Demons of the Ocean Read online

  “The broadsword is a cutting or hacking weapon,” Cate continued, as if she had read his thoughts. “It’s sharp at the end but both the sides are like razors, too. Now, let’s have a look at your stance . . .”

  As Cate appraised Connor’s pose, he wondered how she could be so casual about the purpose of the weapon. He realized that if he was going to be a pirate, he too would have to deal with death on a daily basis. Worse than that, he would be called upon to inflict it. It was a sobering thought. Fourteen years old and a trainee assassin. He gulped.

  “You want to stand a bit like a sumo wrestler, Connor, feet wider. That’s it, cushion your knees. Bend them a touch more.”

  Connor followed Cate’s instructions. She nodded approvingly. Her whole body seemed to bristle with energy.

  “That’s good, Connor, very good. Okay, why don’t you put the sword down now?”

  Gratefully, Connor set the broadsword back on the deck. He sat down again, next to Bart, full of renewed respect and admiration for his fellow pirates.

  “Now, here’s the thing about broadswords,” Cate continued. “They’re big and they’re heavy. This monster’s four foot long. When we board an enemy ship, time is of the essence. The broadsword’s full of problems. It can get caught in the rigging, for one thing. So here’s what we do. We send in Bart and a couple of the other big boys at the front. They go in and chop through the rigging, swinging their swords like windmills. It’s all smoke and mirrors, though. The other crew sees these big brutes laying waste to their ship, and they’re scared. But that’s only setting the scene — sorry, Bart — you see, I’m coming in with this little baby and I’m the one who’s going to cause the real damage.”

  While she was talking, Cate had picked up a smaller sword and removed it from its scabbard. It was about three-quarters of the length of the broadsword but much lighter and more delicate.

  “This, my friend, is like fighting with a needle.” Cate leaped forward, thrusting the sword before her.

  “She’s thrusting between your ribs, mate,” Bart explained with a grin. “It’s a quick poke that bursts your internal organs. And then it’s gonna take you a day or two to die a nice slow, torturous death.”

  “The broadsword is all about appearance,” said Cate, lunging back and forth. “The épée is about effect. In the right hands, it’s poetry in motion.”

  Connor was starting to feel increasingly out of his depth and a little bit sick.

  “You’re looking a touch green, mate,” Bart said. “Are you about to throw up?”

  “No, no, I’ll be all right.” He took a few deep breaths.

  “Are you sure, mate?”

  Connor nodded. Cate did not acknowledge Connor’s qualms. She remained focused on the job at hand, returning the épée to its scabbard and taking another of the swords in her hand.

  “Now, let’s try this rapier, shall we?”

  She held out the sword to Connor and, taking a deep breath, he slipped his gloved hand through the handle.

  “That’s it. Notice the swept hilt on this sword. There we are, your whole fist goes through there. It’s like a protective cage.”

  This felt much more comfortable than the broadsword. It was a touch shorter but significantly lighter.

  “Ah, that looks good. Excellent. Now, hold the blade out flat.”

  Connor extended his arm.

  “Good, Connor,” Cate said, smiling. “Now, your hand is pronate, that means facing upward. Your stance should be soft again, your legs bent. Your weight is even between your feet. Imagine you’re playing tennis. You’re ready to move quickly in either direction.”

  Connor followed her instructions and suddenly he was having a good time. He could forget for the moment about blood and guts and death, and focus on this as just another sport. And there wasn’t a sport yet that Connor Tempest had failed to master. Flushed with a new confidence, he followed Cate’s flow of instructions. He could see that she was delighted with his swift progress.

  “Now, we’ll try a little passing forward and backward,” Cate said, demonstrating the foot movements for him. “Your feet must never be together. If they are, you’ll lose your balance. Just move one foot at a time, like me.”

  He followed her footwork, quickly picking up the rhythm. Cate stepped back and Bart joined her. Together they watched their protégé. Connor was unaware of them, lost in his determination to perfect the dancelike moves.

