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  Vampirates: Tide of Terror

  Book Jacket

  Series: Vampirates [2]

  Rating:

  Tags: Fiction, General, Action & Adventure - General, Action & Adventure, Juvenile Fiction, Fantasy & Magic, Vampires, Pirates, Horror & Ghost Stories, Children's Books - Young Adult Fiction, Children: Grades 4-6, Twins, Family - Siblings, Children's 9-12 - Fiction - Horror

  SUMMARY:

  Things are not as they seem aboard the Diablo! There's a traitor aboard the ship and the Pirate Federation has been alerted of Captain Molucco Wrathe's law-breaking ways. Will the Captain be punished, and, more importantly, what will happen to twins Connor and Grace? Connor loves the life at sea, but Grace can't stop thinking of Lorcan and the friends she made aboard the Vampirates ship. To make matters worse, she also worries that with all of the risks Connor is taking, she may one day lose him. As Grace discovers, there is a place where Connor could learn more about the pirate way without risking his life: The Pirate Academy. And, as it happens, a good friend of theirs has connections at the selective school. In the end, Connor must choose between an education by sea or by school, and Grace has to decide if she's willing to follow.

  Text copyright © 2006 by Justin Somper

  Cover logo design by www.blacksheep-uk.com

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976,no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Little, Brown and Company

  Hachette Book Group USA

  237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017

  Visit our Web site at hachettebookgroupusa.com

  First eBook Edition: June 2007

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  ISBN: 978-0-316-04189-8

  The text was set in ITC Charter, and the display type is Exlibris.

  Contents

  Prologue: Night Surfer

  1: THE THREE BUCCANEERS

  2: AN EASY VICTORY

  3: THE DEVIL AND THE ALBATROSS

  4: THE VISITOR

  5: DUEL

  6: DEATH OF A BUCCANEER

  7: THE CLADDAGH RING

  8: BURIAL AT SEA

  9: THE GIFT

  10: LIEUTENANT STUKELEY

  11: REUNION AT MA KETTLE’S

  12: CONFESSIONAL

  13: DECISIONS

  14: PIRATE ACADEMY

  15: NO ORDINARY SCHOOL

  16: JOURNEY

  17: THE GOOD LISTENER

  18: THE CAPTAINS’ TABLE

  19: POWDER CREEK

  20: BELONGING

  21: THE WOUND

  22: KNOTS

  23: LITTLE DOVES

  24: EXILE

  25: ZANSHIN

  26: THE SEED

  27: THE CREW

  28: A GLORIOUS FUTURE

  29: THE GATHERING STORM

  30: NOW WE ARE FIVE

  31: INTO THE FIRE

  32: TROUBLED SOUL

  33: A SIMPLE PLAN

  34: AFTER THE STORM

  35: LETTING GO

  36: COMBATANTS

  37: THE LAGOON OF DOOM

  38: THE RETURN

  39: A NEW KIND OF ENEMY

  40: DONOR

  41: FIRE

  42: A MILLION MYSTERIES

  Also by Justin Somper

  Vampirates: Demons of the Ocean

  For my mum, Thelma Somper,

  who is always in search of a good read.

  I hope this makes the grade!

  With love and thanks for all your support.

  Prologue

  Night Surfer

  Sunset. A deserted cove. The waves reach out hungrily for the sand, which changes hue from white to honey gold to fiery amber as the sun grows weary and dips down into the inky waters. The hungry waves soon swallow the ball of light.

  Now it is a world of shadow upon shadow. No human eyes could discern the border between land and water or between water and sky. No human eyes could make out the insistent rush and tumble of the ocean. For this isn’t the lackluster darkness of towns and cities. This is real darkness — deep and strong and velvet black.

  Where is the moon? It’s as if she chose not to come out tonight, reluctant to witness the happenings of the coming hours. Where are the stars? They, too, seem to have elected to keep a quiet distance. On a night like this, you could be forgiven for thinking that the world was about to end. And, for one of you, that might be true.

