Rockfleet (The Pirate Queen Book 0)

by Jennifer Rose McMahon

  "Gram, it was one of the MacMahunas! Following Sir Bingham's orders..."

  Her face turned ashen.

  My mind jumped back to the fight at Rockfleet. Sir Bingham's proclamation. His words jumbled around in my head and confused me. The ensuing fight on the galley became hazy as the details of the skirmish lost their clarity.

  I shook my head. No!

  I pictured Grania in my mind. Her turmoil had jolted me back to the present. Violently. And I struggled to recall the details.

  Her features… and there were others… I squeezed my eyes shut to see the images. Nothing.

  Nothing but an ache in my heart that devastated me to my core.

  My eyes opened and I looked into Gram’s face.

  "Maeve, how did this happen?" Gram's wide eyes begged for an explanation that made sense.

  "Gram. It's hard to explain.” I shook my head, hoping to dislodge details, but saw only mist. “It's been happening to me for a while. Wind comes, then blurred haze. It's like..." I searched for the words. "It's like...." I rubbed my head in confusion.

  I couldn't explain it. My words wouldn't form the way I wanted them to.

  Gram hung on every syllable, desperate for the sounds to create something sensible.

  "I get this feeling... and then... everything's different. I feel like myself. Like I'm whole."

  My words confused me further. They seemed to make sense as they left my mouth, but when my ears heard them, they said nothing. I reached deeper, but there was nothing there. No images. No sound. No smell.

  Nothing.

  My eyes darted to Gram's in terror. "Gram.” My voice cracked in fear. “I don't know what happened."

  "Jazus! Joseph!" she screamed. "Call 911!"

  I ran my finger along the precise row of eleven black stitches that tracked along the inside of my upper forearm. My focus waved in and out as I moved my eyes around the room.

  I'd been moved from the sterile unit that had a bed on wheels, machines that beeped in the night, and an IV that was perpetually filled with sleepy meds from an annoying bag hanging by my head. Whatever was in the bag, it kept me comatose like a zombie. The dark circles under my eyes proved it.

  I was in my own clothes. Not my first choice, but the best of what Gram brought in a Whole Foods bag.

  Whole Foods. What a joke. Everything at your fingertips. No need to work for any of it; no farming, hunting, gathering. It was all just... there.

  My attitude surprised me. I usually loved Whole Foods.

  I sat in a wooden chair across from a matching oak desk, surrounded by framed certificates of achievement on every wall. Typical shrink’s office. I shuddered at the thought and made a subconscious decision to be agreeable and upbeat through the interrogation. That usually worked best.

  "And how are you feeling today, Maeve?"

  "I'm good."

  "Any unusual dreams or thoughts?"

  "No. I'm good." This was so dumb.

  I just wanted to get back home. Back to school. I had so much make-up work to do. I wished my teachers would at least minimize the grunt work.

  "Do you ever think about harming yourself, Maeve?"

  "Hmm?"

  "Thoughts like people would be better off without you? Or thoughts of hopelessness?" Her monotone voice made me think she was reading from a checklist.

  I looked at her desk and her pen in hand. Oh my god. She did have a checklist.

  "No, never. I just got scared about finishing high school. Nervous about the transition to college. But I've decided to take it one step at a time and I’ll use my school counselor to help me." I added a smile at the end for good measure.

  Killed it.

  She made notes on her paper. "That's good to hear, Maeve. I like to know that you have a plan in place with someone to go to if you need help." She never looked up from her paper. "I'll write you a prescription for the same medication we've had you on here. It seems to help stabilize you."

  Not taking it. "Okay. Thank you. How often should I take it?"

  "Once a day. In the morning. With food,” she stated.

  "Okay. Thanks." I fake smiled.

  I looked down at my lap. I was so ready for the freedom of the open air. So ready to get out of this prison.

  To breathe fresh air.

  My head tipped at my strong desire for a long breath of fresh sea air. I looked down at my arm and reached for the stitches again. I rubbed along their rough trail.

