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

by Chad T. Douglas

  “The Scotch Bonnet just became a lady of class,” sang Molly. “I’m taking this to my cabin,” she insisted. “I will not have those filthy ruffians peeping at me in it down here or anywhere else!” She crossed her arms and dared him to object.

  Thomas sneezed through the dust. “I have no objections. It’s a bloody heavy thing, though. I’ll have it moved into your cabin by tomorrow morning.”

  “It can’t be done by later this evening?” she complained with a pout.

  “Well, that doesn’t give me much time to cut a hole in my cabin wall…”

  Molly gasped. Her mouth fell open in a large “o”, and then she laughed and smacked him good.

  “Is Harlan like you?” It was Molly’s first question when they retired once more to Tom’s cabin.

  “We have some physical similarities, yes. The most striking being a mark we both carry,” Tom explained, unbuttoning his shirt and tossing his gun belt on the bed. Laying the shirt aside he turned his back to the firelight. On his right shoulder blade Molly saw a scar comprised of three claw marks; in the center was a black, tattoo-like symbol, which looked like a natural birthmark, as much a part of the skin as the scar. The mark resembled a moon in its crescent stage. It had been where Tom was first bitten. Molly was compelled to reach out, tracing the mark softly with her fingers.

  “Strange … and beautiful in a dark and terrible way. You both have this?”

  “I have it on my back; he, on his left forearm. I could as easily have had one on my neck. Thankfully, Harlan missed.”

  “Why would Harlan do that?” Molly shook her head in confusion.

  “Harlan is more like them than I am. The curse took hold of him instantly. His adoptive family raised and nurtured that monster. I, inversely, raised a monster within myself. Harlan became his own demon. I and mine are still at least separate entities. Harlan gave in to it. If I ever wish to be free of the curse, I need Harlan. To find Harlan, I needed a ring. To use the ring, I needed to be able to read the map within, but I can’t. Harlan can’t either. If he could, he’d have found me by now.”

  Molly hesitated before speaking. “I don’t have any answers, but since I can see the map I’ll do whatever I can to interpret it for you. I have only to study it more.” She paused. “How will finding Harlan help lift the curse?” When Tom didn’t respond, Molly became concerned. “Captain?”

  Avoiding her initial question, Tom continued, “I’m hoping I’ll find some answers concerning the rings in Barcelona. I need to learn why I can’t read the map. We should be arriving tomorrow or the next day.” His eyes became distant.

  Molly looked away, irked by his avoidance, but decided not to press the matter. Trying to lighten the dark mood, she placed her hand in his, squeezing it gently and reassuringly. Tom looked at her in response, searching for some reason or motive in her concerned eyes. Why does she care so much for me, he wondered.

  “Everything will fall into place,” Molly said, trying to settle him.

  Thomas smiled suddenly and didn’t know how she’d soothed him so easily.

  “It’s good to see you smile,” she said. “You don’t seem to do it very often. Not like that.” Her eyes softened. “Thank you for your honesty.”

  Still smiling, Tom turned away to walk to the bed long enough to let one tear escape. The silver sword flashed back into his mind. The crescent scar seemed to grow hot. He remembered the night Harlan and his mother were taken, and the day the Black Coats came for his father. Then he remembered the night Molly came aboard the Nymphe Colère, the ship house burning and the gunshot, London and Samuel Bishop. “You’ll like it in Barcelona,” he said, and that was all.

  When a person is bitten or scratched by a werewolf, enough to draw blood, a topical symbolic mark is formed over the area where the damage was done. Particular bacteria will produce the crescent moon-shaped scar.

  I believe Thomas was also correct about one thing: Harlan transformed immediately because, by chance, his infection occurred under a full moon, and, being a younger, more easily corruptible child, the infection was met with no resistance. The curse did not require his body to wait until the next lunar cycle.

  My own study is not yet conclusive, but some of my fellow scholars believe that werewolves who are first infected under a full moon must still wait until at least the next lunar cycle before they can successfully infect a person with the curse. Unlike the anecrosis that creates a vampire, lupomorphosis is a much more gradual in its maturation, and often the process of conversion to a werewolf is marked with terrible fevers, aching bones and episodes of insatiable hunger.

