The Kraken’s Mirror
By Maureen O. Betita
Smashwords Edition Copyright © 2011 by Maureen O. Betita
ISBN: 978-1-936394-67-8
Cover art by Dara England
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~DEDICATION~
To the crew of the RomanceWritersRevenge.com.
You know why!
Prologue
Silvestri could feel Mick at his back, watching. The card game progressed with little attempt at fair play. He kept with it, biding his time as he lost again and again. The curse stepped in when he won his next hand and the next, no matter how they cheated. The dealer glared at him and raised objection to the last hand.
At the same moment, the fire in the hearth flared from a simple bit of warmth to raging hell. It roared into the room. The smell of burning hair rose to Silvestri’s nostrils, then the charring flesh. Mick’s hand gripped his shoulder to haul him away from the table, already crackling as the fire spread merrily amidst the screaming and shouting.
He climbed to his feet, showing no panic, leaving Mick to gather the coins. With a sigh, he looked around the small tavern, filling with smoke and death. A great crack sounded above him, and he turned to sweep Mick under his arm. A beam slammed into the space Mick vacated.
Fucking curse. No discrimination.
“That was more than good luck,” Mick said, as they hurried away from the burning building. Nothing more was said until they were back on the water. Mick took the oars, stepping casually to the bow. The candle lantern at the stern cast a shadow, hiding his face. So like Mick to keep to the shadows when uncomfortable.
The stink still lingered in his nose. Burning flesh wasn’t something a man forgot easily. The lingering impressions from the bar were hard to shake.
“All the idiot did was cheat,” Mick softly murmured.
Silvestri shifted on the stern bench, trying to see some light shine on Mick’s face. Was he smiling? Or grimacing? Impossible to tell. “I told you it was getting worse. I thought it was just my imagination. I hoped your impression would confirm that,” he said.
Mick chuckled. “He wasn’t even a good cheat. But why the whole tavern? Because of one card shark? Your curse overreacted. Been doing that for how long?” The oars made barely a ripple as they struck the water. Mick knew how to approach a ship without detection.
Silvestri stopped his rowing. “I started keeping track ten years ago, when some idiot tried to start a fight with me and ended up with a broken neck. When Glacious first set this curse on me, the fool would have suffered a simple fall in the muck of the streets. I’d have laughed!”
Mick appeared to be listening, letting the cutter drift. Hard to tell with the younger man. For the last eight years, Mick danced close enough to reap the benefits of Silvestri’s notorious good luck curse, but skated away before it managed to steal his luck. Mick beat the curse with this waltz.
Too bad Silvestri couldn’t dance away from it.
Damn. He’d been an idiot when he was fifteen. But that magical bitch was incredibly beautiful. At that age, he hadn’t looked beyond that allure and into her heart. “You know the story, Mick. Most don’t have a clue.”
“Aye. You told me. How she magicked you off your ship and offered you all the good luck in the world. Set you back aboard, none the wiser. All you need do was come back at your birthday and visit with her. You still do that?” Mick’s tone was low. Voices carried far on the water.
“Can’t help it. She anchored a deep compulsion in me.”
“I imagine it’s a cold celebration. Are you going to sail with my father? He needs someone to keep an eye on him.” Mick’s voice lightened his worry. Silvestri snorted, noting he made no mention of the real reason Daniel wanted him along. With the bearer of the good luck curse on board, the ship was guaranteed a safe voyage.
“What’s keeping you from going with him?” Silvestri raised an eyebrow.
“I met a new woman, and it’s at that delicate place. Don’t want to just disappear for months,” Mick answered, looking away.
A woman? Well, about time. That’s why he needed Silvestri. Fine. He’d do it. Daniel was an idiot who needed a bit of a keeper. Must be one hell of a woman. Shaking his head, he banished the fleeting thought of never having a woman to call his. Glacious and this fucking curse would tear apart any woman he looked twice at.
They bumped up against the Immortal. Mick reached for the net at the side and paused. “What is that?”
Silvestri followed Mick’s glance to see a small Kraken caught in the net. He reached down carefully. “Help me.”
“Help you what? I ate already, before your luck saw the inn burn to the ground. What do you want with that?”
“You want some good luck of your own? Glacious hates the Kraken, all of them. She has a collection of frozen ones at her palace. I figure if she hates them, aiding them helps me.” He cupped the little monster in his hand and lifted it gingerly.
