The Curse [Legend of Blackbeard's Chalice Book 1]

by Maddie James

  Her fingers slid out of his mouth and she lunged upward. Their lips met and melded in frantic embrace. His arms moved around her back clasping her to him. Hers grabbed and clawed, holding him and pulling him even closer into her body, if that were at all possible. They lowered against the soft pillows of the bed and their lips parted.

  Oh, Hannah. How I've longed for you. How I've wanted to touch you once more. My dear Hannah....

  Claire watched the play of emotions ride over his face. I think I've waited for you forever. But ... who are you?

  It is your Jack, m’ love. I've come to take you home.

  He slithered lower. Claire threaded her fingers in his silky hair and held him to her breast. His hands were everywhere—on her breasts, kneading her belly, between her thighs. His mouth and tongue were everywhere his hands weren't—her neck, underneath her breasts, dipping into her navel, and at her very center, tasting, caressing, exploring.

  He moved over her and then entered her with long, firm and determined strokes. She opened herself to him body and soul, panting and bucking against him in wild abandon, answering him with every thrust. Their bodies continued the frenzy of intertwined passion and enraptured longing, united in splendor and graceful desire, satisfying a hunger long denied.

  Fanning a fire of long-smoldering embers.

  Creating passion out of a dream.

  Reaching beyond the possibilities of time.

  * * * *

  Claire rolled over and squinted at the clock radio next to her bed. She blinked several times trying to make some sense of the red numbers glaring back at her, but couldn't.

  The red numbers weren't there.

  She glanced out the window and then bolted upright. It was too dark outside, an eerie sort of dark.

  The storm. No electricity.

  Reaching for her watch on the stand, she squinted trying to make out the time. Ten thirty! She was supposed to have been checked out in Kill Devil Hills, sixty miles north of here, by ten.

  It was then that she heard the wind pummeling the cottage and noticed the sand sifting in around the windowsills.

  Uh-oh...

  The shutters. She didn't do the shutters.

  Scrambling across the bed, she winced and fell back naked across the foot. Why was she so damn ... sore?

  She stared at the ceiling in disbelief.

  It was only a dream. She closed her eyes.

  It was only a dream.

  Only a dream. Had to be. Nothing but a dream.

  Sitting up, she glanced around. Nothing was amiss.

  Where is he? When did he leave? Was he really even here?

  Really?

  The room looked just as she'd left it the night before. Her gaze dropped to the wooden plank floor. Except for her nightgown pooled at the foot of the bed. It wasn't her usual habit to strip during the night unless ... unless she was making love.

  Oh my God! We made love.

  She covered her face with her hands.

  Time to leave. Now. Go!

  Her hands fell to her lap and she gazed out the window in front of her. The sea oats were blown flat against the dunes behind the cottage. The air was brown with swirling sand. The surf was strong. Too strong. It frightened her. This frightened her. This thing that was happening to her.

  Shaking her head from side to side, her eyes filled with tears. Her mind chased away random thoughts.

  Not understanding what's happening.

  Not like her.

  Not the kind of woman who sleeps around.

  Has to be a dream. A very erotic, very satisfying, sexy dream.

  Yes. A dream.

  Dammit! You are a dream!

  Lowering her gaze to her lap, she sucked in a breath, and watched fat tears fall onto the backs of her hands.

  Her eyes widened in horror. Her heart leapt.

  Hastily, she swiped away tears with the palm of her right hand and blinked. Lifting her left hand closer to her face, she stared again at her fingers through a blurry veil.

  It was still there.

  A ring.

  A wedding band.

  A very old, very simple band of gold encircled the third finger of Hannah Claire Winslow's left hand.

  No, my dear Hannah.

  'Tisn't a dream. ‘Tis very, very real.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Three

  "Where in the hell is the damned ferry?"

  It had taken her forever to get here and now ... now there was no one here? The damned place was deserted?

  There is no ferry? How in the hell am I supposed to get off this stupid island?