  Geoffrey Mylus

  April 29, 1833

  ~~~

  The waves in the port of Barcelona rolled easily in the early morning light. Its visiting ships sat silently, fixed in place. The trip from Gibraltar had taken a few more days than expected, making their arrival the first week of July.

  “Drop anchor!” There was a quick rattling of chain links, a large splash and spray of salt water. “Secure lines! Drop a gangway!” The men busily moved about the deck of Tom’s ship. “All crew ashore. The watch will stay.”

  Molly sat quietly on her bed, a packed case by her side. She fiddled with her ring distractedly. This was it. After so many years, she would come face to face with her father. She couldn’t tell if she was scared or if the anxiety was causing her to shake.

  Tom dressed quickly in his cabin, tightening his boots, selecting a light shirt appropriate for the dry, warm weather, retrieving a gun belt, two pistols and his preferred knives, and searching in vain for his tricorn hat.

  Molly took a deep breath and stood. She grabbed a blue ribbon off the desk in her cabin and tied up her hair neatly, then picked up her trunk and her magic books and headed toward her cabin door. She paused to look back at the dresser. She thought for a moment before setting her small trunk on the bed and grabbing her pistols from the drawer, packing them with her few sets of clothing before finally heading out on deck.

  Tom emerged from his cabin—hat and all—and scanned the deck. “Barcelona! Ha!”

  Molly quietly stood outside her cabin, staring out at the coast of Barcelona and wringing her hands. She spotted the captain and managed a small smile for him.

  “Enjoy the solid ground, gentlemen!” Tom called out. Most of the men departed down the gangway and into Barcelona. The watchmen ventured down to the galley and lower quarters to rest. Tom followed the shore-bound men down the gangway. “Will you be coming, Miss Bishop?”

  “Oh. Yes!” Molly shook off her nerves, picking up her blue skirt and following Tom quickly down the ramp.

  Barcelona’s streets were far busier and more crowded than London’s in the early morning. Dust blew around every corner and forced Molly to rub her eyes and clear them of grit. Merchants bargained and traded with great enthusiasm and showmanship. Molly browsed a bit as Tom strode ahead, unconcerned about his surroundings. The crowd was thick, and he darted around and between the strangers with ease. Molly just barely managed to keep up with him.

  Thomas shouted over his shoulder to her. “We have quite a way to go, Miss, don’t get lost!” He extended a hand backward for her to hold.

  “Where are we going exactly?” Molly asked him, grabbing his hand.

  “Home!” he shouted over the commotion. Quickly pulling her forward, Tom skirted around a large cart of oranges. “Pardon!” Tom apologized and continued on quickly. They escaped the crowd and reached a small cluster of large villas. The roofs were red clay shingle, the inner courtyards comprised of white stone block encircled by iron gates.

  “This one,” Tom stated plainly, pointing at one of the houses to his right, taking a ring of keys from his belt and unlocking the gate. “This way,” he said, stepping up to the large front door and knocking. A housemaid answered the door and looked them over.

  “Ah! Señor Garcia!” She motioned for them to enter. Tom smiled widely, thanking her and tugging Molly along.

  The house was capac
ious. It was easy to see all the way through to the inner courtyard and the large garden and pools. Tom hurried with Molly into the main house and toward a large staircase. At the top he invited her to settle into a bedroom of her choosing. The housemaid called to Tom again, and he excused himself to go downstairs. Molly entered the nearest bedroom and stood awkwardly for a moment before setting her trunk and books on the bed and sitting down next to them. The atmosphere was strangely familiar to her, but she wasn’t sure why. After a moment she stood and headed back to the stairs.

  Tom had just reached the top again. “The kitchen is preparing a meal. It will be ready very soon.” The smell from the kitchen reinforced this news. “Rest and enjoy the day. Tomorrow we will resume business as usual. I will be in the room at the end of the downstairs hallway.” He grinned, kissing her hand before descending the stairs.

