The Red Siren

by Marylu Tyndall

  Withdrawing a handkerchief, Dajon dabbed at the sweat on his throat then twisted the cloth into a knot, longing to stuff it into her sassy mouth.

  “If you leave without me, I shall follow you anyway. Isn’t it better I ride under your protection than all alone?”

  Fuming, Dajon turned and assisted Lucas with the final horse, realizing he had lost the battle. “You will do what I say when we get there, or mark my words, I shall tie you to a tree if I must in order to keep you out of trouble. Do you understand?” He snapped his gaze to her.

  “Yes, sir.” She saluted him stiffly then lifted her skirts and swung onto her horse.

  As they galloped through the dark streets, Dajon’s fears stung him like the tiny pelts of rain that sliced through the night sky. He wondered in what condition he would find Hope. Foolish girl. Had she gone there alone? If so, it would be unlikely she remained unscathed. In fact, it was more likely that she had been robbed of her purity, along with her money, and then tossed into a ditch.

  And what of Faith? He glanced at her as she galloped beside him, as at ease upon a horse as she seemed strolling in the garden. Though fear tightened the corners of her mouth, courage and resolution held them in a thin line. He had never met a woman like her. So different from timid, sweet Marianne.

  On the other side of Faith, Lucas kept a steady pace, as if the two had ridden in haste side by side many times before. The sight alarmed Dajon. The more he became acquainted with Faith, the more he could see the markings of a pirate within her: commanding, confident, rebellious, and greedy. Not a greed for gold, but for whatever would purchase freedom for her and her sisters. He nearly laughed at the thought. Impossible.

  Great guns, he’d almost kissed her tonight—again. Her allure was intoxicating—too heady for him to resist. And that frightened him the most.

  His hair had loosened from his queue, and he shook it free, allowing the rising wind to clear his head. He mustn’t think of Faith now nor the Red Siren. He must focus on saving Hope, no matter what danger she had thrown herself into.

  He tugged back the reins as they passed through the city gates then turned onto Meeting Street. The fetid odors of the city surrounded him, along with the eerie chime of an off-key violin accompanied by devilish laughter. Lightning carved a craggy spike across the dark sky as if warning him of impending danger.

  Evil was afoot this night. Dajon could feel it.

  He could feel it in the sharp hairs bristling across his neck, in the chill rippling down his back. He could feel it in his spirit.

  His thoughts shifted to the only One who possessed the power to protect them from such unseen forces, and he chided himself. Why hadn’t he thought to pray for Hope sooner?

  Father, please protect Hope. Please let no harm befall her. Keep the villains from her and watch over her until we arrive.

  When he raised his gaze, it was to Faith’s curious stare.

  “Who were you talking to?”

  Thunder growled in the distance, announcing a storm. “I was praying for your sister.”

  “Humph.” She nudged her horse into a trot.

  h

  Faith thrust her nose in the air but did not respond. Angry voices blared in the street ahead of her. They had not seen a soul since entering the city, all asleep at this hour save for the men down by the docks, the miscreants of the sea who spent their coins on idle pleasures and boastful brawls. In that way, she certainly differed from her pirate compatriots.

  Narrow houses sprang up on both sides of the street. Two- and three-story stone structures originally built to house families but now transformed into filthy bordellos. Scantily clad women of all shapes and sizes spilled from the door and windows of one of them as if the house could not contain them all. Men with mugs of ale in hand hung on the trollops like ill-fitting shawls.

  Drunken eyes shot toward the trio in the street, and for the first time that night, Faith found comfort in riding between the captain and Lucas.

  A flash of lightning drew her gaze to a pink building up ahead.

  The Pink House.

  Faith swallowed and tried to quiet the pounding of her heart.

  Mr. Waite raised a hand to slow them. The horses’ hooves clicked over the narrow cobblestone street like the ticking of a clock counting down their demise.

  The captain turned in his saddle. “Miss Westcott, I beg you. Allow Lucas to escort you home. Mullato Alley is no place for a lady at night.”