  “Not bad for a beginner,” Bart said, peeling off his gloves.

  “He’s an absolute natural,” Cate replied. “He’s exactly what we’ve been looking for.”

  Above them, standing outside his cabin, Captain Molucco Wrathe beamed with satisfaction.

  “What did I tell you, Scrimshaw?” he said, stroking his pet. “I see an exciting future ahead for Mister Connor Tempest, a most exciting future indeed.”

  Connor was on a high from the sword-fighting lesson for the rest of the day. Every time he thought about it, he couldn’t help but smile. Cate had said she’d give him another lesson at the same time the following morning. He couldn’t wait for it.

  In the meantime, there was work to be done. Connor’s latest task was to clean one of the “swivel guns,” or small cannons, on the foredeck. He’d been given a chamois leather and some foul-smelling polish, which he was doing his best not to inhale as he worked. It wasn’t so bad when he was cleaning the top of the cannon, but now he was doing the underside and he had to lie on the deck as if he was under the body of a car. He worked as quickly as he could, anxious to get the task over with as fast as possible.

  “Well, I hear you’re quite the swordsman.”

  Connor slid forward and found Cheng Li standing there, looking down at him with a wry smile.

  “I wonder,” she said, “is cleaning swivel guns an appropriate job for The Diablo’s foremost young warrior?”

  Connor scrambled to his feet, grateful for a break.

  “Captain Wrathe told me we all share the jobs on board,” he said, placing the lid on the can of polish.

  “What a good little pirate you’ve become, Connor, and so quickly.”

  Connor was taken aback by the sarcasm in her voice. What had he done to upset her? He decided it was best to ignore it.

  “Cate gave me loads of swords to try,” he said enthusiastically. “I liked the rapier the best.”

  “Not the broadsword, like your friend Bartholomew?”

  “Nah,” Connor said, “too unwieldy. I want a precision weapon.”

  “If it’s precision you’re looking for, try these,” Cheng Li said, lifting her arms over her head and, in a single motion, unleashing twin blades from the sheaths on her back.

  “Katanas,” she said, as she twisted the evil-looking blades through the air, “made to my specifications by the swordsmith on Lantao Island. A graduation gift. To myself.”

  The blades seemed as light as feathers, but as sharp as razors, in her hands. After a final flourish, she returned them to their sheaths. Connor was impressed.

  “What about your other sword?” he asked.

  “My other sword?”

  He pointed to the ornate brass scabbard that hung from her waist on a leather strap.

  Cheng Li looked down, suddenly pensive. She did not draw the cutlass from its sheath.

  “This was my father’s sword. You may have heard of him.”

  “Chang Ko Li,” Connor said. “The best of the best, Bart told me.”

  Cheng Li nodded.

  “The best of the best,” she repeated in a surprisingly emotionless tone.

  She gazed down at the scabbard, her fingers resting on the hilt of the cutlass. “They brought me this when he died. I keep it to remember.”

  Connor nodded. “It’s good to have something to remember him by. I wish I had something of my dad’s.”

  “You misunderstand, boy. I do not wear the cutlass to remember my father. I wear it to remember that however great you are, however far and wide they know your name,
it takes only one thrust of a stranger’s sword to end it all. My father, for all his reputation and glory, was killed like a common thief. That’s the pitiable truth about the great Chang Ko Li.”

  With that, she removed her hand from the ancient sword. Connor could tell she was upset, though her face was steely and gave little away.

  “Better get back to your cleaning,” she said. “Look, warrior, you missed a spot.”

  22

  BREAD AND SOUP

  As Grace left the captain’s cabin, her mind was buzzing with thoughts of Connor. When would he be joining them? Where was he now? Stepping through the door, she found herself not back on the outside deck, as expected, but in an interior corridor, lined on either side with closed doors.

  The captain’s cabin must have two doors, she realized. She did not dare to go back into his cabin and out through the other door. Besides, there must be another exit to the deck from this corridor.

