“What’s he doing? And what happened to his ear?” Denny demanded of Rigby who sighed.
“You don’t remember?”
“No. What am I supposed to remember?”
“You tried to have sex with his ear last night.”
“I— What?”
“You heard. You broke into his bunk and tried sticking your cock in his ear. I had to thunk you over the head to get you to stop.”
Denny frowned at him. “Is that why I feel like utter shit this morning?”
“No. That’d be all the la féeverte you’ve been drinking.” A hint of malice Denny had never seen before danced in Rigby’s eyes.
Denny’s mouth opened and closed. He had nothing intelligent to say but, since a comment seemed to be required, he mumbled a feeble, “Oh.” He was certain Rigby had used these words deliberately, la féeverte, or the green fairy, which was the folk name given to absinthe. The green-tinged one-hundred-and-forty-eight proof alcohol had been the only thing that could lift Denny’s, er, spirits in his dark days of late. The only trouble being that, tasty as it was, it had been accused of being a powerful hallucinogenic.
I might have to stop drinking that stuff. Why would I try to have sex with somebody’s ear? I know I’m a horny git, but this is ridiculous! And the guy isn’t even handsome! I wish my bloody affliction was a figment of my imagination but it isn’t. Why me? Why the bloody hell did it happen to me?
He ignored the answer that came to his mind. He knew why. He just couldn’t get over the reason. And, he never would. He decided to play along with his crew, though the word mutiny flittered into his mind. Nah. They would never do that. Thanks to him, they were richer men than they’d ever dreamed possible. They angled closer to the fishing boats, and Denny stared. They weren’t fishing boats.
Holy guacamole. They were blackbirding boats!
As in slave traders!
“We can’t rescue all them slaves,” Denny said to Rigby, reverting to the ill-bred language of his youth. They couldn’t do it, even though he wanted to. Denny Derrick Dalton abhorred slavery, but he could see dozens of dark faces and they worried him. He couldn’t fit them all on the La-Di-Da, and some of them looked very ill.
Rigby gave him a harsh laugh. “We’re not here to save the slaves.”
“We’re not?” Denny stared at him.
“No. We’ve come to sell you to the traders. Your wings are the talk of the high seas. Good luck, Captain. You great big bloody fairy, you!”
Denny opened his mouth, but Rigby snatched the telescope out of his hand and swung it hard and close, knocking Denny so viciously, his head snapped to the left. Denny grabbed hold of the instrument to stop Rigby from hitting him again. This time, Rigby hauled back and shot Denny with a right hook to his left temple. It was the last thing he remembered. Denny sank into an instant, befuddled nightmare where the beautiful young girl who’d tried to bed him turned into an old crone when he’d confessed he preferred men.
“You’re beautiful,” he’d said with a moan. “But I just don’t fancy you.”
She’d gone bonkers. Maybe he shouldn’t have told her he was in love with her brother, but Denny had always prided himself on his passion for honesty. She’d run around his cabin screaming and hurling things, some of them aimed at his head and groin. She’d turned old, her hands going first. They’d looked like crooked, veined talons by the time she’d turned a long, gray finger toward him.
“I banish you to a lifetime of shadow and light, where you will learn to use your wings. Or not.” She’d unleashed a dirty cackle. “I’m turning the fairy into a fairy.” She’d cackled again, then howled with joy.
Denny had tried to think of it as a dream. A very, very bad one. And she’d lied. There’d been no light in his new world. Just shadows and the fearsome things he sometimes saw out of the corner of his eye. Strange specters, the ghosts of men and women. Theodore, the cat, had hissed at him and run out of the cabin.
The witch-woman had turned back into a young beauty, but her hands had taken longer to change into their former youthful smoothness. She’d put on her cloak and hidden them under the folds, leaving him locked in his cabin. She had plunged him into perpetual night. And he couldn’t fly. His wings hurt whenever he stretched them. He always felt them, whether awake or asleep. They seemed to sense things before he did, if he allowed them to transmit messages to him.