  So this was Mullato Alley—the most perilous district in town. She had thus far managed to avoid traveling this way, and now she knew why ’twas spoken of in hushed tones. But no matter her fear, no matter her disgust, she must think only of Hope and of bringing her sister home safely. Faith took a deep breath and threw back her shoulders. “My sister is here somewhere, Mr. Waite. Therefore I will stay. She will no doubt need me when we discover her whereabouts.”

  The captain grunted but said nothing more.

  Terror stiffened each nerve within Faith as they proceeded to the Pink House. Men brawled openly in the street. Angry shouts and curses burst through the night like pistol shots. To her right, a ring of boisterous sailors, shouting and thrusting their fists in the air, had formed around two others engaged in a sword fight. The clank of metal on metal rang across the street in ominous tones. Somewhere a gun fired.

  What had lured Hope down to this ungodly place? Hadn’t she had enough of lecherous men? Faith shivered beneath a rising swell of fear for her sister’s safety. An unusual desire to pray gripped her—an urge to appeal to a force outside herself, for as she looked around at the violent depravity consuming the alley, she could not imagine any of them escaping unharmed.

  The captain’s gaze locked upon the Pink House. Concern tightened his features, and beads of sweat glistened between his eyebrows. She turned to Lucas. “Give me one of your pistols.”

  Mr. Waite shot her a curious look.

  “I know how to shoot it. Never fear.” She knew she had just given him more fuel to feed his suspicions, but she couldn’t concern herself with that at the moment. In light of what she saw before her, she realized it was not just Hope’s innocence on the line but her very life.

  Gripping the weapon, Faith stuffed it in the belt on her gown, finding a small measure of relief at being armed again. Now if she just had her cutlass.

  As the captain led them around the side of the Pink House, where several horses stood tethered to a post, Faith tried to ignore the lewd comments tossed her way, tried to allow them to pass over her like the wind rising upon the oncoming storm, but she could not. Instead of disgusting her, however, they only pricked her ire. How dare these men fling such foul, degrading suggestions toward a lady, or any woman for that matter?

  At least the captain and Lucas’s presence seemed to keep them at bay. No doubt most were too inebriated to follow through with their obscene threats anyway.

  Mr. Waite dismounted and held out his hand to assist her from her horse. “I apologize, Miss Westcott, for the insults you are forced to endure, but I fear if I were to attempt to defend your honor for each one, I would be engaged in battle the entire night.”

  “’Tis quite all right, Mr. Waite.” Faith took his hand, glad for the warm strength that enveloped hers, and hopped to the ground. “I believe I can suffer through it for my sister’s sake.”

  “You are a brave woman.” He gave her an admiring look then plucked his pistol from the inside of his coat, primed it, replaced it, and nodded toward Lucas.

  Without asking, he placed Faith’s hand firmly on his arm. “Stay close to me,” he ordered as the three of them rounded the building and slipped through the front door.

  The stink of ale, tobacco, and human sweat assaulted Faith. She held her breath against the onslaught and tried to focus. The tavern was a swaying mass of inebriated humanity stretched in every direction. In the right corner, a plump woman perched at a harpsichord banged out a bawdy tune, while a skinny man attempted a vain accompaniment with his violi
n. An off-key ballad rose from a mob clustered around them, their mugs of ale raised toward the rafters.

  A loud thump startled Faith, drawing her attention to a table at her left where two men arm wrestled. A crowd circled them, placing bets. Angry card games exploded with insults and threats from every corner. Women snuggled upon men’s laps and cooed into their ears. A narrow staircase led upstairs, its wood creaking under the continual passage of its patrons to whatever wickedness loomed above.

  Mr. Waite tensed beside Faith as he scanned the room. Hope was not here, at least not in this part of the tavern.

  Some of the patrons fired seething glances their way as they muttered to their companions.

  Faith felt his eyes lock upon her long before she saw him.

  A man wearing a plumed captain’s hat, leather jerkin, black waistcoat, and cocky grin stared at her from a table in the corner. He sat back in his chair with his arms folded across his thick chest. A motley group—his crew, no doubt—sat with him.

  A pirate.

  His gaze scoured over her as if she were tonight’s supper then shot to Captain Waite and narrowed.

