“Well, he looked pretty healthy to me. He challenged Jovis.”
Sibyl cupped her mouth. “No.”
“Don’t worry. It didn’t get serious. Jovis doesn’t have the bollocks to get too far over his head. He wants to make sure he dies of old age in his bed.”
“Listen to me, Cwen.” Sibyl reached out and touched the she-wolf on the forearm. She wasn’t particularly fond of Cwen, but she did respect her. Perhaps she could make Jovis see reason through the alpha female. “In my cards, I saw that Xander stood in mortal danger. If I promise you I won’t let him use Luísa or the stone for my sake, will you rally the pack? Will you protect him?”
“Xander doesn’t need our protection. He does well enough on his own.”
“I know you want him, Cwen. I know you care for him. And you two belong together.” She lied. Sibyl hated the idea of having the she-wolf as a sister-in-law. But it was either Cwen or a dead brother.
“We do indeed, but your love-struck brother prefers the little pirate queen. The bastard even admitted to mating with her.”
Sibyl quirked a brow at this new piece of information. Apparently it didn’t take her brother long to heal if he shagged the Portuguesa so soon.
“Men.” Sibyl huffed. “What do they know? Leave it to me, Cwen. I’ll see that he chooses you. It’s the right choice. Anyone can see that.”
A prideful look of satisfaction crossed Cwen’s face. “I know it and you know it. But you know your brother. He’s hard to reason with.”
“He’ll reason with me. Xander abides by my counsel. I beg you, Cwen. My foolish brother doesn’t realize the danger he’s in. He’ll die without your help.”
Cwen’s expression shifted. They weren’t alone. She darted a look behind her then pulled Sibyl further into the bush. “The pack’s coming.” She looked down at Sibyl as if she were eying a small mouse. “If Xander wants the pack behind him, all he has to do is wrest it from Jovis. The pack needs to be strong again.” Her grip tightened on Sibyl’s wrist. “It needs to be free. I’ve no wish to keep you from your peace, Sibyl, but if it’s a choice between free will for my tribe or your eternal rest, I will side with the wolves. If Xander is smart, he’ll do the same.”
“He’s stubborn, but I know I can sway his heart.”
“You’re wrong, Sibyl. Xander will never rest until you do. He loves you too much. And that will be his undoing.”
“Give me a chance to prove it, Cwen. I can change his mind.”
“Even if you did, what of Saint-Sauveur? You’ll need more than the wolf pack to stop him from taking over. Already, he’s enlisted the werehyenas and the man-bats. He’s become too powerful for us to fight alone.”
“Not more powerful than the Sorceress.”
“Aye, but Izabel doesn’t trouble herself with the business of the were-tribes. I can’t even remember the last time she granted an audience to anyone outside her guards.”
“The Sorceress is a practical woman. And a practical woman has her price. The Oracle will tell me what she wants most. And I will get it for her.”
“Before the blood moon?”
“Aye. It must be so.”
“Sibyl, I’ve always thought of you as a fair bit smarter than your wandering brother, but I fear you underestimate Saint-Sauveur. He’s a man without limits.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Cwen. I know exactly where Luc’s shortcomings are—I know them better than anyone.”
She vanished once more, leaving nothing but a slack-jawed she-wolf in her wake.
She’d ask the Oracle for the answers she needed. Often cruel and indifferent, the Oracle doled its answers sparingly. It was a magic older than the Sorceress herself, and it spoke to the moon alone. Today, she hoped, it would speak to her.
Chapter Eighteen
Sibyl willed herself to the beachhead where the Oracle had lived for hundreds of years. No ancestor could remember when the great stone shrine didn’t exist on the island. It was as if the mountain herself gave birth to it.
The altar to the Oracle was a table hewn from one solid piece of stone; behind it a stone monolith kept vigil. Ancient runes carved the lintel, but no creature living or dead could read them.
The chisel marks had long worn away, its edges soft and rounded. Each block fitted so tightly, even a leaf could not penetrate it. Gruesome faces carved into the stone kept all but the most desperate away.
