by ML Guida
The spider scurried through the smoke.
Phearson blocked Penelope with his body from the terrifying spider, then fired at it. “Leave her alone!”
The shot nicked the spider’s fang. The creature kicked him so hard he soared into the air, then he slammed onto the ground. The ground crumbled, and he slowly sank as if he were caught in quicksand. He frantically grabbed at the sand, but dirt and debris slipped through his fingers.
The white spider scurried after him, then the walls caved in; sand crashed onto his body, blinding him.
He fell into cold blackness, screaming. His arms and legs flailed around him, and air rushed over him, chilling his blood. He choked on debris and stretched out his hands to break his fall but touched emptiness.
Suddenly, sticky strands covered his body and bounced him around. He broke loose and was hurled into a mindless void, terrified the spider would rip him apart. Blackness turned to gray, gray turned to white, white turned to blue–he burst through the sky and plunged toward the calm blue sea.
He splashed into the water, and pain rippled through him, stealing his breath. Water filled his lungs, his vision blurred, and panic surged through him. He clawed his way to the top then burst through the surface, gulping down sea water. His lungs burned, threatening to burst. As he bobbed up and down, he moved his arms across the top of the water and kicked his legs hard until he wasn’t sucking down half the sea.
Instead of salt staining his lips, he realized it had been fresh water, but that wasn’t the only thing that was different. He wasn’t in the middle of the deep blue sea. He was in a wide river and looked across its banks to find a port and a bustling town he didn’t recognize.
He heard a plop behind him and turned around to see an alligator swimming toward him, staring at him with sinister eyes. If it got him in a death roll, it would be powerful enough to rip off his head.
His heart beating wildly, he drew on his vampire strength and swam as fast as he could to a pier. He grabbed the edge of the wooden pier, then using the last of his momentum, he swung himself up. He landed on his back hard and coughed up water again and again.
“Ye damn bloody fool,” a grizzled man said. He held a fishing pole in one hand. “Ye damn near scared away the fish.”
Phearson rolled onto his side and gasped for air. “Where the hell am I?”
The old man shook his head. “Ye drunken eejit.”
Phearson was in no mood for the man’s lecture, and in a flash, snagged his thin arm. “Tell me, where am I?”
The man’s face whitened, and he dropped his fishing pole into the river. “Yer eyes! Ye’re a vampire. How can this be? Ye’re out in the sun. The Pious Twelve said the devil only lets bloodsuckers out at night!” He slapped Phearson’s hand repeatedly.
Phearson grabbed the man’s gnarled hand. “Apparently, they were wrong. I am an exceptional vampire. I suggest ye tell me what I want to know, and I’ll let ye live.”
The man had wrinkles on top of wrinkles. He nodded his head up and down wordlessly, his loose skin flapping.
Phearson leaned closer. “Who are the Pious Twelve?”
“Don’t kill me.”
“Then answer my question.”
The old man licked his thin lips. “Vampire killers.”
Phearson raised an eyebrow. “´Tis not easy for a mere mortal to kill an immortal.”
“Please, I am not one of them.”
Phearson’s head was still swimming, and he cursed Zuto’s time spider for dumping him someplace where there were supposed vampire killers. He ran his hand through his thick wet hair. “Where the blazes am I?”
“Ye’re in Savannah.”
“Savannah?”
“Georgia.”
“I am in the Americas?” ´Twas supposed to be a desolate, barbaric place, but from what Phearson saw, it looked like a bustling port city.
“Aye, ye daft eejit.”
“Has the Fiery Damsel or Soaring Phoenix made port?”
“Never heard of ‘em.”
“If they made port, you would have. What year is it?
“Tis seventeen fifty-six.”
Phearson slowly released his grip as he grappled with the fact he was almost a hundred years into the future. How would he get back? Or did he want to get back? He was tired of being a slave. But who were the vampires here? Had either of the crews made it here? Was Quinton Palmer slugging around the town?
He closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Too many questions plodded around in his sluggish mind.
