Demons of the Ocean

by Justin Somper

  The captain of the defeated ship had taken little convincing. He knew he was outnumbered. As Cate led him from his cabin, all he could do was moan about what his boss would say when he learned that his precious cargo had been taken.

  “You can tell him that Captain Molucco Wrathe of The Diablo sends him his warmest regards,” said a familiar voice.

  Captain Wrathe stepped out from the trailing cannon smoke, looking utterly pristine, his swords already back in their silver scabbards.

  “We thank you kindly for your cargo,” Captain Wrathe said. “And if you’ll just assist with carrying it up here for loading, we shall not impose any further upon your precious time.”

  On Cate’s orders, Connor followed a pair of prisoners down to the hold, and kept his sword trained on them as they made four journeys each to haul up the treasures stowed below. They were too terrified to be indignant.

  Finally, the bounty was piled high on the deck like a bonfire of riches. The pirates divided up again into two teams. The first eights held the defeated crew in a circle while the broadsworders and the second eightsmen collected the goods and carried them across the Three Wishes to the deck of The Diablo. After a couple of journeys back and forth, Connor had all but lost his earlier fear.

  “Can ya give me a hand here, buddy?” Bart called.

  Beaming, Connor picked up the other end of the last chest and, together, they hauled it over the wish.

  The rest of the attack teams returned, jumping down from the Three Wishes triumphantly onto the deck. The three temporary bridges were raised behind them like drawbridges, dormant until the next raid.

  Cheers greeted the attackers’ return and there was a ceaseless round of hugs and backslapping and high fives.

  “Well done, buddy!” said Bart, slapping Connor heartily on the back.

  “Well done, indeed!” cried Captain Wrathe. “A fine raid, my fellows. A fine raid.” He put a broad arm around Cate and hugged her. “Magnificent work, Cate, truly magnificent.”

  Cate blushed furiously.

  “We did it,” Connor said to Bart. “We did it!”

  “You’re a pirate now,” Bart said to him. “May God help ya, you’re a bona fide pirate.”

  Connor turned his gaze toward the ocean and saw the defeated ship beating a swift retreat toward the darkening horizon. He walked away from the others, up to the guardrail.

  “I told you you could do it,” said another familiar voice.

  “Dad!” he said aloud.

  “You did well today, Connor.”

  “Where’s Grace?” Connor asked. “Is she alive? Where is she?”

  He waited but there was silence. Behind him, he heard the jubilant crew. Why had his dad ignored his last question?

  There was more cannon fire. Still he stood at the guardrail, his eyes fixed on the horizon, waiting.

  At last, the calm voice spoke once more inside his head.

  “Not yet, Connor. Not yet. But soon.”

  26

  THE FIGUREHEAD

  Grace turned on her feet and ran back out of the kitchen, into the corridor. Where were the stairs? How much time did she have?

  The bell tolled again.

  How could she have lost track of the day like this? She must have slept for far longer than she had realized. She wondered what secret ingredient the cook might have slipped into her bread and soup.

  By the next toll of the bell, she had reached the corridor where Old Nathaniel had stumbled out of his cabin. It was quiet now and the doors were all closed. Perhaps there was still time.

  Throwing herself at the stairway, she took two steps at a time, no longer concerned at the noise she was making. Her heart pounded wildly. She had to make it back to her cabin before the crew awoke.

  Again the bell tolled. How many strikes did she have?

  Now she was in the corridor beneath the main deck. She could hear signs of life behind the closed doors. No, more like signs of death. Don’t even think about it, Grace, just run!

  She was already out of breath when she reached the last stairwell. If only she was as fit as Connor. Never mind, not much farther now. She could almost hear him giving her encouragement.

  Reaching the top of the stairs, she looked back along the corridor. Then she realized there was a quicker way. The door here — the one she’d ignored earlier — opened out onto the deck. She could get to her cabin quicker that way. She pushed it open as the bell sounded once more.

  It was a shock to find it was dark outside, though of course she knew it must be. But it was utterly dark and she had to pause to get her bearings. If she ran off wildly now, she might easily slip off the edge of the ship or run into the mast or some other hidden danger.

