Through the Maelstrom
Rebekah Lewis
This is a work of fiction. References to real people, film, television shows, organizations, and locations are intended to establish authenticity to the story and are used fictionally. All other names, characters, businesses, places, dialogue, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner.
Copyright © 2016 by Rebekah Lewis
All rights reserved.
Editing by Sandra Sookoo
Cover Design by Victoria Miller
Stock Photography by Hot Damn Stock
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Printed in the United States of America
www.Rebekah-Lewis.com
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Books by Rebekah Lewis
Wicked Satyr Nights
The Unraveling
About the Author
Dedication
For those who love fairytales, pirates, and happily ever after, this book is for you.
Chapter One
June 18, 1715
A hand flailed from the choppy dark water, grasping ahold of the longboat tightly. If not for the moonlight, Christophe would have missed it before a second hand joined the first and a wide-eyed, hairy head appeared over the edge. The assortment of appendages was attached to the scraggly pirate who'd attempted to gut him during his escape from the sinking ship in the distance.
Groaning wood, accompanied by cracking and splintering, preceded a splash as a mast collapsed into the water. A buzz of screams echoed across the dark horizon of endless ocean. No one to hear the men dying except the second vessel distancing itself from the destruction it had wrought. Gunpowder permeated the salty air thick with dark smoke, making Christophe's eyes burn even though he'd maneuvered the longboat away from the wreck.
The man in the water struggled to pull himself into the longboat, rocking it perilously. He was ugly, malnourished, and missing several teeth. The seawater had eclipsed the traces of sweat and lack of washing, but a hint of mildew lingered on the man's coat, made stronger from the dampness. Either he or the hairy pirate had a rendezvous with cold depths below, and Christophe had no plans to make that appointment. Not with freedom finally in sight. This man, God rest his soul, would not take his escape from him.
Beyond the waterlogged pirate, a triangular fin broke the surface, the wet gray flesh glistening in the pale silver glow rippling across the waves. The shark cut through the liquid like a lethal blade, silently circling the boat as if realizing its dinner waited within. Or without...since the pirate pulling himself over the side would not make it inside.
"Sorry, mate." Christophe cringed at the dry cracking of his own voice. The smoke did him no favors. In truth, he was all too pleased to leave the pirate, and this damned lifestyle, behind him when he paddled the longboat away into the next chapter of his life. The problem was the pirate clinging to the boat like an unwanted barnacle was sure to take his life the moment he climbed in. Better to remove that option entirely.
Christophe pulled the oars into the boat and then unsheathed his sword. He supposed he could simply shoot the man, but preferred to preserve ammunition if possible. So he brought the blade down like a cleaver where the pirate clung to the vessel, just missing flesh and bone and striking hard wood. With a squeal, the pirate let go and flapped his arms wildly as he fell backward into the deep blue, splashing in an attempt to stay afloat. A second fin joined the first, coming around the boat in the opposite direction, then sinking. The man coughed, yelled, and disappeared below.
Christophe sheathed his sword while scanning the water surface, but the pirate didn't resurface and the original shark continued to circle, biding its time. Uncorking the bottle of rum he'd snatched in the midst of his daring escape, Christophe raised it in salute to the fallen buccaneer and took a hearty swig. "Wait all you like, shark. You won't be gettin' a taste of me." He replaced the cork and shoved the bottle in the rucksack he'd packed hastily and then slid the oars back into the slots on the sides of the boat, readying his departure.
He'd hit Bermuda by noon if he didn't fall off course, and he since he only had rum to provide for his belly until then, he needed to make haste and stay awake until reaching land. Otherwise, he had his pistol or could toss himself to the shark trailing him, but neither held the same thrill as freedom.
Christophe closed his eyes, tilted his head back, and sighed. Freedom. He'd ached for it for so long, but had never been provided such an opportunity to seize it without repercussions. There had always been eyes on him. Whispers and coin changing hands for information when the ship reached port. Upon capture, the punishment for attempting to flee would have been severe. He'd worked too hard to climb ranks for this chance to lose it now. What coin he had could secure a meal or two and he could work for passage back to the colonies.
He would go home.
The expected relief at the notion was not as strong as it should be. He did want to go home. He worried, however, he'd not be accepted back with open arms. Becoming a pirate, even though not by choice, had placed a price on his head. The crimes committed during his time with the crew were enough to get him hanged. It didn't matter if he was forced into it because the laws on piracy showed no mercy. His returning home would place a black mark upon his family if the truth was ever known. He was as much adrift in life as he was that very moment on the ocean—rowing without a definitive destination aside from finding a meal and a night's rest. Lost. Forsaken. Alone.
In the distance, The Sea Serpent, the galleon that had attacked, retreated with only the light sails distinguishable in the smoky night. And to his left, bubbles, floating debris—some of which continued burning—and bodies marked the location of The Calypso. Once she took on enough water, she'd sunk rather fast. A cannon ball in precisely the right place had sealed the schooner's doom. While the crew of the attacking vessel took hostages, Scraggly Beard had been the lone pirate to notice his retreat. The pirate had been so determined to stop him from taking one of The Sea Serpent's longboats that he'd swum after him instead of alerting the others.
