Going below the main deck to her little cabin, she watched Thomas pass by and head to the deck below. Molly wondered what Henry Bardow was up to, and why Thomas wouldn’t say what it was. Drawing one of her pearl pistols from her cloak, she loaded the silver bullet into it and blew out the candles before going to bed.
Midnight, and no noise broke the silence that settled in the innards of the Nymphe Colère, although the storm quickly approached. Thomas had been absent for three hours, and Molly lay asleep. A fourth hour passed, marking the beginning of thunder and rain. Molly stirred in her sleep. Rain pattered softly against the window. There were footsteps below deck. Voices could be heard ascending the galley stairs. Another distant clap of thunder rang out. As the sky flashed dull white, Molly’s eyes slowly fluttered open. Muffled shouts from the main deck could be heard, and there were barks and snarls amid the commotion. The crew did not keep hounds aboard. Molly sat up in a start and lit a candle. The ship rocked, and the candle flew from Molly’s hand, tumbling across the floor and snuffing out.
Lightning flashed. Molly tripped twice as she crept up the galley stairs to the main deck. Lifting the trap door at the top of the stairs, she struggled to make sense of what was happening on deck. Many silhouettes were standing together, fists in the air. The two figures in the middle of the group were moving quickly, obscured by the heavy rainfall. Hearing voices approaching from behind, Molly gasped, fled the stairway and ran across the main deck and into Tom’s cabin, shutting the door behind her. Pressing herself up against the cabin door, she peered through its small porthole window. The two large figures on the main deck squared off with one another, and the onlookers backed up a few steps. From the window Molly watched, horrified. Lightning illuminated the lupine faces of two, muscular, bipedal beasts. The bright light gleamed on their white fangs and cast jagged shadows across their drenched, furry, clawed limbs. They stood heads higher than men, but their ankles were jointed like a dog’s. Their posture was hunched and burly, and their arms were humanlike, except for the large clawed hands attached. Their ears stood tall on their heads, and their lips curled up on their snouts when they growled at one another. The onlookers began to panic and dodged the animals for their lives as the beasts set upon each other, locked together in a game of death.
Lightning flashed again. One of the monsters appeared to grow larger, its yellow eyes shining through the blackness. Molly recognized those eyes. There were confused shouts from the spectators. The beasts collided, sprinting about and leaping from the rigging with supernatural agility, claws tearing at each other. An inhuman howl of agony split the air and made the hair on Molly’s neck stand. The first beast pummeled the second, lifting it and hurling it across the deck. The second beast was forced toward Molly’s door by a flurry of strikes to the body that followed the first beating. Molly shrieked and backed away in fear of what was happening just outside her door. The first beast seized the throat of the second and swung a fistful of razor claws. There was another howl of pain, a sound like a cleaver splitting a heft of meat, and something dark splashed against the small window, obscuring Molly’s view entirely.
Trembling anxiously, Molly drew her pistol and waited, prepared to kill either of the beasts if the door did not withstand their struggle. The first beast dragged the second toward the bow of the ship. A dark stain was left on the deck by the body of the second beast, but it faded quickly under the relentless rainfall. Faceless shadows dashed about, stumbling and tripping on one another. The two beasts passed in and out of view between the silhouettes. They had changed shape and were smaller, more human. The first stood in place, looming over the one lying motionless on the deck. It raised a hand, appearing to aim an accusing finger at the second. There came a sound like thunder, followed by a blue plume of gun smoke that crept through the rain like a fog.
Molly knew that sound. Discovering the doorknob to have jammed shut, she began to kick and pound the door, desperate to know what had happened. The door gave way and she fell onto the deck, dropping her pistol. The shouts of the mob were muted by the furious rain. A foot kicked the pistol across the deck. Molly tried to run past to retrieve it but was knocked to the deck, landing painfully on her elbows.
Scrambling to maintain the sails and fasten themselves to sturdy supports, the crew tumbled and tossed about with every heave of the ship. The waves rocking the boat were monstrous. Lightning revealed large shore rocks peeking up over the ship’s railing like mountainous heads. The storm had driven the Nymphe Colère into a deathtrap. The ship jarred violently. As Molly struggled to stand, she spotted the pistol just an arm and a half away.
