Tom knocked on the door. “May I come in?”
“Come in,” Molly answered, inflating her chest.
“While we were out Sofia purchased some much better cloth for wrapping your wound,” Tom said, stepping inside.
“I give her my thanks.”
“De nada, señorita,” chimed Sofia.
“Oh!” Molly hadn’t seen her come in behind Tom, and tugged her dress back up. Sofia excused herself shortly after.
“I see you’ve already removed the old bandages. All right.” Tom unraveled the new cloth, tearing it into strips and then wrapping them as he had the earlier ones, using extra bandages for padding. “The medicine I gave you earlier today tends to thoroughly exhaust one. I recommend you let it do its work and sleep until it wears away.”
“Of course.”
“I had my maids purchase a small sleep-aid for you today, as well. I’ll be right back.” Tom hurried down to the kitchen and returned quickly. He placed a new bottle of tequila on Molly’s bedside table.
“Just a sleeping aid, of course. I’m glad you amuse yourself.”
“It works quite well. You have to trust me. After all, I did witness it put you out rather quickly a few nights ago.”
“Honestly, I usually don’t drink as often as I have been lately,” she mumbled, embarrassed at her behavior and wondering whether it changed Tom’s perception of her.
Tom raised a hand. “It was only a gift. Do with it as you see fit. I will see you in the morning,” he said, standing.
“Thank you, Captain,” she cooed.
Molly stared after him, her eyes alight. As he shut the door behind him, her gaze fell upon the ring, shimmering in the firelight. “It may take some magic, but I’ll find a way,” she said softly.
A large clock in the dining room rang twelve times. Aching all over, Tom restlessly strode down the upstairs hallway. He paced furiously. One of the maids had passed on the tip that the Royal Navy was present in Barcelona, actively searching the streets for a man named Thomas Crowe.
Word had travelled from Pamplona to a certain Captain Robert Locke, who otherwise would never have docked in the port of Barcelona, and now thought himself to be having quite a turn of luck. Locke had sailed a ship-of-the-line through the Strait of Gibraltar not long after the Scotch Bonnet had come through. It had taken a tour to Marseille and was passing Barcelona when it spied the Scotch Bonnet. Thinking the ship stood out from the rest of the vessels in the harbor, Locke decided to snoop. Locke’s ship was a titan, capable of holding three hundred, four, maybe five hundred men, and three times the cannon strength that Tom’s vessel could boast.
To make sure Tom couldn’t rely on guile and escape to sea, Locke had his men vacate the Scotch Bonnet of its watchmen, and did so while Tom and Molly were away in Pamplona. Royal officers had been milling in the streets all night, their torches lighting the dark windows and doorways of Barcelona. Tom tried to avoid drawing attention to the house, snuffing out every candle and shutting the window latches securely. Outside the moon was full and rising swiftly.
Tom never ceased pacing as he began to ache, wild sensations plaguing his body and mind. His eyes gave off a particularly bright, yellow glow that night. Sofia approached him, warning that Royal officers were very close by. There came a loud pounding on the front door.
“Helloooo! You are commanded by His Majesty’s Royal Navy to allow us into your home to search for a wanted man! He is to be extradited to England upon his discovery and capture. If you do not comply, we will forcibly enter!”
Tom tried to distract the men by shouting from upstairs, asking them what business His Majesty had so far outside his jurisdiction. The man quickly rebutted, explaining that a man withholding “property of His Majesty” (any privateer vessel, by law, was technically such) was hiding illegally beyond English borders with “stolen goods.” Tom knew this was a lie, and even if it were true, the Nymphe Colère was at the bottom of the Caribbean. He also knew there would be Spanish soldiers in town soon to confront the British intruders. The soldiers were not stupid or patient, though. They would break his door down before long, in order to avoid butting heads with the local militia. There was plenty of time for Tom to be captured or shot. He fumed. They were fools not to leave him alone.
Molly stirred in her sleep, the medicine and tequila muddling her senses.
Thomas turned to Sofia. “Answer the door for me, please, Sofia.” A wicked grin spread across his face.
“Señor?”
