The Lore Series (Box Set): All 3 Books In One Volume

by Chad T. Douglas

  “I think I’d like to accompany you a little longer, yes. You’ve done right by me and the least I can do is stand by you until you…find a new ship or somewhere to be, or…”

  “I’d be happy to have you,” he interrupted, putting her at ease.

  Glued to her hand mirror and having only begun to repair her features, Molly sighed and followed Thomas out the door when he could wait on her no longer. The captain stood politely aside for her and let her out before him, then looked over the room quickly before following her out.

  The village streets were as busy as ever. Traders haunted small alleyways in the company of wealthy individuals, no doubt making dishonest bargains. Other shady and exotic characters wandered to and fro, and a woman played a fiddle on a street corner. Her hair was heavy with beads made of precious stones, she wore a great big golden hoop in her nose, and she chanted in an Eastern European dialect. Someone bumped into Molly’s shoulder as he hurried to pass.

  “Is it always so busy?” complained Molly, picking up the dawdling ends of the red, tiered skirt she’d thrown on back at the inn.

  “Busiest little port town I ever saw, Miss.” Tom brushed up against her each time they met an oncoming cart. It was obvious to Molly that his presence offended a few vendors. She saw, too, that Tom tried to avoid eye contact with anyone who watched him too closely. A few people flashed silver charms at him as he and Molly passed by—a clear warning from anyone who practiced scant tolerance toward Tom’s kind.

  “Who exactly is this friend of yours?” Molly asked, looking ahead curiously.

  “A long-time business partner,” Tom answered, crafting the sentence carefully as they came upon a shipyard. Opening a rusty old iron gate, Tom held his breath, praying his old friend was still alive. “His name’s Bart Drake,” Tom clarified. “Shipbuilder. The best shipbuilder. Well, least the best I know of.”

  They began their trek through the yard, stepping over planks, chains, and large lumber intended for masts and old piles of nails. The captain caught Molly’s arm as she stumbled over a bit of scrap wood and simultaneously swatted away a small swarm of flies, all the while trying to keep the neck of her hand-me-down blouse from falling off her shoulders.

  “Careful.”

  The littered path led to a large, old wooden structure sitting at least ten metres above the sea below and leaning shy of perpendicular to the ground. The building was built with its inhabitant’s life’s purpose in mind and was big enough to house two complete ships. The building itself looked like an ocean-going vessel. A collage of scrapped hulls comprised the structure, and a few of the exterior supports were made from unused masts.

  Molly gaped at the sight. “This must be bigger than—”

  “Colossal mess of a thing, I know, and yet he keeps it so tidy on the inside. Right here’s the door I’m looking for.” Thomas led the way to a weathered iron door on the backside of the ship house, cautiously pushing it ajar. The inside of the ship house was dusty and cavernous. Two incomplete ships were set in rigid scaffolding frames, and two more small boats beyond the first appeared to be near or at completion. Workbenches bowed under blueprints, maps, designs and other odds and ends. Large, old naval cannons sat collecting dust, and humongous anchors leaned against the support beams of the ship house.

  “Bart!” Tom called. He listened carefully for a moment, waiting for an answer. “‘Hey, Barty, my old friend!”

  Standing on her toes, Molly placed her hands on his shoulders, peering curiously around his body and across the room. The ship house appeared empty. “I thought he was expecting us?”

  The captain called out again. “I’ve got enough for the ship this time, Bart!” Then he turned to Molly. “Oh, he’s been expecting me for years, Miss.”

  Suddenly, from a dark corner of the house, Bart approached. A boxy, wheezy fellow, he had the gait of a tired old horse. In a raspy voice he called back. “Ah, well hello, Cap’n! Eleven years now, yes? Has it been more since—”

  “Bart, I did come for the ship today, yes, and I have more than you’ve been asking for it!” Tom interrupted him. “I didn’t expect to need it so soon, but the weather last night was not gentle when it came courting, and prised a few irreplaceables loose when it fondled the Nymphe Colère’s fair figure.”