The wizened man jumped to his feet as quickly as a man of his age could and hobbled down the pier. Phearson dully wondered if he was going to tell this Pious Twelve that another vampire had entered their town.
Sailors were slugging supplies of chickens, goats, fruit, vegetables, and dried meat over their shoulders and carrying them up planks to frigates and schooners. Phearson forced himself to stand, but his legs wobbled, and dizziness swam in his head. Panic flared in his heart, but he hardened his features and walked toward town, hoping he didn’t have to face the Pious Twelve.
He brushed his hair out of his face. He was surprised his sword and pistol were still intact. If he wanted, he could ask to join one of the motley crews, but bitterness rolled over his tongue at the thought of being a slave again.
This time, he wanted to command a ship and sail the seas a free man. But to be captain, he’d need enough money to bribe a crew to mutiny against their captain and elect him. Pirates were not a loyal lot.
Except for the crew of the Soaring Phoenix. He couldn’t understand their loyalty to Captain Kane O’Brien, since his own crew lived in constant fear of Palmer.
Weariness sank into his muscles, and he needed a place to rest. His stomach growled, and he was surprisingly hungry and thirsty. He could feast on blood, but he wanted a mug of mead and something solid to fill his belly.
He put his hand on a street lamp to steady himself. Savannah was obviously not as populated or as advanced as London, but nevertheless, it had stores, markets, and taverns. He had no coin, but he smiled. That didn’t matter. He’d been an excellent pickpocket in London before he’d been forced to join Palmer’s crew. He’d eat tonight.
A well-dressed man wearing a tall hat and tailed coat cast him a sour look. Phearson noticed the bulge in the man’s front pocket and walked leisurely behind him. The man stopped in front of a shop to look at some books that were displayed. Phearson slid next to him, then with a slick motion, stuck his hand inside the man’s pocket and relieved him of his coin pursed. He’d been able to do this since he was twelve, and the mark was never the wiser. Being a vampire made it even easier.
He strolled down the walkway with the purse tucked inside his shirt, then climbed a hill to rows of taverns and shops. A woman crossed the street, maneuvering between carriages. She wore a cap that was supposed to cover her unruly brown curls, but ´twas the leather mask on the left side of her face that intrigued him. Even with the mask on, it couldn’t shield her natural beauty. She had huge brown eyes and creamy tanned skin. He’d always preferred women that weren’t afraid to be out in the sun.
Intrigued, he followed her into a white-painted tavern with a sign over the doorway that read Pirate’s House Inn. The little lass hurried over to the bartender and put on an apron.
He slid onto a wooden bench and waited patiently for her to attend him. He took out the stolen purse and pulled out slips of paper rather than coins. Strange. Not knowing how much they were worth, he put most of them back except for one. He didn’t want to overpay for mead and a hot meal.
She came over to him, and he thought she was even prettier up close–except for a cut on her lip that had begun to swell. Someone had struck the sweet lass, marring her perfect skin. Dark strands of hair escaped from the cap that softened her face. He couldn’t help but notice the moons of her breasts that peeked over her scooped neckline, tempting a man’s honor.
She smiled. “Would you like a plate and a pint?�
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By her English accent, he thought she’d come from Manchester.
“Aye, I would, lassie. That would do nicely.”
She turned, and her skirt fluttered up in the air, giving him a glimpse of a slender ankle. Soon, she brought him a pint of ale and a hot plate of potatoes and a slab of meat swimming in gravy. He dipped fresh baked bread in the gravy and was pleased by how well the simple fare tasted. It had been some time since the Damsel had been at shore, and the cook’s food on board was another stint of torture.
The lass worked hard and bustled the tables. The other wenches seemed more interested in flirting with customers rather than wiping down a table or taking away dirty dishes. Maybe they needed help here. For once, he could earn honest wages.
Chapter 3
Rosalind brought another pint to the handsome, but odd, stranger who’d followed her into the tavern. His clothes had been stuck to his muscular body as if he’d gone for a swim in the Savannah River. But as the night wore on, his clothes had dried, and his long hair had curled at the ends. He watched her intently with blue eyes that were almost clear, as if she could look down into his soul. The candle light flickered off a gold earring dangling from his right ear, and he wore a pistol and a sword on each hip, so he was obviously a pirate, but he’d been nothing but polite toward her. He sat quietly at a table in a corner, slowly sipping a draught.