  Sure enough, as she reached the corridor’s end, there was a door to her left opening out onto the deck outside. To her right, she noticed a staircase, plummeting down into the darkened depths of the ship. She should go to the left, back to the safety of her cabin or, at the very least, out onto the deserted sunlit deck.

  But the stairs offered a tantalizing alternative. The captain had not forbidden her to explore the ship. He had only asked her to return to her cabin by the time the Nightfall Bell sounded. The day was still young. She had plenty of time for a quick detour to look around belowdecks and get a better measure of the ship, while its inhabitants lay sleeping.

  The stairs led down to another corridor. It was dimly lit with lanterns, just barely illuminating the rows of cabin doors on either side. Fortunately, a carpet — albeit a threadbare one — had been stretched out along the deckboards and absorbed the sound of her cautious footsteps.

  It was eerily silent, or maybe it just seemed that way to Grace, imagining the people, the creatures who inhabited the rooms around her. It was a long corridor and she was tempted to turn back again and curtail her exploration.

  No, she told herself, this is silly. Hadn’t she already met two of the vampires? For, although she had not wanted to think of them as such, that was what Lorcan and the captain were. And had they been demons? Lorcan could not have been less like one, except perhaps for that brief moment when his features had taken on a sudden harshness, but it had been so fleeting, perhaps it had only been a trick of the light.

  As for the captain — of course his mask and cape were forbidding, and it took a time to grow accustomed to his strange, disembodied whisper. And yet his words had expressed only a wish to take care of her. And through the vision of Connor, he had given her hope.

  The two vampires she had met had both shown her restraint and concern. Why should the rest of the crew prove any different, any more dangerous? Still, neither Lorcan nor the captain seemed keen on the thought of Grace encountering the others in an unexpected fashion. She would be wary.

  Grace continued along the corridor, counting each door to try to get a better idea of the size of the crew. After twenty, she stopped counting. If there were two vampires in each cabin, that was forty already. If there were four, that was eighty. Even if each cabin was occupied by only one of them, that was still . . . something she’d prefer not to think about.

  Shivering slightly, she walked on, careful to tread firmly and quietly along the center of the carpet. It reminded her of when she was young and, inspired by some movie or storybook, had gone through months determined never to step on the cracks in the pavement in case she fell through them, down into the lair of lions and tigers and bears.

  At the end of the corridor was another set of stairs. Grace hesitated, but there seemed no point in not following them down and seeing where they led — not after she had come so far.

  They propelled her into another corridor, similar to the last but perhaps just a little bit narrower and strung with fewer lanterns. Was this home to more of them? It must be. Walking along, she quickly counted another thirty doors, then halted.

  Again, she reminded herself that both Lorcan and the captain had promised her their protection. The captain’s assurances swirled back into her head.

  We’re not after your blood. We have other ways to cater to the crew’s needs.

  What had he meant by that? she wondered, half expecting to stumble upon a hold stacked with barrels of blood — a grotesque twist on a wine cellar. The thought of it made her tremble. Perhaps it was best to return to her cabin now after all.

  Just then, there was the unmistakable creak of a door opening. Grace stopped dead in her tracks. Which of the doors was it? Pressing herself into the wall, she glanced back and forth, waiting for the telltale sliver of light to reveal itself.

  She held her breath as a man stumbled out from inside a cabin a few doors down from where she stood. If he turned to the right, she would be instantly discovered. She wasn’t sure what would happen then but she was reasonably confident it wouldn’t be a happy experience — not for her at any rate.

  The man looked a little dazed and hovered outside the open door of his cabin for a moment, unsteady on his feet. Grace realized with a shock that it was the poor old man she had seen at her window, fleeing Sidorio’s demands.

  Should she approach him? She was worried she might scare him. Besides, what if he wasn’t the poor old man he appeared to be? What if he was a vampire, too — one who needed blood so badly he would roam the decks to beg for it?