  The old man grinned. “Cap’n, someone as unlucky as you is not always good for business and never good for his own coins.” The old man came closer. His face was enveloped in a white beard, and the head above it had not much hair to speak of at all. He wore a vest more typical of a London businessman than a sailor. One hand palmed a broken compass and a pair of tweezers. The other hand was not there at all. In its place was a simple gold cap, crowning the end of the wrist. A small, wiry dog followed closely and bashfully behind him.

  “Got all you could ever want right here, Barty.” Thomas displayed the small pouch he’d retrieved from the floorboards at the inn. “I planned to come by and ask for another extension, but circumstances changed and well, I came across the funds I needed just a day ago,” Tom explained vaguely. He brushed the maps, documents, and other items off a nearby desk and placed the pouch in the center. Bart took a seat at the desk.

  “So, we got a deal, Bart? Eh?” The captain watched Bart as he opened the pouch.

  Bart picked up and examined the small leather pouch, then eyed the captain curiously. “How many did you get?”

  Tom, sitting in a chair opposite Bart, leaned his forearms on the table and spoke clearly. “A full set—more than you’ll ever see again in your lifetime. You know what a complete set is worth, don’t you, Bart?” he asked, posturing proudly.

  Molly left the two men to their negotiation, examining the large, unfinished ships with awe. They were quite beautiful. Their hulls were decorated with hand-carvings, and their figureheads were nothing short of works of art—wooden maidens with flowing dresses and faces of angels. It’s a shame they’ll be ruined by the same kind of hands that wrought them, thought Molly.

  “Cap’n, I wish I could believe you,” Bart sighed, his tone doubtful. “But what you’re good at is deceit, not bargaining.”

  Tom’s expression revealed irritation. “Open the pouch, Bart.”

  Bart laughed at Tom as he became even more annoyed.

  “Open it, Bart. You want to sell a ship or not?”

  Lingering close enough to listen, Molly overheard bits of the conversation, ignoring the dull jargon and sifting for the important details—anything concerning Tom and Bart’s history or what either of the men were doing in La Isla del Sol other than business.

  Opening the pouch, Bart stopped laughing. The bony dog approached and rested at his feet. The ship house creaked, and the lanterns flickered due to a sudden gust of wind bursting through the open doorway.

  “It’s teeth!” Bart said in surprise as he spilled the pouch’s contents out on the table.

  Startled by the comment, Molly moved her gaze toward the table and squinted, seeing an arrangement of inches-long objects around the mouth of the pouch.

  “It’s teeth, Cap’n.”

  “What kind, Bart?” Tom persisted with a grin.

  “I know very well what kind of teeth they are!” Bart snapped. “How did you get them?”

  “I found them. We got a trade, Barty?”

  “You don’t just find these kinds of things, so don’t be tellin’ stories, Cap’n!”

  “No story, I promise, Bart.”

  “Now I may be an old man, but I know better’n to believe you found these.”

  The dog’s ears perked up. It stood and walked away timidly.

  “Who was it, Cap’n? You better tell me if I should expect someone to come looking for these teeth and the man who collected ’em. I don’t want no trouble, especially not with your kind.”

  Realization dawned on Molly, and she suppressed a gasp, resisting an accumulating sickness in the pit of her stomach. Rushing to the open door for air, all she could think of were the teeth on the table—the teeth she ha
d seen in the mouth of a living, breathing, quite real werewolf only a day earlier.

  “Don’t matter who it was, Bart, I didn’t have a choice. Fellow didn’t show much favor toward following my orders. He got a good number of men thirsty for higher wages and my blood. Came for me last night, so I put him down.”

  Molly stood in the door frame, looking back over her shoulder. She was nauseous, imagining Henry Bardow having his teeth yanked out. It was upsetting, even if she hadn’t any sympathy for him.

  The captain continued in a whisper. “Bart, if he ever got his hands on her … Do you understand what that does to a person? Do you know what would happen to me if anybody were to come looking for her?” he asked, looking intently at the teeth. “You know me, Bart, think about what’s happened before. When one of my kind gets killed, the world couldn’t care less. But, when someone like her gets killed by someone like Bardow or myself … If I make a mistake I’ll have every English soldier’s shooting eye trained on my chest.”

  “Cap’n, you never said anything about her. If you need the ship, all you had to say …” Bart trailed off. He looked toward the door and forced a weak smile. Molly looked away, feeling ill. Tom stood and walked to her.