  How the hell did it happen? My mind was a fog from that night. Maybe it was the garden shears. I’d been warned my entire life about the dangers of the tools from the shed. Did I fall on them? Did I hit my head?

  Snapshots of castles and swords flashed in my mind but then blew away in scattered pieces. I reached for my locket and squeezed it.

  I looked up at the psychiatrist, wondering if she saw the strange look in my eye. She continued scribbling notes. I stared at my injury again and fought to remember how it happened.

  An odd sensation crept up on me from behind, tingling my every nerve, and I turned to peer over my shoulder. Like I was being watched.

  Or followed.

  My fingers squeezed tighter on my locket.

  "Is everything okay?" she asked.

  I blinked away my paranoia. "Yes. Just looking forward to going home."

  Home?

  The word held strange new meaning that widened my eyes. My head tilted like St. Brendan the Navigator.

  Home.

  I was ready to find it. To search for it.

  To begin my long journey home.

  Epilogue

  The ominous feeling of being followed, or even stalked, became commonplace for me. I accepted it as my ‘normal’.

  It was, somehow, the end of senior year already, but I'd spent most of it wondering how I ended up in the hospital that time with a gash up my arm.

  My lips pressed together. There was an answer. I could feel a possible explanation lurking just behind my eyelids, every time I blinked. It threatened to reveal itself each night, in the exact moment I drifted off to sleep, so I could never quite remember the details in the morning.

  It was infuriating.

  The one thing that encouraged me forward was thoughts of Mom. She'd been in my mind every day now, without rest. It was like she held a secret, just out of my reach. Something she wanted me to strive for. Like the warm feeling of home.

  I grabbed my jacket and ran out the front door. Clawing up the steep hill, slipping on loose gravel, I cursed the new rip in my favorite jeans as I vanished into the cemetery.

  I kept focus, past the cannons and into the new section of thick granite stones, shiny on the front, rough on the back, all the same. Grateful to be somewhat on the outskirts of the grid, I found my mother's grassy patch by the young maple that shaded it.

  "Hi, Mom," I whispered as I dropped to my knees in front of her, looking around to be sure I was alone — wondering if every time I looked up, whatever it was that was out there hid with stealthy timing. "I'm gonna hang out with you for a little while. I think I need your help."

  I paused and tried not to feel dumb.

  I plucked the dead leaves from the pot of pansies my grandparents had left and gently pulled a tuft of grass away from the base of her stone to be sure my senior picture was still buried there.

  "It's like something's wrong with me," I mumbled. The comment seeped out of my mouth like the sick bile that was churning in my stomach. "Like something's following me... or someone. I don't know."

  I flashed back to the smell of wind and rain, the echo of words spoken just out of my hearing. I'd been having the feeling more and more lately — not quite the disturbing visions of chaos and wind I had earlier in the year, but subtle reminders of them.

  "Mom, it's my awake dream. The scary wind, the screams, and everything. It's coming back. I can feel it. And now that you're gone, I think I'm next."

  My heart palpitated in my chest. Hearing my harrowing words made it all the more real.<
br />
  "Am I going crazy?" My exhale expelled resignation and even submission, as my hands pulled across my face and into my hair. "I need to know everything's okay. Like there's not really anything wrong. Can't you give me a sign?"

  A falling leaf, a swooping bird, a rainbow? Anything.

  My anxiety twitched in my eye. It lurked in my sweaty palms and my racing heart. I really hated that out of control feeling and it was poisoning every day for me now.

  All I needed was reassurance. For my mother to say yes, this was all my imagination. A ghost story. Maybe my mind had taken my stress and my longing for her and spun it into a remembered nightmare, bad movie-type: Deadly Wind with a Vengeance. But now, facing my high school graduation, it was time for me to get a grip.

  I sat in the grass tracing the engraved letters and shamrocks in her headstone, waiting for answers that never seemed to come. Finally, I curled up, leaned in against her stone, and rested.