He didn’t have to try hard to interpret the soft, whispery words they sent him now as he came to, carried by his own men from the La-Di-Da across the wooden plank he’d built himself. They dumped him onto the deck of a blackbirder. Denny spotted the side of his beloved ship and saw that her name had once again been changed. Written in green paint were the words, The Pirate Fairy.
Denny Derrick Dalton knew he was in trouble. Deep, dark, trouble.
Chapter Two
Merritt didn’t feel like much of a prince, more like his sister’s prisoner. He had no choice but to be with Fortunata, and some days she was in such a good mood, their sparkly palace seemed the most wonderful place in the world. Other days, he wished he could escape. But he could never go anywhere for long. She always found him, questioned him, and would scream and yell if she suspected Merritt was moping.
“Stop thinking about him!” she’d shriek. But it was difficult. He missed Denny terribly. He’d tried sneaking messages out of the palace via his household staff to seamen whose vessels turned up at the secret island where he and Fortunata lived, but most were intercepted by those loyal to her. Merritt kept hoping one of his notes would make its way to the crew of the La-Di-Da and into Denny’s hands.
But then what? If Denny read the note and hoped to rescue Merritt, how could he do so? His sister had so many enchantments on the palace and its immediate surroundings that he would never get inside its walls. Or, maybe he could. Denny was a cunning man. Smart, principled and, Merritt was certain, devoted to him.
Day and night Merritt dreamed of Denny, of the too-brief joy they’d shared. He feared for his lover’s safety because he knew Fortunata had cursed him, and lately, he’d been experiencing troubled dreams. Early one morning, his manservant, Elvin, awakened him.
“She’s gone, master. Not for long, but she’s gone!”
“My sister?” Merritt opened his eyes wider. The room was still dark. When Elvin nodded, he asked, “What time is it?”
“Five o’clock in the morning. She’s gone to the forest.” Elvin bit his lip, afraid, it seemed.
“Thank you.” Merritt threw back his bedclothes. He’d been wondering about Fortunata’s half-day disappearances on the mornings before a full moon rose each month. He’d paid Elvin with small bags of gold to follow her. For several weeks now, Merritt had known his sister was visiting a witch in the forest, soliciting information on Denny’s whereabouts.
Why is she so obsessed with him? And why is Elvin acting so weird?
“She will kill me if she finds out,” Elvin whispered. He might have been the chief elf in their district, but Elvin was like a limp noodle where Fortunata was concerned. She was a cruel mistress to fairy folk, but Merritt adored them all.
“Fortunata will never know. I can promise you that.” Merritt reached into his bedside table and extracted a small silken purse filled with gold. He pressed it into Elvin’s hands. “Take it. You’ve earned it.”
Elvin shook his head. “No, my lord. I have not. I was too afraid to follow her this time.”
“I will follow her. Alone.”
“Thank you, my lord.” Elvin kept staring at the treasure. “Are you sure?” His small green eyes flickered with a mixture of panic and hopefulness as he gazed up at Merritt.
“Of course. You are very loyal to me, Elvin. I never forget that.”
Most of the household staff were too afraid of Fortunata to stand up to her, and sometimes she withheld wages out of spite. Merritt always found a way to secretly pay everybody, but Elvin had three sickly sons that no magic seemed to cure. Merritt was determined to find a
way to help them.
Across the room, he pulled his old trunk from against the wall. Filled with souvenirs from his ocean travels, it made a convenient hiding place for the peasant’s robes and pants he kept hidden inside a loose floorboard beneath it. He dressed quickly as Elvin watched him. Elvin never helped, at Merritt’s insistence. That way, Fortunata could never accuse him of aiding and abetting Merritt in what she would deem subterfuge.
Merritt looked over at him. “Please don’t worry. All will be well.”
Elvin swallowed. “Here. I almost forgot. I brought you bread and cheese and an apple.” He produced a paper parcel from his pocket.
“I feel a bit like Snow White.” Merritt grinned at him. “Off to visit the wicked witch.”
Elvin sniffed. “And it’s not too far from the truth. And at least we know this apple isn’t poisoned.”
