Vampirates 3: Blood Captain (7 page)

11

SNOW

Grace was having a hard time getting to sleep. She was dog-tired after the efforts of her journey to Sanctuary. Nevertheless, she couldn’t seem to still her restless mind. She was so excited to be here — excited that Lorcan would now begin the path to healing and excited to see more of Mosh Zu Kamal at work.

At least, she thought, she had adapted her circadian rhythms to that of the vampires — sleeping through the day and rising at nightfall. Though she missed the light, there seemed to be no other option if she was to really get to know them. She remembered her first days and nights aboard
The Nocturne,
when, shut away in her cabin, she had felt cut off from time. It was good to adhere to a rhythm, even if it wasn’t the rhythm of your average mortal.

Beside her, Shanti groaned and twisted in her bed. In
Grace’s
bed, rather. Having taken the only bed, you’d have thought she’d have the decency to sleep quietly! But she was twisting and turning and sighing . . . it was as if she were having a bad dream. Grace contemplated waking her but decided on second thought that a sleeping Shanti, however disturbed, was mildly preferable to a wakeful one.

Grace settled herself back on the pillow. She needed more height under her neck, so she lifted the pillow and slid her pack underneath it. As she did so, she saw the ribbon Shanti had given her, lying on the floor. She scooped it up in her fingers and then lay back against the pillow. It was much better now the pack was underneath it. She wriggled to get the rest of her body as comfortable as she could on the thin blanket. She gently held the length of ribbon in her hand, letting it sneak about her fingers like a snake. As she did so, she felt her eyes grow heavy. Gratefully, she closed her eyelids and felt herself at last drifting into sleep.

She was soon in the middle of a dream. Though it was vivid, at first she was aware it was a dream. She was lying back, gazing up at the night sky. The sky was perfectly clear and full of stars, like a bale of cloth rolled out as far as the eye could see.

Something was digging into her neck. She raised her head and, twisting around, saw that her pillow was a saddle. Surprised, she rubbed her aching neck, then lay back down again. Nearby, she heard a whinny. She twisted her head once more and saw a horse standing not too far away, its reins fastened to a tree.

Seeing that the horse was all right, she smiled and settled back against the saddle. She lay there, looking up at the stars, feeling perfectly at peace with the world.

As she lay there, she felt something tickling her nose. Her first thought was that the horse was nuzzling her.

“Stop it, Whiskey!” she giggled, somehow knowing the horse’s name. But the tickle continued, growing wetter. “Whiskey!” she exclaimed again, opening her eyes. But the horse was standing to her side, just where he had been before. She realized that the tickle on her nose came from flakes of snow. It was falling thickly, plump snowflakes dropping regally from the sky. The ground was already thick and white. Strangely, lying there, she felt no chill. She was too lost in the beauty of the falling snow, floating down like blossoms over her until she was utterly covered by a thick white blanket.

Then, somehow, she was on the back of a horse — on Whiskey — riding through the snow. She wasn’t alone, either. Looking ahead, she saw the familiar shapes of her brother and father, right out at the front. Between them were other men on horses and a herd of cattle. She felt a sense of belonging here, the same sense of comfort that she’d felt lying in the snow before. Her family was here. Whiskey was here. This was home, right here on this horse.

“Permanezca allí, Johnny,” called her father. “Subimos adelante.”

Stay there, Johnny. We’re going on ahead.

And somehow it wasn’t strange to be called Johnny. She realized she was a boy. She looked down at her hands clasping the reins. Sure enough, they were a boy’s hands — young but already callused from time long spent working the reins. Well, this was a dream. Anything could happen in dreams. She could understand Spanish in dreams. She could even speak it.

“Si, Padre!” she called, settling back onto Whiskey’s saddle as the horse plowed through the snow.

The ground was climbing fast and the snow growing thicker and thicker, swirling about them. She could barely see the men on either side of her.

“Nice riding, Johnny,” she heard a voice of encouragement at her side.

“Just like his papa,” said another gruff voice.