  She should have realized when she had not encountered a single person on the road this morning that something was off. It should have been apparent right then, when the wind nearly slammed her truck into the dunes and she could barely see the road anymore from the blowing sand, that she wasn't going anywhere. It should have, but either Claire ignored the warnings or she didn't want to admit what she already knew.

  This is nuts!

  She pounded the steering wheel of her rented Jeep Cherokee with both fists and stared out across Hatteras Inlet. Or tried to. She couldn't see more than a few feet in front of her. And what she could see was nothing more than water ... water ... and more water.

  Blowing. Slicing. Driving water.

  No radio. No television. No communication with anyone. A secluded cottage. The most remote area you could find. It had to be, didn't it?

  Right smart, Claire. Look what you've gotten yourself into.

  Forcing out a breath that lifted the bangs right off her forehead, she pondered her situation. “I'm an intelligent being, aren't I?” she said out loud. “I can take care of myself. Hell, I'm a member of Mensa, for God's sake. Now, how do I get myself out of this mess?"

  Don't. Don't go.

  She jumped and looked in the seat behind her, as if she expected to see someone sitting there. Her frantic glance met with nothing but empty space. Panicking, she twisted her body back and made sure the door was locked. After another second's hesitation, she risked another backward glance.

  No. There was no one there. So where had that voice come from?

  Wind. Maybe it was the wind. And, of course, she was very tired, and—

  "Where are you?” she demanded. It was him. And he was there. In the damned Jeep. Damn it. You're here, aren't you?

  I wish you didn't curse so, Hannah.

  Shocked, she widened her eyes and jerked her body around once more. “I'll curse if I damned well please! Now, where are you? Who are you?"

  Silence screamed back at her inside the truck. Outside, rain pelted, wind howled.

  Guess you don't like me now that I yelled at you, huh?

  Like you? Hannah, I love you.

  Love? She swallowed. Hard.

  My name is not Hannah. It's Claire.

  No, it's Hannah.

  Claire!

  Hannah.

  Claire! She sighed. All right, damn it! My name is Hannah but no one ever calls me that. Okay?

  Of course.

  "Oh, okay.” She chuckled. “Now I'm making concessions. I'm speaking—in a way—to a disembodied, nameless voice and I'm discussing with it what to call me? Makes perfect sense."

  Jack. My name is Jack.

  Claire exhaled. Of course. Jack the ghost, looking for his wife Hannah. Shit.

  How do you do this? How are we doing this?

  Silence.

  "Well?"

  I'm a part of you. You are a part of me.

  Oh, damn. Claire closed her eyes, exhausted, and laid her head face down against the steering wheel. This is crazy. Nuts. I've got to go home.

  Yes. Come home. Come home with me.

  Lifting her head once more, she stared across the inlet. The tide was surged. The fierce winds howled, slightly rocking the truck back and forth. Rain pelted against the window. She wasn't going anywhere today, and probably not for several days.

  But she'd had to try.<
br />
  * * * *

  High winds whipped around the windows throughout the dark night. Pellets of rain pounded voraciously against the wood-sided home. Fine grains of sand sifted through tiny cracks between window and frame, through air vents, and under doors, zinging throughout the room like minute stinging meteorites.

  Claire felt alone. Very alone. And very frightened.

  No electricity, no lights. She had no food because she'd dumped it all before she'd left. The phone was dead. No way to communicate. No basement or storm cellar like the house she grew up in back in Ohio. And worse, there was no one to comfort her.

  She did the best she could. The only thing she knew how to do. She crawled into bed and drew up the covers, high over her head against the night and the storm and other things she didn't want to think about.

  Helpless. Certainly, that was how she felt. Helpless because she couldn't get off this island and away from the storm; helpless and confused by her feelings, her connection with this voice, this ... man. The one she'd made love to.

  The one who put the ring on her finger.

  She tried to relax but it was difficult. The house shook. The storm roared. She felt like a small child who needed comforting in the middle of the night, but with no parents’ bed to run off to for safety. So, she pulled the covers up tight, curled into a fetal position, and tried to shield herself from whatever the storm—or perhaps life—was getting ready to throw at her.