  Suddenly, a glow of light appeared at her side. Gratefully, Grace looked around. The light grew stronger, strong enough to tell her that she needed to run to her left.

  “Ain’t you gonna stop and say how-do?”

  It was a girl’s voice. Behind her. Grace knew she should just put her head down and run. The captain had told her to return to her cabin by nightfall. And she’d almost made it.

  “Well, that’s just rude if you ask me. And I have no truck with rude persons.”

  “I’m sorry.” Grace turned around. Better to say a quick hello and then run.

  Facing her was a young woman, her hair styled in a neat bob, wearing an old-fashioned dress. There was a name for it. Grace searched her memory. A flapper dress, yes, that was it. She had a headband, too, with a black feather in it. And everything — the clothes, the hairband, the girl’s bare feet — was all dripping wet. Her face was a mess. She’d clearly been wearing quite a bit of makeup and it was running all over the place, making her eyes swim in pools of black and her small bow-shaped mouth drip with scarlet.

  “It’s rude to stare, don’t you know?” the girl said. “Even if I am quite beautiful.”

  “I’m sorry,” Grace said. “I was just thinking . . . how pretty your dress is.”

  It wasn’t at all what she had been thinking but it turned out to be just the right thing to say. The girl’s lips parted in a broad smile.

  “Why, thank you. It’s an original copy of a Chanel, don’t you know. I’ll be changing in a moment, once I’ve finished my nightfall duties.”

  The girl waved a lit taper, raising it to a lantern, which blossomed into light. Carefully, she closed the lantern again and walked, with the elegance of a ballet dancer, to the next one, just at Grace’s side.

  “Are you Miss Flotsam?” Grace asked, suddenly putting the pieces together.

  “Why, yes,” she said, smiling prettily again. “Darcy Flotsam, entertainer at large, formerly of The Titania. And who might you be?”

  “Grace, Grace Tempest.”

  “Charmed, I’m sure,” said Miss Flotsam, pausing in her duties to give Grace a little curtsy.

  What a strange doll-like creature she was, thought Grace.

  “So you rang the bell,” Grace said.

  “That is correct. I always ring the bell. I’m always the first one up. It’s my duty to sound the bell and then to light the lanterns. And then I can go and get changed out of these wet things into something lovely and dry.”

  She continued past Grace, opening up the next lantern. Grace should really be getting back inside, but her cabin was close now. And the deck was still deserted, save for the two of them. No harm could come from talking a while longer to Darcy Flotsam, surely.

  “How did you get so wet?” Grace asked.

  Miss Flotsam giggled. “Silly, I took a little swim, of course, like I always do. It’s important to have a good stretch at the end of the day, especially when you have a” — she took a deep breath — “sed-en-ta-ry job like mine.”

  “A sedentary job?”

  “Characterized by much stillness and little physical exercise . . . Mr. Byron taught me that. He’s very good with words.”

  “What exactly is your job?” Grace asked.

  Miss Flotsam turned and a
dopted a balletic posture, raising her whole body in a fine arch. She reached her arms back behind her waist and set her face forward, nose tilted to the sky.

  “There’s your clue,” she said.

  Grace shook her head, utterly confused.

  “Why, I’m the ship’s figurehead, aren’t I?”

  Grace looked over to the prow of the ship and noticed that there was indeed now an empty space where the figurehead had been. Could this really be true? On this ship, anything was possible.

  “Figurehead by day, figure of fun by night,” Miss Flotsam said. “Trust me, dearie, if you had to hold that position for fourteen hours at a stretch, you’d need a good old swim at the end of it, too!”

  “But how?”