Then everything shifted. It was as if the earth were moving underneath Whiskey’s hooves. She heard cries from above and all around. Human cries and the wilder lowing of cattle. She felt herself and Whiskey being jostled from all sides.

“Hold tight, Johnny! Pull back! Hold tight!”

She was doing all she could, but it was so hard. The snow was blinding now. It cut her off from the others. She gripped Whiskey’s reins as tight as she could, but the horse was bucking her, trying to throw her. Holding tight, she realized with a start that she was no longer riding through the snow. She was in the heat of the midday sun, sweat pouring down her brow, riding a horse — which wasn’t Whiskey — in a paddock. The red dust beneath her met the bluest sky she had ever seen.

“Look at Johnny go!” called a man from the other side of a fence. He was wearing a Stetson and she realized she was, too.

“If Johnny can’t break her, nobody can,” another man called to the first. Together, they watched her ride the bronco. She turned away, looking down at her hands. They were no longer the hands of a boy either. Here, gripping the leather ropes, were the hands of a young man.

There was cheering. The noisiest came from two fellows just over the fence. But looking up, she saw that she was no longer in the quiet paddock. Now she was in a show arena and on all four sides a crowd was cheering for her. As she held tight on the bronco, she caught a flash of a sign on a sweep of cloth: county, seventeenth annual rodeo.

The cheers were so deafening, now she knew she must have won. But somehow, she didn’t feel joyful at the prospect. It was like something was missing. The comfort she’d felt earlier — lying under the stars and then riding in the snow — was gone, and somehow she knew it wasn’t coming back. It’s only a dream, she told herself, just a dream. I could open my eyes at any moment. But she didn’t. She held the reins tightly and let the dream carry her from one rodeo ring to the next.

Everything began to speed up. She was riding, always riding. But now, she was journeying through the country. Through snow and sun, wind and rain. Sometimes on her own. Sometimes with one or more at her side. Sometimes with a herd of cattle between her and the next man. On and on she rode. She was growing tired. Soon, she’d have to stop riding and settle down for a long, long sleep.

The snow came down again. Thick and pretty as before. But this time, the snow made her feel sad and lonely, unbearably lonely. All around her was white, save for the dark gray silhouettes of leafless trees. She rode on, heavy of heart, the cattle all around her buffeted by the weather. Under the dark skies, the cattle seemed gray. Everything was gray now — funny how pure white snow could turn so ugly so fast. In the distance, she heard men talking. She couldn’t hear the words but there was something in their voices that made her shiver.

“That’s it, Johnny!” she heard the cry. “You’re doing a great job! Just like always.”

But though the words were reassuring, she felt nothing but coldness. She had the sense that everything was coming to a close.

Suddenly, she wasn’t on the horse any more. She was back on the ground. Back in the snow, but it didn’t feel comfortable this time. It didn’t even feel cool. It felt like it was burning her. Above her was the night sky, and in spite of the snow, it was as bright and star-filled as that first time — which now seemed a long, long time ago. She was moving fast along the ground, being pulled by a rope. It hurt really bad. She prayed for it to end. And suddenly it did. The motion ceased and she was still once more, thick snowflakes dancing toward her. For a moment, it was beautiful and calm.

Then two pairs of hands reached for her and pushed her roughly. They were shouting things but other voices were shouting against them and the words were indistinguishable, so much white noise.

“String him up! Up next to the others!”

She felt something being hung around her neck. It was as if she had gone from being rider to horse. But these reins were too tight. Much too tight. She could feel her throat constrict. She opened her mouth to scream. Then, at last, she opened her eyes.

“Shanti!”

Shanti’s face was bearing down over her, her eyes staring wildly into her own, blazing pure hatred at her. Glancing down, Grace saw that Shanti’s hands were clamped to her neck. Shanti was strangling her!

“What . . . are . . . you . . . do . . . ing?” she managed to rasp out the words before Shanti’s hands squeezed even more tightly.

In pure terror, Grace looked into Shanti’s eyes. They were utterly empty.

