The Jinxed Pirate (Graylands Book 2)

by M. Walsh

  He nodded, but his mind was wandering. He’d been feeling lousy the past week, and he was used to Cassie’s complaints. But thinking about it, this seemed like something else …

  “Lord Westen!” she called, waving to someone behind him. “Good afternoon!”

  Lock turned to see an older, heavyset man approach. He was barrel-chested with silver hair and small, beady eyes. A thick mustache engulfed much of his round, red face. He walked onto their deck and said in a booming voice, “Good afternoon, Cassandra. Lovely to see you again.”

  “This is Lord Westen,” said Cassie. “I’m friends with his daughter.”

  “Call me Bartholomew,” he said, shaking Lock’s hand in a firm grip. “And you must be Lockhart. Your sister has told me much about you.”

  “How are you, sir?” she asked.

  “Well, my dear,” he replied. “Very well. Gorgeous day, is it not?”

  “It is. In fact, if you’ll excuse me,” she said, removing her towel. “I’m going back in.”

  “Enjoy yourself, child,” Westen said as she dove into the water. With a sigh, he took a seat on the bench opposite Lock, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. “Lovely girl, your sister. Very courteous.”

  “Easy for you to say. You don’t have to live with her.”

  Lord Westen let out a hearty laugh. “Well, she gets along fine with my daughter and her friends. I think she fits in here.”

  Lock watched his sister swim off, disappearing in the lake’s glare, and thought it funny that, as much as she disliked living in Graylands, she managed to settle in without missing a step.

  “Cassie never had a problem with that.”

  “I happened to pass your Eldér friend earlier,” Westen said. “The male one.”

  “Troa.”

  “Yes. And he has a twin. Vel..? Velteesh..?”

  “Their name is Veltaishi,” said Lock. “Troa’s sister is Seria.”

  “Ah, yes,” Westen said, scratching his mustache. “You must excuse me. I’m terrible at pronouncing Eldér names. They’re the Woodlander race, correct..?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me, how did your family manage to come by them?”

  “They were hired by my father after I was born,” he said. “Troa was a tutor for Deck, and Seria a caretaker for my mother.”

  Lock had never asked why his father hired two Eldér as his personal servants. He suspected much of it was status—two highly skilled Eldér warriors at his disposal was the sort of thing a wealthy man would have to show off more than anything. It could’ve had something to do with Armand Tyrell. Whatever the case, the Synclaire children regarded the two Eldér as family, and he didn’t feel comfortable talking about them as if they were property.

  “Anyway,” he added. “They don’t really work for us anymore. They … we care about each other.”

  “That’s nice,” said Westen. “Family is important.”

  He revealed a leather pouch and took a swig from it. Lock thought it was water, but upon seeing Westen’s red lips, he guessed it was wine. Clearing his throat, the old man leaned forward, and it was as though a shadow crossed his face.

  “I understand you were with your brother when he killed those bandits outside town,” he said, his voice lowering.

  “Yes..?”

  “Tell me,” he said. “Were you involved? With the fight, I mean.”

  “I … yes.”

  Lord Westen nodded again. He then took Lock’s hand and shook it with a tight grip. “I want to thank you,” he said. “Sincerely. Low-life scum deserve no mercy.”

  Lock hesitated, seeing a flicker of genuine anger in the man’s eyes.

  “This country needs more men like you and your brother,” he continued. “Even Aster’s high walls are no guarantee. Believe me.”

  Lock tried to say something, but no words formed. An image of the bandit’s face flashed into his mind—her eyes bulging and last breath on his face. All at once, he wanted his hand free from this old man’s grip and to be far away from him.

  Or failing that, a swig from his wine pouch.

  “Hello again, Lord Westen,” said Troa, appearing from seemingly nowhere. “I see you’ve met Lockhart.”

  “Indeed,” he said, standing. “And I’m afraid I must be on my way. Good day to you, sirs.”