And a fine job he'd done at that, what with the flailing about and swallowing seawater. Oh, and then the pesky being eaten by a shark bit. That couldn't have been pleasant. "Rather it be you than me," he murmured. He'd tip his hat, but he'd lost it during his retreat. Better a hat than his life.
Right when he'd believed the crew he sailed with were the dumbest collection of men he'd ever met, The Sea Serpent arrived with less common sense than the rest of them. The only reasons they prevailed were that they had more guns and more men. Without much in the way of intellect on either side, brawn won out in short order.
It never occurred to any of them that one of The Calypso's crew members would board The Sea Serpent rather than fight to keep them off his own ship and then drift away in their longboat. He laughed, feeling the ache of rowing course through his tired body. He needed rest. But it could wait. The dangerous course he'd been thrown into had reached its end.
A little more than a year ago, he'd been shanghaied after he'd passed out from drink at a tavern. Christophe had awoke
n at sea with a bunch of bloody pirates who had low morals and no respect for women. The thought brought a grin to his face. Depending on his rum intake, he could be a bit of a rogue himself. As the year went by, and escape seemed less likely, he'd somehow managed to gain the trust of the crew and captain, enough that he'd eventually been made quartermaster on The Calypso—probably because he was one of the few who had any lick of sense to do the damned job, was literate, and the previous man who'd held the post died of the bloody flux. A rather awful way to go out.
When The Calypso started sinking, Christophe hesitated for a mere moment before taking action. Now, what remained of his former crew was either dead or taken prisoner upon The Sea Serpent. No one would search for him. The time had long passed for anyone to figure out his identity in order to request a ransom. And all would be well once again. Finally.
Resigning himself to staying alive, and out of the jaws of sharks, he only wished to make it to land, which started off as decent a plan as many decent-sounding plans often did. He'd paused in rowing to rest his arms, but the hair on the back of his neck prickled and he glanced around. The first sign to start rowing in the opposite direction should have been the glow beneath the surface.
It surrounded him—a gleaming blue-green under the water, about fifty feet in all directions of him. Christophe paused to admire it while simultaneously attempting to puzzle out the cause. Black water churned around the glow. No light he'd seen from a lantern or fire had ever created such brilliance. A superstitious man would assume it the work of witchcraft or devilry, but he didn't believe in magic. He'd have laughed at such nonsense—if he wasn't gazing into a glowing, unearthly light in the middle of the ocean.
The stripes across his companion shark's flesh became clearly visible as it circled with pointed teeth bared and deadly. Around it, schools of alabaster fish hurried away in frenzied directions. That was probably the second sign to retreat, but it was too late.
A great, twisting maelstrom formed below, slowly at first. Bright bursts of turquoise water spinning, growing wider and deeper, until the middle caved in and the roaring cry of ocean suction claimed the longboat like a waterspout in a glowing storm. He could do no more than shove his rucksack over one shoulder and hold on to the boat for dear life as the current captured it and he started spiraling around the deep pit of the abyss.
There were so many things he'd looked forward to in life. Marriage, children. Making a difference, yet he wasn't sure how. Piracy had taken it from him, and he'd allowed himself to hope, perhaps too much, that he could return to the path he'd set for himself before.
He never would.
Christophe would surely die, and if not by drowning, then by the pressure of the fathoms swallowing him whole. Either way, the rum was going with him; one small pleasure he could cling to in the afterlife.
***
June 18, 2015
I wish I could fall in love with a man who's unlike any other I've known.
Serena opened her eyes as the meteorite sped out of sight. Wishing on falling stars was childish, but the comforting act had become nostalgic more than anything. Moments later, fireworks lit up the night sky with flashes of gold, blue, violet, green, and red. The blue and green bursts of light were especially vivid, reflecting off the water in the ship's wake, almost as if they'd been set off beneath the surface. Pretty.
Passengers "oohed" and "ahhed," pointing at the effect. With another several booms overhead, the cruise ship shook and veered left, toward the place in the water that had shimmered with the blue-green light. Serena clutched the railing tightly to remain standing. In the water, the reflection from the fireworks had lessened, but the glow seemed to almost swirl there for a moment, like a drain to a bathtub. When she blinked, it was gone.
A child started crying behind her, probably upset by ship's jerky movement, and the ruckus snapped her back to reality.
"Everyone, please remain calm," someone said over the speaker system. "Something bumped the ship. Was probably a...whale shark?" The intercom turned off with a scratchy click. Serena choked on an impulsive laugh. Did they seriously announce hitting a shark, like they weren't sure if they actually did? She didn't think that was the sort of thing they should be announcing, but what did she know?
Beside her, a mother clung fiercely to her little ones as they peered through the railing, hoping to catch a glimpse of a whale shark capable of dislodging a cruise ship. It didn't seem plausible, but if it was a lie, what else could it have caused it?