  For the dark waves protect a secret. A man — at least, the semblance of a man — riding a surfboard. It’s no free ride. The black waves are as tall as they are fierce, testing the surfer to the very limits of his strength and endurance. He never loses his footing, in spite of the swell, in spite of the lack of light to guide his way. His muscle-bound body twists and turns, locked to that board. It’s a battle for respect that he fights with the waves. And he’s holding his own out there.

  At last, the waves seem to grow tired of their sport and reward the surfer’s determination by easing him into the shallows. Still, he moves at high speed, the knife-edged surfboard skimming the thin sheet of water.

  He jumps from the board, his feet touching the sandy floor. The waters make a final teasing grab for the board but the surfer reaches into the foam and lifts it out of their clutches. Board under his arm, he strides across the dry sand.

  He does not pause for an instant, in spite of the weight of the board. Nor does the night air chill him. And, strangely, though he has come from the depths of the water, his skin and hair are already dry. His clothes too are dry as bone. He isn’t wearing a wet suit, just regular clothes — trousers and a shirt, the sleeves ripped off at the shoulder to allow his arms maximum motion. His feet are bare.

  He comes to the foot of a cliff and props the board against the rock, leaving it behind as he begins his ascent. At first there’s a path for him to follow but, as the rock climbs higher, so must he reach out with his hands to haul himself up, using his feet, too, with equal dexterity. Now he seems less like a man, more like a wild animal. In truth, he’s a little of each. And a little more besides.

  He reaches the top of the cliff and pauses for an instant, looking back with satisfaction down the sheer rock he has climbed, looking out across the sand to the rough sea by which he arrived here. No human eyes could make out the border between land and water. But his eyes drink it all in. His eyes are at ease with darkness.

  He wastes no more time on self-congratulation but turns forward instead. There’s a high fence but, after all the other hurdles he’s jumped, this one is easy. His feet land on soft grass. He looks ahead, far ahead, to the house in the distance — its windows lit up, even at this late hour. It’s almost on fire with so much light. It brings a lightning crack of pain to his eyes but he bites it down and keeps on walking.

  His long strides make short work of these grounds, as sizeable as they are. He passes a field where horses are running. For a moment, he pauses to watch them. They do not see him but sense him, freezing still for a moment. They are frightened by the stranger, as well they might be. But tonight, they need have no fear. He moves on.

  There’s a vast swimming pool and, ever the showman, he can’t resist diving into it and swimming a powerful crawl from one end to the other. He hauls himself back out, and again his clothes are bone-dry.

  Up ahead is a tangle of trees, a fruit orchard. As he walks through it, brushing against the branches, ripe fruit falls to the ground. Carelessly, he crushes peaches and pomegranates
under his thick feet.

  Beyond the orchard is another stretch of lawn, this one even softer than the last. He smears the fruit off his soles as he continues on. He’s almost at the house now. All that stands between it and him is a garden of roses — a profusion of twining stems; sharp thorns; and thick, velvet blooms. And, in the center of the flowers, is a woman. He knew she was here. Now he stands still to view the curious sight.

  She’s a middle-aged woman, round in the figure from a life of too much ease. Dressed in a pink silk kimono, she has a basket looped over one arm and, clasped in her plump fingers, a pair of pruning shears. On her head is a band with a small flashlight at the front. She looks utterly ridiculous but is smiling happily to herself as she reaches out to the roses and snips at their stems, before sniffing at the blooms and laying them tenderly in the basket.

  For a time she is oblivious. Then his foot, half unintentionally, crushes a fallen branch.

  “What was that? Who’s there?”

  She spins around, the light on her head darting about like a firefly.

  Still she does not see him. After a moment’s pause, she returns to her sweet labors, humming to herself. She sounds like a demented bumblebee. He decides to have some fun and breaks another twig underfoot. It works. She jumps into the air — well, as high as her plump body will propel her.

