The Siren's Song

by Jennifer Bray-Weber

  Drake elbowed Valeryn. “There’s Quint, behind the curtain.” Captain Joelle Quint poked her head around the heavy drape and studied the room.

  “Uh-oh. Do you think she’s still angry at us?”

  “More you than I, brother,” Drake said.

  Once she spotted them, she didn’t break her stare. In fact, he could have sworn she tossed daggers at them with her eyes.

  “I don’t think either of us is safe, Drake.”

  Quint ducked back behind the curtain. “What is she up to?”

  “Planning our deaths, no doubt,” Valeryn muttered.

  He couldn’t be concerned with Quint or her retaliations. Not while Gilly’s well-being was at stake. Machete had a superior grin on his ugly mug and he tapped his hand on his knee along to Gilly’s song. The bastard was enjoying her way too much.

  “Let’s go join our would-be business associates.”

  Valeryn nodded. “Trouble. We just can’t deny you.”

  That was one reason why V was his best mate. He loved a good feud just as much as Drake. Together, they fought their enemies back to back, anticipating each other’s moves without ever uttering a word. Besting their foes often came quick.

  They walked the perimeter of the room. Machete and Mather sat with their backs to them, and three of Machete’s men stood on guard beside the table. All had their eyes on Gilly. That lumbering offal of Mather’s must be near Gilly for Drake couldn’t locate him. ’Twould be tricky, but Drake planned to taunt Machete with his chandelier. Anger him by flaunting his expensive French furnishings and forcing him into making a deal with Drake. Machete would be enraged and so busy arranging Drake’s demise, he would forget all about Mather and Gilly. And if Mather used Gilly against Drake, which he most certainly would, well then things would get ugly and blood would spill.

  Drake nodded to Bobadilla as they walked past.

  “Evite toda pelea, Señor Drake,” the barkeep said.

  Why was it every tavern owner thought Drake would start a fight? “Haré todo lo posible, amigo.”

  Valeryn chuckled. “Somehow I don’t think trying your best will keep us from a fight.”

  “I’m afraid you’re right. But Bobadilla doesn’t need to be privy.”

  A swarthy brute stepped directly in Drake’s path. “If it ain’t the distinguished Capt’n Drake and his scurvy knave.”

  Drake sensed Valeryn tense and a low growl rumbled from his friend. The two men stared hard at one another and the air seemed to crackle with the tension. “How goes it, Sancho?” Drake said.

  “Yes, Sancho, how goes it?” Valeryn’s tone was steeped in hatred.

  Captain Quint’s first mate crossed his arms over the bulk of his chest. “Ya got a bounty on ya.”

  “We all do, don’t we?”

  “Capt’n Jo wants ya to leave.”

  “That’s not going to happen, now is it? You know it and Quint knows it.” Drake tipped his chin toward the stage. “What’s she up to, Sancho? What’s she doing with the girl?”

  “I ain’t tellin’. But I will say she’s pretty damned sore at ya. Ya should’ve never deceived her, the both of ya.”

  It had been a truly wicked act, but one born of opportunity. Captain Quint was to meet with a Dutch merchant about tracking down one of his ships whose crew had mutinied. Valeryn had Quint occupied in her bed and Drake stole the commission out from under her. It may have been a dirty trick on his part, but not Valeryn’s. Valeryn and Quint were lovers, had been for years. Valeryn had merely failed to tell her Drake intended to take her assignment. He didn’t blame her for seeking vengeance.

  “’Twas only business,” Drake said. “She would have done the same had she met with the chance.”

  “I’d collect the bounty on ya if Capt’n Jo would let me.”

  “Have you finally managed to tup your captain, Sancho?” Valeryn bit out his words like poison. “Oh wait, she didn’t turn to you for comfort like you had hoped once she swore me off, did she? All those times you stood by her. All these years of doing her bidding, and she still won’t wrap her legs around you.” Sancho slowly uncrossed his arms, his hands balling into fists.

  “Valeryn,” Drake warned.

  “You won’t ever have her, ya swine.” Valeryn smiled. “But I will again. I will.”

  Sancho struck Valeryn in the jaw, knocking him back a pace. Valeryn worked his chin and laughed before charging into the brute. They went down in a torrent of flying fists. Each man matched the other blow for blow.

