by ML Guida
Mariah took a step back, her heart racing in her gullet. She wanted to run, but where would she go? This was Paris all over again. She was aboard a pirate ship. She gripped her pistol tight, knowing ’twas empty, but she would slam the butt of it into the temple of the first man who rushed her.
“Kane, will you listen?” Hannah said. She pushed him and only moved him a little. “She didn’t hurt me. Her power’s not dangerous. No more than I am.”
William eyed Mariah suspiciously. She turned away to keep from screaming at him and watched Tortuga’s mountains disappear on the horizon. She wanted to jump ship and swim back to shore.
Kane scowled. “Why can you feel it and not I?”
Mariah swallowed and shrugged. “Je ne sais pas.”
“Because a similar power resides in me,” Hannah said. “Kane, you better release me and stop acting like my father or I swear…”
“Hannah, I’m not a pasty codfish,” Kane growled.
“Don’t call him that.” She bristled. “He’s not the same man he was before. He’s—changed.”
Kane’s voice softened. “I’m sorry, Hannah.”
“Then step aside,” she said.
“Bloody hell,” he murmured and nodded. Male shoulders parted, allowing Hannah to squeeze through.
She marched over to Mariah and looped her arm through hers. “The interrogation’s over, gentlemen. She’s an excellent shot, and she proved it.” She pulled Mariah closer. “You look pale and tired. And I bet you would like a bath after your long trek down the mountain and then being challenged.”
“I was not challenging her,” William said. His stare held Mariah’s, not Hannah’s.
Mariah refused to argue with him and would not give into his intimidation.
“Aye, you were,” Hannah said. “Come on.” She patted Mariah’s arm. “Shall we get you that bath? The men will be busy sailing out to sea. Kane?”
“Aye,” Kane said. “I’ll see to it done.”
Hannah led her away from the bow. “Good. You need something to drink and a bit to eat before your bath.”
Mariah fought back tears. Grand-mère had been right about Hannah Knight. Hannah was Mariah’s ally, one who would defend her against angry pirates that had accepted her.
She glanced over her shoulder and caught William’s cold stare. She hung her head and sighed. For the first time, Grand-mère had been wrong about a vision. Despite his passionate kisses, William was not her protector. He was her accuser.
Chapter Ten
Lark rested his head against the wall and curled his fists. His torn breeches hung low on his hips, and stringy hair hung in his eyes. The dim lantern cast a dull light on what had been his home for the past weeks, revealing the rack, a chair with thumb screws, and the whips and clubs hanging from the wall. It seemed like years since he drank too much, years since he was too slow to cast a spell against his kidnappers, years since he became Palmer’s slave. Gore and blood, his blood, stained the floor. He clenched his toes on the damp floor and loathed the grime and dirt coating his bare feet.
He inhaled and coughed, gagging on his own stench. He licked his dry lips and wished for just a swallow of some cold water to coat his parched throat, not the foul bitter water Palmer forced him to drink.
Footsteps thumped on the stairs, and a wave of cool air swirled in the brig. The lantern swayed and the flame flickered. Curvy shadows moved along the wall. An outline of a woman stood in the darkness. Red eyes filled with hate stared at him.
Natasa.
Enmity swirled in his gut. Ever since Palmer sailed to Zuto’s island and picked up the bitch, he’d detested her. Showing weakness was not an option. He forced his wobbly legs to stand and pressed his shoulders against the wall, ready to do battle.
When she stepped into the brig, the light brightened, and she strolled over. She wore a wicked smile and a tight red gown, her breasts threatening to spill out of the too low neckline. Did she not possess any decency? She drew her long red nails down his cheek, lightly scratching him.
He jerked his head aside.“Ne me touchez pas!”
She patted his cheek. “You’re not in a position to tell me what to do, slave. I’ll touch as I wish.”
Heavy footsteps pounded down the stairs. Quinton Palmer burst into the hell hole with two of lackey’s trailing behind him. He had to duck in the dungeon or scrape his head on the filthy ceiling. His watery left eye leaked down onto his red beard, and Lark hid a smile. He’d been there when Ronan had gotten loose and stabbed Palmer.