Mick snorted, but bent and lifted the net, holding it steady as Silvestri carefully unwound the tangle of line that caught the beast. He flinched away as Silvestri carried the squirming bit of slime to the other side of the cutter and lowered it back into the water.
Silvestri straightened and held Mick from climbing to the nets. “Mick, promise me. If you find Kraken in trouble, you help them out. Tobias, the magic man in Barbados, told me to never eat them. They remember—you do them a good turn, they’ll do you one. You want good luck? This costs less than making a black bargain with that ice-ridden bitch.”
Mick stared at him, cleared his throat, and then answered. His words were measured, slow, and steady. “I give you my word. Savvy? I won’t eat them, won’t catch them…as long as I don’t have to touch one, I’ll be kindness itself to them.” He turned and set a foot in the net, muttering to himself, “Now, if they’ll not eat me, we’ll be fine.”
Silvestri knew he was being patronized, but he didn’t care, as long as Mick gave his word.
Silvestri snickered, looked at his slimed hand, and wiped it on Mick’s boot as it rose past him.
He secured the cutter to the haul line and paused before boarding. Glancing down into the water, he considered the balance he carried. Fifty-five years old. Forty years of reaping the benefits and drawbacks, of her curse. Release—all he wanted was release.
Revenge wouldn’t be bad either.
Chapter One
She handed the old woman a five-dollar bill and reached into the dark, fabric-lined barrel. Her arm went in past her elbow and she fished around, trying to figure out what her fingers touched, what her money would surprise her with. One finger stroked an interesting texture and with an oof, she pushed her arm in another few inches to snag the prize.
“Ye find yerself somethin’ sweet, lady?” The old woman grinned at her.
Emily held up her catch. A mirror? No, it held a photo.
“That be a nice piece a’ swag! Who be next ta plunge inta the depths a ‘Davy Jones’ bag and see what the sea might release inta their grasp?” The woman hawked her wares to the busy crowd behind Emily.
Easing away from the pressing throng, Emily moved to an empty table near the food court to examine her find. It was round, like a hand mirror with a handle, but instead of glass, a photo of a man gazing into the distance filled the frame.
“A Hollywood pirate.” Emily smiled. That seemed appropriate, here at the Northern California Pirate Festival. Older than most buccaneers, she found him interesting. Leaning against a railing with one leg raised, he reminded her of the Captain Morgan rum advertisement. His legs were encased in dark breeches and sported gleaming, black boots with the cuff rolled down at the knee. A good-sized sword fell at his side, and two pistols were tucked securely into a sash across his chest. Typical swashbuckler, though, definitely longer in the tooth than most movie rogues.
She stroked a finger over the weathered skin and creases at his temple. His hair flew free, fading blond to silver against a blue-tinged sky. There was no clear view of his eyes, but she bet they were sharp and full of experience. A shiver traveled up her spine at the thought. Probably extremely experienced.
She turned the frame over to examine the intricate pattern she’d felt there. It was fascinating, a bright white, like bleached bone. Carved or molded, she wasn’t sure which, into a nest of tentacles. After a moment, she figured it out. A great ocean monster wrapped about the frame. On the front, suckers lined the circlet. The backside was bumpy, yet it seemed like a real sea creature, slick and smooth. Touching it reminded her of stroking a starfish at the aquarium.
Long tentacles wound down the handle, ending in a loop where a leather strip would easily attach. She turned the dainty once more to notice that at the top were two shiny, black eyes, with a knob between them she assumed was a forehead of sorts.
With a grin, she stroked the head. “You’re a Kraken, aren’t you? Caught a pirate in your maw, you clever thing!”
She dug into her leather sack for a slender strap. Usually, she carried a few—never knew when she might find something to use one on. She secured the frame to her belt, quite pleased at her little five-dollar trinket.
Wandering the fair, her hand continually dropped to fondle her pet Kraken, as she thought of it. It was so strange to be here by herself. Last year, Tom was here with her. Laughing, holding her hand, examining the wares, trying to figure out how things were made. Since he was an engineer, such things interested him. Her husband squatted and conversed with the tradesmen, asking questions and taking notes, always intending to undertake these projects. He’d planned to carve a chair, assemble a faux cannon, and stitch a leather pouch. Tom figured there were years ahead of him to do it all. Damn, she missed him.
This weekend she paid tribute to her late husband and how much they’d loved attending events such as this one. She wasn’t sure she’d ever be up for another, now that he was gone. She’d raise a glass to his memory. He’d been gone eleven months. A stupid accident, a drunk driver, and her world turned into a lonely place. It took him, the dog and the cat. He’d made a trip to the kennel after a cruise vacation and been nearly home. She’d heard the crash, the sirens racing down the road....
