“How do you know it’s her?” Bart questioned.
With two fingers, Tom turned to Bart and pointed to his eyes.
Bart nodded. “Really? That’s all you needed to be able to tell?”
Tom suddenly shouted out. “Helmsman, full sail! Northwest, five degrees!”
“Bermuda?” Bart asked curiously.
“Temporarily. We need to collect something.”
“How many ashore?”
“Ten. The rest will stay and watch under your command.”
Bart’s tone lowered. “What about your condition, Cap’n?”
“The moon won’t be strong in the coming weeks. I’m learning about how to control it as well.”
“Aye, Cap’n.”
Thomas never dropped an anchor in places any navy would have expected. Tortuga, Port Royal, San Juan—those ports were for pirates, and Thomas Crowe would have preferred having tea with a witch over being caught associating himself with criminals and other accursed... In those days, werewolves, vampires, and magesmiths—mortal or otherwise—were essentially considered members of the broad family of sinners and ne’er-do-wells that any civilized government, colonial or not, happily and indiscriminately listed as “criminal.” Yes, there was an era in which such was not the case, but after significant violent events during the early 1500s involving the first truly ambitious werewolf clan—the Children of the Blood Moon—the English and soon the French, Spanish and so-forth began to look upon their resident lupomorphs with contempt, and thus began the Age of Sorrow in the long tale of the werewolves.
Vampire cults long lived closely beside mortal man as well, yet with much more social intimacy. Werewolves have long preferred agrarian life to that of an aristocratic nature, for which vampires are more commonly known. Werewolves, after all, have long claimed a close relationship to the natural. I believe werewolves came into existence many ages before the time of Rome, which is when vampires first attempted to mesh their tribes with the lands designated as Emperor Augustus’s territory, mostly in Italy and the rest of the Mediterranean, extending toward Eastern Europe. Ancient vampires feared the consequences of resisting imperial rule, and willingly became Romans. After Augustus, vampire history is rather quiet, until the time of the Christian emperor Constantine. But that is not important to consider at this time.
During the time Thomas Crowe was sailing to Bermuda, a modern vampire cult—The Black Coat Society—was beginning to colonize the Caribbean, right along with the European powers. The original Black Coat Society had originated in Europe, supposedly in France, and had since been reorganized by new leaders—and influential ones at that.
Geoffrey Mylus,
April 11, 1833
~~~
The Scotch Bonnet cut through the waves for several days when the captain ordered the crew to anchor in the port of Bermuda. He and ten others rowed into port with a small shore boat while the rest remained aboard the ship, waiting nervously by the cannons and occasionally peeking out through the armory bay windows for any sign of trouble. Molly awoke suddenly due to the activity outside. She stretched and rose to her feet. Reaching the main deck, she saw the shore boat bobbing up and down like a child’s toy in a bath, quite a distance from the ship. Stained by the sunrise, the red waters carried it toward the nearby docks. Unable to find Thomas, Molly realized he had gone ashore. Each time the crew grew anxious or lingered by the cannons, she would pace.
The shore boat returned in the late evening—no more than a small shadow on the still sea. The ten crewmen carried large barrels and crates aboard. The captain himself was lugging a lockbox, held tightly shut by a weighty iron lock and thick chains. It clanked loudly against the deck as he shuffled toward his cabin.
“Sails up!” Bart sang.
The crew hurriedly raised the sails, towed up the anchor and manned their positions next to the cannons below deck. The captain calmly strode into his cabin with the chest, letting it drop with a loud bang to the floor. Having paced laps around the deck all day and eager to learn what Tom had been doing ashore, Molly contemplated going after him to inquire about the visit to Bermuda.
“Full speed! Sixteen degrees northeast!” Bart shouted again.
Molly suddenly remembered that a kitchen crew had not been assigned and there were pies in the oven in the galley. She headed toward the stairs to finish dinner for the crew, vowing to question Thomas later. The crew raised black sails, blending quickly into the darkness of the night sky. Reflecting brightly in the seawater, the port of Bermuda came alive with the percussion of cannon fire. Molly paused at the galley stair, startled by the raucous noise. The port shrank in the distance.
“Too late now, fellows!” Bart cackled.
