Very, very peculiar.
Bart rubbed at his brow. “Milady Cameron Jack, meet our resident cockroach, so named for the shadows he calls home and the way he scutters about them and sneaks up on everyone. Some claim so that he can cut their throats for profit and theft.”
The Frenchman made a rude sound of disgust. “Ignore the mannerless, motherless snipe. Armand de la Roche at your service, madame.” He clicked his heels together and gave her a proper court bow that was completely at odds with his shabby, careless clothing. “Enchanté.”
“Merci, monsieur. Ravi de vous rencontrer.”
Covering his heart, he acted as if he savored every syllable. “You speak beautifully and yet I detect a hint of an Irish lilt in your voice.”
“Me mother was French and me father Irish. They brought us to Virginia when I was a small child.”
“Us?”
“Her brother.” There was a note of ice in Bart’s tone that Cameron didn’t quite understand. “Now, Roach, if you don’t mind…”
He stepped in front of them to cut off their path. “Pardon, Monsieur Meers … mais you do not want to be doing that.”
“Why ever not?”
“There is a bit of a calamity onboard. It would appear as if le soul has gone a-missing … again.”
“Ah, dear God.” Bart appeared sick to his stomach.
“Oui! Exactement!”
Cameron scowled at them. “Soul?”
Bart let out a long-suffering sigh. “Not even sure how to begin to explain this … one of our crew—”
“Absalon le lune—”
Bart grimaced at Armand. “He’s not crazy. Per se.”
“Ja, he is!”
Armand’s use of German amused her.
“Anyway,” Bart said between clenched teeth, ignoring him. “Sallie is under the stupidity that his soul was somehow sucked out of him and trapped inside an old rum bottle by a malicious witch.”
Cameron gaped incredulously at the utter travesty of that belief. “What? Why?”
Bart gestured helplessly. “We’ve learned not to ask these questions, as they lead us into a realm of madness from which there’s no escape. And let’s face it, reason and logic abandoned this crew long ago. Therefore, we don’t judge each other over the insanity, for there’s not a member here who isn’t a bit … touched in the head and peculiar in the ways.”
“That is also true,” Armand agreed. “But more so than any other, Absalon is … how do you say? A moonbug?”
She arched a brow. “Moonbug?”
“Lunatic,” Bart said with a grimace. “Roach screws up about half of everything he attempts to say. English is not his native tongue. Stupidity is.”
Roach made a sound of supreme irritation. And an extremely vulgar gesture that left Cameron wide-eyed and gaping—and she’d grown up an orphan, working in one of the most dangerous taverns in Williamsburg, frequented by scoundrels, pirates, and known rabble-rousers. In fact, she prided herself on being jaded and worldly for her age. Yet these men made her feel rather naïve and prudish.
Suddenly, she heard a loud whooping sound that was followed by cackles of raucous laughter.
“Ach, now! Ye faithless, motherless dogs! Give me back me soul! What’s wrong with the sorry lot of you! What kind of cretin bastards be stealing a man’s soul now, I ask you?”
Bart groaned out loud and slapped himself across the forehead. “I can’t believe I died painfully in order to deal with this shite. I think I’d have rather stayed in hell. At least there, I only had Lucifer and his demons to contend with, and not the Devyl’s bane and his idiots. No offense, but our Devyl scares me a whole whopping more than Old Scratch. Bastard’s deadlier too, and more cantankerous. Never do you know what’s going to set him off. Or how he’ll react to anything.”
Laughing, Roach clapped him on the back. “There, there, mon ami, ca c’est bon! ’Tis better than hell, anyway.”
The look on Bart’s face contradicted that as he rushed forward to deal with the thunderous voices.
Cameron stayed back, unsure of what exactly she was getting herself into on this quest to find her brother and return him home for Lettice, and her own personal sanity and safety. Time was running out, quickly, for the lot of them. Paden had left them all in a bad situation, and he had no idea of it.