“Damn you, Natasa,” Palmer said. “Why can’t you wait for me?”
“Because you’re a human. And slow. ’Tis why I’ve come on board this ship. You continue to disappointment me and Maketabori.”
Fear flashed in Palmer’s eyes, and he grumbled underneath his breath.
“I’m here to make sure the witch turns, and we locate and capture the dragon.” She focused on Lark. “Ready for your next lesson?”
The two lackeys smirked.
“Burn in hell,” Lark snarled, knowing it was useless.
She squeezed his cheeks between her fingers, nails biting into his flesh. “Still defying me, handsome? If only you’d see it my way, I’d release you from your bonds.”
“Never,” Lark hissed. He gripped his manacles and kicked, only managing to move his foot a couple of inches. The chain links bit into his flesh.
She released him and laughed. “Soon, Lark, soon. I feel the darkness growing inside you. Your hate is growing stronger. Soon, you’ll give into it and become a warlock.”
Lark wanted to defy her, but his hate was growing, eating away at the goodness inside him. He wanted to hurt and maim, something Grand-mère had warned would lead to dark magic.
Palmer folded his arms across his wide chest. “What do you want him to do now?”
“I want him to kill someone.”
Lark glared. He would kill someone. He would kill her.
“He does not have the ability to use his magic to kill,” Palmer said. “I’ve asked him to do it before. His powers are limited.”
Natasa smirked. “Fool. And you believed him?”
Palmer stormed over to Lark, grabbed a fistful of hair, and yanked. “Did you lie to me, boy?”
Lark ignored the smarting. “’Tis true. I do not have the power to kill. I only possess white magic, oui?”
“You’re a liar,” Natasa said.
Palmer slammed his fist into Lark’s jaw. Pain at the back of his skull blinded him. Lark spit blood onto the floor. “No, I am not.”
Palmer growled, “Yari—”
“No, wait.” Natasa ran her hands over the rack. “What he needs is some persuasion.”
Lark bit back a retort. Defiance did not matter. They would either order the yari to choke him or torture him. Pain, always pain.
Palmer nodded at Lark. “Strap him to the wheel.”
The lackeys unshackled Lark and dragged him to the rack. He struggled, but ’twas a jest; his limbs shook, his strength failed. Cold manacles latched onto his wrists and ankles. He closed his eyes, waiting for agony.
“Turn it,” Palmer ordered.
At a snort, Lark opened his eyes. The crank creaked, and with each turn, Lark’s arms stretched higher over his head while the manacles pulled on his legs. Muscles strained, bones cracked. The shackles bit into his wrists and ankles. He gulped down a scream. Merde. He prayed to lose unconsciousness.
“Stop,” Natasa ordered.
Larked panted against the agony, sweat dripping down his body.
“I’m so sorry to see you this way, Lark, but you leave me little choice.” She slid her fingers down his tightly drawn abdomen. “I’d much rather have you in my bed, pleasuring me.”
“I’d die first,” he gasped.
“You’ll regret saying that, wretch,” she warned.
She grabbed a chain that was draped around his wrist and yanked. His arm nearly popped out of his socket. Lark hissed, arching his back.
“Crank it a
gain,” she said.
The crank scraped. Overstretched muscles twisted, and bones popped, joints pulled apart. Lark released a pitiful scream, betraying his facade against the torture.
Natasa smirked. “Have enough pain yet?”
“Pute,” he spat, spittle running down his chin.
Fire burned within her pupils, and her face darkened. “I don’t like that word, slave. Crank it one more time.”
Lark shook, dreading the turn of the crank. He screamed again as muscles tore.
“Maketabori, hear me. Send me something to turn this witch.” The lantern dimmed, and Natasa’s eyes glowed darker. Dark magic had spilled into the brig. Natasa lifted her fist and opened it. A black scarab beetle lay on her palm, and its wings flickered.
Lark panted.
“This a magical scarab. It feeds on magic, not flesh. It will feel like it’s eating your insides, but you will not die, unfortunately for you. Ready, love?” She put her hand on Lark’s stomach and the scarab crawled off. “Go, my pet,” she said. “Consume all the white magic inside him.”