  “Have ye come to arrest me then?” His eyes dropped to the three gold buttons lining each of Mr. Waite’s cuffs. “Lieutenant, is it? Ha.” He snorted, his spit splattering onto the table. “They send a mere lieutenant to arrest the great Captain Vane.” The men surrounding him erupted into a round of drunken cackles as every hazy eye in the place shot to the trio.

  So this was Charles Vane. Faith had heard of his brutality—how he tortured and murdered the crews of his captured vessels, how he never abided by the pirate code and cheated his own crew out of their share of the plunder, and how he had arrogantly snubbed the offer of pardon given by the governor of the Bahamas by setting a French ship aflame and destroying two Royal Navy ships. As she took in his grotesque physique and the pure evil simmering in his gaze, she felt as if a thousand bugs crawled down her back, the sensation made all the more disgusting by the shame of her association with his kind. Averting her eyes, she scanned the room once again for any sign of Hope.

  Mr. Waite returned the man’s stare and waited until the chortles silenced.

  “Ye come here with a mere woman and a slave?” the pirate continued his verbal joust.

  Lucas grunted and gripped the hilt of his sword.

  The pirate’s eyes shifted to the groomsman’s threatening gesture, and a wicked sneer played upon his lips.

  Mr. Waite raised his brows. “I’ll be happy to arrest you if you wish, Mr. Vane,” he said nonchalantly, “but I am afraid I have not heard of you.”

  Faith elbowed the captain and sent an anxious glance his way. Surely he knew who this vile man was. ’Twas sheer folly to antagonize such a volatile beast.

  The pirate’s face exploded in a purple rage. “Not heard of me?” He shot up, his chair thumping to the floor. The crowd shrank back. “I’ve plundered o’er twenty ships in these waters.” He flung a glance over his men to receive the expected grunts of approbation, even as he slid his hand within his waistcoat.

  The captain remained steady and relaxed beside her as if he were talking to a mere servant. Either he was mad, or he possessed more courage than she had ever seen.

  “You must be quite proud of yourself, Mr. Vane, but alas, I care not.” Mr. Waite gazed off to the right as if the exchange bored him. “We have come in search of a lady.”

  “Well, ye ain’t gonna find a lady in here,” blared a man’s voice above the noise of the crowd, eliciting a barrage of chortles.

  The pirate fumbled within his coat. Faith knew he went for his pistol. She knew he would have already drawn it if not for the alcohol tugging on his reflexes. Lucas shifted his stance, his fingers stretching beside his own weapon. Faith clutched the handle of her gun. Her moist palms slipped over the cool metal. Why didn’t the captain do something?

  The laugher abated, leaving a deadly silence in its wake.

  A slow smile crept over the pirate’s lips. He plucked his pistol from inside his waistcoat. The cock of a dozen pistols snapped through the room like firecrackers—Faith’s and Lucas’s and the captain’s among them. She hadn’t even seen Mr. Waite draw his.

  Mr. Vane aimed the dark barrel of his pistol at the captain’s heart. His grin faded.

  The captain did not move, his own weapon trained upon the pirate.

  Eight men surrounding Vane leveled their pistols upon the trio, while only their three returned the threat. A maze of deadly steel crisscrossed before them, ready to fire in a lethal explosion.

  Fear as she’d never known before dug its claws into Faith and kept her frozen in place.

  There was no way out of this. They were all going to die.

  Chapter 20

  Faith gazed at the dark, gaping holes of at least twenty pistols leveled upon her heart and thought this as good a time as any to make peace with a God she had ignored for years. Mr. Waite grabbed her hand with his free one and tried to pull her behind him.

  She did not budge.

  Though the chivalrous gesture warmed her, better to die alongside her companions than after they had been pummeled with bullets and dropped to the floor at her feet.

  Oh God, if You are there. . .I know I haven’t spoken to You very much. . .but please help us—for the captain’s sake. He’s a good man.

  From the corner of her eye, Faith spotted a woman in a formfitting purple gown saunter over to Vane. Her brown hair, tied behind her like a man’s, curled down her back. Two brace of pistols were slung across her chest.

  “Settle down, Charlie.” She sidled beside him and gave him a sultry grin. “I know this woman.” She winked at Faith. “They mean you no harm. And besides, since when have you ever allowed a navy pig to stir your ire?” She waved a jeweled hand through the air. “Ignore him. He is nothing.”

