The Vampire Files Anthology

by P. N. Elrod

  "Ah, you should be honored. Not every day you meet a genuine goddess," he said. "Her name is Larentina." He walked to the statue and caressed its cheek with one blunt fingertip. "Have you missed me, my love? Yes, of course you have. You see, I have to speak for Larentina because cruel Jupiter tore her tongue out for speaking ill of his romantic adventures." The statue closed her eyes, as if determined to shut him out. "Jupiter, now there's a god a man can respect, eh?"

  "I don't understand. She's a statue."

  "Well, yes, now. Larentina came here to exact revenge over the sacking of her temples and raping of her virgin priestesses. Goddesses. So sensitive." Salvius tapped his grubby fingernails against her flawless white bosom. "Didn't turn out quite the way she expected, I dare say. Larentina's our luck. So long as we have her, death can't touch us. Even the gods have to let us do as we please." He faced Cecilia squarely; she thought she'd never seen a man with eyes like those, light gray and as empty as polar ice.

  She drew in a steadying breath. "Are you sure you don't want me to break your curse?"

  Salvius laughed. "Break all the other curses as you like, for all those sniveling fools like your precious Lockhart. Me and my men, we'll still be a power on Neptune's breast when the rest of you are gone whining to your graves. It's not a curse to us, woman. It's tactics."

  He stalked away in a flutter of his bloodred cape, and Cecilia let out her breath in a slow, shaky sigh. She was facing toward the fishtail stern of the Aquila; over the curving coil of tail, she saw billowing sails. The Sweet Mourning was making her best speed to follow, but they were rapidly falling behind.

  "Liam," she whispered. The world dissolved in sharp jagged colors as her eyes flooded with tears, and she bent her head and felt the pressure of panic weighing down on her.

  No, she thought, and got hold of herself. Liam wouldn't panic. Neither will I.

  As she shifted uncomfortably against the tight ropes, she felt her thick piratical metal belt buckle catch and hold against the hemp looped around her waist.

  Was it even possible?…

  Gritting her teeth, Cecilia began moving her hips back and forth, concealing it among the dips and lunges of the ship, and sawed at the rope.

  This is going to hurt, some part of her complained. And she told it, Shut up and shimmy.

  WHEN SHE FINALLY STOPPED, IT WAS BECAUSE SHE absolutely had to—her stomach and hip muscles simply refused to move another twitch. It felt like she'd been pounded in the stomach with a croquet mallet. She could see fraying in the rope where it had abraded against the belt buckle, but she couldn't tell from her angle whether it was enough. Probably not. Should have gone to the gym more, she thought dismally. A wave lashed over the side of the ship and splashed her arms, and the ropes. Not good. The wetter the ropes became, the tighter and stiffer they were when dry. Not that she really had any plan of what to do even if the ropes parted, barring diving over the side and swimming for Liam's ship. But being free had to have more options available than being tied. Nobody paid the slightest attention to her. She'd become aware of thirst some hours ago, and now it was getting to be a real problem. Her mouth felt like cotton, and even with the occasional splashed wave, she was simmering in the sun, which was only partly blocked by the sail billowing and booming overhead.

  The sailors had water. She watched them dip it out of buckets set on deck, and stopped licking her salty lips when she realized she wasn't getting seawater, but blood.

  The wind failed as night began to fall, turning the sky rich cobalt blue sprinkled with silver stars. Above her, the sails luffed and abruptly, the Aquila began to slow its knifelike progress through the water. Salvius frowned and looked up at the skies. Clear and cloudless. Even the waves felt unnaturally flat; the boat was hardly pitching at all now.

  "Oars out!" someone roared from behind her. "Best speed!"

  Cecilia heard the order echoed, over and over, growing fainter each time. Across from her, the statue's eyes had opened again, and for an instant, Cecilia could have sworn that the marble face took on a tinge of color. That the lips tried to move. But then it faded, and it was just a statue with eerily animated eyes, staring at her as if she was supposed to do something.

  Which she couldn't, of course. Could she?

  On the distant horizon, she thought she could still see the white flutter of sails. Liam wouldn't give up. She couldn't afford to, either. Cecilia tried moving against the rope again. It hurt a lot, but panic was a white-hot bubble inside her now, and she couldn't be helpless like this, she couldn't.

