Then the vision grew misty once more. She was losing him. It was over too soon!
“Just a bit longer,” she begged. “Please, just a bit longer.” But the mist was thickening around her. And then, as it began to thin again, she found herself back in the cabin, holding the broken mirror.
Lorcan was standing before her.
“There now, did you like the captain’s gift?”
She nodded, feeling a complete sense of calm and euphoria. “Yes. Yes, I did. Please thank him for me.”
“Of course,” Lorcan said.
“Tell him . . . tell him that I understand.”
Lorcan looked at her quizzically. “You understand? What do you understand, Grace?”
“Everything,” she said, smiling softly. “I understand everything now.”
Still Lorcan looked puzzled.
“I hardly need explain it to you,” she said.
“I think you better had, Grace. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
She shook her head, a little amused by his charade.
“What I mean, Lorcan, is that I understand I’m dead. I realize now — I drowned that night. You didn’t rescue me — not in the conventional sense anyhow. You fished me out of the water and you brought me here. To this . . . this waiting place. But Connor’s fine. He’s alive. I see that now — the captain let me slip back to look at him, just for a moment. Oh, I feel so happy, Lorcan, I can’t tell you. I feel so happy, even though I’m dead!”
14
THE DAWNING
Grace slept more soundly than she could remember. It was strange how being dead felt so much like being alive — but at least she knew now why her sense of time was so distorted. Perhaps it also explained why she was so tired — maybe her mortal body was growing too heavy for her and it would soon to be time to leave it behind.
She opened her eyes and found, to her surprise, that Lorcan was sleeping, slumped over the chair by the porthole. He had never slept in her cabin before. Was this significant? she wondered. Was she about to pass on from this waiting place? Where was she going? Perhaps, she thought excitedly, her father would be waiting for her there.
What time was it? Grace still had no way of telling without looking through the porthole. She slipped down from the bed and walked over, past Lorcan, to the curtain. Brushing it carefully to one side, she saw that the darkness was thinning, no longer pitch-black but a smoky gray veil. Dawn must be on its way. But was this the same dawn that greeted the living or were they somewhere else? Grace was eager to find out. If only Lorcan would wake up. She had a whole new raft of questions for him.
Grace let the curtain fall back again. As she did so, the ship lurched in the waves and she lost her footing, stumbling back onto Lorcan. He awoke with a start, a look of panic in his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “I didn’t mean to scare you. I tripped.”
“How long was I dozing?” he asked.
Grace shrugged. “I don’t know. I told you before — I’ve lost all track of time. But it’s starting to get light outside.”
“Light?” He looked more panic-stricken than ever.
“Yes, look.” She went over to the window and reached for the curtain. The morning was arriving quickly now and the gray veil of a moment ago was lifting, replaced by the deep pinks of sunrise.
Lorcan turned away, as if stung, his hands covering his face.
“What’s the matter?” Grace asked. “What’s wrong?”
“I shouldn’t have slept. I need to be somewhere else.”
“Why did you stay here last night?”
“I was worried about you. You seemed feverish. You started talking about being dead.”
“But I am dead. And I’m not feverish. In fact, I’ve never been better.”
“Grace, you have to listen to me. You are not dead.”
“I’m not?” Everything had made sense if she was dead, but if she wasn’t, it was all as confusing as before.
“How could I have slept through the Dawning Bell?” Lorcan said, holding his head in his hands.
“There was no bell. There can’t have been, or it would have woken us both.”
Lorcan began trembling. “But Darcy always sounds the bell. How could she have forgotten?”
“Who’s Darcy? What’s so important about this bell? Are you absolutely sure I’m not dead?”
“I’m one hundred percent sure, Grace. For one thing, dead girls don’t eat porridge.” He indicated the empty bowl on the tray. “I need to be somewhere else,” he said again.
“So go.”
Lorcan appeared to be frozen to the spot. “I can’t get there in time. I . . .”
He broke off. Clearly frustrated, he pounded the fist of one hand into the palm of the other.
A little perturbed by this show of violence, Grace turned back to the porthole. Lifting the curtain, she looked out through the grimy glass to the pink light of dawn. It was like watching the petals of a flower open.
“Close the curtain, Grace.” His voice was hoarse.
“What?”
“Please, Grace, just close the curtain.”
She let it fall and turned. His behavior was very strange, especially from someone who had been so cool and collected throughout the short time she had known him. As the curtain fell, Lorcan let out a deep sigh, slowly lowering his hands from his face.
“I’ll stay here,” he announced at last. “I’ll stay with you. That’s the best thing.”
“That’s really kind, but you don’t need to worry about me. I’m not feverish — a bit confused perhaps . . .”
“I’m not worried about you.”
“Then what? Lorcan, what’s the matter?”
He shook his head. “There are things it’s better you don’t know.”
He was still trembling. Now she found herself reaching out a steadying hand to him. Then she had a brain wave. She knew how she could calm him. She opened her mouth and began to sing.
I’ll tell you a tale of Vampirates,
A tale as old as true.