The trucking company settled a small fortune on her, since the driver lived long enough to reveal the company knew he was a drunk when they put him on the road.
She’d received the settlement check a week ago. Not that it made up for anything.
A man nudged her. “You done looking at the books, ma’am?”
Ma’am. She was now a ma’am. Growing old was the pits.
“Yeah, sorry.” She moved back, without buying anything. Brought a ton of money and found nothing she wanted to spend it on. Maybe she’d go look at the long, leather bodices.
The merry chatter of the crowd surrounded her as she wandered. The squawk of three parrots riding the perches fastened to a handcart made her smile. She’d seen that show—they were amazing birds. And the old salt who trained them did a great job at engaging the audience. Even now a trail of youngsters followed along, eyes on the bright plumage. She bet they thought to snag a feather.
That would be a tricky thing to accomplish, seeing those bills and the sharp eyes of the birds. As if they knew what was going on around them.
Maybe they did. She was a believing sort of woman, well aware there was more to the world than she would ever understand.
She dodged the Scottish pirate on stilts, his furred legs going all the way to the teeny, tiny shoes he balanced on. This time she kept her head down, not wanting to stir the stiltwalker’s ire. She’d giggled at his legs the first time she’d passed him, and he’d stalked after her, asking her, “What was so funny?” A good bit of show, but she wasn’t one for drawing that sort of attention to herself. He did an excellent job, staying in fierce character on his ridiculous stilts, wearing his kilt and all.
When she reached the booth she sought, none of the fancy bodices appealed to her. Maybe she was getting too old to imagine herself wearing copious amounts of leather? She didn’t even try one of them on. It was hard to get one of the young salesclerks to meet her eyes, let alone answer questions about size. She wasn’t young, tall or slender—hence she didn’t count. The festival was proving a depressing situation. True, the young and perfectly thin salesclerks always ignored her, but today it compounded her blues.
She promised herself to stay for the concert, due to start in several hours. Shifting her small, black backpack to one shoulder, she wandered over to the bone pin stand. At least no one thought it odd if she covered her bag with witty sayings. Oh, she liked this one. Don’t Worry, It’s Not My Blood.
Good one.
What the hell—she liked her plain leather bodice, and it went well with the dark blue, checked shirt, black breeches and Teva sandals. At fifty-three years of age, she was invisible to most of the young people working the booths. Someone ought to clue them in on whose wallets were fat and whose were thin.
Sigh.
It was time to eat and drink. She reached down to touch her new frame and held it up to once more admire the pirate’s picture. There was something compelling about….
“Fuck!”
A mother with two kids in tow glared at her for cursing.
She ignored the outrage. The photo was gone! She’d been right initially; a mirror reflected her face back at her. She saw no signs of glue. She’d assumed it was secured, but it wasn’t. She scanned the ground at her feet. Her heart beating with disappointment, she retraced her steps from the last few hours, scanning the ground as she went, but finding nothing.
By the time she gave up, she was thoroughly hungry. And angry. The photo was gone. She knew it was stupid to be disappointed about losing a picture. Now she owned a lovely mirror. Still, a sense of loss ate at her. She needed chocolate. And liquor. Maybe something salty and greasy.
She bought a passable rum punch—not great, but acceptable. Years spent as a bartender developed her drink palate to a particular degree. She purchased a plate that included a corndog and a handful of fries. Ice cream would be next…and maybe another punch.
Sitting at a table, she ate, one eye on the mirror set in front of her. It upset her to lose the image. Losing it shouldn’t bother her so much. It was just a picture. A nice souvenir should be enough.
This trip wasn’t working out at all as she’d hoped. Coming to the pirate fair alone probably hadn’t been a good idea. But it was the first stop on the way to her new life. House sold, possessions stored, new mini RV parked in the overnight lot, waiting for her next adventure. Once the event was over, she’d head for the open road.
She pulled out her cell phone to check the time and looked at the posted schedule for the concert stage. Two more hours, and she’d already seen everything that interested her: the merchants, the small shows, the food booths. But she wanted to hear the Sea Dogs. She and Tom once joined in a small pirate cruise out of Sausalito, and the same group entertained them for several hours. It was a good memory. Resigned to amusing herself, since her appetite for shopping never materialized, she pulled out her new book.