She walked over to him. “Would you like another?”
He flashed her a smile that melted her insides. “Another would do fine, lassie.” He looked around the busy tavern. “I noticed yer busy and havena had a break. Would the owner be interested in hiring another hand?”
She blinked in surprise. “You’re looking for work?”
“That I am. Do they need help here?”
She tilted her head toward the back where her stepfather sat with her dreaded betrothed, Captain Barnard Foster. Unlike the attention she gave this handsome pirate, she’d avoided going near their table and allowed one of the other girls to wait on them. Earlier, she’d put ice on her lip to reduce the swelling and had no intention of having her stepfather beat her again. “He’s sitting in the back of the room surveying the place. I wouldn’t get my hopes up.”
He shrugged. “Doesna hurt to ask.”
He walked back to the table that was in the opposite corner. Rosalind turned and waited on the other customers, who, unlike her pirate, were deep into their cups. One burly man slobbered and grabbed her arm and forced her into his lap. He leered down her dress and tried to kiss her.
She shoved at his chest. “Release me, you brute.”
He laughed and squeezed her breast hard. “Why are ye so rude to old Bert? I need a warm lass to make me smile.”
She slapped him across the face and threw his draught into his disgusting face. “Leave me alone.”
All of sudden, she was on her feet, and the tip of a sword was under the man’s chin.
“The lady asked ye to leave her alone.”
Rosalind’s eyes widened. ´Twas her handsome pirate.
“She’s a tavern wench,” the man slurred.
“I said to leave her alone. Otherwise, yer mead will spill out yer gullet.”
Rosalind gave her rescuer a grateful smile. No man had defended her like he. He wasn’t looking at her, but glaring at her molester, then she noticed his eyes. One minute they were a clear blue, then his eyes darkened to a deep red. She had to be imagining it and rubbed the bridge of her nose. She was wrong. Lord, she must be tired, damn tired.
The man held up his shaking arms. “I don’t want no trouble with ye.”
“Good.” Her rescuer lowered his sword.
The drunk quickly got to his feet and stumbled toward the bar.
“Thank you,” Rosalind said, still astonished anyone would come to her aid. “No one has ever done that before.”
“Get used to it. I’ll be back tomorrow. My name is MacFie. Phearson MacFie. And yer bonnie name is?”
Heat warmed Rosalind’s cheeks. “I’m Rosalind Gill. Once again, thank you. Did Mr. Doyle hire you?”
“Aye.” He bowed slightly. “Until tomorrow night, Rosalind Gill.”
He left her. As he moved, she noticed he was taller, his shoulders broader, than most of the men in the crowded room.
Rosalind gathered up the empty glasses and put them on her tray. She hurried back to the kitchen, still trying to comprehend that the handsome stranger had come to her defense. Then she noticed Captain Foster and Mr. Doyle had their arms intertwined with her attacker’s.
“Where are ye takin’ me?” the man slurred. “I didn’t mean any harm.” He could barely walk, and one knee gave out.
“To get you some fresh air,” Captain Foster said. His voice held a sinister chill.
They dragged the man down a poorly lit corridor outside of the kitchen, which was strange because Rosalind had lit the lanterns earlier herself. Someone had turned them down. And why was there a rickety chair next to a wall?
“Let’s get him down the tunnel before the bloke starts hollering,” Mr. Doyle grunted.
Rosalind wasn’t sure she’d heard right. She’d heard rumors of tunnels built underneath the tavern, but her stepfather had always denied them when she asked.
She hid in the shadows, unable to stop from following them. Suddenly, the man was thrown onto the chair.
“What are ye doin’?” he asked as he swayed back and forth.
Captain Foster pulled out a small club hidden in his jacket. “Sending you on a merry trip.” He smacked the man across the head, and the poor man passed out.
