by Lea Nolan
The white man from the shore emerges at the top of the ladder and boards the ship. “Good morning, Captain Ransom.” A wry smile curls on his lips as he approaches the defeated leader, who, with his rich red coat, looks disturbingly like an Irish Captain Hook. Except he’s wearing a sparkling camellia blossom necklace that glints in the early morning light. I try not to gasp and disturb the Psychic Vision. It’s Lady Rose’s ruby, the one Cooper and Jack are trying to steal from Missy at this very moment.
The pirate sets his jaw. “Lord Beaumont, what is the meaning of this attack?” As much as I try to stop it, a squeak escapes my mashed lips. It must be Lady Rose’s husband, Edmund. I can’t believe how much he resembles Beau. Well, Beau minus about three hundred pounds. The pirate continues, his eyes flashing with rage. “Surely we have no quarrel as we upheld our end of the bargain. As a gentleman, I expected you to do the same.” His noble accent is jarring and completely unexpected from a scurvy pirate.
Edmund jabs the pirate’s chest with the head of his walking stick. “Ah, but that is where we disagree, Bloody Bill.” Edmund adds extra emphasis to his name. “You are in breach of our contract and therefore must pay.”
Bloody Bill lunges toward him, but the huge African man leaps to Edmund’s side and grabs the pirate by his throat, squeezing until his porcelain face turns purple.
Edmund taps the muscle-bound man with his stick. “Thank you, Jupiter. I believe that’s sufficient to get the Captain’s attention.” Jupiter unclenches his fist. Bloody Bill drops to the floor in a heap and heaves for air. Edmund paces the deck, stalking each of the captive pirates. “I entrusted you with my property, and look what you’ve done.” His voice bellows as he thrusts his stick toward the beach.
I squint into the distance and make out a crumpled, cloth-covered lump on the sand. A chill runs up my spine. I think it’s a body. A dead one.
“But you said…we could…” Bloody Bill forces the words from his crushed throat.
Edmund charges toward him, glaring. “I expected to get her back.” Spit collects in the corner of his mouth and flies from his lips as he speaks.
Bloody Bill cocks his head. “Surely you jest.” His voice is thick and raspy. “Yours was the far better share of our bargain.” He coughs and rubs his still-red neck. “I was daft to accept one measly slave girl, mesmerizing though she was, in exchange for not sacking High Point Bluff.”
Edmund wields his walking stick like a golf club and lets loose, slamming Bloody Bill’s legs. “She was mine!” The veins at the side of his head stick out.
“How dare you—”
Edmund snaps his fingers. Jupiter rushes toward Bloody Bill, landing a solid uppercut that snaps the pirate’s head back. Edmund sneers. “Insolence will only increase your penalty, which, by my solemn oath, will be great.”
The captain staggers to his feet, limping. “I daresay our poor barter was penalty enough, my lord. But if you insist, I shall gladly pay you for your trouble.” He waves a hand, and a young cabin boy races to him, pulling an ornately carved wooden box from his coat.
It’s the treasure box we unearthed at the tabby ruins. Bloody Bill grabs it, then leans toward Edmund, quirking his brow. “What, then, is a fair price? Not much, I venture.” He pulls a few gold coins from the box and tosses them at Edmund’s feet.
Edmund’s cheeks flush crimson as he puffs his chest. “Oh, you’ll pay, all right, but a few guineas won’t come close.” He jams the walking stick under Bloody Bill’s chin. “Your pretty necklace might cover it, but I’ll take your treasure box as well for good measure.” Edmund yanks the box from Bloody Bill’s hands and angles his head toward Jupiter, who lifts the ruby necklace off the pirate’s neck and hands it to Edmund.
Bloody Bill sets his jaw and squares his shoulders, bracing himself. “Judging by the vengeful expressions of your servants, I know what you’ve got planned for me and my crew, and after all our many sins, ’tis a fate we richly deserve. Yet before we depart this earth, I beg one final observation.”
A bemused smile creeps up Edmund’s lips. “And what would that be?”
Bloody Bill sneers. “You my lord, are no more than a pirate yourself, masquerading in gentlemen’s clothes.”
Edmund chuckles and snaps his fingers. Jupiter cocks his colossal fist, preparing to land a blow. The pirate flinches and squeezes his eyes shut.
