The House Lost at Sea

by R. J. Blain

  Life had taught me a few important lessons, and for every wealthy man, there were two or three who wanted to appear wealthy and bought things they couldn’t afford. Yachts often fit the bill, and given a few hours and my credit card, I’d find one for sale.

  The first marina proved a bust, its facilities so worn down I didn’t even bother looking at the available ships before abandoning it for the next in line. With at least nine miles of marinas and docks, I’d find something eventually. Unfortunately, as I continued hunting for a seaworthy ship, I drew far more attention than I liked.

  If a downtrodden dockworker or other bilge scum wanted a run at me, I’d show them I’d forgotten more about dirty fighting than they had ever known. I kept my chin up and stayed alert, waiting for one of them to decide he would try his luck.

  To my amusement, it wasn’t a Brazilian who decided he liked the look of me. I guessed he was a mix of some sort, white American and something darker, though I couldn’t tell if his other half came from Africa, the Middle East, or even somewhere else in South America. Whatever he was, he wasn’t easy on the eyes, which went against the predominant beauty-comes-first attitude favored by many of the Brazilians I’d met.

  He approached at an angle, likely hoping to dislodge my purse and make a run for it. I pretended not to notice him, although I shifted my stride and took slow, light steps, ready to move when he decided to act.

  I had made it halfway to the next marina when he grabbed for my purse. I stepped out of his path, plunked my elbow into my palm, and rammed my fist under his chin, using my left arm to add strength to my blow. On the follow through, I smacked my palm over my fist and smashed my elbow down on his face.

  Little satisfied me more than breaking a would-be thief’s teeth, and he crumpled to the ground at my feet. While I could have stepped over him, I put my boots to good use, and after I kicked him onto his back, I marched over him, making sure my heel hit his groin. “Not today. I’m not in the mood.”

  He groaned, and I left him writhing on the ground in my wake.

  The others found something else to do in a hurry, and their cowardice disappointed me. My victim would live, although he’d need to have someone help rearrange his face thanks to my two strikes.

  Back in the day, it would’ve taken me at least three good hits to flatten someone. Were modern men so weak, or had I honed my edge?

  Unless someone else decided to try me, I’d have no way of knowing. I shook out my hand and wiped off the blood on my coat so it wouldn’t damage the leather.

  The next marina didn’t look quite as disreputable as the first, and while wary of a con, I appreciated the selection of new boats available for sale. New worked as well as used, although I worried how long it’d take to get a new one seaworthy.

  “American?” the store employee asked, looking me over.

  “Alas,” I replied with a shrug. “I’m looking for a ship. Something I can take out on the open ocean solo. I’d like to stock her for a week to a week and a half, call it two weeks to be safe. I prefer sailboats, but I’ll take anything good. I’ll be paying in credit because I don’t want to bother waiting on a wire. I’d like something I can launch sooner than later. Impress me.”

  The man’s brows rose towards his hairline. “That’ll be expensive.”

  “My budget is two hundred grand, US dollars. I’ll go over if you can handle the stocking. I’m looking for used, but if you have something new in my price range, I’ll take it.”

  His eyes widened, and I could practically hear the coins chinking together as he realized a good profit waited if he managed to please me. “I think I have a few ships you might like. Please, come with me.”

  I followed him to the shipyard, where several yachts waited on dry docks for their chance to return to the sea. The ones he had in stock ranged between seventy-five to a hundred feet, and while he had used ones that fit my price range, they were far too battered for my liking and too large to easily manage on my own, so I directed him to his smaller offerings.

  The smaller luxury ships he showed me ranged between twenty to thirty feet long, plenty spacious for my needs. If I did find Lucretta and her frigate at sea, size wouldn’t matter much on my end; I had my ways of boarding and bringing havoc to her ship without even breaking a sweat.

