Demons of the Ocean Read online

  Bart extinguished the last of the cigarette, punched his kit bag back into shape, and closed his eyes. “Good night, buddy. Watch out for the rogue mattress springs! They can do a fellow an injury where he least wants one.”

  Bart chuckled and soon fell off into a deep sleep. Connor lay awake, his ears ringing with his new roommate’s loud snores. He was so tired, he had almost gone beyond sleep. His head was spinning with everything that had happened. It was like a dream — a nightmare. If only he could just wake up.

  He glanced around the cabin. This was real. He was on a pirate ship, and when he awoke in the morning, he would still be here. And then his new life would begin.

  And Grace. Where was she? Had she really been rescued or had he just imagined that?

  He had nothing to go on but the memory of that strange ship and the curious sense of calm that had somehow flooded through his body at the sight of its figurehead.

  He closed his eyes and instantly an image came to him of his sister sleeping. It was a comforting picture. There she was, in the cabin of the ship that had rescued her, tucked up in her bunk. But it wasn’t cramped and basic like this one. Grace was in a proper bed, all nice and comfortable.

  Where had the vision come from? Connor neither knew nor cared. It was just the life raft he needed to still his feverish mind and send him drifting smoothly into the warm, soft waters of sleep.

  11

  SOME KIND OF DANGER

  At the sound of the cabin door opening, Grace opened her eyes. How long had she been asleep? she wondered, as Lorcan Furey entered the cabin and closed the door behind him. She wasn’t entirely happy that he had just charged in on her.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, as if reading her mind, “I did knock but only quietly. I didn’t want to draw attention to myself.”

  Her momentary anger passed and turned to embarrassment that he had discovered her half asleep in the flimsy nightgown. She drew the sheets up over herself, simultaneously propping up the pillows behind her so she could sit up.

  “Did you enjoy your soup?” Lorcan asked.

  Grace glanced at the empty bowl. She had been so hungry and it had tasted so good, she had actually licked the bowl clean. That was something she had never done before.

  “It was delicious,” she said. “But how did you bring it here without me noticing?”

  “Ways and means,” Lorcan said breezily, “ways and means. I figured your bones needed warming up after your dip in the ocean.”

  His blue eyes twinkled at her. He seemed more relaxed than before — the skin around his eyes and across his forehead was now smooth where before it had been creased with anxiety. He was less pale now, too, or maybe he just seemed so in the glow of the candlelight. No, she thought, watching him prowl around the cabin, he definitely seemed livelier than before. The Feast must have done him some good.

  “What time is it?” she asked him. “I’ve lost track and I can’t seem to find my watch.”

  “It’s the middle of the night,” he said, “the very darkest of the hours.” Sometimes when he spoke, it was as if he was intoning an old poem.

  “Aren’t you tired?” she said. “You must have had a long day.”

  “Not a bit of it.” Lorcan grinned. “I slept until nightfall and I’ll catch my sleep when the sun comes up.”

  Ah, now she understood. He must be on the night shift. Yes, that might explain what she’d overheard him say earlier — about not going out before nightfall. Of course — it would make sense to have a different crew assigned during the night. They were quite quiet, though, Grace thought. She couldn’t hear anyone else moving about on deck. But presumably, the bulk of work on deck was accomplished during the daylight hours.

  “What’s this?” he asked, interrupting her thoughts. He was standing, with his back to her, over by the desk on the other side of the cabin.

  “What?”

  As he turned toward her, she saw that he held the notebook in his hands. He walked toward her, tapping the mark of blood on the cover.

  “Did you do this?”

  “Yes.” She was embarrassed. “I cut myself.”

  “Dearie me,” he said, “let me have a look.”

  “Oh, it’s nothing,” she said. “I picked up the pen, but it slipped and I pricked my thumb.”

  “Let me see,” he said, sitting down on the bed.

