Cast in Dark Waters

2

In the deep night, halfway to dawn, as she lays upon the sheets of her snow-covered tower, she whispers for her husband of only six months. He’s dead, she knows, but that cannot stop him from keeping his promises. She feels him here, now, slipping between the shadows and easing himself from corner to corner. The curtains rustle though the shutters are closed and locked.

Mother was right, there are faces in the drapes, and they’ve always been there, watching and tittering.

She reaches out blindly, first in one direction and then another, hoping to grab hold of him. The door is bolted and the hinges are of iron, but a thin sheaf of light eases from beneath and looms against the stone floor, rolling like the water at high tide. The room brightens a bit. He touches her lightly in odd places. Behind the ear, in back of the knee. She spins and brushes his chest, his neck perhaps, as he settles beside her among the thick covers. “Tyree?” she asks.

He presses himself against her and finds her backed up against her velvet pillows. Darkness twines as her misted breath rises to his face like smoke and breaks against his strong chin. His breath isn’t frosted in the cold room. She cocks her head, staring at the hard cords and muscles of his throat. The veins there are black and unmoving as marble. He doesn’t breathe at all.

“Tyree?” she asks again, and the name, though familiar, is almost difficult to form and say aloud.

He makes a plaintive sound. A sob perhaps, or a moan cracking distantly inside him.

“It’s me,” he says, and his voice, like the rest of him, doesn’t seem to be entirely with her in this world anymore. “Don’t be frightened, love. Here, take my hand. It’s always me.”

“Yes, I know that now.”

She reaches but cannot find his hand. She remembers something else that she’s been pushing away into the center of her mind. What’s hidden beneath the bed, under the pillows. The well-sharpened sickle. Nine hoops of wrought iron. A pike also made of iron and twice blessed by two different bishops on the far sides of Europe, or so it’s been told.

And also there, what she’s carved from good solid mountain ash wood and rowan trees. Six stakes, a seventh only half-completed. Wood chips and splinters dapple the floor.

Far below at the base of the tower, the ocean rumbles an underscore to her heartbreak.

He had been taken by a raiding ship less than a week after their marriage. They said the ship was damned, and that those aboard didn’t care about money or loot of any kind, only flesh. Men always cared about flesh: to love and hurt, to cook and eat. To drink. The stories were old and gathered power as they moved, on their own sails, from island to island, continent to continent. Those who were wise didn’t dismiss such tales easily, if at all. On the sea, every superstition proved true. Each god eventually showed its face in the storm.

She can see his lips but not his eyes, as he shoves her back and begins to remove his clothing. His shirt snaps wickedly as if caught in a wind. She’d torn the buttons off many times before and re-sewed them back on. The broad muscles of his chest are comforting, smooth and intimate, although his touch is freezing. She doesn’t need to feel his heart.

He speaks her name without affection or desire. It leaks listlessly from his mouth like slow-moving liquid. Her true name that only he and Welsh know anymore. “Cassandra.”

Tyree repeats it, making the word more lyrical, drawing it out with his tongue as if he is lapping at it. “Cassssssandraaa.”

A groan escapes her as she tries to draw aside and reach beneath the bed, knowing the time has come to do what she must do. She has to be fast. He can’t help but hiss. It’s because of all those new teeth that have suddenly grown in—too many of them to fit properly inside his mouth. They range all the way back into his jaw and deep down inside his throat, his gum line packed and overfilled, chewing anything that comes near.

“Cassssssssssssssaaaaandraaaaaa…”

“No, no, don’t…”

“It’s me, it’s always me, love, and now it’ssssss yooou…”

As her hand tightens on a stake of ash, she squirms and knows she is too late, he’s beguiled her and used her own love against her. She wants to scream but cannot, whispering, “Stay back.”

Now he climbs upon her back creeping like a beast and shoves her deeper into the mattress, all those many curved teeth nibbling at her shoulder at first and then, sluggishly—so leisurely—moving along to rip out her throat and plunge his snout into the spouting blood.