“No, Jupiter! This is mine to finish,” a gravelly voice bellows in a thick foreign accent. A small, stocky figure with ebony skin and facial scarification emerges from behind a cluster of Africans. It’s Sabina.
The Africans fall back, giving her a wide berth as she advances toward the captive captain, her eyes blazing with fury as she grinds a dark-colored root between her teeth. The pirates must sense her power because they gasp in unison and hunch even lower to the deck. Sabina raises her arm and points at Bloody Bill. He cringes, having lost all his bravado, and slinks back a few paces, nearly collapsing on his damaged leg.
Edmund glowers. “Sabina, what are you doing here? You should be back at High Point Bluff.”
She turns her sights on him, her nostrils flaring. “Not till I settle my business, Master.” She bows to him, but even with her broken English, her tone is filled with unmistakable sarcasm. “A mighty wrong been done to my kinfolk. I’m here to see the guilty pay for their sins.”
“Watch yourself, Sabina.” Edmund points his walking stick at her. “I’ve allowed you certain latitude because of your healing powers, but I will not sanction such insubordination. You are not as exceptional as you assume.”
Sabina cocks her head. “Oh, no?” She thrusts her hands above her head and waves them in a circle. “Hear the word of the Lord!” The wind swirls, howling as it whips around the ship and lifts Bloody Bill’s long, luscious curls. The sea swells, churning choppy waves that slap against the hull, rocking the vessel. Sabina spins her hands. A waterspout forms just off the port side, spiraling upward in a tall thin column. She twists, and the waterspout responds, zooming toward the ship. Guiding it over the bow, she holds her hands still, allowing it to hover over the shocked and trembling passengers. Then she drops her hands, sending it crashing to the deck and dousing the pirates and Edmund but somehow avoiding the Africans.
Edmund and Bloody Bill freeze, paralyzed with fear as she thrusts forward, yanks a dagger off Bloody Bill’s belt, and swipes it at his hair, slicing a huge hank off. She tosses his long orange curls at his feet, then reaches into her skirt pocket, retrieving a handful of beach sand and some black wool, and hurls it on the deck in front of him. She chants in a lyrical foreign language, then clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth. Even though everything’s soaked, the hair, sand, and black woolly stuff burst into flames. Edmund and the pirates scream, just as Jack did when he contracted The Creep. They clutch their stomachs and collapse to the floor, writhing in agony. The Africans flinch, shrinking several steps until they’re nearly on top of one another.
Sabina erupts in crazed laughter and stalks the deck, stepping over Edmund and the crippled pirates. “Dem bones, dem bones, gonna walk around!’” she sings, taunting them with the lyrics to the haunting Negro spiritual. “Dem dry bones. Oh, hear the word of the Lord!” Then she darts to the side of the ship. Clutching the dagger with one hand, she grabs some rigging with the other to steady herself and jumps up on the railing. She pivots, revealing a maniacal grin. “This ship is cursed! And so are those with royal blood on their hands!” She leaps off the side and swims toward shore. Moments later, scores of others follow her, splashing into St. Helena Island Sound.
Vicious barks penetrate the quiet of Miss Delia’s kitchen. Their staccato vibrations hammer against my chest and suck me back to the present. Groggy, I wrench away from the vision and scream.
Eight dead, fluorescent eyes glare at me from the backyard, just beyond the side porch. They belong to the four snarling plateyes that are poised to barrel up the steps and through the screen door to attack. The knife slips from my hand as the blood
drains from my face and my muscles go limp. Too heavy for Miss Delia to hold by herself, the knife falls into the still-smoldering mortar with a clank, cutting off the vision.
Another thunderclap roars, this time closer to her house. The rain intensifies, accompanied by another blast of cool air that races through the kitchen and extinguishes the flames on the stove.
“Miss Delia?” My voice trembles, barely above a whisper. “I thought you said they couldn’t come near the house.” My instinct is to run and hide, but I’m so zonked, I can barely lift my head, much less haul myself off the stool.
“Maybe the rain washed some of the potions on the lawn away. But don’t worry about the house. Those charms are in place. They can’t cross the thresholds.” Although she tries to sound reassuring, Miss Delia’s voice quivers even more than normal. She squeezes my other hand, but I’m not sure whether it’s to comfort me or herself.