  Feeling cornered, she lifted her hand from beneath the covers. He took her wrist and gently turned her hand palm-side up so he could see the narrow cut on her thumb. Grace was at once comforted and a little embarrassed by his touch. His hands were surprisingly cold. Maybe that was why her skin had started to break out in gooseflesh.

  “Was there much blood?” he inquired, rather tenderly.

  “No,” she said, wriggling free. “Just a tiny bit. I’m sorry I spoiled the notebook. I tried to clean it.”

  Lorcan shook his head. “Don’t worry about that, Grace. Don’t worry about that at all.”

  She still felt very self-conscious, sitting there in her nightdress.

  “Have you seen my old clothes?” she asked. “I can’t seem to find them.”

  “Why, yes, here they are.”

  Jumping up, he lifted a pile of clothes from the chair in front of the desk. They looked clean and neatly folded. She was certain — well, as certain as she could be — that they hadn’t been there before. But maybe she was confused.

  “Why, look, here’s your watch, too.”

  Lorcan placed the pile of clothes on the eiderdown and dangled the watch in front of her, as if about to hypnotize her. His blue eyes glittering like sun on water, he released the watch into her palm. She caught it and looked at its face to check the time. It said half-past seven. That didn’t seem right. Hadn’t he told her it was the middle of the night?

  She lifted the watch to her ear. There was no ticking.

  “It’s stopped,” she said.

  “The seawater must have got to its working parts.”

  She nodded, then remembered that it was a diver’s watch, designed to be worn deep under the water. How strange.

  “Ah well,” he said. “Some would say it’s a blessing to be free from the ticking of the clock.”

  Her father used to say something similar. He had never been known to wear a watch, preferring to set his clock by the sun and the moon, letting the ebb and flow of the light and the tide mark out his day. Maybe that was how it was on this ship, too — with the crew changing over from the day to the night, from the night to the day.

  Lorcan smiled at her and glanced about the cabin. Noticing the note pinned to the curtain, he raised his eyes.

  “Apologies for the melodrama,” he said. “It’s just better that no one else knows you’re here. Not yet.”

  “Why is that?” Grace asked.

  As he considered his answer, Lorcan’s mood seemed to shift again. She saw the familiar furrows crossing his brow.

  “’Tis the captain’s orders, Grace. He feels it’s safer that way.”

  “Safer? Am I in danger?”

  “Danger? No, no — of course not.”

  “Lorcan, you’re not making sense. If it’s safer that I’m kept hidden, then I must be in some kind of danger.”

  He said nothing — but he was frowning.

  “If I was in some kind of danger, you would tell me, wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes, of course, Grace.”

  He looked anxious. His jovial mood now seemed quite vanquished.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  His eyelids shut for a moment. She couldn’t help but notice how long his dark eyelashes were. In the lamplight, they cast long shadows over his face.

  “This is no ordinary ship,” he said, opening his eyes. “Our ways are strange. I’m not sure you’re going to like it here.”

  What on earth did he mean?

  “W-why?” she stammered. “Why wouldn’t I like it here?”

  He shook his head, as if trying to stop dark thoughts from slipping
free from their shackles.

  “I wish I could tell you more, but the captain has asked me not to.”

  “Why?”

  “He doesn’t want to scare you. Oh, I’m making a hash of this . . .”

  “Yes. Now you are starting to scare me.”

  “That isn’t my intention. Truly, Grace, it’s the last thing I want to do.”

  “Then stop talking in riddles!” she said in exasperation, then felt she might have overstepped the mark.

  “Riddles?” he said. “I can see why you would think that, but it’s not such a puzzle really.”

  She sighed. Every one of his answers seemed designed to open up yet more questions.

  “You’ll be wanting to know about your brother,” he said.

  She was surprised by his directness on this subject. She had wanted to ask him about Connor ever since he had entered the cabin again, but she had been waiting for the right moment. It was vital, she realized, to gain his trust.

  “Do you have news of Connor?” she asked, trying to maintain a neutral voice and not reveal how much she desperately needed to know.

  “The captain says your brother is alive and well.”

