“I’ll just be a moment.” The way Molly rose from bed would have made a corpse look vigorous.
“I’ll just wait here.” Tom lay across the bed, his head hanging over upside down and looking up at her with a grin. “Not a problem, is it?” He tried not to smile.
“No, but let’s pretend I would like some privacy just this once.” She grumbled and put her hands on his chest and walked him backward out of the room.
“Temper, temper,” scolded Tom, following her. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”
“Hm?”
“Well, I’m sure you can guess. But nonetheless, who is, er … was that man, Christopher?”
Molly sighed deeply, turning her gaze to the windows. “His name was Christopher Jonathan Barnes, and, though a Black Coat, he was an otherwise excellent gunsmith, among other things. He was the one who taught me to shoot.” She paused. “He was also the reason I was so desperate to leave Bridgetown.”
“How did you meet such a man? Or is that none of my business?” Tom asked carefully.
Molly’s eyes narrowed. “It was nothing of the sort you are implying, I assure you. I had nothing in Barbados. I had spent everything I had to receive transportation to the island, and I couldn’t afford an inn. Christopher happened to find me and offered me a place to stay at his home at no expense. It was an offer I could hardly refuse. He took interest in the fact that I had two pistols and no knowledge of how to use them, which led him to educate me on the proper technique of handling such weapons. He seemed like a good man.”
“Many do, at first. Molly did he and you—” Tom struggled to phrase the next question.
“No! Of course not! I would never—” Molly exclaimed.
Tom blushed. “You didn’t let me finish.”
“Oh … I apologize. What were you going to say?” Molly looked away, flushing.
“Did he ever mention the Black Coat Society to you before you found out on your own? Did he ever offer you an invitation to join?”
Molly glared out the window. “I fled long before that.”
“Did he ever take it upon himself to make the decision for you? Or try?”
Molly wrung her hands. “It’s hard to explain.”
Tom approached her. “I need to see your neck. Unless you’re certain he didn’t bite you, perhaps, in your sleep?”
“Thomas, I assure you, I fled before he had the chance. Surely you would’ve noticed something like that by now, anyway.”
“Move your hair, please,” Tom asked firmly.
Molly fumed, pulling away. “I will do no such thing! I think I am capable of knowing what I am.”
“Then you have no reason to get upset. You’re in no danger either way. Mr. Barnes is dead, Molly.”
“I’m well aware,” she snapped.
“Well then?”
“Then check if you so desire. You’ll find nothing,” Molly said angrily.
“No.” Tom turned away from her. “How long were you in Barbados? Did Christopher tell you immediately about his affiliations, or did he wait? Or, did you find out for yourself?”
“I remained in various towns in Barbados for almost three months,” she replied. “Unfortunately I found out about everything myself. One night as I slept upstairs I awoke hearing voices from below. I crept out onto the upstairs landing and looked down. There was a group in black standing downstairs, with Christopher among them. They had captured a woman. They seduced her, and I don’t know what else. She died after.”
“Someone you knew?”
“Not very well. She worked a sugarcane field nearby.”
“I see. You must understand that despite your strong-willed nature, it wasn’t average men you were living amongst. They can be persuasive to any degree they have to be. Any—physically, mentally, emotionally. I know what Mr. Barnes would have resorted to, but luckily he never had the chance. I assume from your earlier outburst that he tried, nonetheless, yes?”
“It was cruel,” Molly nodded. “I would receive visions in my dreams. Horrible ones.” She shuddered. “That was when I decided to leave immediately. I didn’t know how they were doing what they were doing to me. I knew it was something supernatural, and it frightened me.”
“Yes.” He nodded in understanding. “I’m not unfamiliar with that method. Lucid hypnosis. The dreams,” he said, looking at her solemnly, “they seemed so real, didn’t they? As if you were waking up in another place altogether. But you weren’t.”
Molly’s eyes began to water in rememberance. “It was as if I could feel them touching me in my mind’s eye. I had no idea who they really were. I never would have suspected them to be vampires. That would have seemed silly.”
