Blackheart (23 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Masked Evils

Thorn’s pistol gestured for Siren to step closer, for she stood aboard the quarterdeck alongside
Satan’s
Victory’s
skeleton figurehead. From the corner of her eye, Siren saw his demand and slid toward where he hunched, sheltered to sight of witnessing crewmen and her unsuspecting husband.

“Shrewd of you, lady. Your lover would be flounderin’ in Lucifer’s cavern had you not come to me,” Thorn announced.

“I could do little else for fear of your tyrannies,” Siren icily rebuked.

“So, you’re wedded to Lochlanaire…
lawfully
, that is.”

Siren nodded but only meagerly, not seeking to summon anyone to the truth that she spoke to the leviathan. “I was permitted little choice.”

“Lochlanaire enslaved you in wedlock, did the rake?” questioned Thorn.

“Yes. He did.”

“You suggest, lady, that you were not itchin’ for a lusty union between yourself and Lochlanaire. I profess this as heresy. Starvation for him scalds your gorgeous eyes, Siren. Was stranglin’ him in your arms your insidious longin’ by conceivin’ his child in your womb?”

“What do you ask of me, charlatan? I’ve nothing to left to say,” Siren growled, disgusted by his disgraceful dissertation.

“Oh, you’ve much to reveal. I’ve overheard somethin’ miraculous, Siren. If I understand correctly, there are rings aboard this very ship of which possess a seafarin’ chart carved in their lustrous gold. Those rings, I’m told, are jewels
you
guard. Am I mistaken?”

Word, apparently, traveled fatally aboard ship. “I have one signet. The other halos Lochlanaire’s pinky,” admitted Siren.

“These rings are jewels belongin’ to King James II?” Thorn rubbed his scruffy chin, thoughtful.

“Yes.”

“And the island they sequester is…?”

Siren hesitated to answer, but dared not defy this rake. “Legend. Grayson took both signets and searched charts until he unveiled the correct island they depict.”

“Legend Island, eh?” Thorn’s eyes descended Siren’s hourglass body.

Siren nodded.

“And we journey to Legend?”

“Yes. I convinced Lochlanaire to see that it is worthy to explore the island and capture whatever it secludes so we may ferry it to Zore for ransom, freeing my sister and Lochlanaire of Zore’s ghoulishness.”

Thorn was doubtful that Zore would be silenced of his inane passion for Lochlanaire’s spilt blood. For too many years he’d been embroiled in bloodlust. “What did you tell Lochlanaire of me?”

Fearful of his suspicious voice, Siren mulled on whether she should enlighten him or not. “Everything except your name.”

“Unwise, lady. Remember, I pledged to kill him if you said anythin’ and therefore your sister’s life you sacrifice?”

Siren reprimanded, “You cannot think I would believe anything you say. And you’ve no right to threaten me. You’re a cutthroat beast.”

“Aye, I’ve
every
right, Siren. I grip this pistol, this
loaded
pistol, which could end your life under one shot seizin’ your heart’s beat. You, Lochlanaire, your beloved sister
and
your unborn babe could die. Is this what you ask of me with your foolish desecrations?” questioned Thorn.

“No.” Siren quaked to her soul. “I…apologize for my treachery. Please forgive me.”

“You’re wise to plead for mercy, Siren. I was, however, certain that you would proceed against my wishes and discuss me with Lochlanaire. However, owin’ to the truth that I hold all the cards in
my
blood-soiled fist, I expect you to, from this moment forward, obey
my
orders, or I’ll dispatch you
and
Lochlanaire, enticin’ your dear sister to her death at Zore’s sword. Understood?”

Siren gulped. “Understood. What do you want?”

“To learn each step Lochlanaire intends to position. Legend Island, you say. Just what does the island seclude?” Thorn asked.

“We suspect a treasure is somewhere entombed.”

“Oh? And what summons your intriguin’ conclusion?”

“The signets. My mother said fortune would reign upon us if we coddled them. I could not say what her words implied ‘til I accidentally anchored the rings. They bare the island when chained together as one.”

“Zore knows about the chart’s existence?”

“My sister told him there is a treasure to be found,” spouted Siren.

“You trust she’s tellin’ the truth or is her oath a falsehood, spoken so to alleviate herself of further tortures executed by Zore?”

Siren stuttered, “I…truly cannot say.”

“Fair. Return to his arms, Siren. I shall beckon when desirous. Remember, henceforth, Lochlanaire’s life lies in
my
palm. Should I be identified by anyone aboard this ship, you’ll see the end of those you love, whether or not you were privy to speakin’ my name,” Thorn reprimanded.