  He pitched me a hundred and fifty thousand for a nice thirty footer with a spacious cabin, which included a sitting room, three bunks, a kitchen, and a pantry. It even had an onboard shower, which filtered ocean water through a heater. Like Lucretta’s frigate, it was a hybrid of a sail and motor boat, so if the winds didn’t favor me, I wouldn’t be stuck. If the motor failed while I was out on the open ocean, I wouldn’t be stuck. On inspection, I found several problems, little things I could manage to repair—or ignore—on my own, but I managed to knock off twenty-five thousand from the price and secure enough supplies to last for two weeks on the open ocean, including fishing gear.

  The only downside was it would take two days for the marina to make her seaworthy, a delay I accepted with a wrinkled nose. I bought the ship, dubbed her the Wanderer, and found out where the best hotel in the city was. The marina called a cabbie for me, sparing me from having to venture out into the docks again.

  Part of me regretted the lost opportunity to engage in another fight.

  A good fight might help dull the edge of betrayal.

  The hotel reminded me of the place in South Africa except it was even dingier, which awed and disgusted me. I regarded the place with a scowl. The cab, which could have taken me somewhere better, sped off as though frightened of the building’s deteriorating veneer. I had two realistic choices: I could stay, or I could go.

  I’d been in worse. I appreciated the health codes of the modern times. Then again, I held the opinion too many landlubbers couldn’t fight off a basic cold without an intervention, all thanks to their unwillingness to go out and get dirty.

  On the other hand, I liked how I could go to a doctor, have them poke me with a needle, and their medication would ensure I wouldn’t come down with the worst plagues the Earth had to offer. I’d survived through several epidemics thanks to the curse, and I would rather avoid repeating the experience.

  I stepped inside the building, bracing to enter a home for rats, fleas, and other unsavory beasts.

  Instead, sunlight gleamed on polished wood floors, and simple elegance surrounded me. Bursts of color stood out on a backdrop of pale walls, and it took me a moment to recognize the feathers and sequins of Brazilian dancer attire on display for guests to appreciate. Rich red and gold rugs protected the floor from several couches and armchairs perfect for lounging.

  Maybe the marina worker hadn’t been out of his right mind after all.

  I headed for the desk, and a man in a black, classic suit offered me a smile and said something in Portuguese, a language I knew all of three words of despite its similarities to Spanish, reminding me how much I’d neglected my native tongue and heritage. “Sorry, do you speak English?”

  The man’s smile widened to a grin. “Of course. How may I serve?”

  “Any available rooms?”

  “How long will you be staying?”

  “Two nights.” It didn’t take long to get checked in, and I chuckled at the use of actual keys instead of cards. I got his recommendations for places to eat, headed up to my room, and ditched my suitcase. I took off my modern, cheap boots, a poor replacement for the ones I’d left in the United States, and wrapped the chain of Captain Maritza's key around my ankle. After a moment of thought, I found a spot to stash my captain’s pocket watch as well.

  If anyone wanted to hunt them down, they’d have to take off my boots, and if they managed that, I was in more trouble than I cared to think about.

  I lingered in my room for an extra hour, giving my phone a chance to charge before heading out. Brazil intrigued me in some ways; violence seeped into so many elements of its culture, with a staggeringly high murder rate. Life—and death—were cheap, and so wer
e the guns and knives used in so many crimes.

  I considered hunting down some protection for myself, something with enough firepower I wouldn’t want to risk smuggling it back to the United States.

  My phone rang, and the display warned me Bensen wanted to continue our talk from earlier. Sighing, I grabbed the device and answered, “Cathy.”

  “I was starting to think you were ignoring me.”

  “I told you I was leaving on a jet plane, Bensen. It’s traditional, when one boards a plane, to turn the phone off or use airplane mode. I just turned it back on, as I am no longer in the air. What do you need?”

  “The police have confiscated your pistol, your cutlass, and your pocket watch. After investigation, it’ll be returned to your insurance company. They’ll give it back to you.”