  A strand of rope parted. She felt it go, and was barely able to restrain a sob of relief—but that was only one strand of the twist, and there were more to go.

  I'm not going to make it, she thought, and felt tears trickle down her face. I'm going to die.

  The statue's eyes opened and focused on her, and she heard it say, quite clearly, Free me and live.

  "Uh—" Cecilia sniffled and tried to clear her throat. "I don't know how to do that."

  You do, the voice whispered, faint and cold. You will.

  The Aquila began to glide forward again, and she heard the rhythmic splash of oars driving it, along with the regular heartbeat of a drum.

  "Captain Salvius!" Cecilia croaked. He turned toward her. "What's going on?"

  Salvius stalked up to her, full speed, grabbed her by the chin and slammed her head back against the mast. "If you ever talk to me again without my permission, I'll have you screaming," he said flatly. "My bed's been cold for months."

  She believed him, and it terrified her. She thought about Liam, about the rose-covered bed in his cabin, waiting for a night that might never come. About the gentle, fierce light of love in his eyes.

  There was nothing at all in Salvius's eyes except calculation. She knew instinctively that if she showed him fear, weakness, it was all over.

  So she smiled. "I can't imagine why," she said. "You're so charming and kind. The girls must be lining up to have a turn."

  His teeth bared—strong, square teeth, surprisingly straight, considering that dental science hadn't exactly been advanced in his day. "When I tell you to hold your tongue, hold it, or you'll experience what our lovely Larentina did when Jupiter was displeased with her prattling."

  From the bow of the ship, someone called out, "Sail, two points to starboard!"

  Salvius didn't even look. "I expected him. That will be Ned Low and the Withered Rose," he said. "Well, this will either be good business or bad, but either way, my lovely witch, you'll be in someone's bed this evening. You'd better pray that Low makes his usual pathetic show of force, then bids small, and that the bed you're in is mine in the end. Low's hard on his wenches."

  Whereas you're a great catch, Cecilia thought, but had sense enough not to say. Quite. "Another cursed ship? Is there a factory?"

  Salvius smiled, apparently amused by her defiance now. Almost indulgent. "Some of us are cursed by witches, some by gods, some by their own ill luck. The only thing we have in common is eternity. But the Withered Rose is in a class by herself. You'll see."

  Salvius went to see to preparations. The Aquila struggled against the flat sea, banks of oars propelling her sluggishly through the water, but the fast-approaching vessel seemed to be running under gale-force winds.

  As the ship neared, Cecilia began to see details, and wished she hadn't. It was built along similar lines to the Sweet Mourning, but that was where the resemblance ended. Tattered rotting sails and bodies, some skeletons, dangled gruesomely from the yardarms like macabre wind chimes. The only sound it made, as it came frighteningly closer, was a hiss as it cut the water like a knife.

  It suddenly slackened its pace as it pulled near the Aquila. A wave of stench floated across the open water, thick and green and fetid, and Cecilia struggled not to breathe. The Mourning had been scary in the beginning, but this was—this was something beyond that. Beyond just cursed.

  This ship was damned.

  There was something very creepy about
the crew of the Withered Rose too. They seemed to be unnaturally still at their posts. Cecilia's eyes were drawn to a solitary man in the bow of the ship, draped on the rotting figurehead's shoulder. He looked young—very young. Somehow, she'd been expecting someone of Liam's age, or Salvius's. But Ned Low—if that was him, and somehow she was sure it was—looked as if he'd barely seen his twentieth year. And he was very, very pretty.

  "Young, isn't he?" Salvius asked, unexpectedly at her shoulder. "Old in all things vile, though. Some seek after evil, some are born prodigies. Edward Low was fathered by Pluto's cold member, and no doubt of it. You've been very unlucky if he's first to the table."

  More goading. Cecilia tried to ignore it. She tensed as Salvius's hand touched her cheek, and felt the ropes creak. She tested them, but they didn't break.

  "Well met on favoring seas," the young man on board the Withered Rose called. He had a rich, aristocratic English accent, reeking of insincerity. "How nice to see you again. Oh, do tell your poor slaves to leave off the oars. You're not going anywhere, you know that."

  "My poor slaves need the exercise," Salvius said. "State your business, Captain Low, before I lose my temper."