Out of the corner of her eye, Siren saw Thorn fade amid the shadows that no lantern light shimmers. She withdrew to the stairs and then to the captain’s quarters. Inside the cabin, Siren beat her fists against the window’s frosty glass until her flesh felt raw. Tears flooded her eyes. Siren crumpled on the floor.

Surreally remembering when she’d dueled the ghoul and he’d confessed that his name was Thorn, Siren suddenly saw his ripping gray eyes as she’d danced in the embrace of someone similar who appeared at the masquerade on Pirate Quay. Is this traitor that chivalrous nobleman and if so, why would he kill those men who labor aboard Lochlanaire’s ship? Thorn said the murders were reflections of kills that Lochlanaire once executed. Why torment Lochlanaire for his assassin past? At the masquerade, the gentleman who danced with her said his name was Wolf, not Thorn, and he’d worn a blond wig, covering his hair. Surely, they’re not the same person. Could they be, or was she so shaken by the demon who endangered them that she envisions phantoms where no gargoyles linger? Despaired, Siren tugged herself off the wood floor and faced the window. Lightning brightened, piercing magnificently swishing waves.

Lochlanaire entered his cabin.

Siren turned toward him but hesitated to speak her mind, fretful of Thorn discovering her treason hurled against him. She bit her lip.

“A blow assails the ship, Siren. You’d best remain sheltered,” Lochlanaire cautioned.

Siren nodded. Hurriedly, she announced, “Lochlanaire, the ghoul haunting your ship…I…think I’ve seen him previously at Pirate Quay.”

He lunged to a standstill near the door. “At Pirate Quay?”

“Yes. At the masquerade, you left me on the dance floor after our quarrel over Claressa, remember? A man danced with me. He questioned me about our journey and you. I hailed it innocent, mere conversation. But suddenly I remember his appearance. He seems to match the man that I fought aboard your ship, the villain who says he’s slaying here for the purpose of tormenting you with your past assassinations.”

Disconcerted, Lochlanaire struggled to regain a memory of the man she’d danced in the arms of while at the masquerade. All he could dredge to the surface, regrettably, was his jealousy that she had been cradled in the arms of someone other than him. “I cannot recall the man.”

Siren shrugged. “Perhaps it is of no consequence. However, the man that danced with me said his name was Wolf Larnon. Does this impart anything?”

“Wolf Larnon?” Lochlanaire turned away so Siren couldn’t read his anxiousness. It was then that Lochlanaire realized--he should have known the man dancing with Siren. But since his memory is little more than pit of unspoiled evil, he did not recognize the brother of the man he’d dueled and was pitched into an insane asylum for murdering, the man who had him tortured for two years. Did he know Wolf Larnon? Unable to obtain an answer to his bitter question, Lochlanaire decided to speak with Grayson. Perhaps he could shed light where none dwelled. “I return to the helm. Siren, it is shrewd to arm yourself and remain distant of those who conjure harm.”

Siren understood. Lochlanaire was warning her to keep shy of the deviant charlatan. Captivation, alas, crushed the talisman of valor and Siren could not obey as Lochlanaire suggested. She was Thorn’s captive out of terror for those she loved.

***

As she discerned his retreat, Siren wondered at Lochlanaire’s actions after she’d admitted the name of the man who danced with her at the masquerade and that the ghoul haunting the ship might be the same serpent. Why did she sequester the intense feeling that Lochlanaire still hid some sort of villainy, if so, what? Who is Wolf Larnon and of what importance is he to Lochlanaire?

Shrugging, Siren anchored down whatever she could within the cabin and sat on the bed. Her eyes drifted to the wrathful sea as it washed the window in trickling streams. Siren envisioned blood streaks wispily descending that chilled glass.

***

Lochlanaire fled aboard the bridge, stepping straight to Grayson. The two men wrestled against the ship’s untamed tiller in an attempt to keep the ship on its course amid the storm. Shouting, Lochlanaire asked, “Siren just informed me that the mercenary walking our ship could be the same man she danced with at Pirate Quay. That man gave her his name, which was Wolf Larnon.”

“Wolf?” Grayson yelled, rain streaking his face.

“Have I met Wolf Larnon? Would I recognize him if I saw him?”

“No, Lochlanaire, and I admit, neither have I met him. All I’m aware of is the reprehensible oath he swore of which condemned you for the slaughter of his brother, and his vengeance that pitched you into the crypt of Heathgate.”

“Then neither you, nor I can point him out. Siren’s the only person who may possess his identity,
if
Wolf is aboard this ship.”