Neither man said anything. It was well known that Fortunata frequently cast horrible spells on people and food, just to maintain control. Merritt’s love for his people was the only reason he stayed here. Otherwise he’d have built a raft and gone to look for his lost pirate.
Denny.
Just thinking about him pained Merritt’s heart. He took the package of food and squeezed Elvin’s shoulder. “Fear not. I shall return.” And with that, he took off. Outside, when he was certain nobody was looking, he went into the barn. Avery, his favorite stable hand, was brushing down the magnificent quarter horse, Cillian.
“Who’s been riding?” Merritt asked, surprised.
“The princess.” Avery had the same glum expression everybody had when they mentioned her.
“She’s returned?” Merritt panicked.
“No, sir. She forgot to tie up Cillian and he came running back here.”
Even the horses hate her.
“He was shaky and covered in sweat.”
Merritt sighed. “She rode him hard. As usual. Don’t worry. I’ll take him back to her.”
“But—”
“She’ll never know. I can’t have her blaming you when she was clearly distracted.”
Avery hesitated. “Are you sure?”
People always said this when Fortunata was the subject of discussion.
“Yes, I’m sure. I’ll walk him back to wherever she went.”
“You can ride him, sir. Cillian loves you.”
“And I love him.” It was true. Merritt was an animal lover and took the care and comfort of all the creatures in his kingdom to heart. Cillian gave a gentle whinny, turned and put his muzzle into the palm of Merritt’s hand.
Avery smiled as Merritt sighed. Cillian was the most adorable creature. The sensation of the beautiful horse’s soft mouth on his skin always centered and calmed him.
“I’ll be gentle with him,” Merritt promised.
“You always are, sir, and he can handle your sister. I suspect he came home because he loathes being away from you.”
“Thank you.” Merritt saddled the horse and before he could even ask Cillian to take him to the forest, he took off, Merritt hanging on for dear life.
Cillian was a spirited, joyful creature. His sheer pleasure at running through the trees, along the edge of a rippling brook, then past a field of wild ponies had Merritt laughing as he gripped the reins.
At last they arrived in the only dark spot in the woods.
The witch’s house.
Cillian’s ears twitched as he bent his knees, allowing Merritt to climb from his back. Merritt took a deep breath, then, as his feet touched the ground, he patted the horse’s luxurious mane.
“Thank you, Cillian,” he whispered.
Cillian looked at him, his brown eyes alive with warmth and understanding. Merritt studied the house a moment. He could hear a pair of female voices and it didn’t sound like a happy conversation. Oh dear. Fortunata was frustrated.
“But can you see him?” she yelled.
“Oh yes. I can see him.” The second voice sounded weary.
“Well, what’s going on?” Fortunata demanded.
“Just one moment.” A pause.
“Well?”
Merritt reached into his pocket and removed the package of food Elvin had given him. He removed the apple, thrilled when Cillian threw his head up and down. Cillian adored fruit. Merritt rewrapped the package and fumbled for his pocket knife. He quartered the apple and fed each section to Cillian, who expertly ate the flesh and spat out the seeds. Merritt had never seen another horse do that.
Putting his finger to his lips, as though to shush Cillian, Merritt crept toward the house. He hovered below the witch’s window and was stunned when he raised himself a little and saw her scrying inside a large bowl of inky blue water. Merritt held his breath when a shimmering image emerged of Denny lying on the deck of a ship. He had wings. Oh no. Fortunata had bewitched him. They’d left the ship so fast that Merritt had been unable to speak to him. Fortunata had spiked a tonic she’d given Merritt and it had left him sleepy for days.
Fortunata poked at the corner of the wavering picture of Denny. She evidently spotted the black cross in the corner at the same moment Merritt did.
“What’s that X for?” Fortunata asked.
Gremma drew a sharp breath. Merritt studied her for the first moment. She was young. He knew that because he was aware of her real identity. He gulped. So this was what their long-lost cousin, Gremma, looked like. Did Fortunata bewitch her? This looks like her handiwork. She’s fond of giving people warts. Especially attractive women.