  I chuckled. “That’ll be at least a month or two. That works. I should be back in the United States by then—or I can have them courier them to me. Thanks for the tip. I’ll make sure to give the insurance company a call. Is there anything else you need?”

  “Benjamin was hoping you might urge the insurance company to move a little quicker and begged me to ask you if you’d reconsider the photoshoot.”

  “Hell might freeze over first, Bensen. Today, I have a plan. It involves the hardest liquor Brazil has to offer and as many bar fights as I can find before the police show up. I might even hunt down a man, as long as he’s capable of counting to ten without having to stop and think about it. I’m very busy.”

  “In Brazil. Are you trying to get yourself killed? What are you doing in Brazil?”

  I laughed at the alarm in the old man’s voice. “Getting good drinks, participating in rowdy fights. What else would I be doing in Brazil?”

  “Please tell me you’re joking.”

  “Would I ever joke about drinking and brawling?”

  “I don’t know, and that worries me a lot, Cathy. You’re joking, right? You’re not really in Brazil about to go looking for a fight, are you?” He hesitated. “While drunk, looking for a man who can count to ten.”

  “When you put it that way, you make it sound like I’m doing something completely reckless. Don’t ruin my fun, Bensen.”

  “Actually, I think I make you sound like you’re a real pirate, and I don’t mean the nice kind kids dress up as for Halloween.”

  I smiled. “Then I best get on with the plundering and pillaging.”

  “I’m worried, Cathy.”

  My smile broadened to a grin, and I chuckled long and loud. “Plundering, pillaging, and fighting are all on the agenda. Fortunately, I prefer my partners to beg me for it, so I’ll leave my conquests to that.”

  I hung up, and still laughing, I called my insurance company to confirm the truth of Bensen’s words, arrange for them to debit my account for the recovery of my three most prized possessions, and ensure they were kept under lock and key until my return to the United States.

  Eighteen

  He didn’t mind his temporary captivity

  I found a woman who could count to ten in six different languages, but she had eyes only for her husband, and while his attention wandered early and often, the battered remnants of my morals barred me from pursuing their company. Since I couldn’t indulge in a two-for-one special, I hunted a man who wore his suit a little too well.

  Alcohol, and copious quantities of it, made it a lot easier to accept I’d have to compromise on my requirement for clever wit and settle for handsome, capable of opening doors for others, and willing to pay my booze tab. Knowing how much it’d take to get me drunk enough to ignore his less than artistic turns of phrase, I decided the combination would work for a night.

  Or two as the case was, since he was good enough in bed to warrant keeping him there. I considered him hangover therapy, and by the time I finished with him, I left him an exhausted wreck in his hotel room.

  I got the feeling he didn’t mind his temporary captivity. He hadn’t been as good as Ricardo, but he’d been the best I’d had in the past hundred years or so. The curse would eradicate any potential diseases he might’ve been carrying, although he’d been as much of an advocate for condoms as me.

  I added Brazil as one of my preferred countries to visit when in search of a good time and a fight.

  I left him with the feeling of having scratched an itch rather than fulfilling a deeper need. I wanted to curse Ricardo for having ruined me, but I missed more than the sex. The little things, his affection that went beyond physical touch, continued to haunt me.

  That Lucretta O’Malley had found herself a man who resembled my Ricardo hurt even more than the other betrayals. I’d find some way to even the scales between Benny, Bensen, and me—but I’d ruin Lucretta to help exorcise my long-lost lover’s memory.

  Maybe if I transformed Ricardo into a betrayer in my mind, time might begin doing its work on me.

  Annoyed at myself for fixating on a past I could never revisit, I wandered back to my hotel, gathered my bags, and checked out.

  Trouble found me before a cabbie did, and with four-against-one odds, I’d need a little bit of luck and one of their knives to put up a good fight. I’d find out if I had the luck soon enough, which left the matter of disarming one of them. Like I had with the dockworker in the port, I pretended not to notice them stalking me. Instead of standing around and making it easy on them to surround me, I headed down the street with my suitcase in tow.