“Stop! Please!” Sweat leaked into his eyes, Lark wrenched, but his over-taut body refused to shift. Fear pumped through Lark’s veins, and he could not stop trembling.
The scarab’s spiny feet pricked his abdomen. It lifted its head, and long jaws clamped together. The scarab squeaked, jumped and burrowed into his gut, its jaws ripping away flesh and muscle. Blood spurted. Lark screamed.
“Now, let’s leave him with his pain.” Natasa linked her arm with Palmer’s.
Palmer smiled and pulled her close, obviously enjoying the bitch’s touch.
“My pet will feast until only black magic remains. Soon, Lark will be ours.”
The scarab tore away flesh and tissue inside him. Lark couldn’t think due to the unbearable pain. Natasa said ’twasn’t eating his insides, but demons lied. Tears formed in the back of his eyes. Hate burned into him.
Must kill.
Natasa was turning him. Breaking him. He closed his eyes and forced himself to ignore the blinding torment and think of only Mariah. His breathing calmed, tingles rushed over him. His sister’s sweet face formed in his mind, and he focused all of his energy on her.
Mariah.
The yari tightened on his neck, the stones burrowing into his flesh. Agony gripped him, and he forgot to breathe.
Concentrate. Breathe.
He thought of Grand-mère. Her laughter. Her love. Her faith in him. She used to play with them. He and Mariah would climb the trees and hide from her. When she walked underneath him, he would swing down, his legs hooked around the branch and scream, “Boo!”
She would shriek and laugh. “Ma loutre.” My otter was her constant endearment for him, one he longed to hear again. She would wrap her arms around him and hug him and kiss him on the cheek. He missed her sage scent that always chased away nightmares.
Why had he challenged her? He remembered their fights, his rebellion.
Fresh air moved over his sweaty skin. Was he imagining it? Was that sage? A whisper brushed next to his ear.
Pain is fleeting. Faith is not. Remember you are Fey.
He turned to the side, hoping to see Grand-mère. He swallowed disappointment. Pain surged inside him, and he arched his back.
Lark, fight it. Call your sister before ’tis too late.
Sweat poured down his face. He lowered his back and inhaled and exhaled, blocking out the agony.
There is no pain. There is no pain. There is no pain.
He could do this. He was a Fey. He gritted his teeth, and with one giant push, sent out a call. Power fluttered in his heart, and tingles surged through his blood.
Mariah, where are you? Hear me. I need you.
The scarab screeched inside him and crawled around in his bowels, biting him. Tears streamed down his face. His overstretched limbs burned. Dizziness swept over him, and spots swirled in front of his eyes. He had no strength left. He tried to send another spell, but nothing moved within him. Had his spell reached Mariah? Or was he doomed to change into a warlock?
Chapter Eleven
The heavy sails surrounding Mariah blocked out any cool breeze, and she sweltered inside the tiny cabin. She missed the frosty mountain air and was slowly suffocating. She thought about propping open the sail, but she didn’t want to tempt any pirates to sneak into her chambers. She tossed and turned in her hammock, the blankets twisted around her legs.
“Mariah…Hear…me…I…need…you.”
She recognized the harsh voice, but could not place it. William? No. She shook her head and wanted to wake up. Her eyes refused to open. A gray mist hedged around her, and her thoughts became jumbled, as if the fog had control of her mind. She stumbled in the thick vapor and managed a faint whisper. “Where am I?”
“You are dreaming,” the voice said. An image appeared. Violet eyes peered out from underneath shaggy dark hair. Lark. He was alive!
The mist cleared, and her relief was short-lived. Lark was beaten and bloody, his breeches torn. He was strapped to a breaking wheel, his arms and legs stretched, the joints threatening to rip out of the sockets.
“Oh, Lark,” Mariah cried. She wished she could unshackle him, ease his pain, but her feet refused to move. He fought against a force she could not see, and his eyes had darkened. Mon Dieu! Not a good sign. Not good at all.
“Hear…me…I…need…you.” Lark’s words were labored.