  “Anne.” Faith lowered her pistol and stormed toward the woman she now recognized as Hope’s friend.

  “Miss Westcott,” the captain hissed urgently behind her.

  Vane’s glazed eyes flickered briefly to Anne then to Faith, before fixing again on Mr. Waite. His pistol wobbled. Grabbing his mug, he gulped down another swig of ale, foam beading on his mustache, and then switched the weapon to his other hand.

  “Do you know where Hope is?”

  A spark of alarm flitted across Anne’s confident expression. “She did not return home?”

  Faith shook her head.

  Facing Vane again, Anne placed a hand on his arm holding the gun. “Put the pistol down, Charlie. Pay them no mind. Do we not have better things to do?” she cooed into his ear.

  “Gone wit’ ye, woman. Leave me be!” Vane jerked her hand away and gave Mr. Waite a venomous look. “Yer outnumbered, sir. Surrender or die.”

  “I plan to do neither, Mr. Bane,” the captain huffed. “But how about this? I will—”

  “I said me name was Vane, not Bane!” the pirate interrupted in a spasm of fury. He sent a scathing glance over the room, silencing the few who had dared to laugh.

  “Vane, Bane, whatever.” Mr. Waite shrugged. “As I was saying, I will not arrest you on the condition that you tell me where our lady friend is to be found. Agreed?” The muscles in his jaw flexed, but Faith could see no other indication of unease in his staunch demeanor.

  “I’ve got me a better idea,” Vane snarled. “I’ll kill ye where ye stand and take the fine lady ye brought wit’ ye fer meself.”

  Laughter rumbled through the foul air just as a blast of thunder roared outside.

  Raindrops struck the roof, at first sounding like tiny footfalls then growing in intensity until the reverberation of pounding drums filled the whole tavern.

  A chill slithered over Faith.

  Mr. Waite cast a wary glance at her, motioning her to step away from Anne.

  She did.

  He nodded toward Lucas.

  Faith’s heart took on a frenzied beat. What was he planning?

  He faced Vane. His stern gaze and rigid s
tance contained all the energy of a lightning bolt about to strike.

  Vane snickered and tightened his finger around the trigger of his pistol.

  Instantly the captain booted the table that stood between them. Mugs of ale and bottles of rum shot through the air, crashing into pieces against walls and floor and showering the crowd with shards of glass and drops of liquor.

  Vane stumbled back. His pistol fired.

  Guns exploded.

  Faith ducked.

  A man grabbed her arm and dragged her from her feet. Twisting, she kneed him in the groin then regained her balance and waved her gun across a circle of men descending upon her.

  Lucas tugged her beside him. He shot one man in the leg, dropped his gun, and drew his cutlass.

  The man screamed and clutched the wound.

  Sword tips bristled at them from every direction.

  “Halt or I’ll kill him!” Mr. Waite’s voice thundered through the room.

  Silence, save for the pounding of the rain, descended upon them.

  Mr. Waite marched toward Vane, his pistol leveled at the pirate’s shocked face. Vane raised his own weapon and gave a sideways grin at the smoke curling upward from the barrel. He tossed it aside with a clank.

  “Tell your men to lower their weapons,” Mr. Waite commanded. “Or I swear by the love of all that is holy, I will blast what’s left of your brains all over the wall.”

  The pirate’s upper lip twitched. A look of insolent defiance burned in his gaze. Faith knew that look. He wasn’t going to comply. He would risk his death rather than suffer shame in front of his men.

  Without warning, Anne rushed to his side, raised a pistol, and whacked the handle down on Vane’s head. His eyes rolled upward before he crumpled to the ground in a heap.

  Murmurs rumbled through the crowd of onlookers, their mouths agape, but Anne turned to face them and threw her hands to her hips. “Go about yer business, ye sotted dogs,” she yelled as loudly as any man. “He just needs a wee bit of sleep, ’tis all.”

  Tension spiked through the room. Faith tried to contain the heavy breath that threatened to burst through her chest. Then, one by one, the men began to laugh. Coarse chortles soon chased out the hostility as the sailors slowly dispersed.