  Bartholomew Westen gave Lock’s hand a final squeeze and walked off, his weight shaking the deck with each step. Lock sat frozen, feeling confused and ill.

  Troa sat across from him where Westen had been and said, “I take it I should’ve come sooner.”

  “What was that about? Where did that come from?”

  “Don’t mind Lord Westen,” said Troa. “From what I understand, he in particular has reason to feel strongly regarding bandits and brigands.”

  “What happened..?”

  “Something involving his daughter sometime last year. I don’t know the details.”

  Lock sighed, dragging his hands through his hair. Despite the heat, he felt a chill, and his stomach churned.

  “It’ll pass, Lockhart.”

  “What will?”

  “No one’s first kill is ever easy.”

  First kill, he thought. As in: there will be a second and third and more.

  “Did Deck tell you?”

  “I’ve known you since you were born,” Troa said. “You’re easy to read, Lockhart.”

  He smirked with a lifeless chuckle, unsure whether to be flattered or offended by that statement. “Does Seria know?”

  “Yes. But she thought you would feel better if she didn’t bring it up.”

  He sighed and leaned back on the bench. “I was feeling better, actually. At least until a few days ago. Now I feel worse than ever.” He rubbed his eyes and thought of Cassie. “Troa, have you been hearing dogs outside the house?”

  “No. Cassandra mentioned it yesterday, but I haven’t heard anything.”

  “How have you been sleeping lately?”

  Troa shot him a look that almost made him flinch. “Why..?”

  “I haven’t been sleeping well,” he said. “I didn’t think anything about it, but Cassie said she isn’t either. I don’t know—I just feel like maybe …”

  “Something’s different.”

  This time it was Lock who stared at Troa. “Yes,” he said. “Something’s changed.”

  Troa nodded and glanced toward the lake. “I have not been sleeping. I don’t think Seria is either. Something has seemed strange since …”

  He trailed off, his eyes narrowing, and Lock asked, “Since what..?”

  “Since that day Dian bucked Deckard off.” The world dimmed as a cloud passed the sun, and a chilled breeze blew through the deck. “I’ve never known Dian to be a horse that spooks easily,” Troa continued. “Nor have I known your brother to be someone easily knocked off his steed.”

  “But Deck did look beat up that day,” he said. “Do you think he got into another fight?”

  “Your brother is not the type to hide the fact he was in a battle.”

  Lock rubbed the back of his neck, trying to figure out what would cause everyone to have trouble sleeping and what Deck could have to do with it. And hadn’t he been acting strange the past few days?

  “Where is Deck?” he asked. “Have you seen him at all today?”

  “I believe he said he would be at the library,” Troa replied.

  “The library..?”

  “I know. I was shocked myself.”

  “What for?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  Lock slumped on his bench. Deck was many things, but a man of books and reading was not one of them. Reflecting on the past week, his brother had been acting unlike himself. Brushing off his getting bucked by Dian, keeping his distance, and now spending his time in a library … was he hiding something?

  “I don’t know what this could mean,” said Troa, standing up. “I’ll speak to my sister later and talk to Deckard tomorrow.”

  Lock squirmed in his
seat, feeling uncomfortable. “I hope it’s nothing. I hope Deck hasn’t—”

  Hasn’t what..?

  “I wouldn’t worry, Lockhart,” Troa said. “Whatever it is—assuming there even is something to worry about—Deckard would never do anything to put you or your sister in danger.”

  Lock nodded, but remembered that look in his brother’s eye as he killed those bandits and couldn’t shake the doubt that wasn’t true.

  * * *

  No one slept well that night.

  Lock’s nightmares were as bad as ever. He dreamed he was in their house—except there was something wrong with it. In the dream, it was dilapidated, as though it had been abandoned for years. The paint was peeling, the walls were falling apart, and filth and dust littered the floor. It smelled of mildew and decay.

  He was trapped inside, and he wasn’t alone. Someone or something was there with him. He heard a voice calling out to him from the shadows, urging him to come into the dark.

