The Demon Awakens (16 page)

“I will come back,” he promised, “but only if you so desire.”

Before, she could even consider the question or the implications, Cat found herself mesmerized by the way his lashes closed upon those beautiful brown eyes. He was tall—he had to be close to six feet—and slender, but his body was hard with well-honed muscles. Strange emotions swirled in Cat as he lightly touched her arm, vaguely familiar feelings but ones she had not felt in several years.

“May I, Cat?” he asked.

“No,” she replied, and his expression became crestfallen. “Not Cat,” she explained quickly, and then, with a most curious expression, she said, “Jilly.”

“Jilly?”

“Or Jill,” the young woman replied, seeming sincerely confused. “Jill. Jill, not Cat. They used to call me Jilly.”

Her excitement mounted with each word, and so did Connor’s. “Your name!” he exclaimed. “You’ve remembered it!”

“Not Cat, never Cat,” Jill said firmly. “It is Jilly, Jill. I am sure of it!”

He kissed her, right on the lips, but he backed off at once as if in apology, as if to let her know that it was unintentional, a consequence of his sudden joy.

Jill let it go without a word.

“You must go and tell Pettibwa,” Connor bade her, “though surely I hate to part with you now.” He tipped his chin toward the door behind the young woman.

Jill nodded and moved to leave, but Connor caught her by the shoulder and turned her about to face him.

“May I return to Fellowship Way?” he asked in all seriousness.

Jill thought of some smart remark about the tavern being a public place, but she held her tongue and merely nodded, offering a warm smile. There followed a tense moment—Jill, and probably Connor, not sure if he would try to kiss her again.

He didn’t; he just grabbed her hand in both of his, squeezed it warmly, then turned and walked away.

Jill wasn’t sure if she was glad of that or not.

Pettibwa accepted the news with the purest joy—Jill was afraid that the woman would be hurt when she cast off the name Graevis had given to her. Far from it, though, the woman bubbled with joyful tears. “Not fittin’ to be calling ye Cat when ye’re no more a girl,” she said, wrapping Jill in a hug, falling over her so heavily that the strong young woman could hardly hold them both upright.

Jill went to bed that night full of warm feelings, some pleasant, others too intense, too uncomfortable for her to understand. Her thoughts careened back and forth between the realization of her true name and her experience with Connor. So much had happened, in a single night! So many emotions and memories had come rushing to the surface. Now she knew her name: Jill—though she knew that she was more often called Jilly.

And that feeling when Connor was close to her! How could she sweat so much on such a cool night?

That feeling, too, seemed something out of her past, something wonderful and terrifying all at once.

She couldn’t place it, and didn’t try. She knew her name now, and suspected that alone would begin to bring other memories back to her. And so it was with a true jumble of emotions, a purely teenage churning of confusion, fear and warmth, happiness and the verge of terror, that the young woman, no longer Cat-the-Stray, drifted off to a sleep of the sweetest dreams and the starkest nightmares.

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CHAPTER 15

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Miss Pippin

They were out beyond sight of land all too quickly, rolling on great swells and an aroma so thick that Avelyn felt as if he could float atop it. They were busy every minute, checking and rechecking lines, adjusting the rigging, for the
Windrunner
hadn’t been out to deep sea in several years and Captain Adjonas was clearly nervous. Old Bunkus Smealy seemed to take extra pleasure in ordering the monks on any particularly dangerous task.

But the old sea dog couldn’t fathom the level of physical training these four men had endured. He ordered Thagraine and Quintall up the yard of the mainmast, and so up they went, faster than any crewman on the
Windrunner.
Smealy sent them far out on the yard, and they went easily, hanging under, hand over hand, adjusting the rigging and then sliding down the ropes to stand on the deck right beside the first hand.

“Well, next for ye—” Smealy began, but Quintall cut him short.