  Low laughed, and it was a gentle, evil sort of sound that had a lot in common with the reek of decomposition still drifting like fog from his ship. "My business? Captain, I am no crass merchant, I do not have business. I have—interests. And I heard you have something that could be of interest to me."

  "I'd sell you my left nut for a decent price," Salvius said, and grinned with all his teeth.

  "Tempting, dear man, but no, I already have a perfect set of my own which you, despite your best efforts, have yet to take from me. No, my interest is in a woman." Low's gaze fixed on Cecilia, and she deeply, deeply wished it hadn't. "That one would do nicely."

  "Not for sale."

  "But everything on the Aquila is for sale," Low pouted. "Don't be cruel, Salvius. It doesn't become you nearly so well as it does me."

  "I said the witch is not for sale."

  Low's eyebrows rose. "Witch, is she? Well, then. Even better. I've been shopping for one of those for a long time. They go bad so quickly, like unsalted meat."

  Cecilia threw a frantic glance toward the stern. Far in the distance, she could see the dim outline of a ship. The Sweet Mourning was following, but it was too far away. Much too far.

  Low laughed at something Salvius said in Latin. "Language, Captain," he chided. A plank was being put across from the Withered Rose to the Aquila by two silent, shadowy crewmen, and Low uncoiled himself from his catlike pose on the figurehead and glided to the railing. He leaped flat-footed up onto the narrow plank. It was unnatural, the way he balanced, and as he got closer Cecilia realized that there was a lot more unnatural about him. For one thing, he had a kind of black glow to him, a shadow clinging to him like a gray veil. For another, he moved like nothing human she'd ever seen, all boneless grace. Tigers moved like that.

  And then she saw his face clearly, and her breath locked in her throat, because his eyes were clouded with white cataracts. The eyes of a corpse, in the face of an angel.

  "Hmmm," Low said. He stalked around her, examining her far too closely for any comfort. "I suppose she might do. How much?"

  "Ten thousand pieces of gold."

  "Far too rich for my poor coffers."

  "Then get off my ship," Salvius said pleasantly. "Maggot-meat."

  "Your skills at salesmanship are second to none," Low drawled. "Is she virgin?"

  "No idea. Want to check?"

  They both looked at her thoughtfully. Cecilia's eyes widened. "I'm not!" she yelped. "I'm the wife of Captain Liam Lockhart, and I'm—"

  Low took a sudden step toward her, and those pallid eyes glowed. He didn't say a word to her, but she couldn't breathe, couldn't speak for the dreadful weight of fear that crashed in on her.

  "Well," Low said to Salvius, "I suppose I might be able to manage the price. Throw in a couple of slaves. I'm getting peckish."

  "Need every hand I have."

  "Oh, bollocks, Aulus, you can grab slaves anywhere, and I know you use them up regularly. A couple of juicy ones won't be missed." He flicked an elegant, pale, dismissive hand at the Roman.

  "One slave."

  "Agreed." Salvius snapped his fingers, and shouts passed along the length of the ship. Someone pulled up an iron grating, and after a short delay, a pallid, filthy specimen dressed in a tattered loincloth was pulled up and dragged to be presented to Captain Low.

  "Perfect," Low said, and reached out to lay a hand on the slave's shoulder, a creepily friendly sort of gesture.

  Salvius struck it away with the flat of his sword. "Take your pleasures on board your own ship, not mine," he barked. "You two, take him over to the Rose."

  He speared a couple of his soldiers with a stare, who then reluctantly took hold of the slave and marched him to the narrow plank. He tottered unevenly across to the other ship.

  "Poor bastard," Salvius said without any real emotion. "Very well. That was a good-faith gift. I'll see my gold now, Captain."

  Low's milky eyes went half-closed, and Cecilia thought she saw a spasm of anger go through him, quickly gone. But he held up his hand in graceful surrender. "Very well," he said. "I'll go assemble the payment. But don't think to cheat me, my antique friend. You know what I do to those who don't hold their bargains."

  Salvius nodded once, sharply. Low turned and glided across the deck, to the plank. He crossed without pause or misstep, perfectly balanced, and leapt lightly down on board the Withered Rose.