Molly’s brow furrowed. “Too late?”
The captain soon returned to the main deck from his cabin and looked toward the port. “Now what would they want with me? I guess the officials in Bermuda haven’t forgotten us, eh?” He grinned at Molly. “Shame, I guess those lads just missed us.” He placed his hands on his hips and called to the crew.
As Molly hurried down to the galley she heard Tom say, “All right then, pull those guns back inside! We won’t need them tonight! From here, straight to London!”
Removing his tricorn hat wearily, he untied his hair, shook it out of his face and followed Molly into the galley. “Evening.”
She ignored him, moving about and placing the pies carefully in the oven. Tom pretended not to notice. “Good seas tonight. I caught a bit of spray, though.”
“Warm yourself by the oven if you wish.” Molly was still vexed by the fact that she had no warning of his side journey—one that surely involved the Royal Navy again and likely risked his life. She didn’t approve of his habits and decisions, regardless of his hospitality.
Tom waved off the offer and instead sat across the room. “I’ll live.”
“Very well,” Molly muttered, her expression hard.
“Ooh, this one might take a while to clear up.” Tom looked down at his right leg, annoyed, and began wrapping it.
Molly’s eyes flashed suddenly in concern, but she kept her distance. “What happened?”
“Our friends in red came out for a hunt,” he said, flinching.
“Let me help,” she suggested, with scorn buried in her voice like a bear trap under a few unsuspecting leaves.
Noticing her tone, Tom stopped, holding the bandage. “No, thank you.” He went back to tending the bandage, mumbling to himself. “It’s my bloody box. Should have left us alone!” He flinched again. “Shoot a man for taking what’s his. What a world this is!”
Molly mimicked his flinches subconsciously and sighed. “What were you doing in Bermuda?”
Tom, still mumbling, failed to hear her at first. “What I’m willing to do for a bloody ring, I … what?” he asked, looking up at her.
“What were you doing in Bermuda?” Molly repeated, forgetting to hide her temper.
Tom stood quickly, despite his injured leg, his expression pale and furious. His eyes gleamed yellow. “What was I doing in Bermuda? I’m the captain of this ship. If I go to Bermuda, I go to Bermuda. What concern of yours is it?”
Molly remained firm, eyes fixed on his. “Temper, Captain. It was only a question.”
A twinge of dark amusement crept into Tom’s expression, yellow eyes glowing. Molly failed to hide the shivers that tickled her arms. Tom’s tone was soft and eerie. “Don’t challenge me, Miss Bishop. This is my ship and my crew. What is it you suppose I was doing, eh?” he asked, moving toward her with a domineering gaze. Molly took a step back as he moved forward. “Perhaps I was collecting the necessary food to sustain an extra passenger aboard my ship? And getting a bloody bullet in the leg for it? Does that sound like a reasonable thing for me to have been doing all day?” His eyes, now dark blue again, communicated hurt.
Tears stung the corners of Molly’s eyes. “Not at the expense of your life!”
“Call the rest down to dinner. Goodnight,” he ba
de her, staggering up the stairs to the deck without another word. Molly remained rooted to the spot, unable to move. Tom stumbled against the stairs, swearing at the pain in his leg, and Molly flinched at the sound as he forced the door open. She leaned against the wall, breathing raggedly and trying to compose herself, hearing Thomas cough and shout out above deck. “Dinner! Anyone who cares to make it to London!”
Calmly filing one-by-one into the galley, the men helped themselves to dinner, chatting and moving the eating tables around noisily. The tables filled quickly, and latecomers began to sit on barrels, crates and counters. Bart was slowly moving down the stairs when Molly slipped potatoes and a piece of meat pie onto a plate and covered it with a cloth. Making her way toward the stairs, she met Bart.
“Oh look at you, you barbarians,” she heard him scold the crew, shaking his head. “Evening, Miss,” he greeted Molly.
Molly offered a pleasant hello before continuing up to the main deck, searching for the captain. The deck was void of any straggling crew, and behind her the galley livened up with loud conversation, chairs scraping the floor, plates moving about and bottles knocking against one another. The moon was not out that night. In its place the stars shimmered and crowded the heavens like sugar spilled across a black table. The only source of light peeked out faintly from Thomas’s cabin. It touched the tips of her toes as she stood outside his door. Pausing, Molly knocked softly, almost hoping the captain would ignore her and wishing to make amends for being cross with him at the same time. The door opened before she touched the knob.