The romance novel she’d begun the night before simply didn’t hold her attention—another young, thin virgin trying to escape her fate. She was tired of the same plot and wanted something different. Closing the book, she left the table and stood in line for another snack.
She strolled over to the harbor walk and settled down behind a wall of hay bales to enjoy her ice cream and punch, finding some protection from the breeze blowing off the water. San Francisco wasn’t the tropics, no matter how the festival liked to portray itself.
The ice cream tasted good, a rich mix of chocolate and peanut butter. The butterfat coated her tongue. Next, she pulled out a small bottle of rum she’d smuggled into the fair and spiced up the beverage. She crossed her legs, dug into her backpack, found a small booklet she’d picked up on women pirates and settled down to read, sipping her improved drink.
Falling asleep wasn’t part of the plan. Between the rum and the long drive to San Francisco the day before, exhaustion overcame her. The few drops left from her cup spilled onto her new mirror, still secured to her belt. She’d clean it up later, she sleepily thought. Was that a bit of fog creeping in? Pulling her breeches down to cover her lower legs, she let the drowsiness win.
She crossed over between one breath and the next.
***
One last thrust brought him some satisfaction. He collapsed, gasping, on the soft, white breasts of the working girl.
“You feeling better, Captain?” she giggled.
He hated women who stifled their laughter and seemed to consider a high-pitched titter an appropriate response. He patted her shoulder, deciding not to attempt conversation with her. She’d served her purpose. Her services took the edge off his hunger, though not by much. He rolled off her and tossed her a small bag of coins, dismissing her. His eyes drooped and sleep beckoned.
But the moment his eyes closed, the stranger’s visage glowed on his eyelids. There she was again, still lodged in his brain. The same place she’d been for the last eight hours—ever since he woke up that morning. Her face—eyes bright, though weary—hinting at some loss. Nice shade of brown, like her short hair. Shorter than he’d ever seen most women wear their hair. Hell, most men for that! A wild mix of brown and grays. She wouldn’t giggle.
He liked her lips. Hell, he loved them. The thought of that soft mouth against his set him on fire. A slight tilt at the left side betrayed some humor. He wondered what she sounded like when she laughed.
When he opened his eyes, his cock swelled once more. It was no use. Sleep wasn’t on his agenda, and the whore was gone, happy with her payment. He slid a hand down and stroked his prick. Damn, who was she, and how the hell was he going to get her out of his head?
Chapter Two
Emily started when someone ran into her leg. The sound of a dropped bottle brought out the scold in her. Great, some drunk kicking her…awake. She’d fallen asleep?
“What?” A man’s shadow loomed above her.
“Do you mind?” Emily rolled her eyes and rubbed at her calf.
He squatted, sweeping a large hat aside to study her. She met his eyes and glanced at the container rolling away from her thigh. She reached for it. “Yours, I assume?”
“Yes, thank you.” He took it from her, shook it, and tossed it aside. “Empty, anyway.”
“Don’t leave it, you twit! Haven’t you ever heard of recycling?” She struggled to her feet, taking his offered hand. He was a gentleman, at least, and took her weight without complaint. She could appreciate that, even if he didn’t seem to care about the environment. She stalked to where the bottle now rested against a wooden wall. Picking it up, she looked around for a trashcan, preferably one that separated recyclable materials.
He stood next to her. “Pardon me, Lady. What are you looking for?”
“A trashcan,” she replied. Gazing about, she whistled. “They did a nice job over here. I didn’t notice when I sat to…uh…relax. What time is it? I didn’t miss the band, did I?”
“Your pardon, the band? What band?”
“The musicians! For the stage? Damn, I don’t believe I fell asleep. Shit.” She shook her head, tucked the empty bottle under her arm, and bent to collect her bag.
“Musicians? You’re looking for musicians! I can help you with that. Here, let me have the bottle, since it’s valuable to you. I’ll take it back to Sam—he can reuse it if he wants.” He held out his arm. “Allow me to escort you. The best music is found at the Barmy Cock. I am Captain Michael March, at your service. I do hope you are uninjured.”
“Yeah, I’m fine.” She shivered. “I should have known it would get chilly once the sun set.”
“Please!” He gallantly slid out of a soft captain’s coat and placed it over her shoulders. She was dealing with a real player who took the role of gallant seriously. With a grin, Emily kept in character. “Call me Lady Pawes, Captain March.”
“Oh, Michael, please. Or even Mick. Lady Pawes? You like to take your time?” He smiled at her. They were close to the same height. He had her beat, but not by much. The faint light gave the impression of black hair, long and held back in a ponytail. A short beard and stylish mustache completed his pirate persona. He set his hat back atop his head before offering her his arm.
