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

by Maddie James

  Something smelly was definitely in the air.

  And it wasn't fish.

  The third day she dressed in the brunette wig again, donned the sunglasses, her Nikes and a long, flowing jumper under which she'd stuffed a small pillow, and walked up and down the street two or three times, trying to steal a glimpse of Rick in the house.

  Lingering a little too long at one pass, Claire jumped when the door flew open and Chuck burst out. “Yeah,” he called back over his shoulder. “Ten o'clock. I'll be here.” A broad grin stretched across his face as he tripped down the steps and landed square in front of Claire.

  It had been quite a few years, but she would have been able to pick him out of a crowd easily enough. The Texas Troubadour. Would he recognize her, even under her disguise?

  "Excuse me,” Claire brushed past.

  "Hey!” he shouted after her, his hand brushing her elbow. “You been walking up and down the street all afternoon, lady. What are you doing?"

  She cleared her throat and glanced away. “I—I, uh.” Then she clutched her stomach and pitched her voice higher, trying to disguise it. “I'm ... I'm having labor pains. My doctor told me to walk. Make the baby come quicker."

  Chuck stared at her. Her eyes widened behind the sunglasses.

  He knows.

  Then she clutched her abdomen again and moaned, loudly. “I think it's working. I better go.” She backed up several steps.

  He simply nodded at her, his eyes narrowed to tiny slits. “Yeah. You better go. Maybe you better get to the hospital."

  She raised a hand for a small wave and smiled. “Yeah.” Then she turned her back to him and lumbered off. He was a jerk in college, and apparently, he was still a jerk today. She breathed a long sigh of relief that he hadn't recognized her.

  She listened as he started his jeep and revved up the engine. She walked on, stifling the urge to look back, but his jeep rushed past as he slanted a lingering glance her way.

  She rounded the corner to the next street and sat in her car. Ten o'clock. Chuck said he'd be back at ten o'clock. She thought for a minute, chewing on her lip. She'd be back at ten o'clock also, and she'd be there with bells on.

  * * * *

  At nine-thirty, Claire parked her car two streets over and walked slowly toward the alley behind Chuck's house. The one-lane alley split the properties on either side, so she cut through a side yard full of trees two houses down, slipped up the alley to a garage behind the house, and settled in until the time drew a little closer to ten. At five of ten, all the lights in the house went off.

  She slipped closer through a grove of pines. A car pulled up in front. Three men walked toward the porch. Claire stole a little closer and stood perfectly still behind a tree. One man was dressed like any other young man in the area, the other two looked surprisingly like they just stepped off Blackbeard's ship—baggy pants, scarves across their foreheads, earrings, dirty, scruffy. Rick's buddies. Claire shivered.

  They approached the front door; one of the pirates rapped fiercely on it. Claire stifled a gasp when the door opened and Rick stepped through the threshold, dressed exactly as she'd seen him the day he stepped on the stone with Blackbeard's head.

  One of the men mumbled something to Rick and he let him pass. She couldn't quite make out the words and crept forward just a little. The second man mumbled, and Claire dropped lower to sneak closer to the porch, and hid behind some shrubbery. The third, now within earshot, spoke a little louder. He uttered the words. She heard them clearly.

  The rumble of an engine sprang forth in the night. Panning the street, she watched Chuck's jeep pull in behind the other car. She sank deeper into a bush and listened as the heels of Chuck's boots dug into the wooden porch, then chuckled at Rick as he uttered the password and entered the house.

  The door slapped shut behind him.

  Claire let the night's silence envelop her for a few minutes. Then she rose.

  Stepping away from the porch, she sleuthed around the house to the left, brushing twigs away from her coat, then crept along its side, and stepped onto the sidewalk. Her cowboy boots clunked along the concrete, breaking the night's hush. As she continued, she jerked her cowboy hat low over her eyes, re-tucked her hair up under the short gray wig, checked the contents of the duster's pockets, dabbed at the fake mustache over her nose. Thank God Vicki and Jeremiah had come through and packed all these disguises.