  Molly stood in place for a moment, blushing, then with the tips of her fingers touched the spot he had kissed. When Tom was out of sight she went downstairs. Despite the wonderful smell radiating from the kitchen, she decided to explore the back garden and wandered outside. The sky was overwhelmingly bright compared to London’s. The nearby sea reflected a great deal of warm light through the numerous apertures of the multistory villa. The garden, beautiful and green, and patio linked the four main halls of the large home. She strolled quietly across the patio, discovering a large brass fountain. Looking down into the water, she ran the tips of her fingers over the surface. Her ring caught the bright sun. As before, the constellations appeared, dotting the water in a dazzling display.

  A housemaid appeared in the window of the kitchen and called to Molly. “Señorita! Tienes hambre?” Tom’s footsteps thudded down the hall and into the dining room.

  It took Molly only a moment to register what exactly the maid had said. “Oh … yes!” she replied enthusiastically, “Yo prefiero una cerveza, pero comida es buena también!”

  The maid laughed and beckoned her inside to the dining room. Standing up and leaving the fountain, Molly walked back inside the house, watching the constellations disappear from sight. Tom was well into his second plate of paella. He showed no sign of slowing when Molly arrived in the dining room.

  Molly barely managed to hold back a chuckle as she sat across from him and prepared a plate. “You seem in such a hurry today.”

  The maids struggled to keep up with his pace. “Gracias! Gracias! No hurry, but more than two months of pork and potatoes is enough for me. Taste it.” He pointed to her plate. “You’ll understand.”

  Smiling at his enthusiasm, Molly took a bite, nodding her approval. “Riquísima.”

  The maids grew tired quickly. “Él come como un cerdo, no?”

  Tom ignored the comment that he ate like a pig. He made sure his gratitude was known.

  “De nada, Señor Garcia,” one of the maids replied with a wary huff, “Pero por favor, come más despacio!”

  Molly shook her head in amusement. A few glasses of wine and a quarter of what Tom had shoveled into his mouth was more than enough to satiate her.

  “Well, I think now would be a good time to rest. We should have at least four hours until our transportation arrives,” Thomas commented, finally finished with his meal. “Oh … I’m sorry, I changed our plans slightly. We’ll be staying a bit longer. It will soon be July thirteenth!”

  Molly raised her eyebrows. “July thirteenth?” she shrugged and smiled at him. The date meant nothing to her.

  “El encierro? In Pamplona? You have never heard of the festival, I see. The Running of the Bulls, Miss Bishop.”

  “Sounds like great fun or great danger.”

  “It’s a spot of both. I learned your father will not be in town until the fifteenth. We’ll be arriving back on the sixteenth. Does that suit you?”

  “Of course,” she said, nodding.

  Cradling his full belly like a pregnant mother, Tom stood suddenly and tossed his hands in the air. “Excelente! Well, Miss, rest as long as you see fit, and we will depart this evening. You may leave any unnecessary items here with my maids. Your things will be safe. Oh, and have them purchase for you a suitable dress for the festival, yes? White and red would look beautiful on you.” He pondered that image for a moment. “Yes, white and red. Let them know.”

  “I will do just that.” Thomas would never admit to it, she thought, but he enjoys seeing me in fine clothes.

  “Very good. I’ll leave you the remainder of the afternoon. I must make preparations.” Thomas exited to the kitchen. “Sofia!”

  After asking Sofia to get the dress the captain requested, Molly ascended the stairs to her bedroom and lay down on her bed, contemplating the night to come. She found comfort in the joy and ease of the day, happy that things had taken a turn for the better.

  After finishing off one more plate of rice from the kitchen, Tom spent the afternoon sleeping. He lay, completely gorged, on his bed in full dress, pistols and all. The housemaids went about their cleaning, but otherwise the house was quiet for the duration of the dry, lazy afternoon. A knock on the door woke Tom about an hour before dusk, and he climbed the stairs to the higher bedrooms in search of Molly.

  “Miss Bishop?” He called, waiting by the railing.

  She soon appeared at the door. “Sorry, I fell asleep.”

  “Understandable. Dinner has that effect on the residents of this household. You may give your thanks to the kitchen.” Tom grinned at her smartly.

  “It does it’s job well.”

  “That it does.”

  “One of the maids brought my festival dress in while I was sleeping. I put it in my bag in place of another one.”

  “Well then, shall we?” he asked, offering his hand. Molly took the whole arm, wrapping ‘round him like ivy.

  Outside a covered carriage sat waiting for them. The driver, waking from a short nap, stirred the horses with a gentle toss of the reins. The housemaids bade the two a temporary farewell. “Adiós!”