“Oh, no, not that sort of pause.” She halted abruptly when they turned onto a street. A real street—not the grassy lanes she’d traveled earlier that day. “They transform the fair for the evening?”
He tilted his head at her with the question. “I’m not certain what you’re asking.”
She wasn’t supposed to notice changes to the grounds? She sighed, probably not. If she was going to participate, she needed to just accept that these pirates took their roles quite seriously. He led her to a lit doorway—a riotous sound spilled out to greet them.
“But here we are! This is the Barmy Cock. The crew is meeting me here later, but please be my guest until they join us.” He led her through a ragged set of doors into an actual room, not a temporary fabric booth. They brought their own tavern! What a grand bit of theatrics. A long bar took up one side, and Emily was tickled to see the number of bottles and brands on display. Her type of tavern!
Three hours later, she found herself standing behind that lovely length of wood, next to a giant of a man. Sammy worked serving drinks, but once she’d advised him on how to mix what she liked to call a rum sunset—since it ran counter to a tequila sunrise—he invited her to join him.
Mick’s crew joined the growing crowd. Emily felt right at home as Sam handed her the bottles she couldn’t reach, and she mixed, blended, laughed and totally reveled in playing pirate bartender. Somehow, the reality of Mick’s officers consisting of only women didn’t surprise her. She didn’t blink to discover that he was a captain, but not the captain of this particular band of sailors. He was the type to let a woman make assumptions regarding his importance.
Mick’s motley group gathered at one side of the bar, attempting to convince her to drink with them. When the band started playing, Sam lifted her over the bar and insisted she join the rest in enjoying the music. “None are gonna want anything fancy while there’s dancing. Go, enjoy the music!”
But dancing was thirsty work, and by the time the band played their closing number, Emily was thoroughly soused. She bent down to pick up her pack and fell. Sliding over to rest her head on the legs of a barstool, she decided to sleep. Screw it—she’d stay until morning.
She vaguely heard the argument going on above her. Sweet that they were concerned about her. The trip out to their ship telescoped to nothing more than being helped to a hammock.
Chapter Three
After waking from a troubled sleep the next morning, he walked deep into town. The unknown woman haunted his night. His time on the island was limited by his curse, but he enjoyed walking on solid ground, no matter the duration. The residents greeted him cordially enough, but he knew that warmth would turn to chill if he overstayed his welcome. By noon, thirst drove him into a tavern he seldom visited. The Barmy Cock was too bright and cheerful for him normally, though he always made sure a bottle of rum from an exotic port arrived for their shelves after every voyage. A sort of toll, since Sam ran the bartender’s union.
The residents, the tavern keepers, the whores and shopkeepers all knew him. He was a famous man. “Hey, Captain Alan, come try the new drink!” Sam beckoned him to the bar and held out a tall glass filled with a dark-orange tinted fluid.
He scowled at it before he took it and held it up to the light. “Seems a bit…colorful.”
“Aye, but she knew how to use the rum you sent last visit. She called it a rum sunset, and it’s tasty.” Sam beamed at him.
With a grimace, the captain took a sip. Another. He tilted his head at it, trying to figure out what he tasted.
“Good, ain’t it?” Sam snickered. “A bunch of the boys tried fancy drinks the entire evening.”
“You hire a new bartender?” He held out the glass. “Another.”
“No, she came in with Mick and got a little bossy. I thought to quiet her up, put her behind the bar….”
“Put Sam to shame, she did.” Sally, Sam’s wife, slid up next to him. “Short thing, but feisty. Held her own with them.”
“Did Captain Jezebel see her with Mick? If she did, that’s the last of the wench. The woman does not tolerate doxies. Pity—this is good.”
“He introduced her to the whole gang. Tink took a real liking to her. When Mick’s captain gave her the eye, the new woman literally laughed at the idea of dallying with Mick. Jezebel let her be, once that were clear.” Sam took the empty away and brought out a plain bottle with a shot glass.
He smiled to himself. Yes, they knew him well. “I didn’t see the Cursed Quill this morning. They leave last night?”
“You know Jezzie. She’s not going to take a chance on Mick doing something stupid and risk your curse striking. She likely saw the Immortal and left early. I think they took Pawes with them,” Sally said.
“New crew member? Pawes?”