  Salvius cursed under his breath. At least, Cecilia assumed it was profanity; it was Latin, and it sounded far too vicious to be anything else. He paced, back and forth, and the statue's blind blue eyes followed him with so much intensity that Cecilia could almost feel the hatred.

  "What happens if he touches you?" she asked Salvius. He glanced over at her, and a corner of his hard, thin mouth curled.

  "If you're wise, you'll try very hard never to find out," he said.

  She heard the thud of boots on the plank between the two ships, and looked up to see that Captain Low was returning. Another man was with him, struggling under the weight of a heavy chest green and slimy with mold. They were both shrouded in shadows, and Cecilia couldn't get a clear look at the second man's face.

  Low stepped onto the deck of the Aquila and took in a deep breath with evident satisfaction. "It's a tidy ship you run, I'll give you that, Salvius," he said, and waved at his sailor, who grunted and let the heavy wooden trunk thump to the deck. Cecilia felt the weighty impact through the soles of her feet. "As you asked. Now, I'll take my goods."

  Salvius didn't move. He stared on at the other man, chin lowered, eyes fierce and wolflike in the dying sunlight. "Open it," he said. "I'll see the gold first."

  Cecilia pulled in a breath and pressed against the ropes. She felt the one she'd been working on give… slightly.

  Not enough.

  Low's man opened the chest, and the Roman soldiers and sailors nearest to it to catch a glimpse let out an approving murmur as the thick glow of gold caught the sunset. "Stir it," Salvius said. "To be sure it's gold all through, and not your dinner leavings."

  Low pulled his cutlass and stirred the gold, then reached down and pulled handfuls from the bottom, letting coins slip carelessly from his fingers on the way up. "Agreed?"

  Salvius seemed to think about it for a long, uneasy moment, and then nodded. Two of his own soldiers grabbed the treasure dragged it out of the way, put it next to the statue, and stood at rigid guard.

  Edward Low strolled slowly toward Cecilia. His dead eyes were the color of moonlight. He flicked his long fingers against the frayed part at her waist, smiling. "So nearly there, little witch," he said. "And so far away."

  She turned her face away as he swung his cutlass, fast as a lightning strike; she felt it bite through the ropes and into the mast not more than a half inch from her arm. The bindings slacked, and she staggered a
s its support was removed.

  She tripped over the mess of falling rope and almost pitched forward into Low's waiting arms. A hand pulled her aside at the last instant, and she caught a flash of steel, Roman red, and armor.

  Salvius. "I said it before. Pleasure yourself on your own ship," he said flatly, and drew his sword as Low advanced on him. Low grabbed the sword in one hand as Salvius stabbed, and the entire blade turned first a sickly green, then brown… then just dissolved in the Roman's hand.

  "Careful," Low said. "Someone might be hurt, Captain."

  Salvius was pinned against the side of the ship. Low put those pale, destroying hands on either side of him on the rail of the ship, which turned a withered ancient gray, like old bone, and began to dissolve into wormy dust. He leaned forward, putting his face very close to the Roman captain's.

  Salvius didn't blink, or flinch, but Cecilia saw it cost him a superhuman effort.

  Low laughed, deep in his throat. "Don't toy with me," he said softly. "You wouldn't like how I play." He turned to Cecilia, moonstone eyes glowing. "Time's up, kitten," he said. "I'd take your arm like a gentleman, but the results would be—unpleasant, as you've seen." He nodded to the plank, and the creaking, rotten shape of the Withered Rose beyond. "On your own, or be carried by my man. Or rot here."

  Salvius cleared his throat. "He means that last literally, girl. I've seen him reduce a man to maggots and bones in seconds. Don't test him."

  "Conscience?" Low asked mockingly. "From a man who's fed children to the sharks rather than bear the price of their grain? Salvius. You have no higher ground on which to stand." He made a gesture, as if he intended to put his hand on Cecilia's shoulder; she instinctively flinched away, and he drove her relentlessly toward the plank.

  And to her surprise, he winked.

  She nearly fell, she was so shocked by it, and yelped when hands closed around her arms from behind and lifted her neatly up onto the boarding plank. Low's shadow-sailor who'd carried the chest—only his hands felt oddly familiar. Cecilia turned and peered at him, trying to see underneath the disguising smoke, and caught a glimpse of his dark, sparkling eyes.