The old people said that the faces belonged to those who dared to ask the Oracle for counsel. The price for its favor had cost the supplicant’s soul.
Sibyl materialized several feet from the altar. Although she had visited the shrine many times, she took a care in showing every reverence in case the old tales proved true. She wanted no enemy in the Oracle, a magic too old to be denied or offended.
The gray stone, assaulted by the sea on one side and the encroaching jungle on the other, stood as a sentinel, a mute observer of all that had passed on this island. In front of the shrine sat a worn stone pedestal where petitioners knelt and asked their questions. Only on their knees would they be able to see the mouth of the Oracle, a black maw inset at the underside of the altar.
Dark and seductive, it drew in each petitioner like a moth to a torch. Total surrender was the coin for the Oracle’s advice.
According to legend, the supplicant’s hands had to be placed on the lips of the Oracle. But there was no guarantee of deliverance or succor. In a bitter mood, the fires of hell could roar out of its mouth and roast you alive.
No one in living memory had ever asked the Oracle for its counsel. But scorch marks trailed from its gaping black maw and bits of glass and clay fused to the stone pad in front of it. Someone had asked for favor once—and been denied.
Sibyl approached cautiously. Just because she was a ghost didn’t mean she could afford to be careless.
The sea seemed quiet today and in the distance a ship bobbed at anchor. It wasn’t the Vengeance. This ship was much smaller and sailed with fewer cannons. And it listed a bit, though still afloat. It sat too far away to make out her colors, lying flat against the mast, but she had the bearing of a pirate ship, marked by the leanness of its hull and the wide cannon ports.
It was rumored the Coral sailed nearby, looking for her stolen captain. Hapless fools. They should have never come. No matter what happened, Luísa was lost to them.
Sibyl would have warned them, but her soul remained locked on this island. She couldn’t venture any farther out than the beach.
She turned her attention to the Oracle. Maybe this was a bad idea, but she couldn’t stop now. Xander was in trouble. If her cards told true, she could lose him forever.
With head bowed, she prayed. She prayed to God, to the four winds and to the cruel stone in front of her. Her body rocked on trembling knees though she tried to stay still. Her knotted belt popped against her thigh in time with her swaying.
“Oracle, tell me how to gain the Sorceress’s help. What price will she ask of me for my brother’s safety?” She bent her head and waited, hoping that hell’s fire wouldn’t finish off what was left of her.
Silence. Perhaps the Oracle died long ago, or perhaps it had no interest in her plight. She was about to get up when a startled voice cried out to her.
“Sibyl! No!”
She turned to find Luc Saint-Sauveur. The devil take him! Must he haunt her even after her death?
Saint-Sauveur raced toward her, his feet splashing soft sand in his wake. What did the fool want now? His men waddled several yards behind him, all pushing great barrows of ship’s stores. Even though Luc rushed toward her, the others held back. They had the uncommon good sense to respect the dead and not cross paths with a ghost—especially a ghost who hated their master with an unquenchable passion.
Saint-Sauveur took another step toward her, and Sibyl took one step back.
“Stay away from me, Luc.”
“Chere…Sibyl, what are you doing here? This is a cursed place.”
“And I am a c
ursed soul.”
“No, beloved.”
She pumped a fist at him.”Stop calling me that. There is no love between us. There never was.”
Saint-Sauveur’s face turned muddy. “No, mon amour. I suppose you prefer the cold touch of —”
“Be quiet! You know nothing of what I prefer. Monster! Lecher! Be on your way, before I let loose the winds and destroy your harbored ship and all her hands.”
The men mumbled among themselves, each taking a nervous glance out to sea. Saint-Sauveur silenced them with a snap of his fingers. He nodded to the docked ship.
“Sibyl, if you love your brother, you’ll tell him to board that Portuguese ship out there and never return to this island. The pirate girl is mine and through her I will free all the were-tribes. If he interferes again, I will kill him.”
“And then what, Luc? Do you think I will love you when he’s gone?”
“I think the pack will be cleansed when we’ve seen the last of his wolf’s hide. He has divided us for too long. As for you… Someday you will see that I was always the right man for you.”