  Within moments, the entire tavern focused on the fighting men. Time seemed to slow as Drake locked eyes with Gilly. She faltered in voice, but like a bona fide performer, continued her song. A storm of emotion flashed across her face. Hurt? Hope? Fear? He wanted to rush to the stage and cradle her in his arms. Aye. That was what he would do. He took a step forward. Valeryn hopped up from the floor in front of him and Sancho followed. Blood pooled from Valeryn’s mouth and the cut above his left eye. Sancho fared no better as his now askew nose dripped with blood. Yet that didn’t deter the lads from pummeling one another.

  Machete and Mather stood. Neither expressed happiness to see Drake. Machete pointed a finger at him, sending two of his cronies Drake’s way. The next moments unfolded in a whirlwind of action. Quint darted from her hidden spot, snatching Gilly’s arm in an attempt to make a getaway. Mather pulled his pistol on the women, barking at them to stop. His face lurched in an angry twitch and he pressed his gun into Gilly’s side. Machete joined him, speaking wildly with his hands. Turk then appeared at a side door holding it open. Machete wrapped his dirty hand around Gilly’s arm and tugged her along.

  When the entire group disappeared, that was when Drake took the first hit. Pain spurred in his eye socket forcing Drake to shake his vision clear. He took another hit, then another.

  Machete had Gilly and they were getting away.

  Desperate pleading filled his head. Visions of Giana, his precious sister, Giana fighting against Machete’s hold blinded him. Her cries of so long ago resounded loud in his ears.

  Another hit broke Drake’s trance. He would not let Machete harm Gilly. This time, he could do something. Newfound fury erupted within him. All the rage, all the pent-up retribution burst like ignited gunpowder. His attacker landed flat on his back from the force of Drake’s swing. He stepped over him, but the lackey grabbed his ankle. Drake shook his boot free and planted his heel into the man’s face.

  Turning, Drake met with the knuckles of Machete’s other baboon. Drake’s fist cracked with his counter strike. The beast, twice Drake’s size, slammed him against the bar. The smarting smack to his back fueled his rage. Drake clamped his fingers around his neck and squeezed. He struggled against Drake’s hold, but Drake’s grip on his windpipe only tightened. His wide-eyed focus shifted beyond Drake. Drake jerked sideways bringing the beast forward just as Bobadilla brought down the metal pitcher, meant for him, upon the man’s head. Machete’s strong arm buckled and joined his partner on the floor.

  Drake shook his head in disappointment at the barkeep. Bobadilla, surprised by Drake’s quick move, reached for a hidden pistol.

  “Be wise, amigo. You won’t get off a shot before I do.” Drake didn’t need to draw his gun. He was famed across the Main as being fast. Not at drawing, but at dodging death’s messengers. “If luck smiled upon you and you did shoot me, the brethren will see you suffer. Painfully so.”

  The barkeep slowly raised his empty hands and backed away.

  “Good man.”

  Drake stepped over the felled ruffians. “Valeryn. Stop foolin’ around. They’re getting away.”

  Valeryn and Sancho persisted in wasting time throwing punches. Neither tired and neither gained headway. Drake blew out a frustrated sigh.

  “Quint is with them.”

  Both men paused
in midswing. Drake looked at them expectantly.

  Valeryn stunned Sancho with an elbow to his snout. “Right, then,” he said. “Let’s go.” Valeryn walked past, swiping at his bloody mouth.

  They left the back way. Sancho tagged along holding his nose. A light breeze met them in the empty corridor, sweeping down to rustle in the stiff leaves of palm trees at the end of the alley. Folks went about their business along the street lined with storefronts and private homes, but Drake’s quarry was nowhere in sight. He cursed.

  “Machete wouldn’t take them to Palacio de la Espada,” Valeryn said.

  Drake agreed. “Nay. Taking them all to his home would be uncharacteristic of Machete.”