Growling, the plateyes advance, gnashing their jagged teeth and dripping with frothy saliva. They smell like wet dog. I don’t care what she says about her protection charms, I’ve got to snap out of this stupor and get out of here. But Cooper isn’t around, and neither is his car, so we’re stuck in the house. Miss Delia doesn’t have a basement, either. Her bedroom’s the only option. It’s not Fort Knox, but at least it doesn’t have an exterior door.
My mouth is as dry as steel wool. I muster just enough energy to swallow hard and force out a few words, trying to convey my plan. “We’ve got to hide.” My words are husky and thick. I slide off the stool, but my feet are as heavy as anchors, and my head is still fuzzy from the psychic tea. I stumble and fall to the floor.
“Emma!” Miss Delia screeches.
Splayed on my stomach, I struggle to right myself and strain to focus on the side porch. My eyes lock on an enormous black muzzle that’s pressed against the screen door. The dog snarls and curls his lips into a vicious, serrated smile. It snorts, filling the kitchen with the sulfurous scent of brimstone. I shriek and scramble to get back on my feet, but those electric yellow eyes hold me like a tractor beam. A second plateye stalks up the porch steps, crams in next to the first, and howls. His deep, grumbling yelp shakes the floorboards.
That’s enough to clear my mind and launch me to my feet. Desperate to stay as far away from the demons as possible, I wrestle out from under the fatigue and kick out my leg, catching the edge of the wooden exterior door with my toe and slam it shut.
Yowling and barking, the plateyes jump up on their hind legs and paw at the screen door. Their sharp claws rip gashes in the metal mesh, and they stampede through the flimsy barrier, crossing the side porch and slamming against the closed door.
“Come on, Miss Delia. I don’t think those charms of yours are going to hold.” I grab her arm as gently as I can and help her off her stool, then stumble through the swinging door into the living room, trying not to trip again.
Another scream leaps from my throat. Two of the plateyes have made their way around to the front porch. They launch into a fresh volley of barks, then crouch, readying to lunge through the screen. I gulp and consider trying to drag myself to the door to close it, but I’m not sure I’ll make it. Besides, from the recoiled dogs’ menacing expression, even if I could, it would be guaranteed suicide. We’ve got to get out of here before they pounce.
I tug on her arm. “Come on, Miss Delia. We’ve got to get to your bedroom. At least we can lock ourselves in there.”
She juts out her jaw. “I won’t hide in my own house.”
What? She’d rather get eaten in her living room instead? “But they’re coming!” My eyes are wide with fright as I thrust my finger toward the door. “Can’t you see they’re about to rip through the screen?”
She shakes her head. “My charms will hold them.” Her voice is filled with certainty.
I steal another view of the plateyes. They’re pawing the floorboards with their muddy, razor-sharp claws, gouging deep lines into the wood. In their frenzy, they shake their gigantic heads and fling their foaming spit everywhere. For a split second, I consider leaving Miss Delia here on her own and barricading myself in her room, but then I come to my senses. Or not. For better or worse, I’m her apprentice, and we’re in this together. I just hope the end comes quickly, and it doesn’t hurt as much as I fear.
I gulp. “We’re going to die.” My voice trembles.
“Not if I can help it. Go to the sideboard under the television and grab me a bottle of whiskey.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
I blink. Does she seriously think getting drunk will help matters?
She nudges me. “What are you waiting for, child? Get me some whiskey!”
The plateyes growl and spit at us from behind the screen.
Hauling myself across the room, I throw open the sideboard cabinet and reach for one of several bottles of dark brown liquid labeled “Southern Magic Whiskey.” I didn’t realize Miss Delia was such a drinker. Then I limp back to her and twist open the still-sealed bottle.
She grabs my hand. “Do you know the Lord’s Prayer?” Her eyes bore into me as the barking increases.
Whew, at least she’s thinking straight now. We are dealing with demon dogs, after all—asking for a little divine intervention can’t hurt. As long as you know how. I search my memory for the prayer I learned when I was little but haven’t recited in years. The first line runs through my mind, but I draw a blank on the rest. “Um?” I wince.
She scoffs. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you about religion?”
I shake my head. “Not really.”
She purses her lips. “Remind me to give you a lesson when this mess is over. We’re going to have to do this together. Walk me to the door.”