“Answer it. It’s fine. Go on, then.”
Sofia scampered downstairs to the front door and opened it. Outside stood a Royal Navy officer holding a torch and musket.
“Ma’am, if you cooperate, this will be dealt with quickly. Where is Crowe?”
“Lo siento, señor, pero este es la Casa Garcia.” Sofia didn’t dissuade them, and backed away as they marched inside.
“I will search the premises and decide that for myself, thank you. Do not interfere.”
The man stopped just beyond the foyer. Immediately he was met by a hulking beast, half cast in shadow. Its deep golden fur bristled and its long white teeth parted like a deadly picket fence just waiting to close itself shut around the soldier. They dripped saliva on the floor at its feet. A rumbling noise in its throat almost sounded like a chuckle, but deeper, a canine grunting. The officer dropped his torch and bolted to the front door. The werewolf sprang after him, barking like a hound of the Pit. Just outside the front door, the soldier signaled ambushers.
“Drop the net!”
Molly finally woke.
Two men waiting above the front door had released a net, weighted down by iron balls. Tom was snared underneath. Clawing at the net, he managed to slice open several large holes. The net, made of silver links, seared Tom’s skin through his fur and he thrashed. Acting quickly, the officers bound his wrists and ankles with irons. More officers gathered and collectively dragged him toward the harbor.
Molly had seen everything from her bedroom window, was already dressed to fight, and slung her two pearl grip pistols around her waist and holstered La Flor at her thigh. She rushed to the balcony window, careful not to expose herself, but close enough to see the soldiers and Tom.
A crowd of spectators grew in the streets, following close behind the officers, gawking at their catch. Tom roared and snapped and fought against his captors wildly, actually rending one soldier’s leg completely off. As the man screamed and writhed in the street, his companions jabbed at Tom with sharpened, silver-tipped prods.
Molly opened the window, aiming one of her pistols at the men surrounding the net and firing into the mob. Tom’s attention was drawn to the balcony window as the guard next to him quit thrashing, presumably dead. Molly ducked quickly by the window, preparing another shot. She likely wouldn’t hit a thing, but if the mob panicked, or she could alert the militia, that would be as good as any plan.
“Show yourself!” The soldiers spun about, rifles sweeping the air. They could not find the source of the shot that had sent the spectators into a riot.
Molly’s hands shook, making it hard to manage her accuracy. She took a deep breath. It was too risky to get a good look out the window, so she used her better judgment, firing blindly out the window.
The crowd grew larger. Some people thought the town was under attack. The soldiers pushed them back, still scanning the bodies for armed foes. “Keep ’im moving! There are too many people in the street! Get ’im to the docks!” a soldier shouted.
Molly swore under her breath. Taking a risk, she peeked out the window and aimed at the soldiers handling the net. The soldiers moved double-time, hauling Tom along with not far to go. They huffed and panted and wheezed. It was like dragging a floundering bull. Molly concentrated on steadying her hand. Two more shots. She ducked down again. No good, she’d have to give chase and figure out something else.
Sofia snatched Molly’s hand as she came running through the first floor hallway, leading her out through a
hidden gate.
“Oh! Sofia! Thank goodness you’re safe,” Molly said, panting.
Once outside, the young woman pointed Molly down a private footpath headed to the shore by the harbor before taking refuge with the other maids in a secret cellar behind the house. Tom had it dug a long time ago, just in case.
“Thank you,” Molly called after her softly as Sofia vanished into the dark.
A commanding officer’s voice was distant but audible: “Move these crates! Take them onboard to the captain!”
Molly raced down the path and toward the voice, desperate to catch up.
Robert Locke’s regal ship-of-the-line, the Horse of Neptune, sat close in Barcelona harbor—a giant among the Spanish ships. Half the town must have witnessed the capture by now. The citizens lined the seawall at the docks, but British soldiers prevented their further approach. At least Molly had helped cause a scene. Tom was dragged up a boarding ramp and onto a boat opposite Locke’s. Then Locke’s voice sounded out.