“I’ve always had unusual visions in my sleep,” Tom began. “I am not sure, however, that it’s the mark of the curse that allows me to have such dreams—to create a reality in my sleep and see the events of days and years yet to come.”
Tears hanging in her eyes, Molly listened closely.
“Molly,” Tom said quietly, “I dreamed of you before we ever met.”
Molly’s eyes widened.
“That’s why I took you aboard my ship in Bridgetown. I recognized you from a dream in which we were dancing. Although you seemed so real in the dream, I thought you were something purely of my imagination until I saw you that night on the docks. Normally I have complete control of my dreams, but you acted independently of my will. You had a personality. I never forgot that dream.”
After preparing the remainder of her things, Molly paused at her bedroom door, breathing deeply, trying to memorize it all so her imagination could comfort her once she was out at sea again.
“Sofia! Tengo hambre!” she heard Tom downstairs, happily eating his breakfast. He’d left abruptly after their last conversation.
“Silencio, cerdito!” Sofia called back. All the other help laughed.
Molly wandered into the dining room and prepared herself a small plate, sitting down near the end of the table. Beginning to eat her breakfast, she saw Tom hurrying up and down the main stairs over and over. In no time at all, he had packed and was at the front door.
“Ready, Bart?” she heard him say.
“Been ready, Cap’n!” Bart replied enthusiastically.
“All right then. Adios, Sofia! Molly? Are you coming? Adios, everyone. Muchas gracias!” The two men stepped out the front door, and the maids bid farewell to them.
Molly looked up at the door and her jaw dropped. Where did Thomas think he was going without her?
Sofia brought out more food, puzzled that Molly was not following them out.
Molly looked long at the food on her plate. Why shouldn’t she stay? She would be with her father here. She had found what she was looking for. Feeling uneasy, she looked up again toward the front door. The girl inside her was telling her that the life she wanted was walking down the street away from her.
“I’d best be off or they’ll leave without me,” she told Sofia. “Thank you for all that you’ve done.”
“De nada, Señora Bishop. Adios.” Sofia smiled sweetly.
Molly offered one last farewell and made her way hurriedly out the door, only then noticing how young and beautiful Sofia looked. She’d paid the girl little mind since arriving. Molly suddenly found herself unable to resist wondering where Thomas had found her or what kind of past they’d shared. Had it been similar to Thomas and Molly’s? As Molly turned away, Sofia, still smiling, shut the front door.
Tom reached the ship and admired it for a moment. “Gentlemen, let me see those white sails fly!”
“Cap’n…” Bart stopped him for a moment and cracked a bittersweet smile.
“I already know,” said Tom. “You’ve decided to stay, yeah?”
“I’m getting’ old, Thomas. I may return to Isla del Sol some day, but for now I need to rest my bones here. I took the liberty of recruiting you a new quartermaster. He ought to do fine by you.”
“No worries, old friend.” Tom clapped
a hand on the old shipbuilder’s shoulder. “May we meet again when times are better.”
The crew—some new, and some old survivors of Tom’s past voyages—prepared the rigging, weighed anchor and raised the sails.
Tom strutted along the main deck, barking out stern commands. “How does Morocco sound, gentlemen? We can stock our kitchen for less coin than we can here if we make it a quick excursion.”
The crew gave a cheer.
“Then make haste! We haven’t until the new moon, boys! Chop chop!” Tom had certainly seen the crew work faster on worse days than that one. “Now where did my map get to?” he asked rhetorically, gazing back up the streets into Barcelona. He saw a speeding figure approaching the dock.
Racing to the docks, her legs flying beneath her, Molly saw the white sails of Tom’s new ship.
“Ah, there it is,” Tom said, grinning. Leaning over the railing of the ship, he waved his hat at Molly. “Good day, beautiful young stranger! Join me!”
Bart dropped a gangway down to the dock.
“Room and rations enough for just one more!” Tom called to her.
Resisting the urge to push him overboard, Molly scampered up the gangway with a small trunk and books in her arms.