  She didn't know when she'd ever been so frightened.

  I'm so scared.

  You needn't be, Hannah. I'm here with you.

  Small tears squeezed from between her closed lids. Please, I can't handle this storm and you, too. Just go away for a while. Okay?

  Is that really what you want?

  She shook her head. A tear dropped to her pillow and was absorbed into the fabric. I don't know what I want.

  I'll stay if you want. I'll go if you want.

  I'm just so confused. I'm not sure what's happening to me. And I'm...

  You're frightened, Hannah. I'll stay with you and comfort you.

  Claire shook her head again. “No, I think you need to go. I've got a headache from all this talking through my brain. Why don't you just go? I don't understand any of this and I just ... I just want to be alone."

  I understand.

  Darkness settled around her. She tried to sleep, attempted to clear her brain of any thought, images, words, voices. She was determined not to talk to herself or even think. She just wanted to exist, to lie there and do nothing but sleep. If she could. Maybe she'd wake up and be back in Cincinnati. Maybe it would all be a dream....

  A crash reverberated against the side of the cottage. She jumped and clutched the sheet tight to her chest. Not daring to open her eyes, she clamped them tighter. Her breathing came deep and shallow.

  Are you there?

  This time, she'd initiate the conversation. Knowing that he might be out there somewhere seemed a bit comforting.

  Guess not, huh?

  The room kept its silence.

  Oh, well ... that's okay. I guess I did ask you to go away, didn't I?

  The shutters clattered against the house.

  And I guess I've been a bit rude to you.

  Wind whistled at the door.

  I'm sorry.

  A rush of hurricane-force winds enveloped the tiny cottage with extreme magnitude, jostling and thrusting the small structure about so that she wondered if it would hold together through the blast. Claire shook, squeezed her eyes tighter, and began to sob. She felt like a blubbering idiot. So out of control. The words rushed frantically through her brain.

  Why are you only here when you want to be here? Why can't you be here now, when I want you? When I need you? Why is it just your voice now? Where is your body? Will it ever be your body again? I need you here, now, dammit! I need to hear your voice. I need your arms wrapped around me, holding me tight so I can feel safe. Secure. Against this damned storm. Why the hell aren't you here when I need you?

  She sobbed, uncontrollably.

  You are cursing again.

  Relief coursed through her as Jack's voice entered her mind. Thank God. Thank you.

  You're welcome.

  She smiled. I didn't mean to shout.

  You're frightened. You know I told you I would stay.

  I know.

  Do I frighten you?

  Claire nodded. No.

  The storm?

  She shook her head. Yes.

  Upset, are you?

  Confused.

  That, I can tell.

  Claire stopped all thought processes for a moment. She needed to think. But he could hear her thoughts, couldn't he? This was so confusing.

  Apology accepted.

  What?

  Earlier you said you were sorry.

  Oh. Yeah. I did, didn't I?

  You did.

  Claire thought for a moment. I asked you earlier ... but where are you? Why can't you be here? I mean, I hear your voice, but where is your body?

  Well ... I'm home. Home, Hannah.

  What?

  I ... am not there. You are not ... here. I just don't know.

  Puzzled, Claire continued. How did you get here last night? And all those other times?

  Difficult to explain, m’ love, but I think it has something to do with the magic stone. Someday, I think, we will know.

  Stone? Magic? Someday? We will?

  I think so.

  I hope so.

  Do you?

  Claire hesitated a mere second. I do.

  The voice fell silent.

  The storm will pass, you know. They always do.

  But a hurricane ... can do a lot of damage. People die...

  Not on these islands.

  I would think especially on these small islands. Barely ribbons of sand in the sea.

  No. There is the curse.

  Claire turned over and faced the ceiling, crossing her arms over her chest. She hadn't realized how relaxed she'd become.

  Curse? What curse?

  Well, they say that the elbow of Hatteras Island frightens away a hurricane. This one will blow out to sea. I'm certain of it.

