Vampirates: Tide of Terror Page 4

  She glanced about her small cabin. It was decidedly more spartan than the grand cabin she had occupied aboard the Vampirate ship. There, she had slept like a storybook princess in a vast bed, piled high with cushions and hung low with tapestries. Now, she bedded down on a simple single bunk with one pillow, which itself had seen better days. But Grace wasn’t complaining. She rather liked her new abode. It was comfortable enough, and it was certainly nice having daylight filter in, even if it was through a somewhat grimy porthole. Besides, better to have a cabin to yourself than to sleep — like Connor — in a dormitory where the other pirates’ snores and wheezes, coughs and farts played like a strange symphony through the night.

  Besides the bed, there was little other furniture in the room — a small wooden chair that she chiefly used to hang her clothes at night, a small cupboard, and some shelves. But it was more than enough room for someone who had as few possessions as Grace. Uncurling herself slowly, she slipped down from the bed, and knelt on the floor. She reached her hand under the bunk, moving aside a box of old rope and a blanket, which were simply decoys to prevent prying eyes from finding the small case that she kept there.

  Now, she took it in her hands and climbed back up onto the bunk. It was Darcy Flotsam who had given the case to her. “Because every young lady needs a place for her secret things,” she had said. It was typical of Darcy — the kind gesture, the rationale, and the case itself. It was, strictly speaking, a “vanity case,” deep red leather on the outside and shocking pink silk padding on the interior. It was intended for storing combs and brushes, makeup compacts, lipsticks, and the like. Grace had none of these and no desire for them. But with its hidden compartments and, most usefully, its small lock and key, the case was the ideal place to keep her secret things.

  She turned the small key and lifted the lid, smiling as she surveyed the contents. There were the notebooks and pens she had brought with her — at the Vampirate captain’s urging. She reached in and extracted the small leather notebook in which she had started to write the “crossing stories” of the Vampirate crew — the accounts of what their lives were when they were mortals and how they had gone from that world to this. So far, few of the pages had been used. It only had Darcy Flotsam’s story — written in Grace’s best handwriting — and Sidorio’s much darker tale, hastily scrawled under somewhat different circumstances.

  Her eyes ran over these last words. His tale was as thrilling to her as it was horrific. Lieutenant Sidorio had revealed that, many centuries before, he had kidnapped Julius Caesar and later been killed in revenge. In spite of the raw fear Sidorio instilled in Grace, she was glad to know his story and to have captured it in this book. She had plucked a dark secret that few others in this world knew, and to Grace that was as heady a thrill as if she had pressed the rarest of orchids between the pages of her notebook.

  As she came to the last page of writing, she sighed. She would dearly love to add to the journal. Aboard the Vampirate ship, she had hatched a plan to chronicle the crossing stories of each and every member of the crew. That thought still sent a shiver of excitement through her, though she knew she had little hope of making it happen.

  Grace’s eyes were growing as tired as the rest of her body. She closed the journal and placed it beside her on the bed. She lay back on the sheets and she closed her eyes. She brought her hand up to her neck, tracing the chain hanging around it. As her index finger followed its path down below her shirt, it found the heart-shaped locket Connor had given to her. Her fingers pushed it to one side and made contact with Lorcan’s Claddagh ring. As she touched it, there was a moment of electricity — real or imagined — as she remembered Lorcan’s gift to her when she left the ship.

  Now, it was the ring, above all, which gave her hope. It reminded her of Lorcan’s words, his soft brogue, the way he looked at her as if there were depths of feeling he could not yet give voice to. The ring was the best kept of Grace’s secrets, hanging there where no one could see it, hidden under the locket. Sometimes, just sometimes, as the band of metal pressed against her clavicle, she felt a strange sensation — as if Lorcan were speaking to her, reassuring her that everything was going to be okay and that they would be together again. Sure enough, it was his voice that spoke softly to her now, pulling her away from the pirate ship into the sparkling blue waters of her dreams.

  “Grace! Grace, wake up!”

  “What?”

  She was floating in such a delicious dream. She felt so rested and comfortable.

  “Grace!” The voice came again. Louder. She recognized it but could not place it. And the dream was too comfortable to leave. She resisted.