  “Oh, it’s a long and fascinating story,” said Miss Flotsam, closing the lamp as she spoke and stepping elegantly on to the next. “I was an entertainer, a chanteuse, on the great cruise ship, The Titania. I sang after second supper each night and all the posh gents and ladies, they loved my singing and my little dances. Well, you’ll remember, I’m sure, what occurred that fateful night when The Titania was struck mid-ocean by a powerful bolt of lightning. We sank. We were all thrown in the water, but something curious happened to me. We’d sunk on the very site where an old galleon had been wrecked. I knew nothing of this till much later, of course. I was sleeping, you see . . . I had crossed. But later, when they salvaged the wrecks, they found this beautiful figurehead lying on the ocean floor . . . me! For, somehow, I had become one with the galleon’s figurehead. So they salvaged me and took me away to a very important nautical museum. They gave me a special tag and put me in the storeroom for safekeeping while they decided where best to display me. I lay there for several days and nights, and then I got bored. And, one night, I just opened my eyes, stretched my legs, climbed up from the bench, and walked out of the very important nautical museum . . .”

  “So you’re a vampire, too,” Grace said, her eyes wide with wonder.

  “I am not a vampire.” Miss Flotsam shook her head firmly, her neat bobbed hair spinning over her cheeks. “I’ll have you know, I’m a Vam-pi-rate.”

  Grace couldn’t help but smile.

  “So, what’s your story, Grace?” Miss Flotsam asked her.

  “Yeah, what is your story?”

  It wasn’t Miss Flotsam who spoke. This was a gruff male voice. They were no longer alone. Grace had chatted for too long, allowing herself to become distracted.

  Miss Flotsam quivered. “Good evening, Lieutenant Sidorio.”

  “Hey, Darcy. Well, aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”

  Grace took a breath and turned. Facing her was a tall, bald-headed man, his muscles seeming to burst from clothes that were a cross between those of a sailor and a gladiator. She recognized him, but he didn’t seem to remember her.

  “Grace Tempest, may I introduce you to Lieutenant Sidorio,” said Miss Flotsam. “Lieutenant Sidorio, may I —”

  “Yeah, yeah,” he said, in a voice like crunching gravel, “we get the picture, Darcy. So, Grace, huh? When did you rock up on board? And are you a vamp or a donor?”

  There it was again. That awful word. Donor.

  Grace thought of Old Nathaniel and his blood-drained pallor.

  You’re the new donor . . .

  You’re to take his place . . .

  And suddenly, Grace knew she was trapped.

  27

  THE SLOW PARADE

  “Well,” said Sidorio, staring hard at Grace, “which is it? Vampire or donor?”

  Still speechless, Grace looked at him. It was like facing a wall of muscle. His neck was as thick as the trunk of a well-established tree. His arms were far broader than her own legs.

  “Great,” he said dismissively, “just what we need, another dumb one.”

  Grace was enraged, but still said nothing. The last thing she wanted was to anger him.

  “Sidorio! Hey, Sidorio!” came a call from behind Grace.

  Sidorio looked over Grace’s head. As he did so, he opened his mouth and idly began picking at something between his teeth. Looking up, Grace saw that he had two oversized canine teeth, apparently made of gold. They would bore into you like a knife through butter, she thought. It made her blood run cold.

  “I’ve been looking all over for you, Lieutenant,” said Lorcan, slipping briskly past Grace, as if he hadn’t seen her. “I need to talk to you, urgently. Captain’s business.”

  “Sure,” Sidorio said, seeming in no rush. He dipped his head in Grace’s direction. “You seen the latest addition to the crew?”

  Lorcan turned. “Oh, yes. Grace,” he said matter-of-factly. “Sorry, I didn’t see you there.”

  “You know her?”

  “Yes, yes,” said Lorcan, who appeared to have something far more important to discuss. “I’m the one who fished her out of the water.”

  Sidorio seemed to have lost interest.

  “I’ve got news, Lorcan,” Grace began, enormously relieved to see her friend.

  “That’ll be Midshipman Furey to you,” Sidorio said.

  Lorcan did not even attempt to defend her but surveyed Grace with the same cold eyes as Sidorio, then turned his back on her altogether.

  Grace felt as though she’d been punched. Why was Lorcan acting this way with her? She had thought he was her friend. He’d been so kind to her before.

  “I really do have to talk to you, Sidorio,” Lorcan continued. “Alone.”