  I hope so. Claire yawned. Her eyelids felt heavy.

  You're getting sleepy now. His voice was softer, sexier. Almost a caress.

  A little.

  Sleep, my darling Hannah. Go to sleep now. I'll protect you while you sleep. I'll take care of you. Always.

  The corners of Claire's mouth turned up. The hurricane wreaked havoc over the island outside her windows, but she felt perfectly safe and serene. And comforted.

  She felt as though she were suspended between two worlds; and probably was.

  Always.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Four

  Jack Porter stared at the strange inscription on the stone. He could not translate the strange words, but he knew they held a clue to the stone's magic. And the stone held magic, of that he was certain, for it was the thing that had brought him Hannah. He just hoped it wasn't witchcraft. However, if it was the thing that brought Hannah back to life, even if it was witchcraft, he would endure it.

  He would sell his soul to the devil himself if he could find his Hannah once more. If only he could bring her home.

  But she was gone. He'd tried and she was gone.

  Her home was empty and locked up tight.

  And then later, it was filled with others, strange-looking people who were not her. Loud children and cranky adults who frightened him.

  He'd not been back. Had not stepped on the magic stone since.

  It all frightened him. And he didn't understand any of it.

  "You must be in heaven,” he said as he crouched lower and touched the stone. “But if you are in heaven, Hannah, how is it that sometimes your voice comes to me in my head? That I feel your body close to mine? That I tremble with the feelings of loving you once again? Where is it that you are, my sweet Hannah?"


  He sat and dropped his head into his hands. “How is it that we made love? How have I been so privileged as to have you once more? To touch your breasts, your thighs, your lips? I've been to heaven and back and I want like hell to return. But I can't. Please, my Hannah, come back."

  He crouched there and looked out to sea. What had happened to him those nights he'd stepped on the stone? How had he seen Hannah, kissed her, made love to her? With each time he'd stepped on the stone, he had found himself surrounded by a foggy mist and shooting stars and swirling colors, and then he'd seen her.

  Was he dreaming? Did the magical stone invade his mind like a sorceress’ potion and conjure up these dreams of Hannah? He dared not think again of witchcraft. It frightened him so. But not so much that he'd be reluctant to use the stone's magic again. No, he would try again and again, until he found her once more. And the next time he would bring her back home with him.

  Magic be damned!

  Yes. The next time he would bring her home.

  Confused emotion wracked his body but Jack Porter was a proud man, he wouldn't let that happen. So he straightened to his full height and stared out across the narrow strip of land toward the ocean.

  She was calm now, the sea. But not long ago she'd been wild and dangerous. He glanced down. The winds had blown the dune away from the stone that day, two weeks past. That's how he'd found it—the strange, flat gray stone reflecting the afternoon's sun in his eyes. That is when his search for Hannah became real. When instead of merely walking the beaches thinking of her, he'd actually moved to some other place and had claimed her for his own again.

  He could still feel the warm currents that blew the stinging salt spray into his face that day. Nothing much of value, he'd thought as he kicked through the damp sand at the waters’ edge. Some shells, some driftwood, a dead fish or two. Nothing he didn't already have, or could trade, or could do without.

  He'd turned into the sun, and as he did, closed his eyes against the bright glare in front of him. Shielding them with his hand, he'd looked once more. A column of bright, white light shot up into the heavens, reflected from some object high on the beach. Puzzled, he had moved closer to the object.

  Whatever it was, he thought, it must be mighty valuable to be so shiny and so large.

  At the thought of the object's worth, Jack had gathered speed, but still approached cautiously. As he did, the bright light withered and the appearance of the object became known. A perfectly round, incredibly smooth disc of stone lay partially covered at the foot of a dune. He'd stepped next to it and peered down. Curious now, because he'd never seen a stone so large on these islands made entirely of sand, he studied it. With his right hand, he brushed the particles away, exposing its entire surface. It was then he felt the ridges and grooves of the inscription.