  “Grace Tempest! Please wake up!”

  As the voice poured directly into her ears, Grace opened her eyes. She knew that voice — that strange, squeaking cockney accent.

  “Darcy!” she exclaimed, twisting her head on the pillow. “Darcy Flotsam.”

  Sure enough, Darcy was sitting beside the bed. Her brow was furrowed. “Well, I must say, you sleep awful heavy for a young lady.” Her frown quickly gave way to a smile.

  Grace smiled back, drawing herself up to a sitting position and swinging her feet round toward Darcy. “Darcy! I can’t believe it’s you! How did you get here?”

  “It’s a long story,” Darcy said. “Listen, I’m not sure how long I can stay. But I had to see you.”

  Grace was beaming. She couldn’t have wished for a nicer awakening. There she had been, lost in a dream about the Vampirate ship and now one of her friends had appeared — not only on the ship but in her very cabin! Elated, she stood up, opening her arms to hug Darcy. Darcy rose to meet her and stepped forward.

  But as Grace flung her arms about Darcy’s waist, Darcy must have moved suddenly, or else the ship did, because Grace’s arms flailed through thin air. She opened her arms again and reached for Darcy. This time, they were face to face. Darcy was looking at her strangely. Grace watched ...as her arms moved straight through Darcy. It was if she were made of air. Grace lifted her hand to her friend’s face, reaching out a finger toward her button nose. It poked straight through Darcy’s nose into nothing-ness. Grace recoiled, looking at Darcy curiously.

  “What’s going on?” she asked.

  Darcy looked serious, folding her arms across her chest. “You see, I’m here, but I’m not here, Grace.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Grace. “Can you see me?”

  “Yes, yes of course I can see you,” she said, stepping forward. “And I can see you’ve made an awful mess of that pretty blouse I lent you.”

  Grace glanced down, guiltily. It was true — the blouse was stained with oil from her earlier sword-cleaning duties.

  “I’m sorry,” Grace said. “I had to get up really early to work and it was the first thing I threw on. I didn’t think.”

  “Hush!” said Darcy, raising a finger toward Grace’s lips but not touching them. “We have more important things to talk about than stains and spills.”

  “Yes,” Grace said. “Of course.” She still didn’t quite understand how Darcy came to be here but she could see from her friend’s anxious expression that she had come for a reason. “Let’s sit down,” she said.

  Grace sat on the bed and Darcy sat down next to her. Only she didn’t exactly sit, Grace noticed, but hovered just above the mattress. It was very curious.

  “How is everyone?” Grace asked. “How’s the captain? And Lorcan?”

  Darcy’s head dropped for a moment. When she raised it again, there were buds of tears in her eyes. “That’s just it,” she said, “that’s why I had to come. Since you left, everything’s horrible, just horrible.”

  Grace’s heart sank. “What do you mean? Whatever’s happened?”

  For a moment, Darcy was unable to speak as the tears fell from her eyes, mixing with her eyeliner and falling like dark petals across her fine complexion. “Just a mo,” she managed to sniff, fishing in her pocket, “I think I’ve got a tissue in here somewhere.” But her
hand came away empty.

  Grace reached in her own pocket and instinctively offered Darcy her own handkerchief. They both looked at each other for a moment. Then Grace let the handkerchief go. They both watched as the small square of cloth floated straight through Darcy’s phantom hand and down to the floor of the cabin. Somehow, it made them smile. Darcy sniffed and brought the back of her hand up to her face, wiping away her tears and then wiping her hand clean on her dress. It was an uncharacteristic gesture for someone who cared so much about her appearance. Darcy shrugged. “Like I say, Grace, stains and spills.”

  Grace nodded, smiling reassuringly at her companion. “Darcy, you must tell me what’s wrong. Perhaps I can help. You were all so good to me — well, almost all of you. I’ll do anything I can to help. You don’t know how many times I’ve dreamed about coming back to the ship. Why, just before you woke me up —”

  A dark look crossed Darcy’s face. “You can’t come back!”

  Grace was confused. “Why not?”

  “It’s not a safe place anymore. You mustn’t even think of coming back.”