“Don’t fight it,” Shanti said, in a voice as cold as metal. “There’s no point in trying to fight it. I’m stronger than you. It’s much easier if you just let go.”

12

SEVEN WORDS

“Quick,” Bart hissed to Jez as Molucco crossed the deck. “Jump into the safety boat.” For a dead man, Jez jumped fast.

“Connor!” cried Captain Wrathe, approaching fast. He was wearing an elaborate robe, with metallic threads and jeweled beads that glittered in the moonlight. His hair was even wilder than usual, jutting up in the air as straight as the ship’s masts. Connor saw that it was pushed back from his forehead with what he at first took to be a scarf. Then he realized it was an eye mask. This, Connor presumed, must be Molucco’s sleeping gear. It was no less fabulous than his usual finery.

“Captain Wrathe!” said Connor. “We thought you’d settled into your cabin for the night.”

“So I had, dear boy,” said Molucco, his wild eyes roving the deck. Connor dared not turn around but prayed that Jez was safely out of sight. Molucco shook his head. “I just can’t get to sleep. Too many thoughts swimming around this old head of mine.”

“Perhaps you’d like to talk about it?” Connor said, gesturing with his hand to direct the captain away from the safety boat and toward the other end of the deck. Captain Wrathe nodded and began walking alongside him. Connor gave a quick glance over his shoulder and saw Bart give him the thumbs-up. Phew! The danger was past.

“It was quite a jolt seeing my brother and his family again tonight,” Molucco said.

“I’m sure.” Connor nodded.

“Quite a jolt! You know that Barbarro and I haven’t been on speaking terms for quite some time?”

“Yes,” Connor said. “I had heard.” Was Molucco about to tell him the origin of the fraternal feud?

“Death changes everything, you see,” he said, fixing Connor with wide eyes. “You’re only just beginning your life’s voyage,” Molucco continued. “But you’ll come to know this, my boy. Death changes everything.”

Connor was silent but he thought to himself that death had already changed everything for him and his sister. They would never have been at sea at all if their father hadn’t died. Connor and the captain had now reached the midpoint of the ship. Connor looked out at the dark ocean beyond. His thoughts turned to his lost family — to his dead father and his dear sister, wherever she was now.

He was drawn back to the deck by footsteps.

“Ah, hello, Bartholomew,” boomed Molucco. “How goes the watch?”

“Very quiet tonight,” Bart said, with a reassuring nod. “Very quiet indeed, eh, Connor?”

Connor nodded.

“Well, then.” Molucco smiled. “Let’s have a drop of rum, shall we?” He pointed to the nearby safety boat. “From your private supply?”

Bart looked guilty but Molucco laughed. “It’s a trick as old as piracy,” he said, “hiding a cheeky flagon in a safety boat. To keep the chill out of your bones and some fire in your belly during a long night watch. Come on, Bartholomew, quit blushing and fetch us each a snifter.”

Bart lifted the tarpaulin and climbed into the boat. He passed Connor the bottle and three enamel mugs. Smiling, Molucco took the bottle from Connor’s hands and poured a hefty slug of rum into one of the mugs. He passed this to Bart, then poured a similar amount into the other mugs as Connor held them before him.

“Come on,” said the captain. “Let’s have a seat up on the poop deck.”

They walked up to the top section of the deck and sat down under the wooden canopy behind the ship’s wheel. Above the wheel hung a lantern, its light sending a soft glow over the surrounding area. As Connor sat down cross-legged beside Bart and Captain Wrathe, he thought how, at this moment in time, there was no hierarchy among them. They were just three pirates taking a break while their ship idled in tranquil waters.

“A toast,” said Molucco, lifting his mug. The others raised their mugs aloft, too, as he declared, “A short life but a merry one!”

“A short life but a merry one,” echoed Connor and Bart. The three men clinked their mugs together. The toast was one Molucco had used before, Connor remembered. It summed up his view of a pirate’s life in just seven words.