It shocked him how hideous Gremma had become, her hair gray with white and red streaks through it. She had gnarled hands and huge, snaggled teeth. Dark bushy brows met above the bridge of her bulbous nose, which was covered in warts.
“The X means he’s marked for death,” Gremma murmured.
“Good!” Fortunata clapped her hands together.
“If you say so, my lady.” Gremma looked dubious.
Fortunata opened her mouth but a strange thudding sound interrupted everything.
“What was that?” Fortunata jumped to her feet.
Birds cried and flew to the highest treetops. A few small woodland creatures scurried away from the house. Merritt dropped to his knees then turned to look for the source of the sound. He was horrified to see Cillian lying dead on his back, all four legs stiff and pointing up into the air.
* * * *
A pair of dark-eyed faces peered down at him and Denny sputtered as a flurry of hands doused him with a bucket of sea water. Sun and salt smacked his eyes, making him close them again.
“Is he awake?” an anxious male voice asked.
“Let’s try it one more time,” another man responded. Again they doused Denny with the last thing he wanted in his face. More yucky sea water. It always made his wings sticky and impossible to unstick.
“Enough!” he shrieked, dropping the telescope, which was one of only two weapons he had. He felt for his knife. Gone. One of the men snatched up the telescope before Denny could reach it, and pushed at Denny with his foot. Denny coughed. The water tasted foul. What the heck was in it?
“Is it true?” one of them asked as Denny coughed and spat out the rancid-tasting water.
A tall, dark and very thin man stood poised with a third bucket, and Denny croaked, “You hit me with that and I’ll kill you.”
The man lowered the bucket but didn’t move away from him.
“Is it true?” another man close to Denny asked again, hunkering down beside him.
“Is what true?” Denny tried sitting. His head hurt like a mother and he gingerly felt the top of it. He was shocked to realize his scalp was covered in egg-like bumps. How many times had Rigby thunked Denny to keep him sleeping in his cabin? How much time had passed since he’d earned his dreaded fairy wings?
“What’s the date?” he asked.
“December fifteenth,” the man with the bucket said.
“December fifteenth?” Denny repeated. His mouth felt rubbery. He’d been holed up in his quarters for lon
ger than he’d thought. Five months, not three.
“Would you like a cup of coffee?” the bucket man asked.
“I would love one,” Denny said, then winced, expecting them all to laugh and jeer at him. He was making such an ass of himself these days.
“Would you like porridge? I can get some for you.” The man set the bucket on the deck beside Denny. He peered into it, relieved to see that it wasn’t a slop bucket, or somebody’s chamber pot. No telltale turds were doing the backstroke on the surface.
“Are you teasing me?” Denny asked.
“Of course not. I’ll bring you some right now.”
As the man hurried away, Denny wondered if he were dreaming. No. If he were dreaming he’d be back with his tethered prince.
The two remaining men helped Denny to his feet. One of his boots had a wonky heel thanks to his collision with the deck of the La-Di-Da. He could not bring himself to think of it as The Pirate Fairy. He kept stumbling thanks to the stupid heel but he gripped the rail and forced himself to watch his beloved ship sailing away from him. His entire life was on that vessel, including cash and jewels he’d hidden. He was grateful now for the gold he’d stashed in secret places on different islands. Oh, and then there was the house he’d purchased. That seemed farther away than ever now.
“Where are we?” he asked at last, surprised that he could hear music and laughter drifting across the breeze to him from his stolen ship. What the heck was going on over there? Did his crew hate him so much that they were having a farewell party?
“Here you are, sir.” The tall, thin man was back with a cup of coffee and a bowl of porridge.
He just called me sir. Maybe I’m dreaming. What a hateful dream, though. Denny squinted up at the guy. “I know you,” he said, trying to place him.
The man beamed. “Yes, sir. I’m Ebba. You saved me from the blackbirding ship heading to Peru.”
Denny rifled his memory banks. The absinthe had really done a number on him. He couldn’t remember very much at all.
The Pirate Fairy Page 2