A Pirate's Revenge (Legends of the Soaring Phoenix) (31 page)

“I am not hungry,” Mariah said.

“Please, he made it special. I’ll eat with you. You won’t be alone.”

Solstice barked.

“Yes, Solstice.” Hannah laughed. “You can come with us.”

Mariah wanted to pout like she had as a little girl and refuse to come out of her cabin. But she was not a little girl. She wanted to slip into her mother’s lap and tell her about the nightmare and the bad man who hurt her. But her Mother had been dead for fifteen years and would not approve of her cowardice. She would scold Mariah and tell her that she was a grown woman and Fey women did not cower in their beds. They faced foes head-on. Be strong. Be brave.

She got out of her hammock and quickly braided her unruly hair and straightened her dress. Hannah waited and walked with her, arm-in-arm, to the galley. She was her shield. Solstice padded on the other side. Mariah wanted to tell Hannah about her nightmare, but she could not bring herself to do so. Hannah would tell Kane, and Kane would order that either she or William or one of the crew members kill her brother. It might not be true. ’Twas only a dream, a bad dream.

When she entered the galley, she froze. William sat the trestle table, nursing an ale and talking in a low voice with two other crewmen. One of them was Hannah’s father, and at first, Mariah did not recognize him. The man who sat at the table looked nothing like the broken shell she’d become used to seeing on deck. The man’s salt and pepper hair was pulled back into a neat queue. His gray eyes and rosy cheeks showed evidenced that he had been getting exercise. He had changed his clothes and wore them like an officer, his purple, short-waisted doublet clean and crisp.

Solstice sauntered over to him, and he patted her head. “Hello, girl. Where you’ve been hiding? I’ve missed you.”

Solstice wagged her tail and nuzzled his hand.

Mariah smiled.

Hannah squeezed Mariah’s arm. “I can’t thank you enough for Solstice. You were right.” Tears brimmed in Hannah’s eyes. “She healed him.”

Mariah and Hannah sat at the end of the table, opposite William. He remained quiet and thumped his fingers on the table.

“I’ll be right back,” Hannah said.

Mariah squirmed in her seat and tried to ignore William. She wished someone would come and sit next to her—Doc, Amadi, anyone.

William pushed away from the table and plopped into the chair next to her. “So, you’re not speaking to me?”

“I am not ignoring you.”

“Then why didn’t you say anything when you walked in here?” He sipped his ale.

She wanted to slap him. “This is not the time or place to have this discussion.”

He slammed the ale down. “You’re right.” Before she could protest, he grabbed her arm and whisked her off her seat.

William dragged her back to her cabin and pushed her up against the wall. He put his hands on either side of her face. “Tell me about this bonding.”

“I told you earlier. It was the only way I could save you.”

“All I want to do is be by you. I can’t think. I can’t eat. What does bonding mean?”

“’Tis funny. I do not feel the same way about you,” she lied.

He drew his chin and moved his finger down her cheek. “You’re trembling. I don’t believe you. I think you want me as much as I want you.”

“Well, you are wrong.”

“Mm, really?” He leaned over and kissed her.

She tried to break free, to not fall under his spell, but her body surrendered, and she raised her arms and slipped her hands around his neck. He pressed his body against hers and revealed his strength. Their kiss deepened, and she relished his masculine taste mixed with ale and fire.

He moved his lips down her throat, and she ran her fingers through his thick locks.

“I can’t get enough of you whether ’tis a spell or desire,” he murmured. “What have you done to me?”

Mariah froze. He still did not trust her. Hurt pooled in her gut. He might as well have chained her to the anchor and cast her overboard.

“William,” Amadi called from outside the canvas. “Capt’n needs you and Mariah now.”

William groaned. “Bloody hell.”  He straightened and reached for her hand. She knocked it away and rushed out of the cabin, nearly bumping into Amadi.

He gripped her shoulders. “Watch it, lassie.”

She jerked free.  

“Mariah,” William called. “Will. You. Wait?”

She refused to answer, and lifting her skirt, ran up the stairs. William thundered behind her.

Out on deck, Kane was at the bow, peering through his spyglass. Ahead of them was a swirling squall with black clouds and flashing lightning.

The hair on the back of Mariah’s neck stood up straight. Blood drained from her face, and she trembled. The war between her and her brother had begun. 

The tub and food were gone. Natasa had them removed. Lark was alone with his stench. His thirst. His hunger. His body and limbs were numb to the throbbing pain. Death was not too far off, and he would welcome it. He had not given into Natasa and could die a witch with honor.

Natasa strolled in and wrinkled her nose, waving her hand in front of her face. “God, the smell.”

Lark hung his head. He wanted to glare, wanted to yell, but his strength was failing.

“Still not talking, handsome?” She smiled. “I have a remedy for your stubbornness. I’ve been to see my Lord,” Natasa said.

He refused to speak, his dread too burdensome. She moved toward him, and he shuddered.

“Maketabori is tired of waiting for you to change and bring the
Phoenix
to the island. He wants Knight and his daughter. And of course, he wants your sister.”

“He cannot have my sister.”

“The God of the Underworld isn’t the only one your sister has to worry about. She has thwarted my plans one too many times. I don’t like to have my power challenged.”

“You cannot defeat her,
oui
?” Lark wished his voice was stronger.

She laughed and stretched her arms. Her cruel laughter twisted his insides into frayed knots. She unraveled her curled fingers, and in her palm laid a solid black stone that emitted power. Electric tingles swept over his body, as if a thousand red ants scurried over his skin, biting him. He wanted to kick it out of her hand, but he was helpless to do anything.