Tom snatched her up in a hurry, catching her in one arm and lifting her aboard. Tipping his hat and placing a kiss on her neck, he left her for the quarterdeck after helping her to her cabin. “Helmsman!” he cried.
The helmsman nodded and spun the wheel around, maneuvering the ship away from the dock. The crew lifted the anchor into place and locked it against the hull.
“Morocco!” Tom shouted, throwing an arm forward. As the ship sped out of port, Tom searched his coat and retrieved a fresh bottle of tequila.
Molly collapsed on her bed, breathing deeply. She was flustered and in total disbelief. How dare he test her patience?
Outside, Tom’s eyes swept the deck as he called out for Molly. “Miss Bishop?” He stood on the quarterdeck, directing the helmsman, tossing the bottle of tequila from hand to hand.
Molly glared at the door of her cabin as she heard her name.
“Never mind! I’ve set the course already.” Adjusting the helmsman’s course, he turned to the rest of the crew. “We will stop for only a day in Tangier, but we will not enter the city past the waterfront! In five days, be prepared to anchor.” He consulted his assistant navigator and paired him with the helmsman before moving to his cabin.
Molly sat on her bed gazing at the constellations emmitted from her ring. She sighed, realizing she had not had a chance to give her father a proper farewell, though she was sure he would understand. As she continued to stare, other thoughts entered Molly’s mind as well. She left her cabin in search of a distraction. She set herself on the railing at the top of the forecastle—allowing fresh air to clear her head. Looking over her shoulder to ensure she was alone, she took out her pistols. She needed to practice her marksmanship. Her map ring gave off a faint glow. She wasn’t sure if it was a trick of the light or if she really was seeing it. She shrugged it off, deciding it was nothing to concern herself with.
Tom stowed all his bags beneath his bed and tossed his heavy coat on a desk, on which a map of the Atlantic lay open. Tom loomed over the map, hands planted on the desk. “Where are you, exactly, and what are you up to?” he asked the emptiness of the room. Frustrated, he twirled a small throwing knife in one hand then stuck it in the desk, making steady circles in the wood grain. “You have five more days to run. Then I begin hunting. See you in the sunny isles, Harlan.”
Molly never asked Thomas about Sofia. She explained to me that just as she left Spain with the captain, it occurred to her that she could not have realistically been his one and only woman, considering how often he traveled and how many places he’d seen. However, it was not the possibility that Thomas had once felt strongly for Sofia that bothered her. Rather, the idea of past lovers reminded her of one of her own—a man named Eli Wilks. He’d died at the hands of ruthless pirates several years before she met Thomas. She was a young girl then, and on her way to the New World, where she was to marry Wilks and live a simple life. When Eli was pronounced dead, there was an argument between Molly and Eli’s family, and she left the colonies on a merchant ship headed into the Caribbean, where Christopher Barnes soon discovered her and her yet-to-be-realized skills as a powerful sorceress.
Christopher, as Thomas suspected, had left the Caribbean by request of his brother, Harlan. It had been obvious to Thomas since leaving London that Harlan was associating with the Black Coat Society. As strange as it was that a werewolf could have climbed ranks in a vampire cult, Thomas was sure he’d find Harlan in the Caribbean. Thomas knew after leaving Spain that he’d have the upper hand. Harlan would be waiting for Christopher to return with Molly, unaware that Christopher was dead and Thomas was homing in with the intention to strike.
Soon Thomas would sail to Tangier where, once again, his life would face the threat of bounty hunters—namely mercenaries of Fahkir ibn Abdul-Hadi, a temporary steward of the Alaouite Sultanate. Fahkir, unbeknownst to Thomas and all of Morocco at the time, was in fact not a man. The rightful sultan had fallen into a cursed sleep, and a dark being called a qareen—an evil, shadowy double—had replaced him, ruling the territory as a vicious tyrant in the sultan’s stead.
Molly related most of this part of the tale to me. She told me Tangier had been a great trial for her. She felt as though the third time she was called to guard Thomas’s life, during his imprisonment in Tangier, was a sign. It would change her perspective on her own life, and, she told me, though nearly losing Thomas again terrified her, it gave her purpose. The only grace granted to her was the aid of an unexpected ally.