  Stopping at the edge of the porch, she took a deep, cleansing breath and exhaled.

  Bowing her legs out, she stomped up the steps and directly across the porch to the door. She pounded on it with a force only a man could muster. She hoped.

  Cautiously, the door swung open.

  Claire peered into the dark room. Rick stepped into the doorframe.

  He stood there, not saying a word. She assumed the rest was up to her.

  "Death to Spotswood,” she muttered low and deep and then waited. Rick stared at her for a moment, the skin around his eyes crinkling as he narrowed them at her. Her gaze connected with his and held for a hell of a long time, and then she panicked.

  Eyes.

  His eyes, she would know them anywhere.

  Hers? Would he know hers the same?

  All her disguises could fly to the wind if he recognized her eyes. She squinted at him.

  Sucking in a quick breath, she tried to stop her knees from knocking together. She'd heard of shaking in her boots before, but this was ridiculous. Then just as she was about to turn and run, he stepped back, giving her access to the room.

  * * * *

  His feet were heavy as leaden blocks but he wouldn't stop. He was near his cabin, almost home. And when he was there, he would sink against the feather pillows Hannah had brought with her from the mainland and forget. Forget the drunken nights, the nightmares, the voices, the pain that streaked through his head. Forget the images that floated behind his eyelids, just out of his reach, unable to grasp them and pull them full into view. He simply wanted to forget.

  But he needed to remember. Remember what? A dull pain ached at the base of his skull. It was happening, he knew. Again, it was happening. He treaded on. The glaze over his eyes grew thick, blurring his vision, faltering his step.

  Get to the cabin, Jack. Get to the cabin where you can bury your face in Hannah's clothing, still fresh with her scent. Get back and sleep on the linens she slept on. Get back and erase the pain. Try to forget. Try to remember.

  * * * *

  The darkened room was lit with only the faint yellow glow of a candle placed in the center of a large oak table. Claire stepped over the threshold and listened very carefully to the whispers of the men, suddenly hushing as she stepped closer. Silence hung heavy about her. Each of the men she'd seen earlier sat around the table, their gazes pinned on her. All present except for Rick, who was nowhere to be found.

  She stepped up to the table without a word. One of the pirate wannabes stepped up to her and thrust a Bible before her.

  "Place your hands on the Bible,” his voice boomed.

  She did so without lifting her gaze to the man's face.

  "Under the penalty of death do you solemnly swear that you will not reveal a solitary thing that happens this night for at least forty-five years to come?"

  Claire nodded, her cowboy hat slipping, and said in a deep voice, “I swear.” Her hand quickly went to her hat.

  He motioned for her to sit.

  Within an instant, she heard a howl eerie enough to raise prickles on the back of her neck. Rick entered the room with a flourish—dressed in his Blackbeard garb—long flowing beard, straw hat, bandolier crossed over his chest, and smoke curling around his head.

  And then she saw it.

  The thing she was after.

  The thing that would break the curse.

  A shallow silver cup, reflecting the yellow light from the candle, was positioned in the palm of Rick's two hands. Two dips, Blackbeard's eye sockets, cut into one side at the top. She closed her own eyes and tipped t
he hat further down on her forehead. A shiver traveled up her spine.

  The cup seemed to float on Rick's palms as he lifted it above the table. He held it there, above his head, for what seemed an eternity until he shouted, “Death to Spotswood!"

  Claire jumped.

  The others repeated the chant.

  Then Rick lowered the cup to his lips, drank from it, and passed it on to the next man. From hand to hand the cup passed. Each time the chant was repeated, “Death to Spotswood! Death to Spotswood!"

  And each time a long draught of the scarlet-tinted liquid was swallowed from the grail and passed along to another, until at last it fell into Claire's hands.