Yea, I’ll sing you a song of an ancient ship,
And its mighty fearsome crew.
Yea, I’ll sing you a song of an ancient ship
That sails the oceans blue . . .
That haunts the oceans blue.
Lorcan’s mouth fell open.
“You mean you know?” His voice was scarcely more than a whisper.
Grace shook her head, confused. “Know what?”
Lorcan said nothing more, his eyes wide.
“It’s a shanty my dad used to sing to Connor and me. It used to calm us whenever we were upset.”
Grace smiled and continued her song.
The Vampirate ship has tattered sails
That flap like wings in flight.
They say that the captain, he wears a veil
So as to curtail your fright
At his death-pale skin
And his lifeless eyes
And his teeth as sharp as night.
Oh, they say that the captain, he wears a veil
And his eyes never see the light.
As her voice formed the last words of the verse, both Lorcan and Grace looked toward the porthole. Suddenly, everything became clear to her. It was as if all Lorcan’s words had been the scattered pieces of a jigsaw puzzle but now they rose in a swarm and fit themselves together.
And his eyes never see the light. She spoke the words this time, striding back toward the window and taking the curtain in her hand once more.
“No!” Lorcan reached out to catch her.
Too late. Her fingers gripped the corner of the curtain and as Lorcan pulled her away, she tugged at the cloth. It ripped away from the window and a pale streak of light shone into the cabin.
Lorcan released her, covering his eyes again and throwing himself away from the column of light. He cowered in the corner of the cabin.
“Put it back,” he whimpered, “put it back. Please, Grace, put the curtain
back.”
For a moment, Grace was too shocked to do anything but watch him, flailing about like a wasp in a jar. It wasn’t a pleasant sight.
But despite the horror of her realization, she couldn’t bear to see Lorcan in such distress. So Grace lifted the curtain back over the window. She had torn it clear off its tracks but, holding it there, she was able once more to block out the dawn light.
Lorcan glanced up at her gratefully. “Thank you,” he rasped.
“It’s okay,” Grace said.
She tucked the curtain back over the pole and tied it at both ends. Checking that it still covered the porthole, she turned back to Lorcan.
“Well,” she said, “I was almost right, wasn’t I? Only it isn’t me that’s dead, it’s you.”
He nodded.
“You had better stay here until nightfall, Lorcan Furey. Which will give you plenty of time to explain everything.”
She might have sounded like she was in control, but that was about as far as possible from the truth. For now, as she looked at this boy, this handsome boy who appeared to be only a few years older than her, she no longer saw him. For the first time, she saw beyond his long black hair and his sparkling blue eyes. He might be smiling at her now, but soon his mood could change. And behind his soft smile, who knew what dangers lay in wait?
15
CONFLICT
As the days passed on the pirate ship, Connor’s hopes and fears ebbed and flowed as frequently as the tide. He clung onto the belief that Grace was alive, that she had been rescued by the Vampirate ship and that she was somehow — against all odds — surviving there. Mostly, during the day at least, he could cling onto this belief. But as night fell and he finished the day’s chores, dark fears took hold of him.
It was hard to believe that less than a week ago, he and Grace had been living in the lighthouse. And while Connor would do anything to turn back the clock — if it brought Grace back — there was much to be said in favor of life at sea. The Diablo was a pretty happy ship, in spite of the tension between Captain Wrathe and Cheng Li. Connor had made a good friend in Bart. And most of the other pirates were friendly to him, too, though he was always careful to avoid the Stinkbomb and Toothless Jack.
“A bit less thinking and a bit more mopping, please, Connor.”
He looked up and caught sight of Cheng Li, marching briskly past, the twin swords jostling on her back. Once again, she’d set him the job of cleaning the deck. He’d groaned inwardly at first but, once he got started on the task, it was no real hardship. It was good to be out in the sunshine, doing something physical and mindless.
“Hey, slowpoke!”
Connor smiled as Bart jumped up beside him. Bart had been given another area of the deck to mop but had clearly made swifter progress.
“Ain’t you a slowpoke, Mister Tempest,” Bart said, in a joke sneer. “What’s the problem? Is the mop a little heavy for ya, newbie?”
“Yeah, right,” Connor answered with a smile.
As he removed the mop from the bucket, its head heavy with water, he lifted it and swung it toward Bart, so that his mate received an impromptu shower.
Bart stood dazed for a moment. Connor wondered if he’d overstepped the mark. Bart had an evil look in his eyes. He took his own mop and dipped it in his bucket.
Connor had no time to “reload.” Instead, he held out his mop as if it was a sword, readying himself for Bart’s strike.
He watched Bart’s mop swing toward him but lifted his own to block it. The wooden poles clashed. Water sprayed off them, but Connor stayed dry.
“Bit of a natural, eh?” Bart acknowledged. “Cutlass Cate will be impressed!”