“You’ve never been the man for me, Luc.”
“Ah, ma chere, but at least I am a man.” He took another step forward and Sibyl found herself backed against the Oracle’s altar.
Her hands braced themselves behind her. “You are no man, Luc. And I will not stand idly by while you hunt my brother. I would give my soul for his life.”
The words were soft and gravelly, but the Oracle marked them well and answered her appeal. It began as a subtle breeze, a warm kiss of air that swirled around her. Then the sand beneath her feet shifted, trembling from the force of something deep within the bowels of the earth, churning to the top.
Sibyl’s first instinct was to flee, but she couldn’t. Her hands felt as if they’d been nailed to the altar and she could feel great heat well up from inside the Oracle’s mouth. What had she done?
She screamed and Saint-Sauveur rushed toward her. But before he could reach her, a thunder rumbled out of the Oracle, knocking him and his men to the ground. The bowels of the Oracle roiled like an angry volcano, opening the fiery gates of hell. Somehow Sibyl had displeased this ancient god, and now she would pay the ultimate price.
There was no time for prayers or mercy. The flames shot out of the Oracle’s maw and grabbed Sibyl with its blazing tentacles, wrapping her in an embrace so tight she thought it meant to squeeze the soul out of her.
Instead, it swallowed her whole and brought her to a place so dark, even the effervescence that clung to her withered away.
From a distance, she heard men scream and Luc’s anguished cries. “Sibyl! Sibyl, beloved. Sacre dieu! What’s happened?”
Her dark place grew cold and clammy, and through the murky haze dim shadows appeared. She could see Luc and his men on the beach where she once stood. They scrambled around the Oracle’s altar, one man even sticking his head inside the great maw when Luc forced him at musket point. There had been no fire, nothing burnt, and the men didn’t seem to sense anything amiss aside from her disappearance.
They cursed the Oracle and fired musket balls into its great mouth. Luc went mad with grief, hugging his head as if it had been blown off. Tears streamed down his face, and his voice had gone hoarse from screaming. He fell to the sand with a curse.
“Destroy it! Destroy this wicked thing.”
His men acted quickly, taking a heavy cask of gun powder from their provisions and rolling it around the altar and emptying its contents. Saint-Sauveur took a smaller keg of powder with a fuse and lit it.
“For my love,” he cried and then threw the small keg into the mouth of the Oracle.
Sibyl heard the explosion, and she felt her world rock, but still she remained whole, or at least as whole as she’d ever been.
The men disappeared, as did the ship in the harbor, and the beach in front of the altar. There was nothingness, not even pain. And that made it worse. That made it hell.
A woman’s cackle echoed in the distance. “Welcome, Sibyl. You are indeed a pleasant surprise.”
The voice sounded as if its owner stood right next to her, yet she could see nothing.
Slowly, the weedy form of an old woman materialized before her.
Izabel.
The Sorceress clapped her bony hands and squealed a laugh. “Only this morning, I had asked the Oracle to show me how I might regain my vigor. And here I see, she brought me thee.”
A strange sensation came over her, and she felt her innards grow hot. Inch by inch her body stiffened until she could move no longer.
The old woman wrung her hands and laughed. Sibyl realized her doom. The Oracle had answered, but not to her. Izabel had asked her favor first.
Sibyl had been too late.
Chapter Nineteen
Luísa and Daltry dashed back to Sanctuary, behind the ring of perpetual fog. They had no time to waste. Jovis could bring the pack on top of them at any moment. More importantly, her ship was at harbor. Together they might be able to find her father and get him away from here.
Luísa opened every basket and jar, robbing them if they had any useful contents and stowing the provisions in an old satchel. They couldn’t stay. No words had to pass between them to make that clear.
Daltry rummaged through a trunk he kept there and pulled out a fresh shirt and breeches. He found a matchlock in the chest, but no powder. The humidity would have fouled it anyway by now. Instead, he opted for a long sword.
“Do you have another sword in there? I’m handy with a saber.”
“I’ll wager you are.” He tossed her a Spanish blade.
She caught it in midair.