“That was the name she claimed. I think she was shanghaied. They carried her out of here, clean passed out.” Sam shook his head. “Pity, I would have hired her. I made sure she got her share of the tips, though.”
“You’re an honorable man. Jezebel wouldn’t steal anyone. Now, I…I would chain her to the bar if she walked into a place I owned. But I have a reputation to uphold.” He filled the shot glass and downed it in one gulp.
“She weren’t shanghaied. She had nowhere to stay. Sure, they’ll see her somewhere safe.” Sally smacked her husband’s arm. “I may ask the union to keep an eye out for her, and make sure if word comes of her needing a job, we get first chance at hiring her.”
“No place to stay? She new?” He glanced around the bar. “What does this girl look like?” he asked almost absently, making conversation. A girl who mixed concoctions like that might be interesting to meet.
“She weren’t a girl. A woman. Short, nicely rounded. Really short hair, sorta spiky…interesting face.” Sam polished up the bar, but the captain froze, his shot glass poised at his lips.
“A mature woman?”
“I’d call her that,” Sally replied. “I liked her hair. It would certainly be easy to tend to. Most practical. What do you think? Would this work on me?” She held out a large napkin. “I did this sketch from memory.”
He carefully set the shot glass down, untouched, and took the napkin. He pretended to study the haircut as if sizing Sally up for one like it. But, he was staring at a drawing of the woman who’d been haunting his thoughts. She’d been here the night before, while he’d been wasting time on some sweet-faced whore.
He set the napkin down as if it burned him. “You ought to do one of yourself with the hairstyle, Sally. I can’t see it from this.”
“You’re right!” She grinned at him and set about badgering Sam for another of their precious linen napkins to draw on.
Neither noticed him carefully fold the other drawing and tuck it into his coat. He left a few minutes later. He wondered where they had sailed to…and what it would take to find them.
***
Emily woke up with her head pounding. “Fuck….”
“Well, that is what it sounded like. Good dreams?” A familiar sounding voice interrupted her moaning. Perhaps from the night before? Some blonde beanpole with a totally inappropriate name.
“What?” She raised her heavy head and eyed the top of a blonde head to her right. When she twisted, the hammock swayed, making her belly swirl unhappily. Tink sat on the floor, going through the contents of her pack. Yes, Tink, that was her name. “Hey! Oh, shit!” Emily put a hand over her mouth.
“Yeah, don’t throw up on me. Behind you, on that stool, there’s a hangover remedy. Shut up and drink it. Trust me, it will help.”
Slowly, Emily turned her head the other way to see the stool. And a mug of something still steaming sat upon it. Her hand trembled as she reached for the remedy. She knew from past experience that moving slowly was the best way to avoid nausea. She tried to sit up and floundered, but a steady hand from Tink gripped the netting of the hammock and held it still insuring the drink didn’t spill.
She’d slept in a hammock?
Inhaling gently, Emily closed her eyes. “It smells good.”
“It is good, and it will do the trick. Mama Lu’s cures work. Drink it, Pawes.”
Pawes? Oh, yeah. She’d given her bartender name. Tom used to call her Crewperson Pawes when they played at pirate, a reference to the ring of paw prints on her right bicep applied when she was eighteen, in memory of Magic, her dog. When she met Tom Pawes, it fit twice—seemed like fate.
She never yet found a hangover cure worth much, but she’d try anything once. It was years since she’d drunk enough to earn one. Halfway through the remedy, she realized the headache was fading. When she drained the last drops, her stomach settled. She set the empty mug back down on the stool. “I’m impressed—and get out of my stuff.”
“Trying to find some clue to where you live.” She held up a driver’s license. “Emily, or Pawes if you like, you’re a long way from home. You found a portal, didn’t you?”
“A what?” Emily slowly maneuvered herself to one side of the hammock and sat up.
Tink tossed the card back in the pack and handed the bag to Emily. “How else did you get to Tortuga?”
“Tortuga? Listen, I went to the pirate festival yesterday. Today is…where am I?” Emily looked around the low-ceilinged room. “And why is this room moving?”
“Well, because we’re at sea. I didn’t intend to steal you away. Once we were back on the ship last night, I had command—Jezz and Mick being busy in their cabin. She sure liked your rum sunsets. Put her in a real sweet mood. I spied Silvestri’s ship and knew the best course was to get out before Mick fucked up.”
Emily stared at the woman who was still sitting cross-legged on the floor. Slender to the point of too thin and very tall, from what she recalled of the night before. With a talent for cursing. Why they called her Tink was beyond comprehension.