“Aye, Lock. Nevertheless, our mercenary could be lyin’ so to cover his detestable tracks, lurin’ us in an erroneous course by want of trickery. Remember the initials carvin’ the chests of the dead men were a T and a B. Those do not fit Wolf,” reminded Grayson.

“It could all be false, the phantom’s admissions to Siren, the carved initials, even the name of the man she danced with on Pirate Quay.”

Grayson nodded his rain-sodden head. “I imagine that nothing our slayer would say could anyone trust as true. This said, Lochlanaire, there is the remote chance that he’s actually Wolf Larnon. If so, he’s without mercy and on a definite hunt for blood. Your blood.”

“She’s being used as bait for which to brutalize me,” Lochlanaire proclaimed.

“Possibly more than that. He could be tyin’ her in his twisted tales, goadin’ her to tell you whatever
he
wishes.”

“It is a labyrinth of vile deceptions. Siren’s scared, Grayson. Since he’s attacked her previously, the bastard is not above harming a woman. She’s aware of his offense, frightened, perhaps, of forsaking his wrath.”

“It is quite the maniacal trap our mercenary webs.”

Poising their attention to the storm-swept ship, Lochlanaire and Grayson were both troubled.

Lochlanaire worried for his wife’s sanity and the sincerity that she’s being pursued by the brigand hunting him, anxious for her and the child she carries.

Grayson feared that with two killers loose who chase Lochlanaire relentlessly, how would he keep his brother alive? He could not guard Lochlanaire of the depravities cursing the ship. He dreaded the worst, that Lochlanaire would stumble to his death, either by Zore’s sword lance or at the command of the villain roaming the ship, unyielding in his wickedness. Whether it was Wolf Larnon or a fiend unknown, it is a goblin disguising witchery sullying his heart and blackguard soul.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Child Nearly Lost

After the storm dispatched, Siren was allowed to bathe. Such is a rare luxury aboard a vessel, and only undertaken with rain filling the casks to overflowing. In the captain’s quarters, an oval tub was prepared by buckets of water, some steamy hot, others cooling. Siren could hardly wait for the men to depart, the bath looked so inviting. Once they finished dumping their buckets, she scampered to the entry, shutting the door. Siren ripped her clothing off her body and dipped first one leg and then the other inside the tub, sinking amongst celestial waves. She washed her hair, using lavender soap and soaked in lavishness, bubbles popping beneath fluttery hand, her head propped against the ornate tub back. She did not open languid eyes as the door crept open, assuming Lochlanaire entered. A man’s palm strangulated her mouth from behind. Siren was jarred to sit up but she was not permitted, scared this cad bore satanic lechery in mind. She cursed herself for forgetting to lock the cabin door.

“Lay back, lady. Relax. The consequences otherwise could be disastrous,” broached a cruel voice.

Siren recognized the phantom’s drawl. His fingers circled her thunderously pulsing throat. “Why do you accost me?”

“I take extreme pleasure in the doin’, Siren. Gazin’ upon your naked, luscious person, I see why Lochlanaire is ravenous for your gorgeous body as the degradin’ animal he’s become. What man wouldn’t be scorched by passion for so tantalizin’ a beauty?”

Siren felt disgraced by his declaration, but she refused to allow him to see her shame. “You touch me in any repulsive fashion and I’ll butcher you myself.”

Thorn ridiculed, “Idle threats do not become those succulent lips of yours, Siren, especially when you are aware that any deaths will be executed by
my
hand, not yours.”

“Are…are you the man who danced with me at Pirate Quay?”

  “What a perplexin’ question. Why do you ask?” inquired Thorn.

  “I think you are him. Your eyes mirror those of the man I danced with, but he said his name was Wolf Larnon. Who are you? What is your legitimate name?”

Thorn chuckled and released her throat. He sauntered to the desk, crossing his linen-clothed legs at booted ankles. “My name is utterly irrelevant.”

“Of what importance is the name Wolf Larnon to Lochlanaire?”

“Lochlanaire’s not told you ‘bout him?”

Siren was loathe to admit, “He hid that the name was familiar when I spoke it to him. I cannot understand why.”

Thorn’s eyes wandered throughout the captain’s quarters. “My, oh, my, how must I explain…Wolf Larnon is Elias Larnon’s brother, or, he was. The Earl of Lancer, Elias, lady, was slain prior to a duel. The duel was to be a contest conducted between Lochlanaire and Elias, but it was unfairly fought. Elias, you see, collapsed to his death ere the clash could proceed to its honorable conclusion. He was stabbed, not pistol shot, which is the custom if the duel were justly resolved. They’d brawled nights prior to this, you see. Lochlanaire, I’m sure, claims to bein’ unable to remember why, though his wretchedness in the tussle cannot be forsaken, therefore; the duel was arranged.”