"The boat didn't hurt the shark, did it?" a little girl asked, tears streaking her face. "Poor sharky."
Serena stepped back from the railing as a skinny man with bifocals glanced around, paranoia etched in his wide-eyed expression. "This ship is too large to be moved by a whale shark," he voiced her own thoughts on the matter before turning to his friend, who merely raised an eyebrow as he continued. "We're in the Triangle, man! Aliens."
She yawned and took that as her cue to go to bed. Aliens and the Bermuda Triangle were two things she didn't believe in and wouldn't start now. The childhood nostalgia of wishing on stars had faded, and midnight definitely sounded like her bed time. Twenty-eight was not treating her kindly on the staying-up-late scale, even if she'd only been that age for a total of one day. She used to be good to go on two hours of sleep, but lately...without at least six-to-eight she turned into a grizzly. Besides, she was supposed to be having fun on this trip.
Fun wasn't exactly what she'd call her birthday cruise to the Caribbean. Two of her friends cancelled last minute, and Becky Ann ended up with such a horrible case of seasickness earlier in the day that even the tablets the medical personnel had given her weren't helping. She'd been moved into the infirmary until they docked in the morning.
The first few hours without Becky Ann were okay, but it figured, on the day of her actual birthday, Serena had wandered around, alone, not talking to anybody. True, it saved her from her friend's matchmaking efforts—the majority of the men present were there with wives and children anyway. She honestly couldn't wait for the trip home. They had a final stop in Bermuda as they returned to the states from the Bahamas.
She padded toward the housing portion of the ship, and a crowd rushing past her drew her attention. "It's Jack Sparrow!" someone announced excitedly.
"Nah uhhhhh. He's blond." This was said as though it were sacrilege to put the two in the same sentence. God forbid.
Pausing at the bottom of the short flight of stairs leading to the rooms, Serena peered over her shoulder in the direction of the exclamation right as a small herd of women and children passed by in an excited rush of murmurs.
"But I want a picture with him," a woman snapped. "You already took one."
"Are you a scurvy bilge rat?" a little boy asked, voice full of awe.
"Do you really say things like 'shiver me timbers?'"
A woman mumbled, "I'd shiver his timber."
"Why don't you find your sister, Tommy, and let mommy talk to the nice pirate?"
"Are you a real pirate? Can I hold your sword?"
"Oh, my God, Lisa, look at the rear end on that. He's authentic and sexy. The cruise line really pulled out all the stops on this actor."
Backtracking until she stood at the edge of the crowd, Serena had to see this mystery pirate ramping up hormones and imaginations. It was her birthday, after all. Didn't she deserve a good ogle?
The gaggle of women and curious children had circled around an actor dressed up as, yup, a pirate. Sword, pistol, knee-high worn leather boots, long brown jacket with gold buttons that glimmered under the outdoor lighting. The stubble on his face was not quite a beard, but wasn't too far from it. His blond hair had grown long and looked curled by ocean water and wind. Rings covered most of his fingers, and when he turned his head, a small hoop adorning his ear glimmered in the light.
Oh, you've got to be kidding.
How cliché. All that was missing was a fan somewhere making his hair and coat billow as he took romance no
vel cover-style photos with his rabid admirers. He was handsome, she'd gotten her glimpse of him, but she wasn't going anywhere near the center of the crowd if she could help it.
She almost walked away again until she noticed the pirate wasn't smiling. Instead, he'd backed up against the wall and looked as though he was about to place the way-too-realistic sword in his hand between his teeth and crawl up the side of the ship. Maybe he hadn't been warned that not only are children obsessed with pirates, but women salivated over the pop culture romanticism of them.
Pfft. Romantic pirates. She rolled her eyes. Please. They were dirty, malicious scoundrels with bad teeth and no morals. Sure, Hollywood could make it attractive, but real pirates weren't sexy. They weren't cleaned-up, designer versions in guyliner and leather like the guy on Once Upon a Time. They were criminals. Even if there were gray areas, crimes were still crimes when it came down to the bottom line.
Yet Serena couldn't help but sympathize with the guy as he warily eyed the crowd. Tell me about it, pirate man. She shuddered. Crowds sucked. Too many judgmental people hovering with inquisitive, judgmental gazes... No. Just no. She would rather jump in acid. Unfortunately, as an adult, she didn't have an easy out from it. Especially since someone had to pay the bills. Her boring filing job at a large law firm was perfect for her. She had her own office, didn't have to see the clients, and could avoid people for the majority of her work day.
It was also the dullest job on the planet—hence, the gift of a birthday cruise from her friends. A much needed adventure, they'd said.
As a woman threw herself at him, clinging tightly, Serena snorted. The pirate's eyes widened and he slowly peered down at the female clinging to him like a parasite and cleared his throat. He painstakingly sheathed his sword and tried to dislodge her. He obviously hadn't done the pirate act before. Maybe it was his first night at it, which was odd considering the cruise was in its last few days. In that moment, he seemed almost kindred soul; a victim of a crowd that wouldn't leave him alone.
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