“Take care, Master Smealy,” the monk said calmly. “We are as part of the crew, and as such, will work—” He paused, his stare boring into the man. They were about the same height, but Quintall carried an extra fifty pounds, every one of them hardened muscle. “—as the crew works,” Quintall finished ominously. “If you entertain thoughts of working the brothers of St.-Mere-Abelle beyond what you demand of the regular crew, then accompany those thoughts with visions of swimming.”

Smealy squinted perhaps a dozen times in the next few seconds and lifted a hand to scratch hard at his gray hair—to kill a few lice, Avelyn figured. The twitchy little man looked across the open deck, past the staring eyes of the crewmen, to the tall, regal figure of Captain Adjonas.

Quintall suspected that he and his fellow brothers might be fighting very soon, but so be it. He had to set the ground rules right away or this would be a long and perilous journey indeed. This was Adjonas’ ship, that Quintall did not dispute, but the abbey had paid well for this transport and the brothers had not been put aboard as slaves.

To the relief of the monks—though Quintall felt a bit of disappointment—Adjonas tipped his great feathered hat to the monk and nodded slightly, a clear sign of respect.

Quintall glowered at Smealy, the old sea dog trembling with frustration. Smealy glanced at each of the four monks, spat something unintelligible, then stormed away, taking out his rage on the nearest crewmen.

“You took a chance,” Pellimar remarked.

Quintall nodded. “Would you have us treated as cattle?” he asked. “We would all be dead before we ever reached Pimaninicuit.” He grunted and started away.

“Not all, perhaps,” Thagraine remarked, stopping Quintall short.

Avelyn and Pellimar held their breath at the bold words. The monks still carried some jealousy, Avelyn—and obviously Thagraine—realized, concerning which pair would go onto Pimaninicuit.

Quintall turned slowly. Two long strides brought him right up to Thagraine. “You might have fallen from the mast,” he said bluntly, his tone making the statement sound like a threat. “And then I would journey to the island.”

“But I did not fall.”

“And I did not push you,” Quintall stated. “You have been given your duty, and I mine. I will get you to Pimaninicuit.” He glanced Avelyn’s way. “Both of you, and if Captain Adjonas or Bunker Smealy—or any others aboard the
Windrunner
—conspire differently, they will answer to Quintall.”

“And to Pellimar,” the fourth monk added.

“And to Thagraine,” the man said, smiling.

“And to Avelyn,” Avelyn was compelled to add. The bond was immediate and secure, the four monks putting aside their personal squabbles in light of potentially more dangerous enemies. Avelyn, who had worked so closely with Quintall for more than four years, found that he believed the man wholly. He looked at Thagraine, who by fate had become his most trusted ally, and he smiled when he noted that the man and Pellimar, who had been together a year longer than had Avelyn and Quintall, had clasped wrists firmly, staring eye to eye.

It was indeed a good start.

No land came in sight for three days, the
Windrunner
making a direct run to the southeastern point of the Gulf of Corona, the northern tip of the region known as the Mantis Arm. They saw a light after dusk on that third day, far to the south but obviously high above the waterline.

“Pireth Tulme,” Captain Adjonas explained to his guests. “The Coastpoint Guards.”

“Whatever it may be,” Pellimar put in, “it is good to see a sign of land again.”

“You will be seeing it often over the next two weeks,” Adjonas replied. “We will run the length of the Mantis Arm near to the shore, then to deeper water in a straight run to Freeport and Entel.”

“And then?” Pellimar’s voice was full of anticipation.

“And then we have just begun,” Quintall put in firmly. The stocky man knew their course better than his three companions, as part of his private training with Master Siherton. The dangers of such a voyage were many, but perhaps most prominent among them was the danger to the mind. Pellimar seemed too eager, as if he expected Pimaninicuit to be quite close to Entel, but in truth, the
Windrunner
would likely spend the better part of four months getting to the island, and that was assuming favorable winds. Even if they arrived at Pimaninicuit early, they would only spend their days encircling the island, awaiting the day of the stone showers.

“Then we turn more directly south,” Captain Adjonas added.

