Etta did as she was told, leaving Daltry and Malachai to themselves.
“Did it buy you the time you needed?”
Daltry rubbed his swollen jaw. “Aye. I hope so. Thank you, Mal.”
“Not at all. Thank you. I’ve always wanted to beat some sense into you.” He grinned, sporting a gap between two teeth.
Daltry grunted, trying not to give anyone the idea that they’d reconciled. “One more thing, Mal. Luísa’s knife. Do you still have it?”
Malachai produced it from a pouch at his waist. He palmed it into Daltry’s hand and then shoved him. “On your way, rogue! Unless you want another thrashing.”
The wolves jeered when a fat crewman off the Vengeance cursed in French. “The boy! He’s gone!”
The French scrambled throughout the village, but Dooley was gone. So was the rest of the Coral’s crew.
Chapter Thirty-One
Daltry left the French scratching their arses while he charged into the jungle, looking for the lost crew of the Coral. The sweaty smell of the runaway men scented the air, but he heard nothing, saw nothing.
He followed his nose and hoped the French would continue in another direction. Unarmed and outnumbered, the Coral’s crew would be easy pickings.
The trees rattled overhead and soon Koko joined him, swinging from tree to tree, a fat stolen berry in his hand. “I’m looking for pirates, Koko. Seen any?”
The little monkey shrugged and threw up his hands, losing his prize in the process. He screeched at his misfortune and fell to the ground looking for his plunder, tossing leaf litter into the air like rain. At last, something caught his eye and he plucked it from the jungle floor, brandishing it with a saucy grin of triumph.
Daltry bowed to Koko’s success. “Can you do that with pirates, Koko? They must be here somewhere.” He would have thought pirates out of water would have been easy to find, especially stranded on foreign soil.
Koko screamed a warning, and Daltry shifted to his wolf-state without a second thought. He listened to his gravelly breath, halting, hungry, beastly. He was losing control. It was so easy to turn. He’d been without his wolfsbane for two days. Any provocation set him off now.
“Steady, shapeshifter,” a calm voice called to him.
Daltry tried to control his breathing and forced himself to return to skin. His clothes hung loosely, but every muscle was as tight as a drum. “Show yourself.”
Paqua manifested before him. “My crew is safe, thanks to you.”
“They run fast for sailors.”
The shaman chuckled. “Aye, Capitán. They’ve no love for these shores. I had them gather at the far end of the island where the boats had been stowed.”
Daltry pulled out Luísa’s knife and Paqua’s eyes lit up.
“You got it!”
“Aye. Now we need to find Shadrach.”
Daltry led Paqua back to Sanctuary. As he suspected, Sibyl and Shadrach had been waiting for him there. It ruffled him more than he suspected to find them so tender in each other’s arms. The signs had been there all along, but he never suspected a thing. And their love was true. Truer than what he could ever share with Luísa.
“Xander!”
Sibyl rushed toward him and hugged his neck. God Almighty, she almost felt like flesh, but not quite. He had never gotten used to her skin being so cool. But at least she was solid—more or less.
Daltry kissed her on the forehead, the doting brother in him returned. “I’m glad you’re safe, Sibyl.”
She turned to her champion and scrunched her body against the gargoyle’s massive arm. “Shadrach took care of me.”
Daltry couldn’t help but grit his teeth. Sibyl was still his little sister and her flagrant behavior was nothing short of wicked in polite company. “No doubt,” he replied brusquely. “But I have a new task for the guardian. Will you help me, Shadrach?”
Shadrach bowed humbly. “You need only ask. What do you need of me?”
“I need you to carry me to Izabel’s crypt. Saint-Sauveur has taken Luísa and they will enter the crypt tonight.” He showed him Luísa’s knife. “That French sod has a destiny with me and this knife.”
Shadrach feathered his fingers against the carved end of the knife. He took the knife from Daltry and studied it for a long moment before he peered up at Paqua. His expression turned sullen. “I know you, do I not, shaman?”
Paqua stood with folded hands and bowed his head. “We’ve met, guardian, when I was deep in dreams and you in the throes of transformation.”