  Machete didn’t receive strangers at his Palace of the Sword, fueling speculation that the horrendous rumors were true. It was well-known that he kept women like favored pets. Some were lured by his luxuriant lifestyle, believing they would bask in his riches. Others were taken as collateral when the common folk could not pay their levies. Passing through the thick stone gates of the palace was a prison sentence for the naive girls. It was said once Machete tired of them, he tortured the unwanted girls, watching them bleed before taking his pleasure with them and disposing of them. How was unclear, but rarely was a young woman ever seen or heard of again. Drake didn’t know how much truth there was in such abhorrent talk. But he had firsthand knowledge of Machete’s murderous hands.

  Giana’s screams echoed in his head. His heartbeat quickened.

  “Mather will get his payment,” Drake said. “Machete wants Gilly. I saw it in the way he watched her. I can’t let him have her.” It was unthinkable. If he planned his next move carefully, a long-awaited vengeance would be his.

  “What now?” Valeryn asked.

  “It will take too long to search all these buildings,” added Sancho.

  They could wait for Machete’s men to lead them to him. But then patience was never a virtue for Drake. Gilly was in grave danger. Action was needed. Think, Drake.

  “They’d go somewhere close, somewhere quiet,” Drake said aloud, fencing together his scattered thoughts. “Somewhere they could make their negotiation without the benefit of onlookers.”

  “A church?” Valeryn said.

  Realization stuck hard. “Basilica Menor de San Francisco de Asis.” Machete was too ironic and predictable. The church would be perfect for Machete’s manipulations. “This way.”

  Drake trotted down the street which emptied into the plaza and led them to an avenue beyond. There, before him stood the large white church. Its smooth bricks seemed an impossible white in the bright sunlight. The church’s sacred and simple beauty belied the darkness which lurked within its walls.

  ’Twas good he was no longer a religious man, for Drake had sin on his mind.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Specks of dust floated in the slanted sun beams from the church’s amber windows high above. Many candelabrum lined the marble fluted columns casting the nave in eerie shades of ochre. The solemn quiet became disrupted by Machete’s man barring the front entrance and the hushed footsteps of startled, fleeing clergy.

  A church was hallowed ground, a safe haven for the devout. In the shadows of the church’s aisle, Gilly felt anything but safe. She should feel the hand of protection upon her shoulder, for she loved her creator. But the presence of evil matched equal and strong with that of good there in His house. How could that be? Had she gone so astray she was unworthy of His sanctuary?

  “Well, Señor Diaz,” Mather said. “You’ve heard Miss McCoy sing. Her voice can bring you twice as much as you pay for her in two months’ time.”

  Machete finally let go of her arm. His murky brown eyes under thick black eyebrows studied her. Distinguishable crow’s feet and lines framing his mustached mouth cut deep. The wrinkles might be mistaken as charming, except for the angry knit in his brow and the faint scar under his eye. He was a well-built man and well dressed in his red justacorps trimmed with lace and gold brocade. Gilly suspected he prided himself as such, particularly if he enjoyed wielding his deadly sword.

  “Mmm-hmm, yes,” Machete said. “I could find many desirable uses for the girl.”

  Smiling his persuasive smile, Mather added, “She’s a lovely plaything for your arm.”

  “Yes, yes. But forgive me, Señor Mather. I am concerned. You come to me with this proposition and you bring with you a dangerous pirate. Why is that?”

  “The poor lad is confused,” Mather offered. “Miss McCoy is rightfully mine and he wishes to lay claim to her for himself.”

  “I am his! I do belong to Captain Drake!” What was she doing? No one owned her. Not even the one man she would gladly serve for the rest of her life. It was madness to think Machete would think twice buying her like a slave girl from a lunatic based on the lie that she was someone else’s property. Blurting out crazy reasoning was only going to hurt, not help.

  “Captain Drake is never confused, Señor Mather.” Machete’s gaze crawled across Gilly’s chest before landing upon her face. “But it pleases me to take something of his.” He cupped her chin and nodded. “He will be very angry with me again.”

  His laughter intensified as it bounced off the stone walls of the church. She jerked her face free.

  “You’ve got fire, señorita. This I like.”

  “Fire burns,” she spat.

  Machete’s smile no longer reached his eyes, but he smiled nonetheless. “You will control this fire around me.” He unsheathed a large knife from under his waistcoat. Candlelight glinted off the blade as he spun its tip on his finger. “The consequences otherwise will not be kind. It would be a pity to mar your soft, unblemished flesh.”