Nathaniel had taken ill a few weeks back—as had Lettice, yet Lettice’s illness had turned out to be an unexpected pregnancy only she and Cameron knew about. The girl was to have Paden’s baby, and if he didn’t return in the next few months to make an honest woman of her, there would be hell to pay for the whole lot of them. No doubt, Nathaniel would take his anger over his daughter’s unwed pregnancy out on Cameron’s head if he couldn’t locate her brother. There was no telling what the surly man might do to her in retaliation.
Nor did she wish to find out. Nathaniel barely tolerated her presence in his inn and tavern as it was. Only his fear of Paden kept him in check.
If he learned Paden was dead and that her brother had left Lettice in a bad way …
Nathaniel would pull his protection of her, and Cameron would be penniless, homeless, without friend or family. Alone in a world that didn’t look favorably upon anyone without means, references, or prospects.
Those thoughts scattering, Cameron slowed as she neared the ship and saw the extent of the crew’s utter madness. Men, and women who were dressed as men—so much for her being original—were chasing each other around the deck of the ship as they tossed an old amber bottle among themselves to keep it from the hands of a middle-aged seaman who stood an inch or two shorter than Cameron.
With a scruffy dark beard that was liberally laced with gray, he appeared affable enough. Why they sought to torture him, she had no idea.
Bart let out a fiercely loud whistle. “What manner of blatant stupidity be this? Are ye all daft? Or just wanting your enemies to sneak up and cut your throats while you’re all distracted and screaming about like a bunch of weak-kneed trollops?”
Strangely amused and equally terrified of this group, Cameron stayed on the dock and watched as Bart slowly subdued them and collected the poor sailor’s “soul” from a large Maasai warrior before returning it to the distressed man.
“Zumari!” Bart chided the warrior. “I can’t believe you of all the ones on board would partake of such cruelty.”
“I’d have never, had he not started in on me first!” Zumari’s voice was as deep and lyrical as Bane’s. But his mood was much lighter, in spite of the fact that she held no doubt he was every bit as lethal in a fight.
Cameron was just about to head onboard the ship to join them when she became aware of a small group of soldiers nearing her.
Grim-faced and heavily armed, they stalked past her with a determined stride that didn’t bode well for whatever target they had in mind.
It froze her instantly.
A good thing, too, since that target turned out to be Bane’s crew.
Stepping to the side so as not to be in the middle of whatever mal intent they had, she caught the feral grimace on Bart’s and Zumari’s faces the moment they saw them that said they were both a bit put out at the way fate had decided to treat them this night.
With his legs braced wide apart and his arms crossed over his chest, Bart met them at the top of the gangway and refused to allow them access to the deck of the ship. “What can I do for you, gentlemen?” The icy tone of his voice undermined the cordial words. As did the number of crewmen who came to stand behind him as reinforcements.
The soldiers didn’t flinch, especially not their leader, a dark-haired bloke who bore a jagged scar over his left eye that said he was lucky to still have it. Unlike the others, he wasn’t dressed in uniform. Rather, he wore the clothes of a well-dressed port official, or another privateer captain. “It was brought to our attention that you came into port earlier this day without colors or jack. We’re here to inspect your papers and whatever cargo you might be carrying.”
Their leader didn’t flinch or back down. “Are you refusing to show your papers?”
“I don’t bow to a common pirate hunter, if that’s what you be asking, Barnet. You can take your men now and begone from this ship. There are no pirates among us. You’re wasting your time and ours with this useless endeavor.”
“If you know me, then you know I won’t be leaving here until I see that paperwork.”
A slow, insidious smile spread over Bart’s face as Zumari stepped closer to back him. “Wouldn’t be taking that wager, were I you. But I’ll be taking odds on your leaving with disappointment in your heart, any day. Thrice on it today.”
Just as the notorious pirate hunter Jonathan Barnet began to bluster in argument, a deep, resonant voice came out of the shadows. “There a problem? And the correct answer is nay, Devyl, there is not.”