  “Stop,” Molly commanded him, thrusting a hand forward and looking at him from the corners of her eyes.

  Stopping in his tracks, Tom’s expression was a guilty one.

  Molly closed her eyes. Taking a deep breath, she tried to form a proper sentence. Realizing the captain had saved her in more ways than one, her words seemed to stick in her throat as quickly as they formed. On the night of the shipwreck he had risked his life for a woman he hardly knew. But those teeth…Did Thomas Crowe truly regret having killed Henry Bardow, or was it just a day’s work for a “tradesman”?

  “Miss? We have a new ship, miss,” Tom was saying, unsure how to speak to her. You can come with me if you do not wish to stay here, or we can part ways. Morgan Shaw, a former first mate of mine, is collecting a new crew right now to be ready early before dawn tomorrow. Some of my other men made it ashore as well. We’re not stranded here.”

  “I don’t know a Mr. Shaw,” she said, unable to think of anything else to say.

  “Chestnut brown hair, hazel eyes, ugly as sin…” Tom laughed but Molly didn’t, “…I’m joking, he’s a handsome man. He cleans the deck.”

  “That sounds fine.” Molly nodded, stood up straight and took a deep breath.

  “I mean to sail to London,” Tom continued.

  “Why London?”

  “Another trade. If you wish, you may stay there when I sail again. It’s your choice.”

  “Very well. Perhaps I will see my uncle.” All Molly could think was how badly she wished to see someone familiar for once. Maybe that’s what she needed—to go home for a while.

  Tom turned around. “Bart? Tomorrow?”

  Bart nodded from his desk. “Cap’n, if you owe the lady money, I can loan it to you so you don’t have to drag her all the way ‘cross the Atlantic to…”

  “I am not a comfort woman!” Molly barked, shooting the old man a look.

  “We have a ship,” Tom said enthusiastically, trying to disarm the tension. As Molly turned and walked away, he hurried out the door after her. “It won’t be long now. Shouldn’t be.”

  Molly forced a smile for the captain. He was a rogue, no doubt, but if Molly knew anything, it was that eyes didn’t lie, and Thomas’s weren’t threatening. Those deep, dark blue eyes settled her nerves like warm bathwater.

  “Should I expect your company at noon tomorrow? The ship will be ready to sail by then.”

  “Yes,” she chimed with a strained cheer in her voice, like an out-of-tune choir bell. It didn’t carry the softness of her former gratitude, but it was firm.

  Content with her response, Tom grinned. “I believe we’ll need to find another inn for the night. Before dark would be best. We’ll take a different path into town.”

  The moon was already rising—no clouds yet. A safe inn lay past the northernmost docks in town. All of the usual market patrons and businesspeople were gone. Stranger individuals began to fill the streets. Bart’s ship house gradually disappeared from sight, its few windows glowing yellow. Veiled shadows and anonymous figures slunk through the alleys. Their eyes watched Tom and Molly. Some were piercing white; others, a strange, golden yellow, and still others, hollow black. Molly grasped Tom by one arm and squeezed his hand. Tom kept the free hand on a pistol. Coming from a tavern close by, strange music spilled out into the streets and hung in the air. Odd, animalistic noises were uttered by shadows in the streets. Something about the darkness distorted the shape of the once-friendly shops and markets into abstract and ominous monsters. Eventually a fog settled in the town. Once past the main streets of the city, Tom changed course and took a sudden turn into the smaller alleyways.

  Molly, struggling to catch her breath, managed a whisper. “Captain, how much farther?”

  When Tom simply gestured for her not to speak, Molly kept quiet. The alleyways inspired claustrophobia. Growing ever darker, the path felt constrictive. Little was visible, yet pairs of eyes floated past in the dark as if not attached to a physical body at all. Something below the docks bellowed a screech. A cry of fear escaped Molly’s lips, and she tucked her free arm into her chest. The captain moved faster, turning left into a new, wider street. Stopping in front of a small shack, he read a sign posted outside: “Isla del Sol Trade Post.” Not a single living thing appeared to be inside. The front door was nailed shut, but the captain opened a small, hidden window next to the base of old brick steps that led to a false doorway. Molly became fearfully critical of her judgment. Why hadn’t she run from him? Why hadn’t she waited for the right moment and fled, she wondered. Because he isn’t going to harm you, her heart told her. Climbing down, the captain called quietly for her to follow. For reassurance, one hand appeared from the dark to offer a safe climb down. Molly took his hand without hesitation.