  “He says that? How does he know? Is Connor on board this ship?”

  “I can’t tell you anything more.”

  “You have to, Lorcan. You said I should be patient and I have been. You’ve talked in riddles about this ship and why I must be kept cooped up here like an animal, and I haven’t pushed you for answers. But when it comes to my brother, I have to know everything. It’s too important.”

  She looked deep into his eyes, feeling something akin to vertigo as she tumbled into the depths of blue.

  “All I can tell you is to trust the captain. If the captain says your brother is safe, then you must believe that.”

  “But how? How can I? How does he know?”

  “The captain knows many things,” Lorcan said, “more things than I could ever keep in my head if I lived a thousand years.”

  She didn’t understand, but she could see that she had got as much of an answer as he would give . . . for now. She’d have to wait. Gain his trust further. Then he’d tell her more. She’d seen already that Lorcan had a habit of letting slip a little more than he intended. In the meantime, she needed to find out more about the captain. You couldn’t trust a disembodied whisper, and that — at this point — was all the captain was to her.

  Suddenly, they heard the sound of voices outside.

  “Come back here!”

  “No, you’ve had enough . . .”

  “Enough? I’LL tell YOU when I’ve had enough!”

  Frowning, Lorcan leaped to the curtain. Both he and Grace listened but heard no more. Until . . .

  “No! Let me go!”

  “Don’t try to fight me. You know you won’t win.”

  Lorcan charged past Grace, toward the door.

  “I have to go.”

  He threw open the door and leaped out into the corridor. The door swung back shut. Grace waited for the sound of the key in the lock but it seemed that Lorcan was in such a hurry he had forgotten to lock her in again. Her heart raced. The scene outside had given her a chance.

  Grabbing the pile of clothes, she threw off the embroidered nightdress and quickly put on her old things. She was just knotting the laces on her shoes when she heard voices again, outside her window.

  “Leave him, Sidorio. He’s weak.” It was Lorcan.

  “And my hunger is strong.”

  “You’ve supped already tonight. You’ve had your share.”

  “It isn’t enough.”

  “You know it is. The captain tells us . . .”

  “Maybe I’m tired of being told things by the captain. Maybe I’m ready to make my own decisions.”

  Though unsure exactly what they were talking about, Grace had heard enough to be extremely worried. This time, she wouldn’t just listen. She darted around the cabin, blowing out the candles. As the last flame was extinguished, she found herself cloaked in utter darkness. It took her a moment to get her bearings and for her eyes to find their hold in the darkness. But then she stepped up to the curtain and drew it slowly back.

  She pressed up to the glass and looked outside. Lorcan’s back was toward her. He seemed to be fighting somebody — presumably the man he called Sidorio.

  “Go to your cabin,” she heard Lorcan cry.

  At that, a third figure darted past the window. An old man. A face pale and contorted with fear. Empty eyes.

  Lorcan and Sidorio wrestled and Lorcan was pulled around. Suddenly, Grace could see Sidorio’s face. He was looking right at her. It was the most horrific sight she had ever seen. The man’s features were horribly distorted — his eyes like pools of fire, his mouth engorged with blood. He looked more like a wild, rabid dog than a man. He seemed not just to be looking at her but into her.

  Suddenly, Lorcan turned and saw her looking out of the glass. The shock in his eyes was evident.

  At that, the curtain fell from her hand. It didn’t feel so much as though she had let it fall — more that it had been tugged free. Regardless, the porthole was closed to her once more. She tried to pull it back, but it felt as heavy as iron. She must be growing weak — or else, some dark magic was at work.

  Then, one by one, all the candles she had extinguished flickered back into life. How could this be happening? Grace stood, amazed, as the cabin was filled with light again. She raced toward the door but, as her hand touched the handle, she heard the crunch of the turning lock. She twisted the handle but it was too late. Once again, she was locked inside the cabin. Who was doing this? It couldn’t possibly be Lorcan. He couldn’t move that fast.