  How had her life come to this? Kidnapped and sold, passed around as a parlor game for madmen. Mather may kill her, but Machete, oh Lord, Machete would likely torture her in ways unimaginable. She couldn’t go with him.

  Panic reared and her legs responded. Gilly spiraled on her heel and ran. She made it five paces before Turk caught her. He spun her around and on instinct she bit the hand that held her. Turk yelped and threw her down at the men’s feet. Her palms slapped on the marble floor and pain shot up to her jarred elbows.

  “I’m bleedin’! The bitch bit me!” Turk dropped to a knee and yanked Gilly up to sitting by her hair. “I’m gonna bust that pretty face up, I am.”

  He edged back his fist and Gilly closed her eyes against the inevitable.

  “No!” Joelle stepped from the shadows. “You don’t want to damage Señor Diaz’s goods before the sale.”

  “What are you doing here?” Mather spat.

  “I came with the lady.”

  “You’re not her nursemaid. Be gone with you.”

  She boldly sauntered forward. “She’ll be unable to perform for the capitane generale if her face is bruised. He will ask questions. That is what you will do first with her, Señor Diaz. You always show off your newest prize to the governor, am I right? Perhaps gloat a little?”

  Machete’s stare turned suspicious and he motioned for Turk to move away. “You look familiar, señorita. Do I know you?”

  “I am but a lowly admirer of your work, Señor Diaz. A face in the crowd that respects you. The Spanish Main needs more men with your military intelligence and sense of control. Keeping order through fear is a superior trait. And keeping relations with the capitane generale social affords you certain…” Joelle paused to offer a wicked smile, “…nefarious freedoms. Look at her. She’s muy bonita and her voice is unmatched here in Havana.”

  Joelle helped Gilly to her feet. Gilly was confused. Earlier, the woman spoke of Machete as if spitting out a bitter taste. Now she spoke of admiration. Whose side was she on? Did she really mean to help Gilly or was she serving her up like a roasted pheasant?

  “Why wouldn’t you display a grand prize for the
governor’s enjoyment? You deserve such gratification.”

  “This is true. You are quite observant.” Machete tucked his knife back under his belt. “Much too observant.”

  “So much so—” Joelle swept a lock of Gilly’s hair behind her shoulder, “—that I take the liberty to point out waiting for the girl to heal from unnecessary wounds would cost you money.”

  Mather exhaled an impatient sigh and shoved the redhead aside. “Do we have a bargain, Diaz?”

  The commander stroked his thick black mustache in contemplation. Gilly, as well as the others, knew he was prolonging the moment. Yet, she held her breath in hopes he would tell Mather no.

  “We do, Señor Mather.”

  Her breath expired with her withering hope.

  “Let us talk of payment,” Machete continued. “I will have my man bring it to you—”

  “No. Miss McCoy stays in my custody until I have payment. Send for the money if you have to, but we all stay right here.”

  “You do not trust me, señor? I am insulted.”

  “I don’t trust any Spaniard.”

  Machete’s brow crept upward. “I should remind you that I could have you killed if I like.”

  “That is assuming you walk out of this church alive,” Mather answered, his mouth twitching as he sought to control his anger.

  Turk rested his hand on the butt of his pistol. Machete’s crony pushed back the flap of his jacket revealing his gun in kind. Joelle winked at Gilly. Was she insane? Tension filled the air as the men traded threats. Amicable pleasantries quickly disappeared. And they were in the middle.

  “You threaten me?”

  “I just want the money. Then you can have the girl and we’re both happy.”

  Machete chuckled. “I didn’t come to be the wealthiest man in Havana by making hasty deals with greedy men. But I have decided this transaction is done.” He turned to his man. “Mátelos.”

  Machete’s ruffian drew his gun and hit his mark. Gilly screamed. The percussion clapped in her ears. Turk whirled back from the slug blasting through his chest. Her heart slammed against her ribcage watching Turk slink to the floor. In the blur of chaos, Mather pulled his pistol. Machete unsheathed his dagger and swung it up, deflecting Mather’s aim. The bullet pierced into the stone wall. Bits of masonry splintered and fine red dust rained down.