Pirate's Persuasion

by Lisa Kessler

  She laid her ivory hands on the table, all her attention on his face. “You can believe in a banshee’s wail, but you can’t believe our souls have met before?”

  “Our souls?” He accepted his verbal communication skills were rusty, but right now he couldn’t grasp what she meant.

  “Past lives, Drake. I’ve lived many.” She raised a brow. “Have you?”

  “What do ye want from me?” He frowned, hardly noticing his true accent had bled into his words. It usually came natural to hide it. “I came here to protect you.”

  “You’re the one who hasn’t slept in days, and your nephew made contact with me because he thought you needed protection.”

  Madness. The woman was twenty steps ahead of him. He ran a shaky hand down his face, struggling to find a way out of this without exposing his entire immortal crew. “The banshee wail isn’t for me.”

  “How can you be so sure?” Concern and a calm wisdom shone in her bright eyes.

  “Wait.” He blinked, his tone full of equal parts disbelief and wonder. “You know, don’t you?”

  “I suspect.” She got up and came around to his side of the table, offering her hand. “Come with me.”

  He took it, marveling at the silky softness of her skin in his rough, callused hand. She led him over to the couch and pulled him down to sit beside her. Although he loosened his grip on her hand, she didn’t slide hers free. Instead, she stared at their joined hands, her voice distant. “Past lives are just shadows, remnants of forgotten dreams, but our souls recognize energy.” Her gaze lifted to his face. “And that night, when you put yourself between the gunman and me, part of my soul remembered, and maybe yours did, too. That wasn’t the first time we met.”

  “That night…” He lost himself in her eyes, the centuries of loneliness, guilt, and regret swelling until he wasn’t sure he could speak. Every angle of her face spoke to him, but they barely knew each other. In her bright blue eyes, the window to her soul, there was something familiar. If she’d seen him dressed like Thomas, it must’ve been in England. He blinked, unable to wrap his mind around it. “I felt it, too.”

  She squeezed his hand. “So tell me the truth.”

  She made it sound so simple.

  Nothing about any of this was simple. He cleared his throat and forced himself to speak. “I drank from that cup, the Holy Grail, in 1795.” He paused, examining the weight of that secret shifting inside him. He’d never told a soul. “I’m still here.”

  He waited for her to laugh, or run, or accuse him of lying. Instead, she laced her fingers with his. “And the boy who came to me about his uncle?”

  “My nephew, Thomas.” His vision blurred. He hadn’t spoken the boy’s name aloud since the night they sank, his dark secret buried deep in his heart. His failure. “I held him as we sank with the ship.” His voice caught, cutting to a raspy whisper. “I couldn’t save him.”

  Heather wrapped his hand with both of hers and squeezed, anchoring him. “The boat sinking wasn’t your fault.”

  Gods, he wanted that to be true with every fiber of his being. How could he make her understand? He couldn’t repair the hole. His two hands couldn’t fix it. He’d failed. All the pain, the hope, the ache for connection mixed with her kindness and swirled into a tempest of emotion he couldn’t navigate.

  No trace of judgment lingered in her gaze. He lifted his free hand, aching for reassurance that this wasn’t a dream. His fingers slid through her silky hair as he tucked it behind her ear. Words were too insignificant for this moment, or this woman. He met her eyes and whispered, “I should go.”

  She tilted her head slightly, her gaze steady. “Why?”

  He swallowed the lump in his throat. “Because…if I stay…I may kiss you.”

  She didn’t recoil at his confession. Instead, color flushed her pale skin, enticing him closer as he searched her face.

  “Don’t go,” she whispered.

  He lost his tenuous grip on self-control and leaned in closer, kissing her with an unfamiliar tenderness. His battered heart had been on display for her, his secrets exposed, and instead of rejecting him, she offered acceptance, a safe harbor in the storm of painful memories he’d shouldered alone for centuries.