  Then the bandit would appear. Her eyes had faded to blank white, and cockroaches crawled through her rotten flesh. She grinned at Lock with jagged black teeth. She spoke, but with a deep, hideous voice that chilled his blood. She said she was coming for him—worse, coming for Cassie.

  He woke up and, in the foggy haze between sleep and awake, imagined someone was in the room with him. Some sinister thing watching from the darkness. But it wasn’t the bandit—he kept picturing an eerie, death-like white face staring at him from the shadows.

  He drifted back into an uneasy sleep where that voice would be waiting. It seemed to be coming from the cellar.

  Cassie slept no better. She lay awake for much of the night, staring at her ceiling, unable to get comfortable. On top of her covers, she felt cold. Beneath her covers, she would sweat. She felt so tired her eyes actually hurt, and a pounding headache formed.

  Somewhere outside, she heard barking and howling again. Frustrated, she went to close the window, only to find the animals were right outside. Six of them had gathered in the yard and were staring at the house. When she saw them, she heard them start growling. And they weren’t dogs.

  They were wolves.

  Deck was also plagued by dreams and sleeplessness. In his dreams, he found himself in the troll’s cave again—only this time he couldn’t find his way out. The strange force that drew him in was overbearing. Like Lock, he would hear a voice in the shadows. But for him, it was taunting and sneering.

  He woke up, but rather than stay in bed, he wandered around the house. He got a glass of water—noticing the wolves that kept his sister awake—and wandered some more. Every time he passed the door to the cellar, he felt a chill and flinched, thinking he heard something laughing.

  He’d remember the voice in his dream. It said he would bring death to his family.

  17

  “So what do you think, Lee?”

  After his meeting with Magistrate Elliot, Krutch felt inclined to celebrate. The one drink he was served hit hard, and he was feeling loose and confident. He wanted to get something to eat and continue drinking even before Elliot gave him a brown case containing several rows of gold coins lined within. It took great resistance on his part not to squeal with joy at the sight of it, having never seen that much money in his life.

  After a hearty lunch of pork and beer, he and Audra found a tavern in Roller’s Place where he continued to indulge, feeling like the king of the world. He’d been handed a case full of gold for no other reason than he was Krutch Leeroy—with which he could afford fine food and drink—and he had a beautiful woman by his side.

  For once in his life, his cursed reputation paid off.

  “I’m sorry, what?” he asked.

  Afternoon gave way to evening, and the tavern filled up. Music was played somewhere he couldn’t see, and although the pork lunch filled his belly, the accumulated alcohol was taking its toll.

  “You said the Magistrate wants you to leave,” said Audra.

  “Oh, right,” he said. “Yeah, he didn’t come out and say it, but it was pretty clear he doesn’t want me around. I think the gold was his way of getting on my good side.”

  “But this Sebastian Clock wants you at his card game?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I was getting mixed messages there.”

  “So how do we play it?” she asked. “You don’t want to leave, do you?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Guy did pay me for nothing. It’d be a prick move to stay anyway.”

  “Well,” she said with a sly smile and that mischievous glint in her eyes. “You are a pirate.”

  Krutch chuckled. Maybe it was because he’d been drinking all day, but when she said that, it didn’t bother him nearly as much as when guys like Lemmy Hobbs would. When she called him a pirate—looking at him the way she was—he wanted to believe it.

  “Well,” he said, taking another swig of beer. “He didn’t specifically tell me to leave …”

  “And if this Clock is such a big deal, it’d be rude to turn down his invitation.” She took a sip of her beer. “If Magistrate Elliot really wants you out of town so bad, I think he can afford to pay more.”

  He laughed, feeling better than he had in weeks.

  “In the meantime,” she said. “With this gold, we should look into finding a place to stay.”

  “That we should.” He hiccupped. “Someplace nice.”

  “Once we do that,” she continued. “We should spread word you’re setting up shop here. Find out who the power players are in this town. I’m sure once everyone knows you’re in Seba, you’ll have people flocking to you.”