Mr. Doyle reached up and pulled down on a lantern that actually moved. The floor flipped open, and the man and chair disappeared. Rosalind gasped and immediately put her hand over her mouth.
“Who’s there?” her stepfather cried.
But Rosalind had vanished into the kitchen, and she prayed he hadn’t seen her. Her heart quaking, she heard angry footsteps coming down the dark corridor. She ran over to the cellar door and quickly opened it with her trembling hand, then ran down the stairs. She was surprised to find the drunken man had fallen onto a bed of straw. Mr. Doyle and Captain Foster were outside the cellar door, so Rosalind ran and hid behind barrels of rum that she knew her stepfather smuggled into Savannah. She didn’t care about the rum, but why did he care if a man accosted her? Or did he?
She looked up at the ceiling, surprised to see the chair nailed to the floor. So, the floor spun around?
Heavy footsteps stomped down the stairs. Her heart skipped a beat with each thump. She scooted back against the wall, praying that they wouldn’t find her.
Their victim groaned.
A gunnysack filled with potatoes hung from a hook on one wall. Mr. Doyle pulled on the sack, and the wall creaked and slid open. She gasped and covered her mouth. A secret passageway!
“Let’s get this man to Hopper. He’s waiting for us at the end of the tunnel.”
Captain Foster shook his head. “The bastard’s as big as a whale.”
“Quit your bellyaching, and let’s move. Hopper’s willing to pay top price for this burley brute.”
Rosalind gritted her teeth. So, this was how her stepfather made his money––kidnapping innocent men and selling them. He always claimed that ´twas the tavern that lined his pockets with silver.
Mr. Doyle and Captain Foster grabbed the man’s arms and proceeded to drag him down the tunnel. Rosalind was captivated, and although she knew she should fly up the stairs to the safety of the bustling tavern, she had to see where the tunnel led. She had to report her stepfather, then she could escape his devilish plan to marry her to the despicable captain. But she needed proof before she went to the constable.
She forced herself to move out of her hiding place. Her legs trembling, she followed them into the tunnel.
Unfortunately, the tunnel was well lit, and the only way to hide would be to press herself against the wall next to a wooden beam. She licked her lips and crept down the stone tunnel
. ´Twas damp and cold–obviously this led toward the Savannah River.
As she followed, she turned down the lanterns to hide in the darkness and hoped they didn’t turn around. Up ahead, she could see a group of men waiting, and she remained in the darkness, crouching next to a wooden beam.
“Hopper.” Her stepfather panted. “Bring your lads down to carry this one.”
Two of the men raced over and carried the passed out man’s legs. Hopper was tall and lanky. He had a scarf tied round his head and held a glittering sword in his hand.
When they reached him, he tilted his head. “Take the bloke on board the ship.” He tossed both her stepfather and the captain a small bag that Rosalind assumed was filled with coins. “You two got bigger problems.”
“What? Why?” her stepfather asked.
“You were followed.”
The blood emptied from her face. Both Mr. Doyle and Captain Foster whirled, pistols drawn. Rosalind grabbed her gown and lifted it, then fled down the now darkened corridor. Her only hope was to reach the crowded tavern.
“Stop, or I’ll shoot,” her stepfather yelled.
She didn’t stop. A pistol discharged, the shot barely missing her. Ignoring the stays confining her lungs, she ran faster than she ever had. Mr. Doyle and Captain Foster were not in good shape, but working at the tavern every night had given her stamina. She reached the cellar then climbed the stairs two at time. She tripped over her gown and fell on one knee.
“Rosalind, you bitch!” her stepfather called.
Pain wrangled her, but Rosalind got up and hurried up the stairs. She threw open the door, then slammed it shut, buying herself a little time.
But not quite enough.
The door banged open. Tears blurring her eyes, she half-limped, half-ran into the tavern with both men closing the distance behind. She reached inside her pocket and clasped her father’s watch, drawing on his courage.
She reached the crowded tavern, but a steely hand grabbed her arm. She was crowded against the wall with both men blocking any escape.
“You nosey, wench,” her stepfather hissed.