The dog-beasts stop digging into her porch and stare at us with their horrible, vacant eyes. They seethe, grinding their massive jaws and spewing that nasty white slobber. Then they butt their silky black heads against the screen and snort, shooting the revolting scent of sulfur into the living room. Miraculously, the mesh doesn’t tear under the pressure of their massive weight. Miss Delia’s charms must be having some effect, though they’re clearly not enough to repel them, because their snouts are bulging into the room.
Gripping Miss Delia’s arm, I override all sense of self-preservation and force my feet to move toward the door. My heart pounds. This feels like a march toward certain death, which is the last thing a normal-thinking person should do. But like so many of the crazy things that have happened this summer, this is so not normal.
As if they have some kind of telepathic abilities, the other two plateyes from the kitchen race around the house and bound up the porch steps. Together, all four bark in eerie unison. Their hollow yellow eyes glow as their furious intensity mounts.
Miss Delia points to the screen. “Shake the whiskey at them,” she yells so I can hear over their barking, and points to herself. “I’ll do the talking.”
My hand shakes as I tip the bottle, and I try to ignore their snapping jaws and ear-popping snarls. As much as I’d love to turn tail and escape to Miss Delia’s room, I know I can’t. My pulse rages as I thrust the bottle toward the screen and watch the dark brown liquid splash through the mesh onto the plateyes and the porch floor.
Miss Delia recites the prayer, beginning with the one line I know, “Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name.”
The barking stops. And so does the rain. Encouraged by the sudden quiet, I toss some more whiskey, and Miss Delia continues with the rest of the prayer. Tilting their heads, the hellhounds sniff the air, then exchange blank fluorescent looks. One dips his head to the floor and laps up some liquid. A second follows him. I pour a third round of whiskey, and then a fourth. The alcohol pools in the deep ruts their claws carved into the floorboards. By the time Miss Delia’s finished praying, all four plateyes are lapping the whiskey with as much frenzy as they used to attack us.
Gulping, I gather the courage to push open the screen door and dump the rest of the whiskey out onto the porch
. The dogs lick the floor clean, then sit like normal pups and bark, but this time it’s a lazy, appreciative yap. In unison, they pull back their lips and flash their jagged teeth in drunken smiles, then rise and stumble down the porch steps, wagging their long, wispy tails. They saunter into the yard, swaying and bumping into each other, but careful to avoid the bottle tree as they head toward the woods.
The silver clouds part, unveiling a bright azure sky and the warm South Carolina sun.
I guide Miss Delia to the nearby sofa, then slump onto the floor next to her, unable to stay on my feet. My chest heaves, sucking air, and my head lolls back onto the cushion. I’m so weary I’m surprised I haven’t passed out. It’s a good thing we’ve both got our colliers on, otherwise we’d be dead. “That was the scariest thing I’ve ever seen.” My hands tremble in my lap.
She cackles. “Then you must not remember what’s happening to your brother. His curse has certainly frightened the bejesus out of me.”
I nod, willing my pulse to return to normal. “Yeah, but The Creep only affects Jack. Those beasts would’ve ripped us apart if they could. And they’d laugh as they were doing it.” I suddenly realize how selfish that sounds—only worrying about my own bodily harm—but I can’t help it. Those plateyes are terrifying.
She pulls a tissue from the box next to the sofa and dabs her moist brow. “You’re right about that. But I knew my charms would keep us safe.” She winks her cloudy eye. “Though I’ll confess I was a little worried there for a minute.”
“How’d you know the whiskey would work? And why didn’t you give me a bottle for protection when we got your ancestors’ mortar?”
She shrugs. “I didn’t remember until those hellions came so close, sending that evil stench into my house. It reminded me of something my gran told me when I was a gal.” She nudges my shoulder. “She’s the one who told me about the power of whiskey and the Lord. Said it’s the only way to defeat a rotten-egg-smelling plateye.” She cackles. “All this time, I thought she meant plateyes went around, smelling rotten eggs, but it turns out they just stink like them. Funny, how a smell can bring back a memory like that. Thing is, the liquor and prayer will only turn them away, not get rid of them for good. But maybe the ancestors will have an idea. We’ll contact them just as soon as the mortar rests. It’ll be nice to see Ole Gran again.” She pauses, staring out into the room, as if reliving a memory. “I loved her so. You see, she’s the one who taught me about the wicked creatures I might have to fight with hoodoo. My maamy, she didn’t think I should learn that young, but Gran didn’t want to shield me from the haints and boo-hags.”