Turning her head, Emily gazed at a small square of bright light. She slid off the hammock and slowly approached it. What it framed made her heart stutter. The sea, not the murky, deep blue of the Pacific, but the clear, turquoise blue of the Caribbean. She’d been there and recognized the hue. She reached out a hand, hoping to find a window or a screen, but instead she felt the spray of the sea on her fingertips.
She fell back on her butt, accepting that she was on a ship. Moaning, she turned to Tink. “What the fuck! What sort of nasty trick is this? How the hell did you get me here? And why? I’m not worth that much!”
“Yeah, but you make some mean drinks.” Tink uncoiled from the floor—no, the deck. She stooped to avoid the rafters at her head, gazing over at Emily. “Listen, you found a portal. I don’t know where or how…I’d guess at this festival you mentioned. Don’t get your panties in a knot about it. Portals are actually fairly common back in Tortuga. We’ll find it for you and get you back, if that is what you really want to do. Most people who find a portal arrive where they actually have reason to be.”
“I have reason to be in San Francisco today!” Emily refused to believe what this strange woman said.
“Well, instead you’re aboard the Cursed Quill, sailing the Caribbean, and it’s 1697. But be cool—it’s not like you think. Come, let me show you the head.”
By the time her tour of the Cursed Quill was done, Emily was convinced she’d lost it. They possessed a shower and a modern kitchen, along with a clever flush toilet that Tink said composted. A good-looking sailor walked by her with an iPod strapped to his arm. Yet, there was no doubt they were in the Caribbean, and to all outward appearances, the ship was a period sloop.
Tom also dreamed of sailing and spent long hours building models. She knew ships from years of his talking about them. No real pirate ship would have this many modern conveniences, unless it were one of those tourist excursion ships. That had to be it.
But after crawling over the lower decks and finding no engine of any sort, she gave up. Either she was indeed insane, or a group of pirate enthusiasts took the game too far, and she was the captive of a group of completely mad re-enactors. She started searching for hidden cameras. Was it a reality show? Shanghaied by Pirates?
Three days later, she stopped looking for any other explanation. She dined with the women she’d met at the festival bar, meals she knew no period ship would serve. Mick tried to describe the situation to her and only confused her further.
It was Captain Jezebel who finally explained it in a fashion she almost believed.
“The best I can figure…Tortuga, this Tortuga, fell through a sort of time tunnel. It’s the center of this universe. And everything that is lost or thrown away finds its way here. Like the island of lost toys in the Christmas movie…?”
Emily nodded. “Okay. People and iPods and refrigerators?”
Jezebel shrugged. “Inventions that got lost or never happened. Hey, I’m not a scientist. I suffered misery in my own world, then fell here thirty years ago and made myself at home. Most of the crew can tell a similar story.”
“Not me, I wasn’t…too miserable.” Emily sighed. “Hell.”
“Yeah, hell. Think about it. We’ll get you back to Tortuga, and you can look for the portal you fell through and decide to stay or go back. You want to stay? We’ll find work for you. We make out pretty good, raiding the occasional Spanish ship. The Spanish here carry a lot of booty and very few weapons. The French merchants beg to be robbed. I swear they line up for it—easy pickings.” Jezebel held out the bottle they’d been sharing. “Or stay on Tortuga and work as a bartender. You’re good at that. But there’s real benefit to being part of this crew, as you’ll find out.”
The captain looked away, and Emily figured there were still secrets not being shared. Fine, she’d wait. Or not. When she got home, she’d have a wild story to tell, about the hallucination she suffered at the pirate festival.
Her ass hurt and she shifted, looking for a more comfortable position before replying. “I still think I’m totally bonkers, but when I was younger, I read some fantasy where things like this happened. So, I’m going to wait and see. If I’m crazy, I’ll embrace it and enjoy the pleasant aspects.” She claimed the bottle and took a swig. “I’m sure I’ll meet the unpleasant, eventually.”
Jezebel laughed and returned to the wheelhouse, leaving her to sit on the steps and watch the beautiful men as they hauled lines, tightened knots and polished bits of brass to a high shine.
Tink sauntered over and sat next to her. “Still convinced you’re insane?”
“Partly,” Emily replied.
“Partly? You’re in good company!” Tink snickered. “We’re not going straight into Tortuga. Silvestri should be gone, but until we’re certain he’s out for the duration, we’ll be careful.”
“This Captain Silvestri? Mick scowls and snarls when I ask….”