“The Royal Navy, under order of His Majesty the King and the British Empire, places you, Thomas Crowe, under arrest for egregious crimes against the Crown. You are charged with transgressions that are undeniable and incorrigible—scores of murders, more than one hundred thefts, treason, piracy and innumerable petty criminal acts against England and its citizens and colonial subjects. Thomas Crowe, the High Court of Britain has produced a warrant for your execution upon capture, and, though I have a penchant for proper procedure, I am also overdue to return to London.”
The commanding officer’s voice boomed out once again. “Drop the anchor on the execution boat!”
Without hesitation, Molly fired at the nearest soldier. Anything to distract or delay them was essential. The crowd scrambled for safety. Molly quickly hid herself among them. The soldiers at the dock became disorganized. Some were trampled by the mob. From up the street, the Spanish authorities approached. Their leader shouted from up the hill for Locke to stop and disperse immediately.
“All officers clear off the execution boat! Launch the boat!” the commanding English officer ordered.
Obediently following the commander’s instructions, Tom’s captors leapt off the small, ownerless fishing ship onto which Tom had been dumped.
Tom lay bound in his irons on the small vessel. On its deck were piled large stacks of gunpowder kegs and oil barrels. Locke meant to burn Thomas alive—something his curse couldn’t fight forever, and if it tried, it would be unthinkably agonizing for Tom. In the chains, Tom awkwardly struggled to a standing position, bumping into a mound of the kegs. One toppled over and broke open, spilling the powder around Tom’s feet. Locke, standing safely aboard his own ship, was handed his hunting bow, an arrow and a jar of oil as a soldier with a torch stepped up next to him, ready to ignite the arrow. Through the dark, Tom could see the smiling face of the young captain—his neat, tidy brown hair, decorated crimson uniform and arrogant demeanor. Tom would not die at the hands of a man of privilege, titles and excesses. Inciting his curse to thrum through his veins, Tom’s body grew and his muscles surged. The irons, not able to contain his legs and arms, warped and snapped off. Locke raised the bow and arched a flaming arrow into the midst of the gunpowder barrels. The powder around Tom flashed and crackled. Inhaling nasty smoke, Tom gagged and snarled. All the while, Molly stood at the head of the crowd on shore, her pistol at her side, as she watched in horror, unable to do anything for Tom. The English soldiers forgot all about her as they squared off with the armed Spanish militia.
Tom seized a boarding hook near his feet and, with a furious roar, tossed it onto the railing of Locke’s ship. The hook snagged the railing, and with inhuman strength, Tom began tugging his boat toward the English ship. The soldiers onboard Locke’s vessel detected Tom’s intentions quickly and abandoned ship, ignoring Locke’s commands to sever the line. As the English ship and the execution boat met with a crack and the hulls bounced against one another, Locke and the last of his men ran about the deck. The execution boat erupted like a firebomb, blowing itself to splinters and opening a fatal, gaping hole in the hull of the Horse of Neptune, which lurched and collapsed inward. Hundreds of gallons of burning oil set fires to the belly of the ship and incendiary droplets clung to the sails, creating an inferno above and below. The night sky was freckled orange and yellow with hot ash, and shards of wooden beams and planks rained down on the onlookers.
The crowd of civilians was in a panic, tripping and falling into one another. Spanish soldiers apprehended the British naval officers littering the churning, dark water below the docks and corralled the ones causing disorder along the waterfront.
Molly wiped tears from her cheeks and kept a hard expression. Pushing her way out of the crowd, she ran to the beach and began to wade out into the water. Tom had been stabbed and shot and who knew what else. She wasn’t ready to believe he was dead yet.
“Thomas!” she cried loudly, searching for a sign of life, movement, anything. If he were alive, she needed to get him out of the water and back to his home. She’d had enough of Barcelona. It had already made her experiences in London seem cheery.
Smoldering junk from the explosion littered the water. The soot rained down onto Molly’s shoulders and face, mixing with her tears and streaking her cheeks a mournful grey.
Sofia, arrived shortly, wrapped in a shawl and out of breath, seized Molly by the arm and tried to draw her away to safety.