Connor winced as he took the smallest sip of rum. He still hadn’t gotten a taste for it. He hoped that the others wouldn’t notice if he didn’t partake of much more.

“Was it good to see your brother again tonight?” Bart asked Captain Wrathe.

Molucco nodded. “Oh yes,” he said. “It was very good. Very good indeed. We had been at odds too long.” He smiled, but the smile soon faded, and he took another swig of rum. “It makes me sad though, sad to think that the three brothers Wrathe will never be together again — at least not until the two of us join dear Porfirio in Davy Jones’ Locker.”

This, Connor knew, was pirates’ slang for the bottom of the ocean. He imagined the three Wrathe brothers lying down there — in a grave marked by coral and algae, visited only by sea urchins and starfish. It was too grim a thought to ponder for long.

“I just wish,” Molucco continued, “that Barbarro could accept that Porfirio is gone, and leave it there.”

“Can’t he?” Bart asked.

Molucco shook his head. “No. No, Barbarro is obsessed with revenge. And Trofie, too. I understand it. Of course I do. I had the same hunger. But I told them. We have already taken revenge. I’ll never forget that night we hunted down the ship of Porfirio’s murderers . . . and destroyed it.”

Connor would never forget it either. He guessed that none of the pirates who had put out to sea that night ever could.

“I told them about it,” Molucco continued. “Told them how you, Mister Tempest, came up with the brilliant strategy of fighting the fiends with fire. How the flames soared up to the very heavens and took all of those monsters down to their rightful dwelling place.”

At these impassioned words, Connor thought of Jez. At this very minute, he might be hiding in the safety boat. It was a miracle that he had survived, but perhaps his goodness had somehow saved him. Connor thought a little more. Jez needed to be somewhere he belonged now — among his own. If they could just get him to the Vampirate ship, to seek the captain’s help, maybe his suffering would come to an end.

Molucco frowned and interrupted Connor’s musings. “But Barbarro and Trofie were not there and they do not understand. They want to know why Porfirio was killed and who the villains were who slaughtered him and his crew. I told them that we can never truly hope to understand why or who. That even if we did, it would not bring Porfirio back. Nothing can do that, save the dear memories we have of him.”

“You’re right,” Connor said.

The others turned to him, perhaps surprised at the force in his voice.

“I mean that the battle is over. There are no enemies left to fight.”

Molucco nodded, then fixed Connor with a look. “But there are other Vampirates, aren’t there? Your sister is with them now.”

Connor nodded. “Yes,” he said. “But they were not responsible for what happened. You can’t condemn a whole group of people because of the actions of a few.”

“I don’t know,” Molucco said. “The way Barbarro talked, I think he’d happily hunt down every last Vampirate and slay each one.”

Bart shivered. “I wouldn’t rate his chances. Not after what we saw that night.”

“Besides,” Connor added, spurred on by thoughts of Grace, “it wouldn’t be fair. It would be like killing every last pirate because of . . . because of how we suffered at the hands of Narcisos Drakoulis.”

Molucco caught Connor’s glance and held it. “You’re right, lad. You both are. We don’t want to tangle with the Vampirates again. If only I can make Barbarro see things our way. But he’s as stubborn as a mule. And then there’s his wife . . .”

“What they need,” said Connor, “is a distraction.”

“A distraction?” Molucco said, his eyes suddenly sparkling.

“Connor’s right,” Bart said. “We need to come up with something that takes their minds as far away from death and revenge as possible.”

“That,” Molucco nodded, “would do us
all
some good. But what?”

They all thought for a moment, each taking a sip of rum. Connor winced as he swallowed it down. Then it came to him.

“A raid!” he exclaimed.

“That’s it!” Bart slapped him on the back. “A good old pirate raid!”

“No,” Molucco was as fired up as the others. “No, boys, not just another pirate raid. The mother of all raids. Yes! You’ve given me an idea.” He looked fit to burst with excitement. “Quick, Bartholomew, fill up my cup and don’t be stingy. I can feel an idea coming on . . .”