Crimson awoke in her room upstairs in the Hog’s Head, holding onto the sharpened pieces of ash wood. The wrought iron hoops lay directly beside her on a night table.

Her face was wet with his kisses and she dabbed at them, wondering if she was insane or merely crying. Drops ran across her jaw.

At first she thought these were only tears on her chin, but as she drew the back of her hand against her mouth, it came away bloody. A scream worked halfway up her throat before she realized she’d only bitten her lip.

He hadn’t come to her last night and drawn her into his hell.

Not yet.

Crimson spent the morning of the Hopewell’s arrival near the docks, watching galleons and other vessels anchor out beyond the reefs. Several skiffs were still making their way across the harbor, brushed back by the rising waves as the men rowing strained at their oars. She watched the many sailors landing, waiting for this Maycomb to make his appearance. If he was already dead, she’d be compensated by Dobbins one way or another.

Many of the men who were pirates now originally served the British Empire gallantly in Queen Anne’s war. English naval forces were often assisted by private ship owners, and their crewmen who were paid to plunder rival merchant vessels. After the war ended several years back, many privateers turned to piracy. They sailed the Caribbean and the Atlantic along coastal waters of American colonies, stealing freight and payloads when they could.

Piracy had grown prevalent in Virginia and North Carolina, she knew, since most of the Colonial Governors could be bribed to ignore criminal activities. The trouble with newfound countries is that loyalties were so often divided under floundering governments.

With commercial ships using the major inlets to access inland ports, pirates found the coastal waterways ripe for plundering. Though pirates anchored in the deep inlet channels and came ashore occasionally, they rarely had any treasure at all, and what they did have they didn’t bury, despite the rumors.

If the Maycombs didn’t offer her good money to help them in their cause, whatever it was, she’d ship out on the Alexandria’s Revenge under Captain Nordwick, a former Naval commander. She chose her ships and captains carefully, making certain that the flags she sailed under weren’t drenched in blood. Most buccaneers sought only plunder, not innocent lives.

The dock markets were crowded with mariners and cooks seeking provisions. Oil, clothing, timber, liquor, fresh meat and water were prominent needs that kept the merchants shouting and scampering.

On the hill, at the edge of the dunes, two hanged men swayed in the breeze, executed for rape, of all things. Usually such crimes against women never made it to any court, but the victim in this case had been a nobleman’s daughter. The execution had been well-attended, it seemed, with an excited crowd still gathered and watching the corpses twist. Crows sought perch on the dead men’s shoulders and were shooed away by children holding sticks. She’d seen her share of hangings by the age of ten, but this was the first for rape, and she took some satisfaction from it.

Ten Negroes—seven men and three women of various ages—were being paraded up on the block past British and American slave traders looking to stock up their plantations. Slaves were becoming a staple product in the Caribbean, and though Crimson abhorred the men who sold human beings like cattle, she still sought a way to make a profit off the conditions. Some of those African kings might pay well to have their people returned. Some of them had empires that rivaled Persia, although their ways were too foreign for the likes of most.

Washed by the morning foam-capped tide, the sun-scorched beach lay choked with driftwood, seaweed and the usual spattering of bodies. Sailors slept off last night’s drunk in the sands, and a few of the harlots had made their love-nests near the dunes. The scavengers would be along soon hoping to find booty that had been lost over the side of ships in weeks past, brought up by the current and the storms. They’d also rob whatever dead they found.

At the far end of this stretch of beach, Crimson spotted two bloated corpses that had been dragged up past the reef and torn to tatters by the rocks. One dead man looked as if his legs had been devoured. Sharks most likely, but there was always talk of islanders who still practiced cannibalism. Dismembered bodies like that one only served to fuel such gossip and rumors. The islanders had many tales of ghouls and evil spirits. She had a few of her own, as well.