  The window fell shut immediately. The cellar of the trade post was abysmally black, yet the captain tugged Molly forward, feeling by memory his way through the darkness. The cellar slowly became a narrow corridor, lit by fading candles every twenty or so paces. Terrified of the blackness, Molly moved closer toward the captain, clinging to his shirt as he walked forward. A brick staircase was visible at the end of the passage. Upon seeing it, Tom hurried forward and up the staircase, throwing open the heavy wooden door at the top. It led not to a trading post; in fact, it was an inn in which Thomas Crowe and Molly Bishop found themselves upon exiting the dark underworld. The inn was comfortably illuminated by lantern light and fireplaces, its silent owner gazing curiously from across the room at his visitors. Molly, comforted by the inn, still refused to release Tom’s hand. The owner beckoned to Thomas, directing him without a word toward a vacant bedroom.

  Tom nodded and turned to Molly. “Now, Miss, you’ll sleep comfortably once more without worry.” He dressed his face in his best smile. Molly threw her arms around him. Her voice was muffled in his shoulder. How pleasant it felt to be close to him, as if being hidden in a thicket of trees, or buried in sun-warmed sand.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  Thomas, unsure of how to react, returned her embrace, and then guided her to the carefully hidden bedroom. Molly walked into the room and Tom stood in the doorway, taking the brief opportunity to study her features as she poked about the furnishings. Her hair was thick, wavy and dark—a deep mahogany, like her eyes. Her skin was not bronzed by the sun as was his, but she was not fair, either; rather, olive. Her eyelashes, he noticed, were long, making her irises look darker than they were. She had lips that reminded him of large rose petals. She couldn’t be any older than he, if not a year or two younger, he concluded as his eyes wandered down to her red skirt, which spilled over her backside like melted candle wax over a ripe, round peach.

  Thomas wondered about her past. Who had her family been? Tom had had a family once. Surely she must have had o
ne, too. She had an English name, but her appearance was not entirely English. He suspected she was, at least in part, of Spanish descent. “Goodnight Miss Bishop,” he muttered bashfully, tugging his belt and stepping away with a subtle wobble.

  Molly paused before climbing into bed. “Thank you for everything.”

  Tom nodded without a word, put out the candle in the sconce by the door and quietly shut the door behind him.

  Molly awoke with a start in the early morning, disturbed by a vivid dream. Thomas was in it. His eyes had been a strong golden yellow. She’d been standing on the beach with him. The moon in the sky behind him was incredibly large, swallowing the rest of the night sky.

  The sun had not yet shown itself, and Molly sat on the edge of her bed for a moment, trying her best to settle her nerves. Soft, orange light flickered and peeked into the room, outlining the door through the otherwise pitch darkness. There were occasional sounds of movement, muted somewhat by the walls. There were also loud voices. A table overturned and feet scuffled. Chains clinked together.

  Standing, Molly locked her eyes on the door. She grabbed her bag and pistols and slowly made her way toward the door, listening intently. She hadn’t changed out of her clothing, just so she’d be ready for anything. There was one audible voice, but she heard only broken sentences: “Under arrest … piracy, smuggling … the murder of Henry J. Bardow … are to be executed …”

  Slowly she cracked the door open and peeked through. English armed guards were forcing a man outside in iron cuffs. Molly grabbed her only bag and hurried to the scene as the loud voice continued.

  “Enough with you! Come along peacefully, sir!”

  The innkeeper looked on, unaffected. Molly turned to him in distrust. He glanced back at her then quickly away, guiltily. Chains clanged against the door.

  “Quit your struggling!”

  Molly’s eyes widened in realization as the guards wrestled with their captive. The door of Tom’s room was open wide, and various items were strewn on the floor. One guard batted the captive over the head with a club. The blow caused him to stumble. Seizing the opportunity, the soldiers dragged the captive out and down the staircase into the basement corridor.