  “Not safe?” Grace said. “But I was there when the captain banished Sidorio. And he was the only rebel Vampirate, wasn’t he?”

  Darcy shook her head. “Not the only,” she said, “the first.”

  “The first?”

  Darcy nodded. “Sidorio was the only rebel, but since he was banished — since you left — there are others who challenge the captain’s authority every day and every night. They won’t settle for just taking blood at the Feast. They want more blood, more Feasts . . .” She broke off, tears in her eyes again.

  “And what does the captain say?” Grace asked.

  “He tells them ‘no.’ He says that these are the ways of the ship. Always have been. Always will be.”

  “Well then,” Grace said. “The captain will keep control. He always does.”

  Darcy shook her head. “It ain’t never been like this before. For as long as I’ve sailed on that ship, there’s always been ...there’s always been respect for the captain. But, after he sent Sidorio away, something changed. No one was ever sent away before.”

  Grace remembered thinking at the time that it might be dangerous to send Sidorio away. But the captain had been so intent upon it. But Grace had been more concerned with what dark mischief Sidorio might cause in the world outside, than with what would happen on the ship after he’d gone.

  “I wish I could help you,” Grace said. “I wish I could come back and talk to the captain.”

  Darcy shook her head. “No, Grace. No, you must stay here — with Connor — where you’re safe.”

  Grace smiled. “It’s a pirate ship, Darcy. It’s hardly safe. Even now, Connor’s off on an attack.”

  “You two sure have a knack for landing yourselves in trouble,” Darcy said.

  “Out of the frying pan and into the fire,” agreed Grace, ruefully.

  They smiled at each other. Grace reached out her hand as if to take Darcy’s.

  “We can’t touch,” Darcy reminded her.

  “I know,” said Grace, keeping her hand extended. “I know we can’t, but let’s just pretend we can.”

  Darcy nodded, stretching out her own hand until her phantom palm lay almost against Grace’s flesh-and-blood one. It was near enough.

  “So,” said Grace. “Tell me about Lorcan.”

  But as Darcy opened her mouth to answer, she started to fade.

  “Wait!” Grace cried. “What’s happened to Lorcan?”

  Darcy shook her head, tears filling her eyes again. Then she melted away into the air and Grace was alone once more.

  5

  DUEL

  “I’ll fight him, Captain,” Jez Stukeley called once more.

  Connor turned to his friend in shock, but Jez was already pushing forward through the crowd. Up ahead, Connor turned toward Bart. He was clearly as shocked as Connor was. This couldn’t be happening to the Three Buccaneers!

  Some of Drakoulis’ henchmen barred Jez’s way, but Captain Drakoulis himself berated them. “Let him through. Let him show himself.”

  The ranks of black-clad warriors duly opened up and Jez Stukeley walked bravely through them, coming to a stop in front of the two pirate captains and the mountain of muscle that was Gidaki Sarakakino. Sarakakino looked down at Jez and smirked. You didn’t need to be a mind-reader to guess what he was thinking.

  “Mister Stukeley,” Molucco Wrathe said, placing his hand on the young pirate’s shoulder, “you’re a brave and honorable man, but I can’t let you put yourself into such danger.”

  Jez shook his head. “It’s my duty, Captain Wrathe. When I signed the articles, I agreed to defend The Diablo, my captain, and my crew mates. There’s no way off this ship unless one of us agrees to this duel.”

  “He’s right,” Narcisos Drakoulis cut in. “All I require is one of your pirates to enter a duel with Sarakakino. Fail to submit to that and neither you nor the rest of your crew will ever see The Diablo again.”

  Connor trembled at Drakoulis’ threat, made all the more tangible by the sight of the scimitars poised across the deck. He weighed this up against his friendship with Jez. There had to be another way. Wasn’t it Captain Wrathe’s responsibility to head off the danger? It couldn’t fall to Jez. It just couldn’t.

  Molucco shook his head. “I never cared for you, Drakoulis, but you used to have morals — of a fashion. I don’t know where you’ve been rotting all this time, but your years in the wilderness have made a putrid villain of you. Your actions today cannot have been endorsed by the Pirate Federation. You act out of your own twisted desires and some warped notion of revenge for a small and ancient grievance.”