“Oh,” he said quietly, noticing the meal she had brought with her. He smiled weakly. Molly looked down awkwardly and presented him with the plate. Tom opened the door wider and stepped aside, his tone soft. “Come in.” Molly did so, keeping quiet until she felt it was safe to speak to him again. Closing the door carefully behind them, Thomas limped to fetch Molly a seat. Unable to find something comfortable, he searched for a cushion. “Here you are.” Then, hobbling over to his bed, he propped his leg up onto a pillow.
“Would you prefer my absence?” asked Molly.
“No, please stay.” He stood to offer the cushion again.
“So obstinate. Captain, don’t mind me, really,” Molly implored.
Still reaching for the cushion, Tom’s blue eyes revealed a desperate determination, disheveled light strands of hair hanging in his face.
“All right. Look, I’m sitting,” said Molly, taking a seat on the floor. “You would do well to do the same.”
Embarrassed, Tom climbed back to the bed, his eyes fixed on the floor. “You have managed well to make decent meals out of the few scraps I’ve had to offer you. I’m pleased.” His good humor returned as he ate the wrapped portions she brought.
Molly kept her eyes on her feet, forcing down the feeling rising in her throat. Guilt, she thought to herself, does not help seasickness.
“Made a miracle out of potatoes. Potatoes!” Tom went on, grimacing between bites.
“Someone should look at that. It could be a lot worse if it’s not tended to,” Molly reminded him quietly. His tendency to neglect his wounds concerned her greatly.
Tom shook his head, unconcerned. “It’ll be gone by morning.” Finishing his food, he looked up, smiling. “Never takes long to heal. I’m just unusually fit.”
“If you’re finished, I’ll be on my way,” Molly said, taking the bare plate and walking to the door.
Surprised, Tom raised a hand. “Miss?”
Molly paused at the door, not wishing to look back at him in his condition. Tom shakily walked to the door, supporting himself against the cabin wall. Molly turned to him, slightly frustrated. “You shouldn’t be walking with your leg so damaged,” she warned. Her eyes glanced back toward the door. Tom placed his hands against her shoulders, and Molly attempted to support him. “Captain, please,” she protested softly.
“Miss, you—”
“Yes, Captain?”
Tom’s eyes studied hers. “Will you sleep all right tonight?”
“Don’t worry yourself with me, Captain.”
His eyes darted across her features. “Truthfully now?”
“I’ll sleep peacefully when you’re well again.”
“Goodnight. I’m sorry.” He struggled to communicate something to her.
Suddenly compelled, Molly reached out to touch his cheek, smiling and staring deeply into his eyes. “You have no reason to apologize. This is the second time you’ve taken a bullet because of me.”
“But it’ll heal.”
“It’s still enough to make me fear for you.” She stepped closer to him, her longing to be close to him overpowering any of her insecurities. Fighting her nerves, Molly steadied the hand resting on his cheek and rested her face against his neck.
For the first time, Thomas did not speak or retreat. He stood in place quietly, paralyzed by the affection of the young woman. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt a total disregard for pain or discomfort. He also couldn’t remember the last time he’d blushed or been short for words. When Molly’s fingers brushed his face they reached places far below the skin. For a brief moment, Tom’s body was at rest, and the dark things inside him ceased their stirring. The tendrils of sorrow and anger released his soul, like a savage monster subdued by song. For a moment, as Molly’s breath met his neck, Thomas Crowe was human, and for just a moment, Molly Bishop felt immortal.
Troubled by the untrustworthy silence of the night, Molly could not will herself to sleep. Darkness made her restless. She did not fear it, but it pestered her—made her think too much—kept her from resting peacefully. She’d always had an inner darkness, an uncertainty toward herself and her life. Now that she’d met Tom and begun to witness strange things, the darkness came to her each night with new questions and fears.