As Bart pulled his mop away, Connor quickly dipped his own mop back in his bucket. Now he was on the offensive. He lunged toward Bart, but Bart blocked the attack, lifting Connor’s mop high so that it drenched only Connor. The shock of the water was cold but invigorating. Connor recovered and lunged once more. His mop met Bart’s. Bart pulled away. And then they were parrying all along the foredeck, until they reached the very edge of the ship. Bart had the advantage. Connor was pressed against the deckrail.
“Guess I won’t make you jump overboard this time, buddy boy,” Bart said, a wicked gleam in his eye.
Connor sighed and, with all his strength, raised the mop once more and pushed Bart away.
With a whoop of delight, Bart leaped to respond to the challenge. Once again, they parried across the deck, the mops clashing against each other. Now it was Connor who had the advantage, having maneuvered Bart against a cabin door.
“Ah, you got me!” Bart conceded.
Connor smiled, watching as Bart lowered his mop head. They’d moved at speed across the deck and he was grateful to catch his breath. But as he did so, Bart jumped up and over him. Connor turned to find Bart waiting on the other side of him, mop poised to strike.
“Okay, okay, you win,” Connor said, laughing, “but you have to promise you’ll teach me that move.”
“Sure thing.” Bart was a proud victor. “But you did good there, junior. You only made one mistake. Just then. You looked at the mop, when you should have been looking at my eyes. Always watch your opponent’s eyes. The sword can lie, but the eyes don’t.”
With that, he flicked the mop head at Connor and showered him with filthy water.
Above them, they heard the sound of clapping. Blinking through the sunlight and the water in his eyes, Connor looked up and saw Molucco Wrathe leaning over the rail above.
“Very good, lads,” he called down. “Me an’ Scrimshaw enjoyed the show, didn’t we, Scrim? Maybe we’ll use mops and brooms on our next raid, eh, Bartholomew?”
“I reckon I’d sooner keep to the broadsword, if that’s all right with you, Captain.”
“Very good, Bartholomew,” said Captain Wrathe. “Now, Mister Tempest, would you be so good as to come up here to my cabin? I’d like a word with you.” The captain turned and disappeared back inside.
Bart nudged Connor. “Go on, get a move on! It’s never a good idea to keep the captain waiting.”
Captain Wrathe’s cabin door was open. Connor knocked on the doorjamb.
“Come on in, Mister Tempest.”
Connor could hear but not see Captain Wrathe. His cabin appeared to be vast, and was crammed with all manner of objects. This, Connor thought, must be what it was like entering a pharaoh’s chamber. A marble statue of an ancient goddess towered over a chest, out of which spilled gold coins and jewels. There were paintings — including one of sunflowers that looked really familiar — propped up against antique chairs.
Further inside, there were twin jeweled baby elephants almost as tall as the real thing. There were mirrors, higher than Connor’s head, which doubled the expanse of booty. All this must be plunder Captain Wrathe had amassed on the voyages of The Diablo, or perhaps just from his latest voyage. There were clearly some tasty benefits to being a pirate captain.
As Connor stepped deeper into the cabin, he heard music — a strange, haunting melody. Finally, as he peered past a pair of tall Chinese vases, he found Molucco Wrathe, sitting like a sultan of ancient times on a mound of plump silk cushions. Beside him, Scrimshaw was uncurling himself on a bright purple cushion and sliding toward a low table to inspect a plate of honeyed dates.
“You took your time, Mister Tempest,” the captain said. “Well, sit yourself down. I’ll just turn the music off.”
Connor sat down, cross-legged, on a large gold cushion.
“I said, I’ll just turn the music off,” Captain Wrathe said, more loudly than before.
The captain hadn’t moved from his seat — he’d simply raised his voice. The music played on. Connor wasn’t sure if he was supposed to do anything.
“Curses,” said the captain, reaching around and grabbing an antique warming pan. He turned and brought the head of the pan down hard on something behind him.
The music stopped.
Then there was a moan.
A man
fell forward onto the cushions, dropping a sitar at Connor’s feet.
“There,” said Captain Wrathe, “that’s better. I can hear myself think now.”
Connor glanced at the concussed sitar player. At least he seemed to still be breathing, Connor noticed with relief.
“Now, to business,” Captain Wrathe said, biting into a date and offering the remaining half to Scrimshaw. “How are you taking to life at sea?”
“It’s going all right, I think, Captain.”
“You must be thinking about your sister and your father an awful lot.”
“Yes,” Connor said.
“That’s as it should be, my boy. Think of them often and give yourself a chance to properly mourn their passing.”
Connor nodded, trying not to betray any emotion. Captain Wrathe seemed to have utterly ruled out any possibility that Grace was still alive. For the moment at least, there seemed little point in contradicting him.
“We can never make up for your loss, Mister Tempest, but if you cared to think of us as such, we could be your new family. Not to replace your real one — we could never do that — but all the same to look out for you and give you a place in the world. To reassure you — you are not alone.”
Connor was touched, not only by Captain Wrathe’s words but by his sensitivity to Connor’s feelings.
“Everyone’s been really welcoming,” Connor said, “Bart, Cutlass Cate, Cheng Li —”
Vampirates: Demons of the Ocean Page 8