The figure looming over its dead opponent looked directly at her, standing eerily still amid the rush of crewmen struggling with ropes. He was unrecognizable in the darkness, except for a pair of luminous yellow eyes.
The sound of one of the wooden masts cracking and splitting alarmed Molly. The dark, yellow-eyed figure rushed toward her as lightning broke the sky, dividing the clouds with bright, spidery bolts. The mast creaked and lurched over like a massive, felled tree. The dark figure suddenly collided with Molly. There was a tremendous crash and a loud shout, and Molly’s vision blurred as an immense pain filled her head. Her consciousness faded rapidly, then blackness. A single white flower floated aimlessly in a rain puddle next to her, heedless of the catastrophe.
A flower and flotsam; beauty and disarray; order and chaos—I suppose that describes Molly Bishop and Thomas Crowe quite well. At least, in such a way as I always knew them, though, I am no poet. My name is Geoffrey Mylus. Dr. Mylus, if you prefer. If you asked a common man, he would tell you I am a scientist, though often I don’t find that to be perfectly true. My methods are that of the mystic sort—the forbidden sort, to some. The truth, whatever that word implies, is that I am a lorist, a collector of knowledge and artifacts, and an amateur magesmith.
If you, the reader, are of the common sort—I beg your pardon—I mean a mortal man or woman, you might be amazed that I knew the infamous Thomas Crowe. Pirate! Monster! Murderer! I’ve heard him called many things. But please, delve on before you shut these pages in repulsion, disinterest or horror! I did know Thomas Crowe, yes. I sailed with the captain and his lot for a time. A surviving witness to the life of a man of legend! Does that not make you curious?
The story that follows is not the one you have been told, but I swear on my honor that every word of it is the truth, not hearsay, not speculation, and not fanciful fairy tales. I ask you: do you dare wish to know the truth? You have not heard the story in full, say I. What you’ve heard until now is a lie; a fantasy, say I! I have applied logic, reason, and modern understanding to everything I’ve touched with my hands or seen with my two eyes, and yet … what happened in the age I am about to describe—this age between ages—is history lost, is often reason unwound, is something of wonder. I ask myself and my readers, where do the thresholds of factual and fanciful meet, and what should we find there? What is the difference between fantasy and lore? Please, dear reader, let me tell you a story.
Geoffrey Mylus,
April 9, 1833
~
Molly woke to an ensemble of pleasing sensations, among which were the warmth of a featherbed, the aroma of fresh food and the crackling and popping of a fireplace. Through three generously large windows sunshine softly filtered into the room. Her memory was cloudy, but she certainly had no memory of such a place. How had she gotten there? Rising slowly, struggling to ignore the throbbing in her head, she listened to what she realized were the sounds of an inn, and there was some kind of business occurring downstairs. Numerous voices were talking and laughing. Dishes clanked and chairs and tables groaned. Outside the window and below her room was a busy cobblestone street that wound around and between various buildings and markets.
Scrutinizing her filthy clothing with abjection, Molly pilfered through her bag for a skirt and blouse, stepped into a wardrobe nearby and, every now and then as she disrobed, poked her head out and cla
pped an arm across her breasts to make certain she was still alone. Too late she realized her new skirt was stretched; the blouse, oversized—items she had been given when she left the American colonies. Thinking she would change into something more suitable, she backed out of the wardrobe.
“Good morning,” Tom said cheerfully.
Molly spun around, and clutched at her blouse like a squirrel falling from a tree. Her untamed hair flew and her unrestrained breasts swung at Thomas like a pair of medieval flails beneath her blouse and she poised to strike.
“Oh…I…” Molly blushed. “I thought you were…I’m sorry.” She swept her hair from her face and straightened her blouse. “Where are we? What happened?” Molly folded her arms tightly as Tom looked her over. She wished she’d found a bodice already.