  Almost reverently, she took the cup. Hungry eyes gazed at the flicker of the candle reflected in chalice's silver-plating. Licking her parched lips, she rose. As if savoring each sensation of the feel and every second of the possession of the cup in her hands, she lifted it high into the air, mimicking Rick.

  As if holding the final revenge for Hannah's death in her hands, she quivered.

  "Death to Spotswood!” she shouted with a resonance unlike the others. “Death to Spotswood and to hell with the likes you!"

  With that, she threw the contents of the cup into the candle flame. Immediately exploding on contact with the alcohol, the flames licked high into the room's darkness, illuminating each surprised face, then quickly jumping from the table to the clothing of two men behind it, and the drapes behind them. Shouts and screams confused the darkened room. In the midst of the disorder, with the men taken so off guard, she slipped the cup in one of the deep pockets of her duster as she hurried for the door.

  Ignoring the screams of the two, the other three men lunged for her. Claire quickly flipped the top off the large can of pepper-gas spray in her pocket, lifted it, and emptied its contents into the faces of the men charging after her, Rick's included. She didn't wait around to witness the consequences of her actions.

  As she ran down the sidewalk, the only thing she heard was the hiss of the fire and an agonized scream.

  One word wrenched from Rick's throat soared after her in the night...?

  "Claire!"

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Perched in the hidden attic window high above the yard, Claire could barely see the tiny yellow petals of the daffodils her mama had planted years ago peeking up through the snow. She smiled, delighted in the flowers—even if there was snow on the ground—for it foreshadowed the awakening of the earth, the freshening of the world, the birth of spring.

  It was natural that she should think of birth at this time. It was the only thing on her mind these days, just weeks before her due date. She spoke of it constantly.

  Vicki and Jeremiah had delivered a healthy daughter three months earlier. Kari Elizabeth had blessed them with her presence, and Claire had reveled in her birth, thinking about the birth of her own child. She thought often about what she would do when she returned to 1718, should she become pregnant again. They had no reliable methods of birth control. They had no anesthesia for childbirth. And how she got along with this birth would determine how she felt about having any more children.

  But oh, how she would love to see Jack Porter's face when she presented him with his newborn son. Or daughter. But at the present, all she really wanted to do was see his face. Hold him close to her. Kiss his lips. Take his body into hers.

  Her hands fell to her belly, full with child, and she lovingly caressed it, as she did day after day. Talking to her baby, singing lullabies to him, for she was sure it was a him, and reading nursery rhymes were the stuff of her days now. Long days. Empty days. Waiting. Thinking about Jack. Telling her child about his father.

  Since she'd sought the shelter of her family home, she'd spent most of her days sequestered inside the walls of a secret area of the house. She recalled the night she'd arrived back at the farm and, with Vicki, had decided it would be best for her to lay low until the baby was born. She'd studied the calendar closely, hearing her mother's voice in her ear about being in tune with the moon cycles and the weather. She'd researched the tide charts as well.

  To the best of her research, there would be another blue moon this year, near her baby's due date. That was when she would go back to Jack. Because then, she could go to him and know that Rick would not follow, that none of his cult could chase her back to Jack's century and do them harm. That no one would be searching for the chalice.

  The timing was critical, however, and it worried her that the birth would cause a delay in her plans. But she remained positive and if the baby had not come, and the signs were right, she'd have to do what she had to do.

  She hoped, at that point, that the time portal would remain closed for some time. The only thing she couldn't be certain of were the other elements of nature that had to come together as well. The storm. The tide.

  The artifact was safe. Hidden. And even if Rick should somehow bull-doze his way into her home again, she was certain there was no way he could find it.

  Vicki and Jeremiah had moved into the farmhouse and she had entrusted its care to them. She'd seen to every detail. When she returned to Jack, the farm will be theirs. Claire knew with certainty that her best friends would see to hers and her mother's wishes by protecting the farm and its mysteries.