Shadrach grunted in acknowledgment. “On this very island, twenty-seven years ago.” He cradled the knife in one hand and traced the bone inlays with the other. A marked look of grief creased his brow. “My ship wrecked off this coast and we few survivors swam ashore. But Izabel didn’t need all of us. One night, a strange sound drove me from my bedroll. When I returned my mates failed to stir even when I tried to wake them. They were as the dead, silent and still. Then to my horror, their bodies burst into flame. Their eyes gaped open and they screamed so loud and so fierce I thought the jungle would fall upon us. Still their bodies remained frozen, roasted in a fire that sprang from within them.” His eyes turned glassy. “I tried to help. I tried. But Izabel had other plans.”
“Aye,” Paqua said softly. “My friend and I found the bones of your mates not long afterward. It was then I saw you in my first vision. I saw what Izabel had wrought, and I wept for you.” He gestured at the knife. “I carved that handle from the hardest wood I could find and inlayed pieces of the bones from the dead, that their murders would be remembered and grieved.”
“They were luckier than I was.”
“Aye, guardian. They were.”
Paqua approached the gargoyle and genuflected. “My Luísa is with the beast, Saint-Sauveur. If he enters the tomb, no mortal force can harm him.” He looked up at Shadrach. “But a cursed man, a magicked man, could kill him with that knife,” he said, pointing to the blade in his hand.
Sibyl clung to Shadrach’s gravelly arm. “I’m going with you, luv.”
“Are you mad?” Daltry snapped at her. They’d barely rescued her from Izabel; he had no intention of letting her get near Saint-Sauveur.
“I have to, Xander. I can’t explain why. But my destiny is there.” She looked up at her lover. “With Shadrach.”
“She’ll be safe with me, Xander. You need not fear.”
“You’ll take me, Shadrach. Not my sister. I owe a debt to that false priest.” Daltry said flatly.
“Not this time, my friend.”
“But Luísa—”
“You cannot help her. This is a test she must face on her own.”
“She is my mate,” he insisted.
“Aye. But you are not hers.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Luísa stumbled through the forest, chaperoned by every night creature on the island. This time no one gave chase or threatened malice. They simply trudged along in a caravan of lost souls, knowing that tonight one curse would be lifted.
It was the ghouls she felt sorriest for. One by one, they rose from their graves and followed in silent witness. If they knew their fate, they didn’t interfere.
Saint-Sauveur dragged her, at times violently when she didn’t keep up, brooking no pity. They traveled for hours and night had fallen by the time they reached the rocky knoll of Sempiterno.
The light from a thousand yellow eyes flickered from the shadows. A foul, moldy stench rose from where wood met stone. Steam rose from the jungle floor like freed spirits, and the air was still and sticky. She fumbled over treacherous roots, but Saint-Sauveur was like a millstone, dragging her despite her pleas for compassion.
Saint-Sauveur slowed as they reached a clearing, a spit of land that butted up against a wall of pitted stone. He threw her at the base then proceeded to yank big handfuls of vines and cobwebs. In his fervor, he flung one very angry serpent straight into Luísa’s lap.
She screamed and scampered away, but three ghou
ls kept her at bay. The biggest one pointed to the stone barrier. She turned, her mouth so dry it felt unquenchable. Her eyes widened, capturing every available bit of light. Slowly, the monolith gave way to detail. At the base was a portico, centuries old.
Izabel’s tomb. They had arrived.
The door to the crypt was hewn from solid stone. A carved, graven-faced gargoyle looked out from the center of the lintel. The eyes bugged out and the tongue froze in a permanent flick, waiting for the next petitioner. By the look of the stone, no one had ever succeeded.
A warning graced the door, faint but still readable.
Woe to thee who enters here without the protection of Izabel or her blood.
Luísa got up, blind curiosity willing her to the door. She glided her hands against the worn rock, rubbed smooth by generations of previous supplicants, denied of Izabel’s mercy.
The moonstone at her throat warmed against her skin, pulsing as if it had a life of its own. It remembered this place and it seemed anxious to return.
Saint-Sauveur grinned like a hyena. “This is why you were so important, ma petite. You’re the only one who can unlock this chamber.”