  Krutch slouched in his seat, feeling warm and fuzzy. Maybe all this time, he wondered, his mistake was trying to hide from his reputation instead of embracing it. If everyone he met was convinced he was an infamous and dangerous man, regardless of what he did or said, wasn’t most of the work done for him? As long as he owned it and projected himself as a man to be feared and respected, maybe he really could be that guy. The Krutch Leeroy.

  “You really think,” he said, hiccupping again. “You really think I can pull this off?”

  “You’re Krutch Leeroy.”

  “You’re Krutch Leeroy?!”

  Before he could say anything more, a tattooed man with tanned skin and spiked hair stopped in front of their table. He looked at Krutch and grinned.

  “No way,” he said. “Krutch Leeroy’s seven feet tall and has a tattoo of a demon on his face.”

  “I heard it was an elephant,” said Krutch.

  “Where does a scrawny twat like you get off claiming to be Leeroy? And how does he get a fine bitch like this?”

  He was about to speak, when Audra shot up and shouted, “Who the hell do you think you’re talking to?! I’ll have you know this is Krutch Leeroy, and you better watch your mouth when you talk about me in front of him!”

  The tattooed man made a face like someone passed gas. “What a load of horseshit. No way this little bastard is—”

  “He is,” said Krutch, drawing his pistol. “Now piss off.”

  The tattooed man hesitated, recognizing the weapon, but the shadow of a sneer remained on his lips. “No way,” he said, almost inaudible. “That ain’t … that can’t be the …”

  Cocking the gun, Krutch said, “Want to test that?”

  The tattooed man wavered, debating whether to chance it. “If you was Leeroy,” he said, though his voice didn’t sound confident. “You woulda just shot me.”

  “Maybe I don’t want to waste a bullet if I don’t have to.”

  Music was still playing, but several other patrons had taken notice of the confrontation and watched with rapt anticipation. The tension was as thick as the humidity of a swamp. Krutch could barely see straight, and the fact he had no bullets to back his threats up didn’t occur to him—nor what he would do if his opponent didn’t back down.

  It was Audra who acted. Without warning, she snatched the pistol from his hand and slammed the butt into the tattoo
ed man’s face. The sound of the handle cracking against his jaw could be heard over the music, and blood erupted from his mouth.

  He collapsed to the floor, and Audra wasted no time in pressing her attack, slamming the pistol into his head over and over again. Someone tried to restrain her, but she snarled like an animal and clawed his face.

  The music died down, and from somewhere at the other end of the bar, Krutch heard something shatter and a piece of glass flew into the air. Someone apparently decided to use the tussle as an opening to smash a bottle over the head of another man.

  After that, it was chaos.

  The bar erupted into a storm of fighting and yelling. The sound of glass breaking and fists connecting with faces filled the place like static. Somewhere chairs and tables were being smashed. Curses were shouted and everyone was screaming.

  Krutch remained where he was sitting, watching the violence go on around him, and was too baffled to react. “This escalated quickly,” he said to no one in particular. “That was uncalled for.”

  Feeling conscious of the case filled with gold beside him, he slid beneath his table and hoped no one would notice him. He couldn’t see Audra or his gun and suddenly staying in Seba seemed a bad idea.

  His table was flung over, and he braced himself for someone to start pounding or stabbing him. Instead, he heard a familiar voice yell, “Hey, boss! I thought I heard someone say your name!”

  “Arkady?!”

  * * *

  Although the desire for a drink was there, Katrina settled for a cigarette as soon as she left Carmine’s house. She found a narrow alley where she could smoke and think in private away from the main road.

  It was late afternoon, and the fighting pit had just closed. The spectators filtered out and headed to the taverns and brothels. Some were already drunk, and Katrina knew just by looking there would be more violence and blood spilled tonight.

  A vision of Carmine’s leering face repeated in her mind—getting far too excited about people murdering one another—and she wondered what kind of mining town could be home to such loathsome people. Her stomach churned, and she felt hot with anger and disgust.