingerie would take too long. She left the white lacy underthings and topped it with more practical clothing, including the boots and belt, and began investigating the room for weapons. She'd found a dagger and was considering a cutlass when she heard the approach of a mob in full roar, noise that dumped a chill like cold water down her spine. It was coming down the hall.

  The door rattled, then banged open, and Liam and Argyle charged inside. Mr. Argyle—a small, neat man with a Napoleonic haircut and Ben Franklin-style spectacles, primly dressed in a lobster-red eighteenth-century coat, white shirt, and black trousers, all sparkling new and clean—bobbed his head apologetically toward her as he shot the bolts on the door. "Ma'am," he said. "Felicitations on the happy day. Apologies for the general disaster."

  Liam was ransacking the sea chests and coming up with weapons. A deadly looking double-edged knife. A six-shot revolver. A semiautomatic pistol, brand new. Liam caught the look she sent him, and shrugged half-apologetically. "Always be prepared."

  "That's the Boy Scouts, not the pirates!" she said.

  "Where do you think they got it from, lass?"

  The roaring was loud now, right outside. Hammering started on the door. Argyle backed away from it toward them, his eyes cool and focused behind the spectacles as he held a pistol at the ready.

  "Mr. Argyle," Liam said.

  "Sir."

  "What the sodding devil is going on?"

  "Aye, well—"Argyle sent him a brief apologetic look. "I think the pink floral tablecloths were the last straw. But they've been muttering for months now, about how you've been bewitched again, about how devil-ridden this modern world is. I can't even convince most that the television box isn't some demonic spirit—"

  A particularly loud bang on the door. Cecilia saw the wood shiver.

  "Shortened version, Mr. Argyle, if you please," Liam said without a trace of alarm. Cecilia picked up another dagger from the pile Liam had amassed and jammed it firmly against her side, at an easy angle for a draw. "I don't think the door will hold for the epic tale."

  Mr. Argyle nodded. "Mutiny, Captain. They're determined to take the ship out now, without delay."

  "Well, it's not the first time that's happened," Liam said coolly. He ejected the magazine on the automatic he held, checked it, and slipped it back in with smooth efficiency.

  "Respects, sir, it's the first time that we risk more than a temporary inconvenience," Argyle said. "Being mortal and all now." He sighed. "At least I convinced them to put the caterers and party staff safely on the docks. But they're taking the shi
p out, like it or not. I think the reception's off."

  "There was no call for any of this. I'd have listened to them. I always listen."

  Argyle looked briefly chagrined. "Aye. But—you must admit, sir, you've been a changed man, these last few months. And I've been no help to you. I admit, this modern world is a fair shiny place to my eyes; I failed to see how bad their morale was getting. My fault, Captain." He hesitated a moment, then said, "But perhaps it's a good thing, begging your pardon. They're pirates, black to the heart, the most of them. They don't belong out there, wolves among sheep. Better we keep them on the water where they can be watched."

  "We can discuss it if we live," Liam said, and glanced at Cecilia, as if he'd suddenly remembered she was there. "My love, I'll need you out of the way. If the boys blame you for bewitching me, it's best not to give them your presence to glower at. Spark to powder."

  "But—what are you going to do?"

  Liam exchanged another look with his first mate, then turned toward the door. "Take back my command."

  Cecilia nodded and withdrew to the farthest reaches, next to the stern window where the incoming glare would conceal her best. The cabin door shivered under a fusillade of banging.

  "Here we go," Argyle muttered.

  Liam reached the door, shot the bolt, and opened it, roaring, "Silence, the lot of you!" The impact was considerable. The crowd of men in the hall, fierce and brutal as they were, automatically stopped in the face of his rage, and there was a second of stillness. Liam stepped into it without a pause. "What the bloody hell are you playing at? Mutiny? Who stands for you? Come forward!"

  There was a hesitation, and then one of the men stepped out. The same one who'd laid hands on Cecilia and hustled her into the cabin. "Josiah," Liam said, with a nod. "State your business."

  "Captain," the man said. He had a low voice, a little rough, and he sounded firm but nervous. "The boys, we're in agreement. No more delays. This place, it's bewitched. We need clear sea air." Josiah's throat worked uncomfortably, and he sent a glance to a tall, thin, gawky man standing near him—a sharp, strong face, big eyes—who gave an encouraging nod. "You know it's true, sir. The men will go mad in this place. Best we put the witch over the side, like we done before, and—"

  Liam, quick as a striking snake, put a cutlass at Josiah's throat, the point just tickling his Adam's apple. There was a collective intake of breath. Josiah didn't move.

  "You're talking about my wife, Josiah Walker," Liam said softly. "Best think again, and well, before you continue."

  Josiah clearly realized there was no good coming of that particular course, so he changed the conversational tack. "We'll not allow these mincing whoresons you call modern men to wander our ship and mock us, no matter what the excuse. We've had enough. Sir."

  Liam lowered the sword and delivered a hard blow across Josiah's face, sending the man reeling into the arms of the other men in the doorway. "Have you," he almost hissed. "So have I. I wouldn't wish any of you on the modern world. You're a disgrace to the mothers who bore you."

  Walker squared his shoulders and raised his chin, almost daring Liam to take another swing at it. "Been said before, sir. I'm sorry I called your woman a witch, but she brought us to this. And she has to go if we aim to live as we should. She's done her work—broke the curse—and that's done with her, aye?"

  Walker's voice rose in a half question. He was nearly pleading, but his stare was still hard and direct, and Liam's was in no way softer.