Luísa glared at him like he was an idiot. How could she unlock such a thing? “It’s solid stone, Capitán.”
Saint-Sauveur brushed his fingers down her throat and to the moonstone necklace. “Magicked stone. And you are the key, or more to the point, your blood.”
Luísa’s mouth dropped open. “Monster! You brought me here as a sacrifice?”
Even his laugh was French, as humorless as it was cruel. “The only sacrifice you’ll make to me is your innocence, unless that English dog beat me to it.”
He pushed her against the entrance, then glanced up at the black sky. It wouldn’t be long before moonrise.
Saint-Sauveur wrapped his arms around her waist. He nuzzled her neck and she felt his groin harden against her. “I’ve waited so long for this, Luísa, so very long.”
His hand roamed up her waist and past her breasts, groping her along the way. He kissed her ear. “Soon, I will have all of you to celebrate ce miracle grand.”
He swept up her neckline with a callused thumb. Before she had a chance to draw another breath, she felt something sharp slice across her skin. She grasped at her throat and tried to pull away, but he held her in a vise grip.
“Are you squeamish, ma petite?” He rubbed a few drops of her blood between his fingertips. “I thought all pirates sealed their bargains in blood.”
He squeezed the open wound and daubed his fingers with her blood. A tiny rivulet of moisture dribbled between her breasts. He smeared the ichor on the carved tongue of the gargoyle set within the door and stood aside.
Levers actuated, and the groan of stone grinding against stone echoed in the still of the jungle. Centuries of dirt and gravel exploded from the doorway as it heaved its great mass in slow agony. The gargoyle, once immovable, slid to the left while a solid block of stone slid right. A breath of stale air rushed out choking Luísa with its rank odor.
Saint-Sauveur picked up his lantern and shoved her through to the other side. “Rapidement! Quickly, now,” he said.
It smelled of must and rot. The cheeps of mice and scampering cockroaches rushed away from all sides when the dim light revealed their presence.
Cockroaches! Luísa crawled up Saint-Sauveur, no longer caring if he was Satan himself. She hated cockroaches. He pushed her off then let the fire chase the vermin away. He lit her torch and handed it to her.
“Some pirate,” he muttered.
They barely took a few steps inside when the door sealed once more. Luísa vaulted back, banging her fists against the rock. “We’re trapped!” She flashed her torch about, looking for another gargoyle to anoint.
Saint-Sauveur grunted like a bear, his severed ear and the long shadows of his face completing the illusion. “All the more reason for you to succeed, my dear. Move along.” He shoved her into the first tunnel.
The tomb was a maze of dead-ends and multiple passageways, each one more twisted and narrower than the last. He pulled her like a rag doll, methodically eliminating each passageway off his list when it proved empty of Izabel’s final resting place. Only the squeaks and scratches of mice kept them company. Luísa’s skin crawled. How much longer could they search?
“We’re lost.” She stamped her foot and whined.
“Silence, woman.” He lunged at her, raking her with the heat of his torch. “We must take care. This tomb could be full of traps and poisons. The islanders did not want Izabel’s bones disturbed.”
Luísa let out a ragged breath. Saint-Sauveur was likely to get them both killed. She wiped the dried blood that had streaked down her throat. Flakes of dark crimson flecked across her fingertips. Her blood was magic. Who knew? “What happened to Izabel’s children?”
“She had only a daughter,” the Frenchman said distractedly. “It was said a sailor found her and took her away. But before she left, Izabel bade her to take half the moonstone. For only the whole stone could rescind the curse, and she wanted her people to suffer.”
“And did she curse the werewolves too?”
“No,” he said curtly. “That was God’s doing.”
Luísa stopped dead in her tracks, halting him with her. “Then how do you know the moonstone can help you?”
He slapped her, the cruel blow stinging like a hot coal. “You ask too many questions!”
Luísa rubbed her burning cheek. A lifetime of this. With him.
The Frenchman pulled her toward him and patted her slapped cheek. “Don’t be so glum, mademoiselle. You’ll learn your place soon enough.”