A grin and equally warm blush lit Tom’s face. Dressed in a baggy white shore shirt, new pants, a leather sash and a modest tricorn hat, he’d clearly been awake longer than she. He pocketed some throwing knives he’d been fiddling with in his hands, tugged at his belt and shook one leg as he adjusted his pants.
“How did you sleep, Miss Bishop?” he asked, averting his gaze while she combed the room for a bodice.
“Very well, thank you.”
“See?” he said with a smile. “You had no reason to doubt me now, did you?”
“I …” Molly began to recollect the frightening events that had led to the present.
“Are you hungry?”
“Yes, very mu—” Molly’s eyes flashed with worry. “You’re hurt!” She started toward him, extending a hand. She placed it delicately on his shoulder where the collar of his shirt met his skin. A deep cut crossed his collarbone. It had only recently stopped bleeding and had dried black and crimson.
Moving away, Thomas discouraged any further inspection. “Come on then, let’s get you some breakfast, Miss,” he said with a smile.
Molly drew back her hand, embarrassed by his rejection. “I suppose I am a bit hungry…No, wait!” She exclaimed, finding a sash and tying it around her waist. Next, she plucked a dingy hand mirror from her bag and scowled at her reflection. “My hair is ghastly!” she cried. “Where is my brush?” She rummaged about through her bag in a frenzy.
“You’re perfectly decent,” Tom said as he took her hand firmly and hurried her out of the room and down the stairs.
“But I can’t!” she protested, combing her free fingers through the salty mess on her head as Tom tugged her on. “Let me finish! I’ll pluck your eyes if you see me like this a moment longer!” she wailed, fighting him like a cat about to be thrown in a river. Molly was morbid and began to dread someone mistaking her for a common prostitute. Once had been quite enough! She shrieked at the thought and tried to pull away. Tom released her in surprise.
All varieties of stranger passed them as the captain led the way through the bustling corridors of the inn. Some appeared to be of noble lineage, others were of questionable social standing, and some were beyond description. On the streets outside the dining hall were gypsies, pirates, mercenaries, businessmen, clergy, foreign tribesmen and shamans, farmers, sailors, shopkeepers and the town blacksmith. Horses and mules were tugged along by merchants, and the noises of life were abundant. The crowd was strange and unusual. Turning her head this way and that, Molly felt as though she were being led through a fairy tale. The girlish half of her was rapt, while the outward, womanly half of her kept becoming engrossed in pulling the knots from her hair.
“This place is the largest, busiest, most crowded, and best-kept secret in the Caribbean, miss.”
“But there are so many people here!”
“And yet you’ve never heard of it!” he retorted with a witty grin. With a perfect Spanish accent, he continued, “La Isla del Sol is what we call it. Always sunny here, always hot.”
“Just as the name implies?”
“It’s the only name I’ve ever heard, of course, but then again, why give an official name to an unofficial secret?”
“I suppose.”
Tom procured a basket of biscuits and a platter of boiled eggs, leaving a few pieces of gold in their place for the innkeeper.
“Looks wonderful,” Molly said with a smile as she sat down at a table.
“Tastes like it looks.” Tom sat down across from her, watching with a content smile as she ate. “Eat all you want, but after breakfast we must hurry and be off.”
Molly stopped in mid-bite, becoming much more self-conscious as the captain watched her eat. “Off? Where to, Captain?” she asked, hiding her face behind her thick brown hair.
“I’ve scheduled us to meet a friend of mine. He lives here on the island. Great fellow. He has a few things for me … er, us, rather. How are the eggs?”
“Oh, delectable, thank you.” Molly answered after carefully chewing and swallowing discreetly, putting a napkin to her lips and then resting it in her lap.
“Very good, very good,” he said, standing and pushing his chair up underneath the table. “Well then, enjoy your breakfast, miss. When you finish, meet me upstairs again, yes? We’re going to meet a friend of mine!”
“But I—” Molly began, covering her mouth and quickly swallowing her next bite of eggs, “I won’t be going with you, I’m afraid. Now that we’re ashore, I’m sure I can—”
The captain smiled and hurried away before Molly could manage to get out another word.