  In spite of this verbal assault, Drakoulis said nothing for a time. His face was a mask, betraying no emotion. At last, he spoke. “If your lecture is over, Wrathe, let us get down to business. The duel will commence on the fifth strike of the ship’s bell.” He turned to his company. “Clear the center deck now.”

  At his word, Drakoulis’ pirates surged back to open up a fighting area on the center deck, about the size of a boxing ring. And, just as in the preamble to a boxing match, Drakoulis now drew to one side to conspire with Gidaki Sarakakino, who was binding dark ribbons of cloth around his hands.

  “No!” Connor wanted to cry. This was madness. Why had Jez put himself forward to the slaughter? And why hadn’t anyone stopped him?

  Jez walked over to join Molucco and Cate on the other side. Connor took advantage of the movement of the crowd to slip through and nearer to the front. He found Bart and darted in beside him.

  “Hey, buddy.” Bart flashed Connor a weak smile, but could not maintain his pretense of lightheartedness for more than a moment. He turned away and looked over at Jez, his eyes heavy with concern.

  “Has he got a chance?” Connor whispered to his mate.

  “He’ll give it a bloody good go,” Bart said, “but look at that Sarakakino guy. He makes me look puny.”

  Connor wondered if Bart was tempted to take Jez’s place in the duel. But, he reminded himself, although Bart had more bulk, Jez was the more skilled swordsman. He was strong enough and, what he lacked in bulk, he more than made up for in technique and agility. Connor thought of Molucco Wrathe’s watchwords of “good training and good fortune.” In the next few minutes, Jez Stukeley would need to draw upon every last drop of each.

  The bell of The Albatross tolled once and all eyes turned to the two men. For Connor, the next few moments seemed to stretch out, as if in slow motion.

  A second toll. Sarakakino dipped his hands into a bucket of chalk dust, presumably to enable a better purchase on his sword. As he leaned forward, the spread of muscles on his back and shoulders became even clearer — the tattoo of the albatross stretched out as if about to fly away.

  A third toll. One of Drakoulis’ men offered the bucket of chalk to Jez. Turning from Molucco and Cate, Jez stepped forward and rubbed the chalk over his hands, shaking off the
excess. Then he wrapped his left fist tight around the hilt of his épée and looked to the sky, perhaps sending up a quick prayer through the pink ribbons of cloud.

  A fourth toll. Sarakakino was motionless, his back to his opponent — gathering himself, perhaps, with a prayer of his own. Jez waited, his body balanced and poised to fly in either direction.

  The fifth and final toll.

  Now, all hell broke loose.

  Sarakakino turned and faced his opponent, his scimitar slicing through the air in a warning of what it would do if it met Jez’s flesh. Undeterred, Jez moved from side to side, holding his own sword in a ready position. Even Connor knew that Sarakakino’s swordplay was all mental war. Cate trained her pirates to blind themselves to such bravado. How well Connor remembered her and Bart telling him to watch the eyes of your adversary — even more so than the tip of his sword.

  And now Sarakakino’s sword drew still. He stared into Jez’s eyes, as if questioning him. Do you really want to do this? Do you really think you can fight me? In answer, Jez stared back coolly but, as he did so, he thrust with the épée. It cut across Sarakakino’s muscled forearm and slashed the skin. First blood had gone to Stukeley and The Diablo. Connor watched the crimson drops of Sarakakino’s blood spill onto the deck boards.

  “Bloody hell,” whispered Bart, “I wasn’t expecting that!”

  Connor grinned.

  Sarakakino was clearly surprised and Jez wasted no time capitalizing on that, moving lithely around the bigger man and darting in for a second attack. But now Sarakakino was primed and, like a monster stirring from sleep, he gave a roar and thrust out his scimitar to meet Jez’s épée. Steel clashed upon steel and Connor could see Jez struggle to maintain his grip as the full force of his adversary transferred through the sword like an electric shock.

  Now the two opponents’ swords were held together like magnets. Whoever broke away first, and dared to attack, risked exposing himself for an instant — a fleeting instant, but potentially a decisive one.