  Working together, she and Vicki had converted the attic rooms to a lovely haven. Her safe haven.

  "I used to love this,” she'd told Vicki the day she'd showed it to her. “Mama used to let me play up here. I never told anyone about it—not Rick, not even you. It was my special place. Mama always had this fear that someone would break in the house, you know? Rob us, kill us ... guess she had fears I never realized until now. And she drilled into me what to do if anything ever went wrong. And that I was to never tell anyone.” She walked to the closet and opened the door. “That's the greatest thing about these old houses, you know. They're full of surprises."

  Vicki had watched as she'd shoved the clothing in the closet to one side, and then stretched high to wiggle a piece of trim board loose to her right, and then lower to do the same at the bottom. She turned back to Vicki and smiled. “I used to have to get a chair to do that when I was a kid.” Then she gave the wall a push and it slid to her right, back into the wall, like a pocket door.

  "Amazing,” Vicki breathed.

  "Come in with me."

  She did, and it was that day they started renovating Claire's hideout.

  Every time she stepped over the threshold, she felt lost in her childhood days. She and her mother had stored their most precious possessions in this room. Had it really been all that long ago? She shook her head and glanced out the window again. Time had a way of passing either all too quickly, or too slowly. And right now, it seemed the circle was slowly meeting ends.

  But her days were full of thought, of visions, of the certainty of what she was, what her child was. The time she'd spent alone had allowed her time to contemplate her situation. She had come to the definite conclusion that she knew Hannah Porter. Knew her and was her. It was as if they shared one soul across time. One spirit. She knew that they did.

  When she thought of Hannah, she also thought of Jack.

  If Jack should see her now, would he want her sexually as he had before? Would he still love her bloated body, her double chin, and her swollen ankles? Would he want her and the baby? And how would he react when he found out? What would he say?

  Would he understand why it had taken her so long to get back to him? That she had to go into hiding to keep Rick from following her into the past? Would he understand that she'd waited to make things better for all of them?

  Forever?

  That she'd had to steal the cup to ensure all their futures? And do it alone?

  Claire looked to the Bible sitting beside her on the table. She held every hope things would eventually work out. The writings in the Bible proved that. She had to believe. In her mind, beyond a shadow of a doubt, this love was
meant to be. She and Jack were kindred spirits across time, spirit-mates, and she wouldn't allow it to work out any differently.

  Her thoughts turned to the day she'd found the Bible.

  After hours of cleaning in the main part of the attic, she had slipped into a side room to rummage through some old things. Kneeling on the floor beside a box, she began to sort through the items. Some hers, some her parent's, all were dusty and old, and special. She knew the things her mother hoarded in this room were important to her and she treated each memento, each school paper, each mother's day present, each Valentine with care, gingerly placing them back in their boxes to move them to the other room.

  At least for the time being.

  Finally, pushing three boxes out of her way, she discovered a low bookshelf behind them, filled with books. Funny, she'd never noticed them before. She loved books. Books were her friends. Growing up an only child on a farm had given her plenty of reason to. Not that there wasn't enough to occupy her mind on the farm, but there were also long winter's days and nights that were perfect for snuggling up on the couch with a good mystery or romance. And she'd done that quite often.

  Never able to stifle her curiosity, she finally sat down on the floor beside them. Her fingers delicately traced the leather spines, their embossed letters faded with time. Continuing down the row, she mumbled titles along the way, some she recognized, many she didn't, until at last her fingers fell on a large book, tall and thick with a heavy carved backing. It leaned against the others at an angle, too large for the shelf to accommodate it, gathering a blanket of dust within its cracks and crevices.

  She pulled it off the shelf and, at that moment, realized that something incredible had taken hold of her. The simple act of holding the book in her hands brought a sense of familiarity to her she couldn't shake off, even though she knew she'd never seen this book in her mother's attic before this day. But after she took a huge breath and blew off the layer of dust from the front cover, the answer became quite apparent.