“I only asked a simple question, Capitán. There was no need to hit me.”
He studied her for a bit before answering. “Aye, but there are no simple answers, and unlike Daltry, I am not amused by brazen women.” He raised the lantern to her face and studied her. “You are a jolie fille. A pretty girl.”
“No need to translate, Capitán. I speak your foul language fluently.”
“Oui. No doubt. But there are other languages, ma petite.” He rubbed a fat thumb across her lips. “Language with a tongue, but no voice. A language that will please us both, very, very much.” He tickled her chin and blew a fetid-smelling kiss at her. “I promise you.”
Luísa glared at him with all the loathing in her being. “The only promise I want from you is that you’ll release my father and the crew of the Coral. After that…”
“After that,” he snapped at her. “You will share my bed and bear my young. And I will get drunk on the satisfaction that I alone taste your honey.” He barked a laugh. “I wish I could see Daltry’s face when he learns that I keep you between my legs.”
She blinked, suddenly aware that her lover was still in danger. “What will happen to Xander?”
Saint-Sauveur’s eyes narrowed and a creased scowl pinched his face. “My dear adversary had the bad manners to survive the last musket ball I gave him. He won’t survive the next one.”
Luísa grabbed Saint-Sauveur by the arm, violently at first, and then with gentle kneading on the rich brocade. “Let him go, Capitán. Banish him from the island and I will promise you an obedient wife.”
“And have you imagine your lover in our bed? Never.”
“Think me so ignorant, señor? It won’t take Xander long to find another woman. Once you’ve stolen his means of helping his sister, he’ll not trouble you again. He won’t need me.”
“I’ve seen the way he looks at you. The man is smitten.”
“Lust, Capitán. Nothing more. His feelings were nothing more than lies and the hunger of the wicked. He only wanted me so I could save his sister. I mean nothing beyond that.”
“Then why should I let him live? Don’t you want your honor avenged?”
Luísa sniffed at him in resignation. “You wish to avenge my honor?” For Xander’s life, she’d be willing to sacrifice her happiness, but she’d have to let this coxcomb think it was hi
s idea. “Let him live with his failure, Capitán. Vengeance is fruitless on the dead.”
He drew her to his chest and kissed her, drilling her with a thick slimy tongue, reeking of onions and old meat. “Ha! Only a woman scorned can be so cruel. I think I will enjoy you very much, ma chere.”
He dragged her down another blind passageway. This corridor pitched to an upward slope with sweaty walls. This time Luísa’s pendant turned hot to the touch. She cupped it in her hands, but still it remained silent. Were they close?
Their tunnel opened up into a cavernous chamber so big, an army of men couldn’t fill it. In the center stood a wide stone altar piled high with gold and jewels.
Luísa’s mouth dropped open. She’d never seen so much treasure, even on their most profitable raid. The sight of it reignited the thrill of plunder, but Saint-Sauveur had no interest in booty.
He grabbed Luísa by the arm. “This is a ruse to distract us. We’ll go back. There are many more tunnels to explore.”
But Luísa refused to budge. “No, Capitán,” she murmured. “We’re in the right place.”
“Rubbish! There’s no crypt here.”
She circled the altar. “I don’t think there ever was one.” Her whispered voice quivered, resonating against the smooth stone walls. The cave repeated her words over and over again. The moonstone sang to her. Keep looking. Its mate was here.
She fondled the baubles, a mountain of spoils at her fingertips. Treasure beyond imagination, and yet only one lowly stone was important.
I am here, mistress. Find me.
Tiaras, scepters and gold cluttered the round altar. She raked through each coin and bauble, casting them off the table until they littered the floor.
“Come, Luísa. There’s nothing here.” He pulled her away from the table, but she stood fast.
“It’s here,” she insisted. “I’m telling you. It’s here. I can feel it. I can hear it.” Once again, like a woman possessed, she sifted through the greatest plunder her hands had ever touched. All of it worthless on this night, except for one.
Her fingers dug into the belly of the treasure and something pricked her like fire. She froze and closed her eyes. With a trembling hand, she pulled out a blue stone on a silver chain, the perfect twin to her own talisman.
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