  "No," he said. It was almost a purr, deep in his throat. "And you put your hands on my woman under the penalty of a death you'd not wish on a rabid dog. Are we clear, Mr. Walker?"

  Neither of them blinked. The other sailors murmured and jostled; Cecilia, heart pounding, palms sweating, faint of breath, could hear the tone of it rising, turning darker again. Liam had set them back on their heels for a while, but he was losing it quickly, and it was all because of her.

  "Wait," Cecilia blurted, and stepped out of her shadows. To her surprise, they did; all of the mutineers, even Josiah Walker, paused in midmutter to shift their attention to her. "It's our honeymoon. You wouldn't kill me on the day of my wedding, would you?"

  Walker frowned. Another man leaned in to say, "The wench has a point. That would be bad luck."

  "Worse than having a woman on board?" Walker snorted. "This woman?"

  Cecilia took a deep breath and plunged. "What if Captain Lockhart agrees to take the ship out for a period of—oh, I don't know, a month? Call it a honeymoon cruise. Then you put us back ashore, and go on about your business, if you still feel the same way. And we forget about the reception. I'll promise to keep out of your way." She gave them all a sudden grin. "Not that I expect you'll see either me or your captain much."

  That woke a deep rumble of appreciative chuckling from the crew. Even Walker was forced into a slightly less vexed expression. "Well," he allowed, "that might do. Might do."

  Liam deliberately relaxed, banishing his anger with an effort of sheer will. "Then as long as you all clear my cabin and let me get about the job of welcoming my new bride, you're all free to set sail, or to dive to Davy Jones for all I care."

  A relieved sigh went through the men, and through Argyle as well. He'd been prepared to back Liam's play, of course, but Cecilia could see that defying the crew would have gone against his better judgment.

  Liam turned toward Cecilia, just for a second, eyes burning into hers, and she forced a slight smile. He lifted her hands to his lips and kissed them. "Forgive me for leaving you," he said. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

  And they all filed out, leaving her alone in the captain's cabin. After fidgeting for a while, Cecilia turned to the corner where Liam's hammock normally swayed. It was gone.

  In its place was a luxurious feather bed, pristine and white, covered with fragrant red rose petals.

  "Oh," she whispered, and tears stung her eyes. "Oh, Liam." It was a lovely thing.

  She stretched out on it, feeling cold and lonely, listening to the thump of the crew's footsteps above her.

  I should have brought a book, she thought.

  Well, it was her honeymoon. Who'd have thought she'd need one?

  SHE WOKE UP TO A RATTLE AT THE door, and it banged open to admit a man almost hidden beneath a massive silver tray, loaded down with an elaborate tea service. He staggered under the strain and expertly found his balance when the ship rocked and tilted.

  When he lowered it, Cecilia was surprised to see it was Liam, and he was smiling.

  "Good morning, love. We're well under way." Liam poured a cup of tea, added milk and sugar in the measures he already knew she liked, and handed over the delicate china. She sat on the edge of the bed and listened, nodding occasionally, as he told her details about where they were nautically in the world, what his plans were for the voyage, and all she could really understand of it was the light in his eyes, the lilt of pleasure in his voice. Although she loved seeing that in him, it also made her horribly uncertain. I'm not good for him. This is what's good for him. If I take him away from this… Maybe the crew was right. Maybe the best thing would have been to slip quietly away in Boston and let them go on without her.

  Liam stopped talking and put his cup aside. She glanced down at her own and was surprised to find it empty; she'd sipped it without even noticing the taste, although she'd always enjoyed cream tea.

  When she looked up, he was standing in front of her, and he reached down to take the china from her fingers and place it carefully back on the tray. "Biscuit?" he asked, with the blandest possible tone. There were cookies on the tray. Oreos, her favorite. She nearly laughed out loud.

  "No, thank you," she said. "Liam—"

  He didn't waste time with another polite question, and before she could finish the sentence, he was next to her, capturing her lips with his. The kiss was a fierce, lovely thing, far different from the gentle one he'd given her at the wedding; this was a pirate's kiss, demanding surrender, and she felt her entire
body give a joyous answer. When he let her up for breath, it was like rising lazily from a deep, skin-warm sea. She wanted to dive right back in.

  Liam pulled back, and Cecilia shivered in response to the look on his face. She'd never had anybody stare at her in quite that way—and then a rush of heat flared up from her toes to melt her into a liquid, gorgeously decadent feeling of utter abandon. Oh.

  Cecilia pushed him back onto the bed, then stood up and slowly unbuttoned her white shirt. It slipped off her shoulders and fluttered to the carpets, leaving only the fragile lace bra. The blue jeans were just as easy. Liam's breath left him in a rush.

  "Permission to come aboard, sir," she said, and sat astride him. It was a long, damp, aching kiss, trembling with potential and need, and Liam's hands went around her to push her back, just a tiny bit.

  "Lass," Liam murmured, "I'm not a gentleman. I wasn't born one, I wasn't made one, and the circumstances of my life haven't encouraged me to—"

  She shut him up with a finger across his lips. "If I'd wanted a gentleman, I wouldn't have fallen in love with a pirate," she said. "Not even one with kind eyes."

  He pulled back, frowning at her. "I do not have kind eyes."

  "You do when you look at me." She took a deep breath. "If you're trying to warn me that you won't be a good, gentle lover, I think you're underestimating yourself," she said.

  He captured her hands and held them tightly. Hers were stubby, small, and pale; his were large, square, darkened by sun, and heavily scarred. He didn't look up from his inspection of their differences as he said, "I'm saying that you are no doubt used to the refined ways of modern men who make a study of women, who understand how to—"