A small bump glided around under his skin and disappeared. He winced.
The vision faded. Mariah reached for Lark, but only air filtered through her fingers. She woke up and sobbed. “Lark.”
No time for tears. She slipped out of the hammock and opened Grand-mère’s velvet bag. She’d seen a drawing of a bump running along a witch’s arm once just like the one she’d seen in her dream. Grand-mère had said it had been a magical scarab that fed on white magic. But she had to be sure and flipped through her spell book until she found magical creatures.
According to the book, a purification spell would defeat the creature. She needed time. Time she didn’t have.
She retrieved her athame, a bowl, and her wand and a vial containing herbs that Grand-mère had personally charged by casting spells under a full moon. The combined herbs had proved powerful against dark magic but needed to be out in the open to work, not confined in her cabin. She only hoped they would be strong enough to kill the scarab. She rushed out of her makeshift cabin, careful not to disturb any sleeping pirates and headed topside.
Starboard lanterns glowed in the night, shining down onto the sea. The wind whipped her night gown around her body, and she shivered. She crept over to the side, not wanting anyone to question her. There was no time to ask if she could perform a spell. Le capitaine would not like her conjuring a spell without his knowledge, since he thought she was one step above the devil.
The night watch was busy at the bow, and she headed to the stern, sneaking behind the helmsmen and hoping she could avoid prying eyes. She blew out the lantern hanging on the stern, not needing light to do the spell due to the waning moon. She used the athame to trace a five-pointed star on the deck. She poured half of the vial of herbs into the bowl, then hoping if seen, the watch would think she was a man, she peeled out of her nightgown. Lark’s soul was in jeopardy, and stripping naked enhanced the magic.
She raised the bowl in offering. “Isis, Mother Goddess, I humbly ask for your help for my brother, Lark. Call forth your healing medicine and strengthen him. Keep him from turning to the dark side.”
The wind swirled at her bare feet and rose up her body until it blew into the bowl. The herbs twirled out of the bowl and glowed in the dark, changing into colors of purple, yellow, black, and red. They swooshed around, taking on a human form. The image of the Goddess stared at Mariah with bright yellow eyes.
Mariah bowed her head. “Isis, I ask for your help. Take the rest of this vial to Lark.”
Isis took the vial and slightly bent her head. “I shall find him.”
Her form broke apart and spun into the air, flying through the dark sky like sea mist.
“Please save him,” Mariah said, her voice tiny and desperate.
She placed the bowl onto the deck and grabbed her gown. She slipped it over her head and wiggled into it.
“Why are you naked?”
Mariah froze. William. Merde! She twirled around, straightening the gown.
William stood in the shadow of the bulkhead. She did not need to see his face to know he was displeased. How long had he been standing there?
“I was performing a spell.”
“You always take your clothes off when you do a spell?”
Heat spiked her cheeks. “Being naked purifies the spell.”
“Who was the woman? Kane will not be pleased that you are bringing people aboard his ship without his knowledge.”
“’Twas not a woman. The potion took the form of Isis, the mother of all Goddesses. One of her powers is medicine and healing. Something that Lark desperately needs. If you will excuse me—”
He blocked her way and crowded her against the edge. “So your spells or potions can conjure up magical creatures or humans?”
Her heart pounded, and she glanced over the rail at the churning water below. Was he planning to push her over?
“I do not conjure magical creatures.” She pressed her hands against his chest to skirt away, but he did not budge. “The spell took the form into the image of the Goddess herself and answered me. Magic sometimes takes human forms.”
He wrapped his arm around her waist, pinning her to him. “What was in the vial?”
She struggled to push away. He was too close, and his masculine scent cast its own spell over her. An urge to kiss him seized her.
Stop. Keep your wits.
“Charged herbs will strengthen Lark and keep him from turning dark.”
“What the hell are your charged herbs?”
“Herbs that have been enchanted.”
His thumb brushed over her wet cheek. “You’ve been crying.”
“Lark…I saw him…in a dream. He came to me.” She stared up at William and wished she could see his face. “He is…he is…strapped to a wheel.” Her voice faded, and the sobs burst through, her shoulders quaking.