  If a fight was what they wanted, I’d give it to them, and if they gave me a good enough run, maybe I’d consider taking one of them on my cruise with me, marooning him somewhere to be found if he wasn’t sharp enough in wit to keep me amused.

  I viewed it as the winner taking all, and I had no doubt they’d take everything they could from me if I let them get a hold of me. Some things didn’t change, including the depravities of four men ganging up on one woman.

  Unfortunately for them, I didn’t fear death or anything else they could do to me.

  I found a promising alley, one filled with garbage. Its stink was so strong it wouldn’t have surprised me if there were corpses among the rubbish. As expected, they followed me, and I set my suitcase in one of the few cleaner spots, knelt as though adjusting my boot, and waited.

  Their footsteps drew closer, and I dusted my leather boots, flexing my hands in preparation for a fight. My boots would end up scuffed or torn, especially if they came with their switchblades out and ready. I expected pain and a lot of it; the curse didn’t stop injury, it merely halted death.

  If they cut me, I would bleed, and it would hurt. In a perfect world, I’d deal with them without doing more than damaging my boots and scraping my knuckles. If that happened, I suspected hell would be entering the ice-making business with a promising first quarter.

  I waited until I glimpsed the first pair of worn, dirty sneakers before lunging forward, switching directions, and sweeping my foot out in a kick. Without a good fix on my first victim, I relied on luck alone for a good hit. My heel clipped his arm and startled him into jumping back. His knife, closed but still a threat, dropped into the trash. Using the wall to stop my momentum, I came in low, snatched the fallen weapon, and popped it open with a flick of my wrist.

  The young men backpedaled, their eyes locked on the shining blade of my new toy. With a swish of my wrist, I held their attention, shifted my weight, and kicked, twisting to the side. I came in low, aiming for the knee of the youngest, who had, in his enthusiasm, attempted to flank me in the alley’s confined space.

  He yowled, and his pained cry woke his friends to their predicament. I gave credit where it was due; he staggered, but he didn’t fall.

  Had I been a better person, I would’ve felt a bit more guilt over teaching them a lesson, but I figured I was doing them a favor: they’d think twice about following a strange woman into an alley. A nicer person might’ve given them a chance to run, but I wanted one to talk to me, and I didn’t care what happened to the others.

  If they were wise enough to run, I’d
let them go. Smiling, I kicked my young victim’s knife out of his hand and launched it in the direction of the street. His friends dove out of the way of the spinning weapon, and they yelped and stammered something in Portuguese, which I decided was some form of disbelieving curse.

  To make sure my chosen victim didn’t go anywhere without me, I bit the handle of my knife to free my hands, smacked my right palm against my left fist and drove my elbow into his gut so hard he collapsed against me and slid to the ground, curled and writhing from pain.

  I’d be nice to the kid later. I’d make sure he wouldn’t die. It was the least I could do for picking him as my kidnapping victim. I smiled around the mouthful of rubber and metal and took a single step forward.

  Only one of them had the intellect to realize they’d bitten off far more than they could chew. I rarely viewed someone who ran as a coward. In a pointless fight with life on the line, cowardice showed intelligence. There were a few types of people who stuck around in a fight, and I’d been—and met—them all, including the stupid, the brave, the stupidly brave, the desperate, and the competent.

  I beat them until they ran and claimed their little knives as trophies of my conquest.

  Shaking my head over the waste of time and disappointing lack of bloodshed, I turned to my victim and nudged him with the toe of my boot. “All right, kid. You’re not going to die, so get up and stop whimpering. It’s embarrassing.” All I could see in his eyes was blank terror, and I sighed and hauled him to his feet. “Man up and walk it off.”

  My new acquisition was no Ricardo; while I’d stunned my lost lover and had earned more than a few incredulous stares, he’d never been afraid of me.