  Tom waved to them and helped Molly into the coach.

  “Ha!” exclaimed the driver with a sharp snap of the reins.

  “Pamplona is northwest of here. We’ll be stopping only a few nights and will be in the city just in time for the festivities.”

  Molly nodded, flattening out her dress with her spread fingers.

  Thomas took one of her hands and threw his up in a cheer.

  Thomas Crowe created several lives and identities for himself, and perhaps it was because he did that he was not captured or discovered as easily as the English authorities would have liked. In London, he was the upright businessman and gentleman, Charles Walsh; in Barcelona, he was the secretive lady-charmer, Benito Garcia. As far as I know, he may have had a hundred other identities and homes scattered across Europe, but those in London and Barcelona were the ones he most enjoyed. I knew many other werewolves who chose a life of secrecy in order to avoid conflict with the authorities during times of lupomorph persecution. In this sense, Tom was nothing out of the ordinary.

  In Spain at the time, Thomas would not have had to try to blend in as much as in England. The Spanish Catholic Church was much more concerned about the sinful abuse of magic. The Church also despised the Spanish cults much more than the clans, so a werewolf like Thomas need not have kept his head down too often. He wasn’t a prime concern of the government’s or God’s wrath. Ironically, the largest magic trade in Europe at the time was in Spain. Italy was second. Molly Bishop’s father, a Spanish gentleman, had attempted to keep his daughter far from Spain. He knew a life lived in and around the magic business was no environment in which to grow up. He dealt with the lowest and evilest men at times, and every time war reared its head in Europe, the shadowy customers came pouring into his shop, looking to procure the most potent and deadly varieties of magical artifacts. Even a few priests came to him looking for ways to protect their churches. They had given in and were ready to fight fire with fire, and sometimes in the most literal sense.

  Spain has long been home to a nu
mber of clans and cults. The origins of its werewolf population are uncertain, but I believe lupomorphs migrated from France into northern Spain; they have never been seen in the south of Spain. There are only a handful of Spanish clans, including the Luna Nueva Clan—a rather quiet bunch—and Los Podencos de Seville. The latter clan is a rather bitter lot. They are often thought of as the Spanish equivalent of the British Grey-Reivers—a temperamental clan that has no objections to being a nuisance to civilization if they feel justified.

  Spanish cults are more numerous and varied. Historically, they’ve maintained a very cold relationship with the Spanish churches. The Catholic Church considers La Familia—a fierce and extensive cult—to be its foremost antagonist. Virgenes de Muerte, an all-female cult, is looked upon with scorn, but compared to La Familia, they are merely “unholy miscreants.” The Virgenes did sometimes associate with La Familia, but its members often preferred a safe and silent existence to a public, unstable one. They, like only a few cults and even fewer clans before them, tried to appease mortal society by integrating themselves into it. It was rumored that one of the young Virgenes, a girl of fifteen years, was, at one time, a member of a local choir in Valencia, but when she was discovered she was excommunicated and banished from the church.

  Unknown to Thomas, an associate of the Black Coats had an eye set on Molly Bishop, and though Spain was not at that time Black Coat territory, it was not far enough away to evade the interests of the Black Coats if they wanted someone badly enough.

  Geoffrey Mylus,

  April 30, 1833

  ~~~

  After three days and three nights of paced travel they were within sight of Pamplona. The festivities had already begun, and the roaring of the festival-goers could periodically be heard from the carriage—a jubilant, collective song of celebration. The city dwellings were stacked high upon one another, the streets quite narrow and crowded. Large red, white, and yellow ribbons adorned the market places, and flags waved in the midday wind. Men and women lined the streets with dresses and hats matching the colored flags and ribbons. The blast of instruments filled what space was left in the air underneath all the cheering and bellowing. Tom and Molly’s coach stopped before an inn, and the driver helped Tom carry his and Molly’s belongings indoors to a room.