“In sight of land?” Pellimar asked.

Adjonas scoffed at the absurd notion. “The only land to be seen would be the coast of Behren.”

“We are not at war with Behren,” Pellimar promptly put in.

“But the southern kingdom has little control over its raiders,” Adjonas explained. “To be in sight of land would mean to be in sight of pirates.” He snorted and walked away, but paused, looked back, and motioned to them.

The four began to follow.

“Only you,” Adjonas said, pointing to Quintall.

The stocky man followed the captain into his private quarters, leaving his three curious companions out on the deck with the cold, wet wind and the distant light of Pireth Tulme.

Quintall returned to them much later that evening, belowdecks in the closet-sized compartment they now called their home. There was something weird about his smile, Avelyn noted, something misplaced.

Quintall took Thagraine’s arm and led him out of the cubby, then the stocky man returned alone.

“Where?” Pellimar asked.

“You will learn soon enough,” Quintall replied. “I think two is enough for one night.” He moved to his bunk as Pellimar and Avelyn exchanged unknowing shrugs. Their curiosity only heightened as Quintall chuckled repeatedly, until he fell away into a sound slumber.

Thagraine was likewise chuckling the next day on the deck. Avelyn wasn’t sure the man had ever rejoined them the previous night, and indeed he looked haggard but certainly not displeased. The stoic Avelyn dismissed it, all of it. Apparently Quintall and Thagraine’s secret posed no threat, so whatever it might be really didn’t matter. For now Avelyn had his duties, and his goal was growing closer with each gliding league.

Pellimar, though, was not so patient. He prodded Quintall repeatedly, and when he got nowhere with the stocky man, he went to his older friend. Finally, after the bright sun had nearly reached its zenith, Quintall and Thagraine exchanged nods.

“The ceremony of necessity,” Quintall explained with a grin—a rather lewd grin, Avelyn thought.

“A fine one,” Thagraine put in. “Not so long in the trade, I’d guess.”

Avelyn narrowed his eyes, trying vainly to decipher the cryptic talk.

“Not here,” Pellimar breathed hopefully, having apparently figured it all out. Avelyn looked at him for some clue.

“Only for Captain Adjonas,” Quintall explained, “and for the four of us, who have earned the captain’s respect.”

“Not so long a trip then!” Pellimar cried. “Direct me!”

“Ah, but you have rigging to tie,” Thagraine teased.

“And I’ll work all the better after the—”

“Ceremony of necessity,” Thagraine and Quintall said together, laughing. Quintall nodded his approval and Thagraine led the eager Pellimar away.

“What are you talking about?” Avelyn demanded.

“Poor dear Avelyn,” chided Quintall. “Sheltered in your mother’s arms, you have never learned of such treasures.”

Quintall would say no more about it, leaving Avelyn chewing his lip in frustration for the rest of the afternoon. Avelyn stubbornly decided that he would ask no more, that he would overcome his curiosity, treating it as a weakness.

That discipline lasted only until the four took their supper, a bowl of lumpy, lukewarm porridge in the tight quarters of their small room, when Quintall talked of taking “first watch.”

“We set no watch,” Avelyn protested. “That is the job for the common crew.” The monk certainly wanted no part of a night watch on the decks, for a soaking rain had started, and even the smelly, damp cabin was better than walking the slick decks, or even worse, climbing the masts.

“I am second,” Thagraine said quickly, to Pellimar’s dismay.

“Fear not,” Quintall said to Pellimar, “for I am sure that Thagraine’s watch will not last long.” That brought a laugh from both men, obviously at Thagraine’s expense.

Avelyn shoved his plate forward forcefully, angered now at being left out of their little secret. It wasn’t until Quintall had left, though, that he finally got the clue he needed.

“She’s a fine one,” Pellimar remarked, quite offhandedly. Thagraine’s face as he glanced Avelyn’s way showed that he was disappointed; that alone clued Avelyn in to the fact that Pellimar had slipped.

“She?” Avelyn asked.