  The clink of metal on granite disturbed me — or did it wake me? — and I sat up on my knees, frowning. If I wasn't alone anymore, I'd be out of there so fast.

  I peeked over Mom's headstone.

  The wind whipped up without warning, flinging mist and twigs at me like shrapnel, making me squint and shield my face. My hair twisted wildly and my jacket flapped against my body, raising alarm in every nerve. I gripped the top of Mom's stone, straining to see past the wind, trying to figure out who was out there.

  A thick smell of iron coated my throat and I wretched.

  Blood was in the air, mixed with rage in the violent gusts, and fear burst into my heart.

  I could swear I heard my name swirling in the blasts, sounds of an unknown or dead language, and pressed my hands over my ears to stop it. I fell back, wiping the assault from my face, and searched Mom's stone, eyes wide with panic. Desperate for a response, I stared into her monument like looking into her safe, nurturing face. I blinked for better clarity, leaning in to it, when somewhere deep in my mind, her voice exploded as she commanded me—

  "Run!"

  The End

  Continue the Pirate Queen Series with

  Book One, BOHERMORE

  www.jenniferrosemcmahon.com

  Find sample chapters of BOHERMORE at the end of this book.

  Newsletter

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  Acknowledgments

  A special thank you to my amazing editor and writing mentor, the fabulous Naomi Hughes.

  Lots of love to my family for all the support and for believing in me every step of the way.

  And much gratitude to the O’Malley Clan in Ireland who welcomed me to their annual rally and helped with my in-depth research on Granuaile - O’Malley chieftain and Ireland’s pirate queen.

  Jennifer Rose McMahon

  USA Today Bestselling Author

  The Pirate Queen Series

  About the Author

  Jennifer Rose McMahon is a USA Today Bestselling Author who has been creating her Pirate Queen Series since her college days abroad in Ireland. Her passion for Irish legends, ancient cemeteries, and medieval ghost stories has fueled her adventurous story telling, while her husband’s decadent brogue carries her imagination through the centuries. When she’s not in her own world writing about castles and curses, she can be found near Boston in the local coffee shop, yoga studio, or at the beach…most often answering to the name ‘Mom’ by her fab children four.

  For more information:

  www.jenniferrosemcmahon.com

  info@jenniferrosemcmahon.com

  SAMPLE CHAPTERS

  BOHERMORE

  Jennifer Rose McMahon

  Chapter 1

  Clawing up the steep hill, slipping on loose gravel, I cursed the new rip in my favorite jeans as I vanished into the town cemetery. Every inch of the place was familiar, from the oldest tombstone to the freshest newcomer. It used to be a playground to me for as long as I could remember; hide and seek grew into manhunt, sniffing fresh-laid flowers in the sun turned into stargazing in the black night sky. But it was different now.

  My feet dragged through the old section of the graveyard, passing the centuries-old stones of early Massachusetts settlers. The thin slate hand-carved headstones, some cracked or fallen, leaned toward me, straining to be noticed.

  I slipped past the World War II monument, avoiding eye contact with the weathered bust-sculpture of some famous general. His eyes supposedly possessed your soul if you looked directly into them. It always gave me that unsettling feeling like I was being watched, so I moved with purpose, flinching at every little sound. I kept focus, past the cannons and into the new section of thick granite stones, shiny on the front, rough on the back, all the same.

  The straight rows were packed tight with cold efficiency, draining the warmth of the old section from my core and replacing it with the chill of mass-produced memorials. I shimmied through to the far edge, avoiding stepping directly on any plots, especially ones with fresh-cut sod because, well, the possessed thing again. You’re just not supposed to.

  Grateful to be somewhat on the outskirts of the grid, I found my mother’s grassy patch by the young maple that shaded it.

  “Hi, Mom,” I whispered as I dropped to my knees in front of her, looking around to be sure I was alone—wondering if every time I looked up, whatever it was that was out there hid, with stealth timing. “I’m gonna hang out with you for a little while. I think I need your help.” I paused and tried not to feel dumb.