Left to herself, Molly took the opportunity to study the people around her, looking for crew members from the ship. She felt awkward sitting there alone, looking like a worn-out pirate’s plaything. She could not recall anyone’s swimming to shore or even surviving the incidents of the previous night. What had happened again? The thought concerned her greatly. No crew were to be found in the immediate area, but she met the gaze of a man standing by the stairs smoking a pipe. His hair was matted, destroyed by years of salty wind, as were his garments. She averted her gaze, not wanting to attract any attention to herself, as she continued with her breakfast. Thinking about all that had happened over the course of the past days, she now had many questions for the captain, the most disturbing of which concerned the terrible events on the ship. She shuddered at the thought and lost her appetite, remembering the dark stain against the cabin door window. Molly froze. The stain! The fight!
The stranger with the pipe approached the table and distracted her. Molly looked away, but she smelled his tobacco as he came near. The stranger leaned forward on the table with both hands. Unable to ignore the man’s presence, Molly bit her lip and looked up hesitantly. The stranger had a disturbing smile on his face. By his appearance, Molly had no doubt he was a criminal of some kind. Puffing away at his pipe, the man eyed Molly’s possessions. Realizing this, Molly withdrew, trying to obscure the pistols in her belt. The stranger laughed in a gruff voice.
“Where did you find those, lady?”
“It’s not proper to ask a lady personal questions, especially upon first meeting her,” she came back sourly, trying to hide her creeping fear.
“A lady shouldn’t be carry’n’ arms around. That’s a good way to find trouble.”
“So is intending to steal from kind ladies.” Thomas reappeared, slipping up from behind and pinning the thief’s left hand to the table with a straight dagger. With one hand he seized the handle, and with the other he took the tip of the blade that poked through the underside of the table, bending the dagger in two places, thus affixing the thief to the heavy piece of furniture. The criminal yelled and struggled with the dagger. People in the inn turned and glowered at the captain.
“Miss, if you’re finished with your breakfast?” Tom calmly motioned for her to get going, leaving behind the wailing thief.
Molly’s expression was one of shock. She was still too confounded by Thomas’s feat of strength to focus on his words, but she nodded and followed the captain back upstairs.
“How was your breakfast, then?” Tom asked casually as he locked the bedroom door behind them.
“I d
on’t want to talk about food!” Molly burst. “There was no need to rouse such commotion! I was more than ready to use my pistols if the need arose!”
“No need to waste shots on common robbers, miss.”
“We have more to talk about, too!” she continued, tossing her bag aside. “I know what you are! I know why you didn’t want to tell me before!”
“Are you ready to leave?” he asked, pretending to ignore her and pulling up a floorboard to fetch a hidden stash of coins.
“Don’t deny it!” she said, storming over to him and giving him a push, “You’re one of them. You’re…cursed.” Molly lowered her voice to a whisper and glanced at the bedroom door.
“I’m surprised you believe in such things at all,” Tom replied, holding up his hands in surrender.
“I may be of higher birth, and come from a much more civilized place than you, Thomas Crowe, but I’ve been on my own for a long time now, and I’ve seen a few things in the New World that my governess told me were children’s stories.” Molly shook a finger and smirked, finally having got one over on the clever pirate.
“You’ve found me out. It was a pleasure meeting you, Molly Bishop. You’d best be on your way now,” Tom started with an attractive smile. All his teeth lined up like square-cut pearls.
“I…” Molly backed off and brought her hand to her hip. For a moment she’d have liked to have left; she’d have liked to have reveled in her discovery, packed her bag and set off on her way as she’d planned since having gotten on the Nymphe Colère in Barbados, but she deliberated. Thomas had helped her once in Barbados and again just moments before. Molly really had no plan, no particular place to go—she hadn’t given it much thought. She’d just been happy enough to have fled from a danger that had been after her since long before Thomas Crowe came along…
“What is it? Have you changed your mind?” Tom asked, reading her mind.
The Lore Series (Box Set): All 3 Books In One Volume Page 3