Molly opened her eyes in defeat as she sat up in bed. Leaving her cabin, she made her way below deck and into the galley. The night was black with the exception of the dim glow from the embers left from the dinner fire. Sighing at the disastrous mess left in the wake of the crew, she decided she would clean everything in the early morning. And she would mention that the new crew had not been given galley assignments. As she poured herself some boiled water from a barrel in the corner, she fully realized that the reason for her sleeplessness was, most assuredly, a combination of guilt, seasickness, and being a pirate—at least by association. Nothing in the mix agreed with her stomach.
Grabbing her pewter cup again and preparing herself another drink of water, Molly sat back down. She’d have killed for even a crude cup of hot tea. Obviously, the men onboard preferred rum or ale, so no one would think to lay in a supply of tea. Perhaps she would ask the captain to get some at their next stop.
“Thomas Crowe.” She barely breathed the name, placing the cup to her lips as she did so. She hated not being able to help the man. She felt as if she were of no great use to the ship or its crew. A shame, she thought, because the new life she’d found was indeed an exciting one.
The captain tossed about vexedly in his own bed, his leg rapidly mending itself with the aid of the wickedly efficient powers of his body’s curse. Overheated, he cast his covers to the floor, staring up at the mesmeric swaying of his unlit ceiling lantern and muffling oaths of pain through gritted teeth.
Tom held his leg in a fierce grip. It didn’t help the degree of pain at all. The wound slowly shrank and sealed with a hiss, the lead ball tumbling out of his torn muscles and flesh cleanly and striking the floor with an anticlimactic, metallic tink. Tom, in agony, let out not a shout of pain but a piercing, deep howl. Surprised, he covered his mouth with both hands, muffling the noise and mistakenly cutting a finger on elongated teeth.
Molly’s head rose in surprise. She had heard something—a ghastly howl. She stood quickly, knowing immediately the source of the noise. The sound and its implications were enough to convince her to remain in the galley for another hour. It was a terrible sound, and a terrible, long hour.
Frustrated, Tom lay unmoving in his bed, which he’d nearly ruined in his thrashings. The curse evoked wonder and fear in him. He’d been captivated by his wounds for years. Watching a miniscule bead of his own blood roll down the bitten finger, he asked himself how much blood he could lose without being empty. The small lead ball on the floor rolled underneath his bed with the rhythmic rock of the ship. How much blood could he lose and not be empty?
It is a curious thing, what happens to a werewolf when wounded. It is something of magic, and it is something of science. I’ve had many colleagues who practice the medical arts, and it is an exciting age indeed. We know little, but the exciting thing is we recognize that we know little. What possibilities are upon us?
I’ve spoken with some of the forerunners of medicine, and I’ve recently ventured into a realm of science in which I am a novice—biochemistry. The colleagues I speak of will remain anonymous because I have earned their trust and am aware that they have yet to reveal all the discoveries they have made. But I have learned much, and I now truly comprehend the anatomy of the werewolf curse. What is most puzzling is that I know not whether the magical werewolf or the scientific one frightens me most!
For centuries, folklore has provided simple, universal conditions under which a person contracts the werewolf curse. The reader surely knows that one must be bitten and undergoes a slow maturing process before becoming a true lupomorph. The reader is also surely familiar with the various “cures” associated with alleviating the symptoms. Of course no cure provided by folklore promises life after recovery. The silver bullet is perhaps the most widely known, and most … effective.
Would it surprise you to learn that folklore was not wrong? Ah, yes, I tell the truth! However, folklore does not give us the details behind the magic. It so happens that during maturation of the curse within the body, the afflicted begins to produce a chemical that is not natural to the known human anatomy. It is a “growth hormone,” according to the knowledge I have collected, and a natural anesthetic during the morphing process. Unlike vampires, whose physical traits, such as retractable fangs, are part of the anatomy and ever-present, werewolves experience mutation of their human components each and every time they transform, due to the hormone. When a werewolf transforms again back to human shape, the excess fur is shed quickly. The overgrown teeth fall out and are replaced rapidly with new, human teeth. This hormone induces rapid and efficient blood-clotting when the body is wounded, and thus no strike of an ordinary blade or pierce of lead shot will scathe a werewolf. How sympathetic nature can be.
The Lore Series (Box Set): All 3 Books In One Volume Page 7