The color faded from Barnet’s face as he turned slowly to see Devyl Bane and William Death parting from the fog on the docks. They walked past Cameron without acknowledging her in the least—which was fine by her since she didn’t want to be under anyone’s scrutiny while they were embroiled in this bit of heated controversy. Best to keep a low profile—that was the first lesson she’d learned as a girl after the death of her parents.
And how Captain Bane’s voice traveled so effortlessly without his raising it, she had no idea. Yet it held that chilling, commanding tone and hung in the air like the voice of some ancient war god.
“Captain Bane,” Barnet greeted with the smallest hint of a quiver in his own throat. “This be your ship?”
“Don’t make a habit of trespassing on other men’s vessels.” The way he said that conveyed an insinuation that he wasn’t talking strictly about boats. “Now get your mud-laden boots off her boards, as your mere presence here offends me to the core of my being, before I seek to teach you the manners your mother should have.” He didn’t pause to even look at Captain Barnet. Rather, he kept walking straight past the entire group as if they were of no consequence or concern whatsoever.
Barnet took a step forward, but Bart and Zumari blocked his path to prevent him from following after their captain. “You have a new crew…,” Barnet said.
Bane didn’t so much as glance back at the infamous pirate hunter. Instead he made his way straight to his cabin.
William, on the other hand, paused at Bart’s side and turned to smile at Captain Barnet and his men. He fussed at the cuff of his jacket in the manner of a jolly fop. “Greetings, Johnny. Catch any scary pirates lately?”
Color returned to the pirate hunter’s cheeks to darken them with a sudden rage. “Looking for Captain Cross. Heard he’d made his way into our waters. Him and Jean St. Noir.”
William tsked. “Does this look like the Fickle Bitch or the Soucouyant? Barnet…” he chided. “I’m highly offended. Our lady ship’s offended.” He tsked at the group with Captain Barnet. “Best you go on before Bane hears of this and takes a sword to you for the insult to our lady’s honor. This be a first-rate man-o’-war here, not some half-rigged sloop or frigate. He won’t like that slight … not at all.”
Grimacing, Barnet swept his gaze across the silent crew who stood around to back their quartermaster. “There’s something not right about the lot of you.”
William winked at him. “There’s something not right about the lot of the world, mate. We just embrace our natural differences with gusto.”
And with that, Captain Barnet and his soldiers finally departed the gangway.
William followed them down to the dock as if to ensure they left the area and didn’t double back in an attempt to sneak aboard some other way.
Cameron didn’t move until after Captain Barnet and his men had vanished into the night.
“Did they scare you, ma petite?”
Cameron let out a startled shriek at the voice that manifested right beside her ear. Jumping away from it, she turned to see a peculiar man standing so close that she could feel his breath on her flesh.
His skin was a rich caramel color, stretched tight over a body that rippled with defined muscles the likes of which she’d seldom seen on any male—Captain Bane notwithstanding. And that wasn’t the only peculiarity he possessed. His black hair was cut short and worn spiked atop his head in a strange, unique style.
And those eyes …
Merciful heaven!
They were unlike any shade she’d ever beheld in her life, especially with the rest of his coloring. A cool, steely blue, they had a deep grayish cast, and yet …
The color truly defied explanation. More like a silvery storm on a dark, sinister sea. In a weird way, it reminded her of how the parson and his scriptures described the color of the pale horse that Death rode in the Apocalypse.
Stranger still, the sleeves of his black linen shirt were rolled up to his elbows, displaying that both his forearms were covered with scrolling black tattoos that appeared more akin to a second skin color than actual ink.
He quirked one finely arched eyebrow at her continued silence. “Devil got your tongue?”
She shivered at the sound of his voice. “That is an incredible accent you have there. Wherever are you from?”
His smile turned warm and charming. “A place I know you’ve never heard of. Wyñeria. The accent’s a form of Igñeri … Island Carib.”
He was right about that—she’d never heard of his homeland before. But over the years, she’d learned of many different towns and small islands in the Caribbean. “Which island?”
“Let’s just say it’s between Trinidad and Tobago, and keep it at that.”