  He extended a hand toward Sidorio’s rippling forearms and pulled him away from the others.

  Grace felt utterly deflated at being ignored and talked over, but when the men had moved a short distance away, Lorcan turned back to her, his blue eyes full of concern. He made a pointing gesture with his finger. Grace realized he was telling her to go back to her cabin.

  Well, maybe she would, and maybe she wouldn’t. Maybe it was time for Grace to call the shots.

  Miss Flotsam nudged Grace. “He was just playing tough to impress Lieutenant Sidorio. Typical man!”

  Grace smiled weakly, at least a little relieved at the thought.

  “I think you’re a bit sweet on Midshipman Furey,” said Miss Flotsam. “And who could blame you? He’s a definite looker. That hair. Those eyes.”

  Grace found herself blushing as Miss Flotsam continued.

  “Course he’s not right for me. I’m saving myself for Mister Jetsam, my one true love.”

  She sighed at the thought. “Well, I must get on and finish lighting the lamps. I can’t just stand here, conversing with the likes of you all evening.” She smiled. “But I’ll see you later, Grace. And I’ll lend you a nice dress, too. You’ll want to look your best for the Feast.”

  With a wink, she continued on her way, taper in hand.

  The Feast? Grace remembered that there had been talk of a feast when she’d first arrived on the ship. But what exactly was the Feast? Was it to be tonight? Was that why the cook and her boy had been so frantic in the galley?

  Jamie had told her that the plentiful food was not for the vampires. Of course not. It was for the donors. So maybe the Feast was simply a great feast for the donors. And, like the cook, Miss Flotsam had simply assumed that she was a donor.

  The more she thought about it, the more she realized she must be a donor. She certainly wasn’t a vampire and, according to Sidorio, you were either one thing or the other. She still hadn’t gotten to the bottom of what the donors did. The most obvious answer was that they gave their blood to the vampires. And yet, the captain had said that they didn’t want her blood. Her mind was circling back on itself. She needed to speak to Lorcan. She’d learned a lot since she’d last quizzed him about the ship. Now she had some specific questions, which needed his answers.

  He had told her to go back to her cabin and that seemed like the best idea. They could talk privately there and there would be no distractions. She made her way along the deck, careful to stick to the shadows and not draw further attention to herself. A flock
of vampires was gathering on deck, though they seemed far too engrossed in their own conversations to notice her.

  They were fascinating to observe — a real jumble of people, nothing like the images of vampires Grace had grown up with. There were those, like Darcy Flotsam, who had clearly kept the fashion of the era in which they had “crossed.” Others, like Sidorio, wore a blend of attire, which made it harder to place them in time or space. Many, like Lorcan, seemed to have adopted the universal costume of a pirate or seafarer. And still others looked like nothing and no one Grace had seen before — impossibly glamorous and otherworldly. As Grace watched the strange parade languidly pass by, she thought how their apparent age gave little indication of how old they truly were. How did they measure age? she wondered. Was it from their actual birth? Or from the time they “crossed”? And what tales did they have of their crossing? If they were as intriguing as Miss Flotsam’s, Grace was keen to hear them. Perhaps that might be her role aboard the ship, Grace thought, remembering the pencils and notebooks in her cabin. She could be the ship’s chronicler. That would keep her busy, more than busy, until she found Connor again. She had to keep focused on that and not let the strangeness of the ship distract her at every turn. She had to talk to the captain again and persuade him to help her — to stop every passing ship if that was what it took.

  Although she was close to her cabin now, she paused in the shadows, not yet ready to leave her first sight of the ship’s inhabitants.

  From the safety of the shadows, Grace watched and listened as they passed. Much of their words seemed merely pleasantries — the kind of social chit chat that was common in the harbor, though it sounded a little more formal here.

  “Good evening to you, madam. I trust you passed a peaceful sleep.”

  “I did, sir. And yourself? Good. Of course, I always feel a little more tired at this time of the week.”

  “Yes, I know what you mean. I could barely raise myself from my bed tonight but then I remembered that it was Feast night.”