At last, she watched an attractive couple disembark from the Hopewell’s skiff. Both were middle-aged and dressed in the somewhat foppish finery of the British royal class. They must not have been in Virginia for very many years, Crimson thought. Maycomb wore a blue silk coat, extra leggings, and a three-cornered hat tipped far back; the wife with an organdy dress of cerulean and a roseate scarf flapping in the morning breeze. Being aboard a pirate ship surely hadn’t taught them much about being inconspicuous. But Maycomb did carry a sword and a firearm out in the open, and she had to admit that he carried himself with a refined demeanor that demanded a certain amount of respect.

She met up with them at the end of the pier, careful to keep watch on who else might be observing her business. You never knew who wanted such information or who might be trying to sell it. Maycomb must’ve gotten a description of her from that rigger on the Yardarm, for he appeared to know her on sight. He removed his hat and gave a bit of a bow, a gentleman even in these parts. “Lady Crimson?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Maycomb.”

“I’m so glad you were still in port,” he said. “It would have been a dreadful shame to come all this way for naught.”

“It might possibly still be so,” she said.

Lady Maycomb let out a mournful cry, more like a bird than a woman. “Oh please, dear, don’t say that. We’ve traveled so far to meet with you and gone through such travails. Those abominable men and that detestable boat. And our situation is grave. This concerns our—” She would have continued but her husband hushed her with a gesture.

“I’ll listen to what you have to say,” Crimson told them, “and if I think I can help and it’s worth my while, I’ll tell you how much it will cost you. I don’t haggle and I won’t argue my points. That’s the fashion in which I do business. You either agree or find yourselves someone else.”

“Excellent,” Maycomb said. “Then let us repair to a hotel and have some dinner and libation. That damnable ship has worn us to the very bone. I need whiskey. A cask of it.”

There were three opulent hotels in Port of St. Christopher’s, and they were more refined and secure than one would expect in a cove of pirates. The reason, Crimson knew, was that most major countries had dispatched sub rosa agents to work with the privateers. There was loot each nation wanted stolen and it fell to these representatives to procure vessel and buccaneers, and to give them a list of exactly what was to be stolen from any particular ship. It fell to port officials to keep these delegates, operatives, and other important subjects safe lest they create a political tinderbox. Sometimes one could find sanctuary in the most unlikely of places.

The principal hotels had an air of European luxury and were designed to handle a dozen different languages and tastes, from the Slavic to the Mediterranean. Crimson took the Maycombs to the most lavish and expensive one, L’Hotel D’Avignon, in hopes of seeing just how freely the couple parted with their money. Maycomb was already known by the managers, who always kept an ear out for the names of the wealthy who might be traveling this quarter of the world.

They sat in an elegantly appointed room filled with exquisitely appareled travelers. The pirates kept away from places such as these; few had the gumption to cross boundaries that might bring down the wrath of more than one nation at a time. Assassins stalked these halls and kept watch on the envoys of enemy republics. She listened to four languages she recognized and two she’d never heard before.

Instead of whiskey they ordered wine and several dishes of small game and puddings, then sat in a dining area so extravagant that Crimson actually found herself growing a tad embarrassed. It was something she hadn’t felt since she was a child, and its unfamiliarity made her almost heady. She sipped the Superior Claret and waited for them to begin their story.

Elaine Maycomb, wrapped in her gaudy pink scarf and with eyes puffy from exhaustion, tried hard to remain composed. There was a stoic tilt to her chin but she was having difficulty maintaining it, on the verge of going into a swoon. Maycomb, with a skull full of vipers, took no notice of his wife’s fatigue. He’d already had enough wine to flatten three men but wasn’t affected. She knew the type of troubles it took to keep a man sober after so much liquor. He hadn’t even begun slurring his words yet, which proved he had great command over himself, at least in this. They’d been on ship for days with a ruffian crew, and Crimson wondered why Lady Maycomb didn’t retire to a comfortable bed and let her husband carry on in these matters alone.