“Leave off our new crew member, Kalder. Captain’s orders,” William said as he joined them.
His tone wistful, he spoke to Mr. Death in a lyrical language Cameron had never heard before, then he headed for the ship.
She scowled as she realized Kalder was barefoot, with no stockings. As with his arms, his legs from the knees down held peculiar scrolling tattoo marks.
“What did he say?” she asked William.
“Not fit for repeating to a lady, me love. Afraid you’ll find the majority of our crew isn’t the most refined of creatures. Kalder Dupree is one you’ll be wanting to give a bit of a berth to.”
“Why? He seemed cordial enough.” If not a bit unnerving with his silent movements and piercing stare.
He winced. “If you keep going on what things seem to be, child, rather than what they really are, you’re in for a long haul with this group.”
A sudden whistle rent the air.
Before she could ask about it, William took her arm and ran with her for the gangway. He all but dragged her onboard while the crew scrambled as if they were making sail in the dark.
William didn’t slow until they reached the mainmast, where Kalder stood next to an even more peculiar-looking man. This one was tall and lean, with a bare chest decorated by animal bones, beads, and feathers strung together to form the kind of adornment she’d only seen worn by certain Powhatan tribal elders who came to trade with merchants in Virginia or meet with town officials. Yet that and the feathers strung to his staff and beaded armbands seemed at odds with his long, dark blond dreadlocks that were favored by some of the islanders she’d met on this latest quest. And he’d painted his face like no one she’d ever seen. Not shaman or warrior. Meanwhile, he wore the breeches and boots of a fine European nobleman and the sword of a Saracen nomad. Truly the man had a style unique unto himself.
“What is it?” William asked them as he let go of her arm and moved to stand beside the strange man.
“There’s an ill breeze blowing off the port bow.” The man glanced to Kalder. “Reeks of what we’re charged with policing.”
Kalder rolled his eyes. “I think the fetid bitch just wants to make sure none of us sleep tonight.”
He snorted at Kalder’s rude words. “I’m not the one you need to fear, brother.” He jerked his chin at something behind Cameron. “Sancha appears to have been ass-up in Nelson’s Folly a bit early tonight.”
Cameron turned to see an exceptionally tall and gracefully lanky woman headed for them. Her long, curly black wig was askew as she weaved across the deck, making her way for the steering wheel. Without a word, the woman clapped a hand to Kalder’s shoulder as she attempted to step around them, fell against him, then righted herself. With a kiss to his cheek, she pushed herself away and fell against Bart, who then helped her stand upright. How the woman could make her drunken dance appear so beautiful, Cameron had no idea. Yet Sancha was elegant while tipsy.
But when the men actually allowed the woman to take her place at the helm, Cameron gaped at them. “What the hell, man?” The curse was out before she could stop it. “You’re planning to let her steer the ship while drunk?”
The strangely mismatched man laughed. “Of course. We only fear her when she’s sober. Then Sancha’s a nasty tart with a wicked twist of the whip … and a tongue that lets even more blood, ever quicker.”
That only confused her more. “Then why did you say you feared her?”
“Everyone fears her, love. I merely commented on the fact that, second to the captain, she’s the scariest thing on this ship, and that she’s imbibed quite a bit tonight … even for her.” He winked at Cameron. “Name’s Rosenkranz, or Rosie, and what be the name of such a sweet tender morsel as you?”
As she opened her mouth to answer, a cry sounded for Kalder to duck. Yet before he could oblige the call, a bucket of water ended up being slung against him.
She expected him to explode into anger.
He didn’t.
Rather, he groaned as his entire body changed instantly … his skin became slick and silvery like a fish’s iridescent scales. Gills opened at his neck, while his teeth elongated to fangs. What she’d mistaken for tattoos became fins that protruded from his arms and legs.
Choking, he sputtered and coughed, then turned to glare at the sailor who’d doused him. “Careful! You lousy bilger! Watch where you be tossing that or I’ll be making you drink it through your nose!”
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