“Mick ain’t reasonable about him. You see, Silvestri’s cursed, and it isn’t safe to fixate on him. Mick danced around that curse for nearly ten years, staying close enough to benefit from it. The curse finally turned on him and Mick got away with his life, but it were close. Mama Lu warned Jezzie that it’s still waiting to land on Mick, but he thinks differently. He wants the Immortal.”
“Okay, what curse? And Immortal what?” Emily figured another pirate story wouldn’t be amiss. She didn’t believe much of what she heard, anyway. Especially the stories about Tortuga. The place must be huge to include everything the crew hinted at. A swamp? A forest full of wolves? A castle on a hill?
“The Immortal is a ship. And years ago, it belonged to Mick’s father. He sailed off one day, and when the ship returned, Silvestri captained it. At first, Mick accepted that his father had returned to England, but then he changed his mind. He won’t say why. Now, the curse—Silvestri is cursed with good luck.”
“Uh huh.” Emily turned to look at the quartermaster, Tink’s job on board the ship. It seemed to be something like a union leader, far as she could tell. “And how is good luck a curse?”
“It’s a curse if it comes at the cost of every bit of good luck belonging to those around you. Think about it! He isn’t welcome to stay anywhere for long. Can’t get close to anyone. Mick managed by dancing close, then darting away—like some insane game of tag. Silvestri knew what Mick was doing and didn’t discourage it. Probably the closest thing the man knew to a friend in decades!” Tink polished her dagger, using a scrap of fabric looped around her belt.
Emily considered the information. “He knows what his good luck costs others?”
“Oh, he knows.” Tink admired the shine of the blade. “It’s not a bad curse, for a pirate, I mean. Most of our good luck comes at another’s bad. But his knows no boundaries—friend or foe pays. His crew seems to be immune, but they are a coldhearted bunch and not much company for the captain.”
Her heart sank. “Oh, what a misery.”
“He doesn’t look wretched, so don’t go feeling all sorry for him! The only one who seems close to him is Mama Lu. The curse is probably too frightened of her to attempt taking payment.”
“Mama Lu is the potion woman? Why would a curse find her frightening?” Emily lifted the bottle at her side and took another swallow. She was drinking too much, but it numbed her confusion—and fear.
“Oh, you’ll see when you meet her,” Tink said mysteriously, then shot to her feet, yelled something at one of the men in the sails and took off, climbing easily to the first cross brace.
Emily envied Tink—her own knots weren’t tight enough to be trusted anywhere on the ship. Helping out by washing dishes each night was not a terribly glamorous way to spend the rest of her life—if she didn’t find a portal home.
She pulled her leather pack close and peered into it. She kept checking her cell phone, some perverse part of her still thinking it might work. Rolling her eyes, she tossed the device back into the bag. Damn, the stickiness of sweat and salt spray coated her body, although she took a clean cloth and wiped herself down every day. They boasted a shower, but were stingy with it. She couldn’t blame them. The sponge bathing helped, but her scalp was driving her crazy. Janey, the bosun, promised her a showering slot if she signed on with them.
Tink said she ought to rent some time in the bathhouse back in Tortuga. “The cash Sam gave you for helping out at the bar is a fair cut. If you need to, you can get new clothes, a bath, and a few things to make your cabin more comfy. If you stay, of course.” The woman laughed at her.
They all appeared to find hilarity in her reactions. But it wasn’t mean spirited. Emily supposed they’d heard attempts to rationalize what was going on many times, from others who fell into this freaking looking glass world…looking glass?
She reached into her bag and withdrew the mirror. Examining it carefully, she wondered if it were somehow responsible for her being here. Not that she fit through this glass. It was too small, and she was too big, and there was no bottle to drink from. Yup, no drink this potion that she remembered.
“Fuck, I’m going bonkers.” She pulled out her scarf and wrapped the mirror.
“Hey, that’s a nice bit of swag.” Mick bent over to examine her find. “May I?”
She handed it to him. “Got it at the fair I was visiting.”
He held it up and stroked the tentacles that formed the handle while admiring himself in the glass. He turned it around. “I like this. Looks like him!”
“Uh…like who?”
“Well, the Kraken! The elder Kraken, of course. They only turn this fine white as they age. The youngsters are still green and a bit slimy….” His voice trailed off at her expression. He tilted his head at her. “Don’t believe me, do you?”
“Okay, I figured it was a Kraken. I’ve heard of the Kraken…but to hear him…her…it referred to so causally is a bit startling.”