  Her hand moved up his chest and around his neck. He tilted his head as her lips parted, opening and welcoming his exploration. She tasted like raindrops and moonlight, delicious and refreshing. He might never get enough. Her fingers tangled in the back of his hair, the pull drawing a long-dormant passion from his soul. He wrapped her in his arms, their tongues tangling in a hungry desperation for closeness.

  He yearned for her, to claim her, to know every inch of her.

  It had been lifetimes since he’d experienced this kind of connection with another person. Not since…

  He broke the kiss, breathless as he frowned. “In your vision, what was I wearing when I bowed?”

  She blinked as if dazed. The pink flush to her cheeks tempted him to ignore his own question and taste her lips again.

  Heather took a slow breath. “Um… It was a dance. You had your hair tied back, and a blue coat.” A gentle smile warmed her face. “I think it was too small. You couldn’t button it.”

  His heart stuttered in his chest. How could this be real? He released her and raked his hair back with shaky fingers. “You couldn’t possibly know that.”

  Memories flashed through his mind faster than he could track. He got up from the sofa, taking a step back. Only one woman he’d danced with that night. The name rose to his lips, but he was afraid to voice it.

  Heather rose to her feet, concern filling her eyes at his retreat. “Maybe you could fill in the blanks.”

  He turned in her direction, studying her face.

  This was Heather. He’d trusted her so far.

  “Her name was…Lucy.” Heather looked nothing like Lucy, and yet…the night they met, he’d recognized her. His mouth went dry. “Her father planned for her to marry well. I was the son of a carpenter. I had no chance. But we fell in love anyway. I promised her I would love her for a thousand years if that was what it took.” A baffled chuckle escaped him as he cursed under his breath. “I don’t know what any of this means.”

  Heather reached for his hand. “It means it took over two hundred years for our souls to find each other again. That much and that little.”

  This couldn’t be real. He rubbed the back of his neck, breaking eye contact. Could she be right? Could souls reconnect across lifetimes and oceans of time? He dropped his hand to his side, looking her way again. “How is any of that ‘little?’”

  “Just because we found each other here and now doesn’t mean we get to pick up where you left off with Lucy. I’m not her. Not in this lifetime, anyway.” Her crooked smile warmed him. “But I’m open to making new memories.”

  “New memories?” He started to smile, but before he could say anything else, a screech stabbed through his skull, piercing like a harpoon through his mind. Drake stumbled backward, gripping his head in his hands. Through the wailing, Thomas’s voice cried, “Save me. Please. Uncle Drake, don’t let me die.”

  Drake covered his ears. The memories and nightmares had taunted him for centuries, but this was different. The night the Sea Dog was lost, Thomas had never begged.

  “Fuck off,” he grunted, his eardrums pulsating, aching for relief.

  “You left me.” The boy’s cries became a shout, reaching him past the banshee’s high-pitched yowl. “I rotted at the bottom of the ocean. Forgotten! Coward!”

  Suddenly Thomas’s tear-stained face filled his head and a strangled sob caught in Drake’s throat. “Never. I…I visit.”

  “Liar!”

  He flinched.

  “An empty plot at the Bonaventure. I’m not there, Uncle. My bones were picked clean by scavengers like garbage!”

  “No, no, no…” Drake
kept his eyes shut tight, willing the torment to cease. Praying, begging for silence.

  “You should be dead, Uncle. Not me. Why won’t you die?”

  …

  Heather left Drake in the living room and ran into the kitchen. In the lower cupboard near the sink, she grabbed her canister of sea salt and a fresh bundle of sage. By the time she got back to the living room, Drake was doubled over at the waist, covering his ears and grunting.

  “Get out of my fucking head!”

  Heather opened the spout and circled him with the salt. The moment the circle was complete around him, he dropped to his knees, gasping for air.

  She gripped the canister with white knuckles. “Are they gone?”

  He nodded his head without looking up. “It was Thomas.”

  She took the sage over to the abalone shell and lit the end, allowing it to smolder. “Stay inside the ring of salt for now.”

  He lifted his head, his bright blue eyes rimmed in red. “I lied to you that night about not being anyone’s uncle. I’m sorry.”