  I plucked the dead leaves from the pot of pansies my grandparents had left and gently pulled a tuft of grass away from the base of her stone to be sure my senior picture was still buried there.

  “It’s like something’s wrong with me,” I mumbled. The comment seeped out of my mouth like the sick bile that was churning in my stomach. “Like something’s following me…or someone. I don’t know.”

  I flashed back to the smell of wind and rain, the echo of words spoken just out of my hearing. I’d been having the feeling more and more lately—not quite the disturbing visions I had before Mom’s death six years ago, but subtle reminders of them.

  “Mom, it’s my awake dream. The scary wind, the screams, everything. It’s coming back. I can feel it. And now that you’re gone, I think I’m next.”

  My heart palpitated in my chest. Hearing my harrowing words made it all the more real. My grandparents and the doctors—they’d all claimed Mom’s death was caused by a “heart condition.” But I knew better. I knew the truth. It was behind their hushed whispers, behind their tears, behind the hands brushing me away from grown-up talk. My awake dream killed my mother. She was always in the visions, being pulled away from me into the mist. And now…now, it was my turn.

  “Am I going crazy?” My exhale expelled resignation and even submission as my hands pulled across my face and into my hair. “I just need to know everything’s okay. Like there’s not really anything wrong. Can’t you just give me a sign?”

  A falling leaf, a swooping bird, a rainbow? Anything.

  My anxiety twitched in my eye. It lurked in my sweaty palms and my racing heart. I really hated that out-of-control feeling, and it was poisoning every day for me now.

  All I needed was reassurance. For my mother to say yes, this was all just my imagination, a ghost story. Maybe my mind had taken my stress and my longing for her and spun it into a remembered nightmare, bad movie-type: Deadly Wind With a Vengeance. But now, facing my high school graduation, it was time for me to get a grip.

  I sat in the grass tracing the engraved letters and shamrocks in her headstone, waiting for answers that never seemed to come. Finally, I curled up, leaned in against her stone, and rested.

  The clink of metal on granite disturbed me—or did it wake me?—and I sat up on my knees, frowning. If I wasn’t alone anymore, I’d be out of there so fast.

  I peeked over Mom’s headstone. The wind had whipped up with
out warning, flinging mist and twigs at me like shrapnel, making me squint and shield my face. My hair twisted wildly and my jacket flapped against my body, raising alarm in every nerve. I gripped the top of Mom’s stone, straining to see past the wind, trying to figure out who was out there.

  A thick smell of iron coated my throat and I retched. Blood was in the air, mixed with rage in the violent gusts, and fear burst into my heart. I could swear I heard my name swirling in the blasts, the sounds of an unknown or dead language, and pressed my hands over my ears to stop it. I fell back, wiping the assault from my face and searched Mom’s stone, eyes wide with panic.

  Desperate for a response, I stared into her monument as if looking into her safe, nurturing face. I blinked for better clarity, leaning in to it, when somewhere deep in my mind, her voice exploded as she commanded me—

  “Run!”

  My legs sprinted before I was even standing. I had never run faster in my entire life. Every obstacle was against me—rigid headstones, flying petals, loose sod.

  I flew out of the cemetery without looking back, my hair trailing behind me, arms pounding me forward. My lungs burned, not only from the effort of sucking extra oxygen, but actually my chest was burning, on my skin, like fire. Something had hurt me. Something unseen.

  My pace slowed only when I was within a safe distance from home. Evil self-consciousness washed over me as I considered how crazy I must have looked—early morning May, running for my life, out of a cemetery. Aw, jeez. What an idiot. I prayed the neighbors weren’t looking.

  What was I running from anyway? Guilt again? Probably. The truth behind my mother’s death? I always wondered if I had something to do with it, if I was responsible somehow…I mean, of course I was. Maybe I just wasn’t strong enough to help or, more likely, too afraid.