Crimson set down her glass and pushed her plate away. “It’s not often easy for those who seek to engage my services to relate their histories and predicaments,” she said. “But that’s the only way we can do business. I won’t go leaping into deep waters without knowing why or what might lie in wait for me. And if you lie about these circumstances and I find out about it—and I will—you’ll be sorry you ever ventured off your tobacco farm.”

“You’ve quite austere conditions, considering you’re a pirate,” Maycomb said with a haughty tone.

“You’re right, but that’s my way.”

“So I’ve been told.”

Elaine Maycomb sensed the possible conflict here and interjected. “It’s about our daughter. She’s only nineteen and unversed with the world and its complexities. Her name is Daphna.”

“What about her?”

“She—well, she, you see—”

“Yes?”

A silence overtook the table and lengthened until Crimson nearly slid the silverware onto the floor just to hear the clatter. Maycomb steeled himself and said, “She attended finishing school outside of London. Late last autumn she met a man named Villaine.”

“I’ve heard of him. A privateer who sails mostly along the merchant lanes outside of Cuba.”

“That is so, as we understand it. Apparently he often returns to Westminster where he keeps up some of the veneer of his previous society life. Like so many of these freebooters, he once held a position of office among the Queen’s Navy before he turned his energies to marauding.”

“Piracy is a near noble calling compared to tenure in the British Navy.” Crimson should’ve held her tongue and not interrupted the man as he related his story, but the subject caused her grief whenever it was brought up. “That war cost the Empire a lot of good men, however you look at it. Between those that’ve died and those who’ve run off, I’d hope old Queen Anne is vigilant enough to stay her hand from other foolish skirmishes.”

“It’s my hope too.”

“Pardon my outburst. Continue.”

Maycomb crossed his knife and, fork in his empty plate and glanced over at the other men in the hall smoking after-dinner cigars and pipes. He licked his lips for the taste of it, and Crimson was surprised he didn’t have a tobacco pouch. Someone must’ve stolen it aboard the Hopewell. The smoke drifted and twined across the crystal chandelier, and she thought of her nightmare again, the vapored breath breaking against Tyree’s chin.

Keeping his voice firm but hushed, Maycomb said, “We did not know of the affair until after he and Daphna set sail for the Yucatan. I admit that my somewhat stolid ways, as well as the great distance between us, allowed for such an impressionable girl to fall for so worldly a figure. I should have kept closer watch on her. I’ve really only myself to blame.”

“No more reproach falls to you than to myself, Trevor,” Elaine Maycomb said, and placed her hand atop of his.

“How did you learn of all this?” Crimson asked.

“We hired a Fleet Street investigative agent named Widdins to set upon the case. Villaine wasn’t so difficult to trace, though he and Daphna had been rather discreet, considering. Still, a girl has need of sharing her excitement, and she confided in various friends of hers at school. Widdins fell to tracking them and kept in contact with us via other agents. He mentioned that Villaine and Daphna might have taken refuge on the island of Benbow.”

Crimson drew breath between her teeth. She tried not to react but her fingers spasmed against her glass and sent a harsh note ringing all across the room. Welsh had to be her father—in times of pressure, her hands often shook. She looked up from beneath the heavy curls of her hair. She tongued the spot where she’d bitten through her lip last night.

“Little more than two hundred miles south of us,” she said.

“Have you been there?”

“No, but I know of it. Almost everyone in the Bahamas does. Did your agent land on Benbow?”

“He was supposed to do so, but we never heard word again. We don’t know if he was killed by Villaine or other pirates, fell to disease or, in truth, what may have happened. Now that we’ve come so far and come this close to our daughter we refuse to abandon our obligation.”

“She’s just a child caught up in these worldly ventures,” Lady Maycomb said. “Please aid us if you can. I must see my Daphna again, if only to hold her one last time and say goodbye.”

Crimson rested her hands in her lap and shook her head. “This isn’t my sort of affair.”