  She knelt in front of him, being careful not to break the protective ring of salt. “I didn’t cause this.”

  “I know.” His gaze searched her, desperation and fear shadowing his strong features. His voice broke. “I left that boy to Davy Jones. This is my fault.”

  “No.” Thomas’s words echoed through Heather’s mind as she shook her head. “That’s what the witches want you to think.”

  “I held him as the sea claimed us.” He broke eye contact, his shoulders falling under the weight of the guilt he carried. “I meant to perish with him, so he wouldn’t be alone, but the cursed cup denied my wish. I don’t know how I ended up on the banks of the river.”

  Heather caught his chin, pulling his focus back to her. The pain in his gaze stabbed at her heart. “Thomas came to me that night because he was afraid for you, not because he blamed you. Whoever has conjured his spirit out of the sea wants to make you feel responsible.”

  “It was Thomas.” His voice wavered. “I heard his voice.”

  She swallowed the lump in her throat. “I don’t know how they’re doing this, but I’m going to find out.” She ran her finger along the stubble of his cheek, needing to soothe him, aching to ease his pain. Usually she kept her distance from others, but her connection to him was far from usual. This pull to ease his pain was instinctual, like breathing. “That little boy loves you, Drake. That’s why he was so desperate for me to warn you.”

  “And you did that.” He covered her hand with his, sending a charge of awareness up her arm. “My crew will help me. I don’t want to put you in danger.”

  She slid her hand free and stood up, immediately aching from the loss of his touch. “As far as I can tell, no one else on your crew can communicate with the dead. You need me.”

  Time slowed as he got to his feet, rubbing his hands on his jeans. He straightened to his full height and stared directly into her soul. If he tried to push her away for her own safety, she was going to scream. Their souls had found each other again. It meant something, and she was strong enough to see it through. Was he?

  His gaze searched hers, and Drake nodded. “Then we work as a team.”

  “Good.” She pointed at the salt. “Try stepping out of the ring and let’s see if the spirits return.”

  He took a tentative step and then another.

  She held her breath, but he seemed fine.

  “It’s quiet,” he whispered.

  “Good.” She caught his hand, leading him toward the stairs. “We have work to do.” He didn’t move. She looked over her shoulder. “Are you all right?”

  “Now that my brain isn’t trying to bleed out my ears, I think whoever is behind this doesn’t know my secret.”

  She raised a brow. “About the Grail?”

  He reached up to rub his forehead. “Before you poured the salt, Thomas asked why I wouldn’t die.” He met her eyes. “The banshee is for me, but I don’t think they realize they can’t collect.”

  …

  David closed the document file in the browser window and picked up his phone. He pressed Kingsley’s number and waited.

  “Yes?” The Brit answered as if he’d been expecting David’s call all along.

  “None of these scans from the Scrolls of the Dead mention a way to control spiritual energy. I’m missing something.”

  Department 13 maintained the largest library of rare books and scrolls documenting all aspects and mythologies of paranormal phenomenon in the world. The Scrolls of the Dead not only discussed necromancy, but also provided the most detailed description of spells to accomplish the task. If there was a way to control the spirits of the dead, it should’ve been here.

  David stared out the window at the sunset coloring the sky. “My gut says this isn’t a spell. If this coven is still recruiting, then they haven’t completed their sacred circle yet. If they can already control the spirits, it’s got to be through using a relic or a charmed object of some kind. They wouldn’t have enough power to generate a strong enough spell without a complete circle.”

  “Devil’s advocate,” Kingsley countered with one of his old standbys. “They could be lying in order to gain recruits.”

  “No.” David waved off the suggestion. “Heather saw the spirit of a boy who died before Oatland Island was ever inhabited. He wasn’t a local haunt tied to the location, and he told her the witches pulled him from the sea.”

  Kingsley cleared his throat. “If that were true, how could a coven of witches steal his spirit from Davy Jones? The legendary keeper of souls lost at sea wouldn’t give one up without a fight.”

  There were countless nautical tales of Davy Jones from the days when sea monsters and sirens haunted the dreams of superstitious sailors. But working for Department 13 had taught David that lurking behind every myth was often an unexplainable reality.