Molly jerked away forcefully. “No! He’s coming! I have to wait!”
“Señora! Por Favor! Vamos! Es demasiado peligroso aquí!”
With the maid holding tightly to her arm and the Spanish militia lurking, Molly had no choice but to go. Sofia guided her home.
Once in the main house Sofia locked the front door and released Molly, who collapsed, leaning against a wall, huffing with exhaustion. Bereft of hope, she fell to her knees and buried her face in her hands. The clock rang out two o’clock. Molly, defeated, climbed the stairs to her room. She couldn’t just sit still, and began to pack her things. Tom would come home, or she’d sneak back out, and they would leave Spain the first chance they got. Right? Won’t we? Molly shook her head and sprinkled the floor with tears. She needed desperately to talk to someone.
Sofia sat outside on the patio in the dark, staring into the fountain with a rosary in her hands. She squeezed the little beads tightly, muttering to herself and drawing lowercase “t”s on her breast. Molly approached the maid and announced herself.
“Sofia, I have to go back out.”
“Molly...” the maid turned around. “Por favor, do not go. He made me promise not to let you go after him if the soldiers come for him.”
“But Sofia, I know he’s not dead. He can’t be. I—”
“Yes, I know, señorita,” Sofia interrupted, “Nothing can kill that man. I don’t know why, and that is why I pray for his soul. But you, Molly, you could get hurt. Please, wait for him to come home.”
“I will tell him you could do nothing to stop me, Sofia,” Molly said.
Sofia looked at her for the longest moment. “Be careful.”
The streets were nearly empty, swept clean by the local authorities. A few soldiers were still ushering people back into their homes. Molly avoided looking out to the sea as she rushed through the streets toward her father’s shop. As she ran, the bright moon above caught her ring and constellations burst forth, rearranging themselves and dotting the path before her like glittering jewels. She’d never seen it behave in such a way. A string of particularly luminous points projected by the ring began to align and glow brightly. They created a path pointing southeast, toward the docks. She knew exactly what it meant somehow, and beamed with joy. Tom was alive, and the ring was showing her the way to him.
The moon came out again and her heart jumped with hope. She quickened her pace in the opposite direction, away from her father’s shop and toward the docks, breaking into a full run. The ring gave off a warm, pink glow, its brilliance reflecting strongly in the
black windows of houses and shops. Molly came to an abrupt stop when she reached the edge of the docks, her heart pounding. Her eyes searched the black face of the waves.
“Thomas!” Her ring glowed brighter still.
Tom shivered weakly, feeling his hair slowly flowing above him in thick ribbons, occasionally brushing his forehead like delicate, lacey fingers. It was dark. Strange shapes fell around him, disappearing below into the abyss. Above, the surface changed shape erratically, and a single white light source peered down at him. The eye of Luna Mater, he guessed. She blinked again and again, crying for her fallen child. Tom heard whispers. They reminded him of his contract and his body’s unconditional bondage to life. A flock of sparks swarmed through his nerves. The mark on his back burned like a hot iron. His skin stung, ached, fought against Death’s groping clutch with all the ferocity of a hunted buck. Throbbing incessantly, a large bruise on his forehead was all that kept Tom conscious. His surroundings grew darker. He sensed he was falling slowly and was reminded of a dream he’d been having for years, a dream in which he lay on a stone street while white flowers fell to the ground all around him. That place was where he was meant to die. Not here. He wasn’t supposed to die yet.
Tom heard the whispers again.
You may not die here …you are marked … your pain compels you to serve your eternal mistress …
Tom blinked in a half-conscious daze. He thought he saw a glowing, white woman—an ivory, silky-haired goddess—diving toward him through the blackness, taking hold of his soul. Her dainty arms towed him upward with the strength of a hurricane tide.
Tom’s head made contact with a hard, gritty surface. He’d lodged into wet sand. Water washed over him periodically, the salt stinging his wounds. The face of the moon goddess stooped over him. Cool air poured forth from her pale lips and filled his lungs. Wet sand clung to him and weighed down his clothes. The inland breeze was the only mercy he received. The vision of the white woman had left.
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