“The ship’s whore,” Thagraine admitted, scowling at Pellimar. “I am thinking that your watch, Brother Pellimar, just became the fourth.”

“Third,” Pellimar insisted. “If Avelyn desires a ride this night, he can wait until I’ve finished!”

Brother Avelyn sat back, thoroughly overwhelmed. The ship’s whore? The ceremony of necessity? His hands grew clammy—more out of sheer fear than anticipation. He had never expected such a thing, could not comprehend that his companions, on the most important journey of their lives should they live a century, would surrender to such base urges.

“Surely you are not offended,” Thagraine scoffed at him. “Ah, but it is simple embarrassment, then. Why, my dear Pellimar, I do believe that our companion here has never ridden a woman.”

Ridden a woman? The coarse image burned in Avelyn’s mind. To hear his fellow monks speaking of something as sacred as love in such crude terms did surprise and offend him.

He said nothing, though, fearful of making a fool of himself. Avelyn understood that he could lose more than a little respect from the other three, and that any mistakes could cost him dearly as the weeks aboard the
Windrunner
dragged on.

“You go after Thagraine,” he said to Pellimar, trying to keep his voice as steady as possible. “I will wait for another time.” He turned to lie on his cot then, noting the judging look Thagraine was sending his way. There would be a measure in this of his manhood, Avelyn realized, a test he could not fail. To completely lose the respect of Thagraine, or any of the others, could jeopardize it all. There were replacements for Pimaninicuit, after all, and Quintall, so strong and virile, Quintall, no doubt practiced in the arts of lovemaking, Quintall, who would likely visit this woman daily at the very least, was next in line for the island.

But the thought of actually going to see the woman terrified Avelyn. Thagraine’s perception of his sexual past was indeed accurate. All his adult life had been devoted to his studies; there had been no time for such diversions. He tried to push it all from his mind and find solace in sleep, but he got another shock when Thagraine and Pellimar began speaking in quite familiar terms of a certain maidservant and two of the cook’s helpers back at the abbey.

“More practiced than any of them,” Thagraine assured Pellimar, speaking of the ship’s woman.

“Yes, but the young one,” Pellimar argued, his voice almost wistful. “Bien deLouisa was her name, was it not?”

Avelyn’s stomach churned; he knew the woman, hardly more than a girl. She worked in the kitchen at St.-Mere-Abelle, a beautiful young lady with long black hair and dark, mysterious eyes.

And now these two fellow brothers were comparing her love making techniques!

Avelyn found he could hardly breathe. Had he been so blind as that? He had never even suspected that anything so sordid could go on at St.-Mere-Abelle.

He didn’t sleep well at all that night.

The weather was rough over the next few days—mercifully so, in Avelyn’s estimation, because he and his companions were kept very busy, attending rigging, a dangerous yet thrilling exercise in the gusting winds, and crawling in the dark belowdecks, checking for leaks in the hull. At one point, they even took up buckets as part of a bailing line.

The grueling schedule, though, allowed Avelyn the opportunity to put off his more personal problems. He knew what would be expected of him—the other three viewed sexuality as a test of manhood—and, on one level, at least, he was indeed intrigued. More than that, however, Avelyn was simply terrified. He had never known a woman in that way, and didn’t know how he would react. Every time he passed that cabin door, a small stateroom just behind the quarters of Captain Adjonas, he trembled.

His sleep every night was fitful, tossing and turning even more than did the
Windrunner
on the rough swells. All his dreams melded into that singular, mounting fear. He began to envision monsters behind that door, a horrid caricature of a woman, of his mother even, leering at him as he entered, eager to destroy his finer feelings, to steal his very soul. But even those nightmares were not quite that simple, for Avelyn’s other instincts, more base than any he had ever allowed himself to feel, often made him attack that female demon as fiercely as she attacked him, wrestling and kicking, biting in furious, uncontrollable passion. He awoke always in a cold sweat, and one time found himself in an even more uncomfortable position.