Geoffrey Mylus,
May 9, 1833
~~~
Three days from Barcelona, Tom’s ship anchored within the port of Tangier, Morocco. Even from a distance it was clear the North African city flaunted its wealth, and its buildings revealed a prominent Islamic aesthetic. The kingdom was currently under control of the Alaouite Dynasty, which was friendly to the merchant ships of the New World and hostile toward the regional Barbary pirate ships.
Tom walked out on the main deck. “Launch a small shore boat. Five of you come with me. Quartermaster, we will return by dusk.”
The Scotch Bonnet’s new quartermaster nodded and took charge of the rest of the crew. Tom and five others boarded the shore boat.
“Lower it!” Tom commanded. Soon he stepped from the shore boat onto the docks in Tangier.
Molly watched through the window of her cabin as the captain and crew departed. She hurried out onto deck, wondering why her ring maintained its faint glow in the broad daylight.
Tom and the others stayed close to one another as Tom countered every passing look with one of his own. They entered the bazaar along the waterfront, and as they approached a little stand situated at the very edge of the market, shaded by a cork oak, Tom greeted a merchant.
The young Moroccan man smiled and invited Tom to purchase an item or two.
“I’m looking for special ammunition,” Tom explained.
The man nodded and retrieved a hidden box from behind a stack of large rugs.
Tom opened it and inspected the selection. “Yes, thank you, this will do,” he said, handing the man a few gold coins in exchange. Tom sent the crew back into the central bazaar to collect some large barrels of fish and fruit, while he ventured deeper into the city against his own orders. He cruised through the dry, dusty streets, searching for a particular sort of artist who might happen to be able to help him. The crowd was thick and noisy. Strangers walked by carrying large pots, racks of cloth and tobacco. Tom stood out among the robed and veiled. He tried to hide his pistols beneath his light cotton shirt, although they clearly bulged through the thin material.
Soon Tom came across an old man busy moving empty pots and brushes around his shop. Tom approached the man and, revealing a handful of gold coins, explained his dilemma to
the old artist. The man, uninterested at first, did not object as soon as Tom offered another handful of gold. The man told Tom to wait as he went to fetch a small pot of ink. Upon his return Tom wrote out exactly the words he needed the man to translate and copy onto his skin. The man scoffed at the relative ease of the task before him. When he finished, a neat circle of Arabic script surrounded the cursed mark on Tom’s back. Roughly translated it read, “In the name of God, and to calm the beast.” Tom’s hope was that the finished product would help lend him control of his transformations and the consequential fits of rage and hunger.
When the artist finished, Tom asked to be directed to a holy man or any individual capable of assisting him in the second phase of his request. “Can you take me to an imam?” he asked the old man.
Being cautious and quiet, the old man surreptitiously pointed Tom in the right direction.
Tom thanked him and left the shop. Wandering once more through Tangier, Tom found his destination without difficulty. He entered a dark, candle-lit parlor and approached the holy man inside. “I’ve been sent—”
The imam raised a hand to silence Tom and assured him he was well aware of Tom’s purpose. Before reciting the prayer Tom needed, the imam warned Tom against staying in Tangier too long. Tom’s kind were not welcome in the city. After the man prayed over the fresh ink in Tom’s skin, the script seemed to come alive, shifting and turning round and round. Thanking the man, Tom returned hastily to the docks, where the other five crewmen awaited his arrival.
“Time to be off! I can’t believe—” Tom began to address his crew and then saw their uncomfortable lips turned up. They glanced around uneasily as droves of armed men dressed in long pants, long sleeved shirts, and scarves disguising their identities appeared all around Tom and his men.
“Sorry, Cap’n. There are too many of ‘em. We didn’t see ‘em coming,” one of the crew apologized.
“Oh, it’s no trouble, boys,” Tom assured them, beginning to take on his monstrous form, “Let me handle them and we’ll be on our wa—”
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