“Do you know what this is?” she asked.

Lark said nothing.

“’Tis a soul stealer.”

He pursed his lips together and spit.
Merde!
He could not even conjure enough saliva to spray the wench. So pitiful.

Her red eyes darkened. “I tire of your insolence, slave. Time for you to succumb to your destiny.” She blew onto the stone. Black smoke leaked out and formed a clawed hand. “Seize his soul.”

“
Mon Dieu
, no!”

The clawed hand clutched at his naked chest. Nails burrowed into his flesh, and he wrenched his body to dislodge the fingers. ’Twas useless. He could not breathe or move. His heart pounded, blood thumped between his temples, and he thought the claw would rip out his heart.

He whispered a spell and called upon his magic to stop the hand. The
yari
squeezed his neck, the rubies stabbing him. Pain blinded him, and the words died on his lips.

The claw stopped digging inside him and wiggled backward, pulling something stringy out of him. White light streamed out his chest, pure and bright. The skeleton fingers clutched the light and yanked. He threw his head back with unbearable agony, and he screamed. All the good, all the fight, all the Fey ripped out of his very being.

The smoke disappeared into the stone, taking the white light with it.

Lark slumped and emptiness consumed him.

Long fingers cupped his chin and lifted his face. “Feeling any different, Lark?”

Lark stared into a woman’s deep ruby eyes. Flaming red hair cascaded over her shoulders, and he had an urge to run his fingers through it to see if ’twas silky as it looked. “Who are you?”

She smiled, and those red lips tempted him. “Success.” She released him and raised a black stone streaked with white over her head. “Coaybay.”

The stone shook and vanished.

“Chains release him,” she said.

Manacles clanked, and he fell onto the ground into a crumpled heap. Stiff muscles ached, and his stomach growled.

“You need a bath.”

He raised his head. “Who are you?”

“Your mistress.”

Mistress? He was a slave. How had he gotten here? Why did he smell like human garbage? He tried to stand, but his legs betrayed him, and he collapsed again. Fuzziness gripped his mind, and when he tried to think, a thundering headache pounded between his temples.

“Your strength will return in time. As will your magic.”

“My magic?”

“Yes, you’re a warlock, and together, we will rule the Caribbean.”

“I am?” 

She laughed and left him alone. He tried to catch his breath to clear his mind. Why did it hurt to remember?

He moved and winced. He glanced down and was surprised to see three long red scratches on his chest. Had she scratched him? He did not remember her. Why would she?

What the devil was he wearing around his neck? He pulled at the tight collar around his throat.

The door opened, and dark-skinned men carried a brass tub that sloshed with water. Women carried platters of fresh fruit and roasted meat on their heads. The men put the tub down next to Lark, and the women put the trays of food on a nearby table. The mistress sauntered back into the hut and gestured with her hand. “His smell offends me. Wash him and let me know when he’s presentable.”

For the next hour, the women scrubbed his scalp, washed the filth from his body, and fed him. Clothes were brought, and he donned a clean shirt and pressed trousers.

A lanky man ducked through the doorway and came into the hut. “I am Atoll. The mistress sends for you. She and the master await your presence.”

“Master?”

“Yes,” Atoll said.

Lark winced at the brightness of the sun. ’Twas as if he had not been outside for weeks. Had he? Damn it, he could not remember. He rubbed his throbbing chest. The women had dressed his wound and put salve on it, but it failed to dull the pain.

Atoll led Lark through a dense jungle. Birds sang all around them, and flies buzzed through the humid air. He slapped his neck at the biting insects. His feet sank into wet leaves and mud, and he knocked branches and vines out of the way to keep up with Atoll’s long strides. Moisture and heat assailed him, and his clothes stuck to his skin. He wanted to call out to Atoll but refused to show any weakness.

Through the foliage, Lark spotted a schooner with red sails anchored off shore. It looked familiar. Where had he seen it? He tried to remember, but suddenly a sharp pain throbbed between his temples. He stumbled over a gnarled tree root and grabbed a vine to keep from falling.

Atoll stopped. “Is something wrong?”

Lark panted. “I…will be…well in a…minute. Need...to…catch…my  breath.”

He leaned against a palm tree and watched as the sun dipped into the ocean. White clouds turned pink and orange. ’Twas beautiful. Soft. Breathtaking. He couldn’t take his eyes off it. He wanted to sear this scene into his mind, afraid it would be the last he’d see for awhile.

Why did he think this? His throat constricted. The loss of never seeing the sun again spilled into his gut, and he couldn’t figure out why he thought he’d be denied this simple pleasure. He tried to think of the sunset from last night, but nothing formed in his hazy mind.
Merde!
When was the last time he’d seen a sunset?

The mistress came into his view and beckoned to him as she spoke to a dark-haired man who wore only a loin cloth.

“Come,” Atoll urged. “The mistress will be angry if you do not hurry. You can rest later.”

Atoll quickened the pace, and Lark trailed behind as they walked onto the beach. The dark-haired man curled his lip and flashed his gaze over Lark. The man was three times taller than Lark. Lark felt like a small boy standing in his shadow. But ’twas not the man’s height or wide girth that struck fear in Lark. ’Twas the power oozing from him. Not like a witch or a warlock’s magic. But darkness. Demonic.    

The mistress waved her hand. “Leave us, Atoll.”

“Yes, mistress.” Atoll bowed and quickly exited back into the jungle.

She caressed Lark’s cheek. “My, handsome, how you’ve changed.”

Lark shivered at her touch. It was cold and reeked of death. What the hell was she?