  She decided to follow him and watch, without making contact. Not until she knew more about him. He seemed in a kind of trance. Perhaps this was the depleted state the vampires existed in during the daylight hours, weakened even without direct exposure to the sun.

  There was only so long Grace could hold her breath. Wishing she’d attended a few more swimming classes, she saw to her relief that the man had set off along the corridor in the other direction, reeling a little from side to side and reaching out his hands every now and then toward the narrow corridor’s walls to steady himself.

  Grace let out a quiet breath of relief, and then set off after him, very slowly and quietly, pressing herself into the shadows and keeping a good distance between them.

  He disappeared from view, but she could hear his footsteps and she imagined he must have found the stairs to one of the other decks. Sure enough, she herself came to another flight of stairs, leading down still deeper into the ship. Beneath her, she saw his head fleetingly before he set off along the corridor below. She waited a couple of beats, then followed him.

  The next corridor was different. There was no carpet here and far fewer doors. Up ahead, a door was open and bright light spilled out. The vampire quickened his pace and darted into the lit doorway. Grace scuttled after him, diving silently into the shadows behind the door.

  Through the thin gap between the door and the wall, she could see that a sizable galley kitchen lay beyond. She could smell food, too. It was good. She hadn’t been aware of her hunger, but the aroma was so good, it was utterly impossible to resist the heady smell. She had stepped out of the shadows and into the heart of the light. She might as well have stepped onto a spotlit theater stage. She found herself looking into the kitchen and facing a harassed-looking cook and the vampire, who seemed somewhat irritated by her appearance.

  “Don’t just stand there, missy,” said the cook — a round, red-faced woman — “come in here and take a seat. I’ll see to you in a minute, just wait your turn.”

  The woman turned her head as Grace obediently pulled out a stool and sat down at a counter.

  “Jamie! Jamie! Where has that boy got to?!”

  She tutted and turned back to the vampire Grace had followed. In the bright kitchen, his skin looked as pale and fragile as tracing paper.

  “You wait there, Nathaniel,” the cook said. “I’ll fetch you a nice bowl of soup.”

  Soup? Vampires didn’t eat soup. Did they?

  But sure enough, the cook dipped a ladle in
to a saucepan of bubbling liquid and transferred it into a deep bowl. She set the bowl on a tray, with a hunk of black bread, cut from a loaf fresh from the oven, and passed it to the vampire.

  Vampires didn’t eat bread, either — Grace was pretty sure of that.

  He dipped his nose into the spiraling steam and broke into a smile.

  “That’ll see you right, Nathaniel,” said the cook.

  The vampire nodded at her and ambled out of the kitchen, carrying the tray. Grace wondered if he’d make it back to his cabin without dropping it.

  “Now then, a hot bowl of broth for you, too?” The cook did not wait for an answer before dipping the ladle back into the bubbling saucepan.

  “Jamie,” she called over her shoulder, “Jamie, I hope you’re not sleeping. There are plenty of jobs to do and I’ve only got the one pair of hands! Jamie!”

  Grace wasn’t sure whether the cook’s red face came from the steam and heat of the kitchen, or from shouting so much. Wasn’t she afraid she’d disturb the crew, wake them from their sleep? The sleep of the dead, Grace thought ruefully.

  “There we go, dig in,” said the cook, placing a bowl of soup on the counter in front of Grace and slicing off a generous chunk of bread to go with it.

  Grace pulled herself closer to the counter and hungrily tucked in. The soup was delicious, though she was unsure exactly what flavor it was — certainly nothing she had ever tasted before. It was a deep pink color, but the bowl was soon clean and white and empty again.

  “Well, someone was hungry!” the cook said. “Have a drop more? Yes, of course, rude not to!”

  With that, she seized the bowl and filled it to the brim again.

  Grace was surprised at the intensity of her own hunger. It was painful waiting for the second bowl to arrive before her. Impatiently, she tapped her foot against the stool as the cook sliced her some more bread. Grace realized that her body was crying out for food, for this food.