  He steps out of the shadows, directly across the pool of light.

  Now she sees him. She looks up to take in the vast measure of him. Still, to give her credit, she’s not as scared as he might have expected. Instead, she bristles with anger.

  “Who are you?” she asks. “What are you doing here?”

  He stares at her.

  “Who are you?” she repeats.

  “Who are you?” he asks.

  “I’m Loretta Busby, of course. And this is my rose garden. And you have no business being here.”

  He smiles at her, reaching into her basket and grabbing one of the roses. He lifts it to his nose. It smells sickly, overpoweringly sweet. He crushes the bloom in one hand and tosses it away.

  “How dare you, you monster!” she cries. “Do you know who I am? Do you know who my husband is?”

  “Busby,” he says. Does she think he’s stupid? He isn’t stupid.

  “That’s right,” she says. “Lachlan Busby — Director of the Crescent Moon Bay Cooperative Bank, President of the North East Region Board of Trade, Elder of the Crescent Moon Bay Progressive Church, and the most powerful man for miles around.” She fixes him with a glare, literally, as her flashlight catches him in the eyes. “You’ve walked into the wrong rose garden tonight, you half-wit.”

  He’s insulted now. Insulted and irritated. The light is boring into his eyes and the smell of the roses is thick and syrupy. He looks down at the woman, who continues yapping at him like an annoying little puppy. Finally, he can take no more.

  He reaches out his muscular arms and lifts her up, until her face is level with his. Shocked, her legs paddle through the air, as if she still thinks she might run away from him. She stares at him indignantly but now, for the first time, she sees his eyes properly. Or rather, the holes where the eyes should be. For now, they are merely pools of fire — deep pools of spitting flame. There are no more words for her voice has gone. Her legs cease their useless motion. Her flashlight slips lower and she sees his teeth. Twin gold teeth, like daggers, bearing down toward her.

  Just then, the clouds shift above them and a shaft of moonlight beams down into the rose garden. Light showers Loretta Busby as she hangs suspended in the air. Light bathes the man — the thing — who holds her there.

  And, somehow, the light changes him. The fire is drawn out from his eyes. Now they are just empty pools of unfathomable darkness. She watches, not daring to breathe, as he closes his eyelids. He frowns and she can see he is in excruciating pain.

  His hands grow limp and he drops her. She tumbles down onto the grass, bouncing lightly before coming to a rest. For a moment, she lies there, thinking this is the end. But suddenly her nostrils fill with the sweet scent of the blooms she has nurtured. It’s her favorite rose — Summer’s Promise. She knows, deep inside, she is going to be okay.

  The creature turns away, oblivious of her now. He strides across the manicured lawn, breaking into a run as he reaches the pool, sprints back through the field of horses, until once more he stands at the edge of the dark rock.

  Here, the moon is high. Her golden light showers down over his vast body. There’s a searing pain in his head, like an electric current from the top of his head to the back of his eyes. He does not care. No longer will he cower under the light. As he opens his eyes, the clouds close across the moon. The world is pitch-dark once more.

  That’s it, he laughs. That’s it. Run and hide! You’d all better hide!

  He is bigger than this. Bigger than all his enemies. They do not know it yet, but he is going to show them. He smiles, feeling reborn. Then, he jumps from the edge of the cliff, somersaulting down through the soft night air.

  The adrenaline rush is enormous. This is what it means to be free, he thinks. How he endured so long aboard that ship is a mystery to him. How he ever put up with that captain — with his rules and regulations . . . No more of that for me, he thinks, as his feet thud back onto the sand. No more rules for Sidorio. From now on, I make my own way through this world. No limits.