  Turning back to the bed, her eyes fell on a cup and saucer, sitting on the table. A spiral of steam rose in the air — as if to underline the fact that the cup had just been delivered to her as suddenly and mysteriously as the bowl of soup.

  She approached the cup and saucer, filled with fear and amazement. Giddily, she inhaled the overpowering scent of hot chocolate, infused with orange and nutmeg. It awoke a gnawing hunger deep within her — a hunger she had been unaware of only moments before.

  The more she saw of this ship, the more time she spent on board, the less any of it made sense.

  “Drink the hot chocolate,” said a voice inside her. It belonged to a whisper inside her head. “Drink.”

  She had heard that voice before. It belonged to the captain.

  12

  A GENTLE WAY TO DIE

  Breakfast on the pirate ship was organized chaos. The mess room, appropriately named, was full to bursting with pirates when Bart led Connor inside.

  “Quick, grab those seats, mate. They’ll be gone in a jiffy.”

  Somehow Connor managed to slide through the hordes and plant his butt on a wooden bench, stretching out his hand to save a place for Bart. The men opposite him looked up from their plates.

  “Haven’t seen you before,” one of them said. His mouth opened to reveal a desert of space, broken only by a few stumps of rotten brown teeth and scraps of food.

  “He must be that kid that Mistress Li fished out of the stew,” said the man next to him, leaning forward to get a better look.

  Connor nodded, trying to ignore the man’s foul breath. “I was shipwrecked. Cheng Li rescued me.”

  “Did she indeed?” said the first one. “So now what? You gonna be a pirate?” He chewed away on a piece of bread, considerably challenged by his lack of functioning teeth.

  “Maybe,” Connor said.

  “Think you got the guts for it, boy?” the other pirate asked, studying him intently. “Takes a lot of guts to be a pirate.”

  “A lot of guts, that’s right,” echoed his toothless neighbor. “And the Stinkbomb here, he knows all about guts. I say he knows all about guts!”

  With that, the toothless pirate prodded his mate in the center of his bulging belly. He was unable to hold in his laughter. Great guffaws blasted through his ugly fac
e and he showered Connor with a spray of half-chewed bread crumbs. The other one —“the Stinkbomb”— tittered nasally before letting out three loud farts in quick succession.

  Thankfully, at that moment, Bart arrived at the table bearing two plates laden with food. He scooted into the seat next to Connor and plunked the plates down on the table.

  “I see you’ve made the acquaintance of Toothless Jack and the Stinkbomb.” Under his breath, Bart added, “Two of the most useless excuses for pirates you’ll ever meet.”

  Connor smiled and looked down at his groaning plate. He wasn’t sure what everything was, but it smelled pretty good and he was starving. There were eggs in there somewhere, and some mush that tasted a bit like porridge and was satisfyingly filling. A charred chunk of something — possibly bacon, maybe saltfish — whatever, it tasted good. And a hefty piece of watermelon. It all slipped down like a treat.

  “Reckon you needed that, buddy.”

  “Mmm,” Connor said as he licked his lips, “is there any more?”

  “You’ll be lucky, Oliver Twist,” Bart said. “Why do you think I piled the plates so high to begin with? The trick here is when you see food, grab it — and grab as much as you can. The kitchen’s well stocked at the moment but that ain’t always the case. Now, why don’t you go and fetch us a couple of mugs of tea? Milk, no sugar, thanks.”

  He pushed Connor in the direction of the counter. Connor did the best job he could of weaving through the bustling pirate throng. They were a mixed bunch — young, old, fat, thin, tall, small, and every nationality you could think of. As many women as men . . . and they seemed just as noisy and unruly as their male counterparts.

  At last, he could see the hatch that led into the galley. He surged forward, and a young man, with a round face the color of beets, liberally sprinkled with acne, cried, “Yesss?”

  “Um, two teas, please.”

  Almost before the words had left his mouth, two large enamel mugs of steaming tea were thrust into his hands.