  “You gave me an idea. Send me all the documentation we have on sightings of the Flying Dutchman.”

  “Beyond the Jack Sparrow movies?”

  David rolled his eyes. “I’m serious, King. Get me the information.”

  He ended the call and reached for his coat. If he hurried, he might be able to make it to the maritime museum before they closed.

  In the basement of the Ships of the Seas Maritime Museum, David found Dr. Charlotte Sinclair. As usual, she was the last to leave. “Dr. Sinclair?”

  Her head snapped up from her paperwork, her expression changing from surprise to…annoyance. “Agent Bale. I thought you were finished with us.”

  Charlotte narrowed her dark eyes as she removed her reading glasses. Her long black hair was tied back, neat and tidy like her gray business suit. No one would imagine this historian was also a new member of the Sea Dog pirate crew. Kingsley’s daughter was full of surprises.

  David stepped into her office and took the chair across from her desk. “I’m not here for the crew. I think my friend Heather might be in danger. I’m looking for information about Davy Jones and the Flying Dutchman. Perhaps the maritime museum has something that might help?”

  “Wow. So Davy Jones is…real?” She got up, speaking as she left her office. “We do have an antique book.”

  When she returned, she handed David a worn, water-stained book of sea tales. “I think there are some stories about the Flying Dutchman in this book. I’ve got some scans of captains’ journals, too. I can skim those and see if I find anything.”

  “Thank you,” David mumbled, already exploring the text on his lap.

  “You know,” she mused as she sat behind her desk again. “We both happen to know a pirate captain from the 1700s.” She paused for a second. “I could call Ian Flynn. He’s still the Captain of the Sea Dog crew even though they don’t all see eye-to-eye. Maybe he remembers some legends about relics that might control ghosts.”

  “No.” D
avid didn’t lift his head from the text. “The Sea Dog crew has screwed with me for the last time.”

  “Excuse me.” Dr. Sinclair cleared her throat and set her glasses on the desk. “Have you forgotten I’m also part of the Sea Dog crew?”

  He sighed and raised his eyes from the tattered pages. “I haven’t, but they’re not what I need. Right now, it’s after hours at the museum, and a historian makes more sense than a pirate.”

  “But Flynn was alive when all these legends were born.”

  David narrowed his eyes. “Do you know that Flynn has been trying to locate the leader of the Digi Robins ring? We’ve intercepted some of his communications, and your ‘captain’ has been offering to work with the thieves and hackers who nearly cost me my entire career.”

  The Digi Robins were a different brand of pirates altogether. They stole relics and sold them on the dark web to the highest bidder regardless of how dangerous the artifact might be.

  But when they’d taken Pandora’s Box, it also resurrected the Serpent Society, religious fanatics prepared to bring about doomsday in a misguided belief it would reopen the doors to the Garden of Eden. He’d tried to stop both groups during the confrontation at the Bonaventure Cemetery a few months ago, lost more than he bargained for in the fight. He damned well wasn’t going to make the same mistake again.

  Judging by the way Charlotte was gaping at him, he had all the answers he needed. She wielded a powerful psychic gift, being able to astral project her spirit and manipulate matter, but she was a horrible liar.

  Her reaction made it clear Flynn hadn’t told the crew what he’d been working on. Interesting.

  Since the showdown at the Bonaventure Cemetery, Department 13 had a couple of agents surveilling the Sea Dog’s captain. Flynn’s offices were based in Atlanta, but recently he’d been spending a curious amount of time in Savannah, and when one of their agents visited Flynn Enterprises under the guise of a Geek Squad tech to fix a network issue, he found a cache of digital files on the Digi Robins group, including a list of potential leaders of the dark web thieves.

  David didn’t know the motive behind the attempts to contact the leader yet, but it couldn’t be for anything good. He tapped the page with his finger. Heather had mentioned Drake, the ship’s carpenter; had she met the captain yet? Maybe he could convince her to collect more information on the captain’s movements.