Luísa hefted it in one hand and then the other, stabbing and lunging with practiced skill. She smiled. “It’ll do.”
“The Coral is on the other side of the island. If I can get you to the beach, we’ll be able to signal them.”
Luísa was in a lunge, her blade striking an imaginary foe, when she froze in that stance, turning only her head. “What of my father?”
He groaned. “Luísa, luv. Your father was captured a long time ago. Once Saint-Sauveur realized he had no value, he probably had him killed.”
The blood drained from her face. Her body turned toward him, her sword arm limp at her side. “That can’t be. Sibyl said—”
“He’d have no reason to keep him.”
Luísa stared down at the hard black earth. The glint of her sword caught her eye, and she remembered her vow. If her father was lost, his murderer would pay.
She found a scabbard for her sword and tied it to her belt. The sword sheathed, she threw the rucksack over her shoulder. “I’ll help you look for your sister. And you’ll help me find the man who murdered my father. I won’t leave until I have his blood on this blade.”
“Luísa—”
Luísa put her hand up. “It’s not an argument you’ll win. Saint-Sauveur wants me…and now I want him.” She turned away as tears welled up in her eyes. “Heave ho, Capitán. I have a score to settle.”
The Coral couldn’t have been in a worse location, but at least she was here. The distance might have been easy enough for a ghost to traverse, but it would take mere mortals a good part of the day to cross the same distance.
Luísa slapped at an itch on her neck. Did everything have to bite on this island?
They raced through the jungle, trying to cover as much ground as possible. Luísa sensed Daltry’s growing worry about Sibyl. They paused at a fresh spring, and Daltry paced while Luísa refilled water skins.
“We’ll find her. She’s probably with her lov…I mean…” Luísa didn’t know what she meant. No answer would satisfy Daltry in his current state of mind.
“I know. She could be with her lover,” he said stiffly. “But that doesn’t mean she won’t earn an earful from me when we find her. She knows better than to make me fret like this.”
Luísa huffed at him. “She’s a grown woman. And it’s not like anything could hurt her. S
he told me so herself.”
Daltry kicked at a defenseless shrub. “I don’t care.”
“Why are men always so possessive of their female kin? It is the same way for me on the Coral. I could barely wander portside without Papa ordering a watch on my every move.”
“It’s our job to protect you.”
“Take a good look at me, Capitán.” She threw her knife and nailed a dragonfly to a tree. “I don’t need any man to protect me.”
Daltry stretched his neck, seemingly weary of the conversation before something stirred him to attention. “Don’t move.”
“What?” She took a step backward.
Daltry growled, a deep gravelly sound that told her the wolf spoke and not the man. He pushed her into the brush so hard it took precious moments to gather her wits.
“Neptune’s teeth! What in blazes was that for?” She scrambled to her knees as mad as a naked ram in winter. She intended to follow with a sound rebuke when she heard the unmistakable grunt of a jungle hog, an animal so fierce, it could tear them to bits in minutes.
Stampeding toward them rushed a beast as big as a bull and twice as angry. It was a feral boar, his red eyes set upon her. The animal’s hooves pounded the jungle into mash. Nothing would keep him from his victim.
Daltry shouted at the boar, but the warrior’s yell turned into a roar no human voice could produce. The wolf inside him emerged. Muscles bulged and hair sprouted on every inch of flesh. His face darkened and lengthened until snarl met snarl.
The hog changed direction, and they charged each other with one thunderous blow, knocking both of them down.
The wolf gathered himself first and bit deep into the boar’s ear. The savage pig didn’t know how to break loose, and he bucked and squealed with the elegance of a scalded rabbit. Daltry didn’t let go until the hog drove him shoulder first into a tree. His tender ear now freed, the feral beast made good his escape while Daltry slid down the face of the tree, landing in a crumple of human flesh.
Luísa watched from her knees, shocked and shamed at being so ill equipped for land.
Daltry doubled over, gasping for breath. The man had returned in torn and bloody clothes. He turned toward her, his hands on his knees, sucking in air. “You were saying, madam—about taking care of yourself.”
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