“Pardon?”

“She’s of age. If she wishes to be with Villaine then that’s their decision. I see no reason for you to interfere or for me to intercede.”

Maycomb finished his wine and ordered another bottle. His wife stared glassily at him but he ignored her and continued drinking. “I understand your reservations, and under normal circumstances I wouldn’t dare ask you or anyone to aid me in this matter. However, we’ve received other disturbing news from friends and colleagues in these waters.”

“About Villaine?”

“That and… other concerns.”

Crimson said, “Name them.”

“You know of Benbow’s notoriety.”

“Yes,” she said, “as I said, everyone does in these waters. They say it’s a cursed island. Particularly among the slaves and South Americans you’ll find such prevailing stories. Benbow has a malevolent reputation. The myths go back hundreds of years, I’d guess, but saw a new resurgence a decade or so ago. A ship full of Africans coming in from Ghana was burned there by a trader angry with his competitors. Some sixty captives were burned alive and a few, supposedly, didn’t die. They were taken to the depths by the devil. In hurricane season they’re stirred to the surface where they set about and feast on men.”

Maycomb had obviously heard the tale. He may have been a proper Brit but she realized he had a superstitious streak beneath his lordly exterior. “And what do you think? Is it only a grand legend?”

“Not so grand. I’d say Villaine might have chosen a better place to put in. Quite possibly he settled there to take advantage of its unfavorable repute. It would help keep strangers away. Whether government officials or other buccaneers who might attempt to sack him.”

“In the West Indies, there are those who believe in beasts known as the Loogaroo.”

Crimson willed her fingers to stop trembling and poured herself another glass of wine. She tried not to swig it and hoped to appear calm. She had perfected a stony countenance long ago, but now she could feel the facade about to crack and slip. “Go on.”

“The creatures are also said to have once been human, men and women who’ve made a pact with Satan or some old world god, receiving profane powers in exchange for offerings of blood. The Loogaroo is a shapeshifter that’s presumably entered the Caribbean from Guinea and the African Congo. On the ivory coast they call it Asanbosam.”

“So they say.”

“I spent a great deal of time in Scotland as a child. There, this beast, if it exists, is known as the Boabhan Sith, a parasite that disguises itself and lures travelers to their deaths. The Germans have another name for it, the Blutsauger. In Ireland, the Dearg-Due.”

She did not need a history lesson in this area. She’d met people from all across the face of the earth and heard the epic fables and mythologies. The Chinese named it His-Hsue-Kuei, the “suck-blood demon.” Brazilians knew the Jaracacas, which appeared in the shape of a snake feeding from the breast of a nursing mother, which pushed the infant out of the way and kept it quiet by shoving its tail into the baby’s mouth. Until the beast grew tired of milk and began feasting on blood. She knew of at least a dozen more such tales.

“You’ve quite an imagination, Mr. Maycomb.”

“I pride myself on my reason and common sense.”

“Perhaps most men of wild fancies do, sir.”

Elaine Maycomb, who had offered nothing to this thread of the conversation, turned pale and managed to cough a single word loose from deep in her chest. “ Daemonia Wampyros.”

“There’s no such critter,” Crimson replied, as she always would.

Maycomb eyed her for a moment. “Have you ever been in love, Lady Sanglant Cheveaux?”

“The hell kind of question is that, you pompous bastard?”

“We’ve heard that you know something of these matters. That you yourself have lost one dear to you.”

“You’ve been told lies.”

“You needed to know my circumstances and now you do. I’ll pay whatever price you ask. I want to hire a private vessel and have you lead us to Villaine’s refuge. Once there, you can leave immediately if you so wish.”

“You can both sink to the bottoms.” Crimson toppled her chair as she stormed out, hoping none of her enemies approached just now. She wouldn’t be able to draw her cutlass with these damn hands. Her lip was bleeding again and she sucked at it, tasting the blood as it filled her mouth.

She spat it out on the lobby floor.