  1

  THE THREE BUCCANEERS

  Cutlass Cate strode across the deck of The Diablo, surveying her elite pirate attack force. The attack would commence within the hour and already her chosen pirates filled every space on the deck, preparing themselves mentally and physically for the challenge ahead. Cate walked slowly down the center of the deck, monitoring them all as they trained, making mental notes to pass on to individuals and teams. It was still strange, but exciting, to think of herself as deputy captain. Much had changed aboard The Diablo in the past few months. Cheng Li had left the ship — on a teaching assignment of all things! — and opened up the post of deputy, which Cate had needed little urging to fill. Captain Molucco Wrathe was back in his old high spirits now that Cheng Li had gone. She had always been something of a thorn in his side. He seemed far happier having Cate as his number two. They might not always agree on strategy but they maintained a friendly respect and, in matters of attack-planning, he generally let her have the final say. But, of all the changes that had occurred these past few months, to Cate the most important had been the arrival on board of the Tempest twins.

  Their advent had been in the most tragic circumstances. Connor had turned up first, a week or so ahead of his twin sister, Grace. In the days following their father’s death, they had fled from their hometown — Crescent Moon Bay — in the family’s old wooden yacht. But misfortune had piled upon misfortune and the boat had been caught in the fiercest of storms. The twins had almost drowned, but fate had brought them to safety, though it had kept them separate for a time.

  Cate knew what a testing time that separation had proved for Connor but, to the boy’s credit, he had thrown himself into life aboard The Diablo with every fiber of his being. She could see him now, at the very end of the deck, practicing his swordplay with his two best buddies — Bartholomew “Bart” Pearce and Jez Stukeley. She hastened her pace toward them. Bart and Jez had each been members of the crew for several years and were two of the most popular pirates on board. Both were in their early twenties now but had signed up to the articles while in their teens. Even as a teenager, Bart had been one of the strongest men aboard. But under her guidance, he had acquired expert swordsmanship to complement his muscles. Jez was smaller and leaner but, truth be told, the more accomplished swordsman. While Bart used the broadsword and often led the attack force, Jez — like Cate — was a precision fighter who, with his rapier skills, could determine the success of the day.

  And then there was Connor Tempest — still just fourteen years old. He had only been aboard a little over three months and had no previous pirate training. Cate ha
d introduced him to the rapier and was delighted with both his natural ability and his commitment to training. Now, as Cate observed the three young pirates executing their maneuvers, there was very little to separate them in terms of talent. Cate was especially delighted that Jez had taken Connor under his wing. Hopefully, the full genius of his rapier-handling would rub off on his young apprentice.

  “And how are the Three Buccaneers, this fine day?” Cate asked, with a smile. She had come up with the nickname and it had stuck. The three pirates were inseparable. Each one looked out for his comrades — in and out of attack.

  The three of them looked up from their swords, smiling as they saluted the deputy captain.

  “We’re doing good, thank you, ma’am,” said Bart, with a grin. He and Cate had an ongoing flirtation, which she secretly enjoyed but could not encourage when she was on attack duty.

  “At ease, lads,” she said, drawing closer. Though she was giving them permission to relax, the command also served to demonstrate her authority over them.

  Bart took the hint. “So,” he asked, “tell us more about this ship we’re pursuing.”

  “It’s a containership,” Cate said. “We’ve been following it all morning. Captain Wrathe received a tip-off early yesterday from one of our most reliable sources. Apparently, the ship’s loaded with cargo — and under-defended. Better yet, it’s in our own sea-lane.”

  “Should be an easy victory then,” said Jez Stukeley.

  “Never assume that,” Cate said. “The odds are in our favor, but we mustn’t be complacent.”

  “No, sir!” exclaimed Jez.

  “No, sir?” echoed Bart. He and Connor grinned at their mate’s slipup.

  Jez shrugged, flushing red. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I don’t know what . . .”

  “That’s quite all right,” said Cate, amused but keen not to let it show. She turned her eyes toward Connor. “And how’s young Mister Tempest feeling today?”

  Connor looked her in the eye. “Poised and ready for attack!”

  “Excellent!” said Cate. “And how’s Grace?”