“Why did Lochlanaire stab Elias?” wondered Siren.

“I cannot say. I was not witness to the depravity. However, loss of chivalry demands satisfaction. At least, it does in Wolf’s mournful heart. Wolf swore to seize blood vengeance on Lochlanaire for his brother’s dreadful murder,” nonchalantly Thorn attested.

“Murder? Is it possible that something terrible went awry and Elias died by want of his own poison?” Siren interjected, hopeful.

Thorn shook his head. “Those witnessin’ insisted that Lochlanaire was guilty of the crime to which he stood accused.”

“Accused?”

He nodded. “Wolf was ravenous for blood and appealed for satisfaction for the dishonorable loss of his beloved brother.”

“What was his satisfaction?” Siren probed further.

Fingernail tapping his teeth, Thorn considered. “Ah, perhaps Lochlanaire should explain what was exacted of him as compensation for so devious a treachery. Lochlanaire’s crimes are so grisly; I wonder that a woman such as you can love a vampire who bears his viperous fangs so ferociously. Do you not seclude in your perfect breast forebodin’ that you could fall as his next victim? Ah, yes, I forgot, you
are
Lochlanaire’s next victim. Oh, but surely now that he’s sired a child who sleeps amidst your flawless body, Lochlanaire mustn’t surrender you to King William. Or will he? Do you solemnly swear, Siren, that because of the babe Lochlanaire will not reject you for his own despicable rewards? Dire questions, agreed?” Straightening, Thorn wandered to the tub and hunched, entrancing Siren’s eyes; his hand swished frothy water. “It is a pity that you’ve wedded the rake, Siren. We could have been far more to each other than merely slave and enslaver.” His fingertip snaked over her wet breast.

Siren shoved his hand aside.

With her defiance, Thorn stood. His scowl caressed her water-swathed body. “Remember whose life
I
squeeze in my heartless possession, Siren.” Twirling, he turned the door’s knob. “Who is your sovereign, lady?”

Siren replied, “You are, Thorn.”

“Remember your vow and your husband’s black heart beats another day, which means so shall your precious sister’s,” viciously spat Thorn.

Tears encumbered Siren’s eyes while they peered upon the menace that disappeared in the dullness of the passageway. Oh, how she longed to shoot this animal in the heart. Seething, Siren retrieved the linen cloth from where it adorned the chair and dried herself. Recklessly, she slammed the door and locked it. Pain lanced her body. Siren collapsed on her knees. She caressed her stomach and groaned, not understanding why she’s enveloped by pain.

Innocently approaching his quarters, Lochlanaire unlocked the door and found Siren writhing in agony. He fell to his knees and folded her within his arms, carrying her to the bed. Lochlanaire grabbed the sleeping powders that garnished a shelf and retrieved the water pitcher and a goblet, hastening to the bed. Water poured in the tin goblet, he stirred into it the powder that whitened the chalice. Lochlanaire offered the goblet to Siren, motioning for her to drink. Tearful eyes begged for a reprieve of pain as she drank the water until all the potion vanished. Siren eventually drifted to sleep.

Lochlanaire removed the chalice of Siren’s grip, terrified to lose both his wife and the babe. He dragged the broad-backed chair to the bed and stared upon his unconscious bride, keeping vigil.

Nightmares engulfed Siren…

Gracing a copse of craggy trees, Siren walked, enchanted by the scene unfolding amid the grim guise of darkness…in the slight distance, two men counted paces, swirling fluffy fog, back-to-back, their pistols drawn. Turning, the duelers confronted each other. Siren noted that one of the men was her husband; the other was the slayer, Thorn. Grinning, Thorn shot his pistol. The ball struck Lochlanaire mid chest. The pistol tumbled from his grasp, and Lochlanaire crumpled upon his knees, dying. Screaming, frantic to run to her husband, Siren was brutally halted. Zore breached the darkness and his arm ringed her waist. Siren was dragged from her slain husband with Zore laughing at Lochlanaire’s folly. Zore’s insane cackle eerily resounded…

Sweat-soaked, Siren lurched to a sitting position and realized she was not imprisoned by Zore. Lochlanaire sat across from her on the chair. One hand propped up his head.

Lochlanaire approached the bed, noting her crazed eyes. “A dream?”

Siren cupped her forehead. “No, a nightmare. A
terrible
nightmare. I saw you, Lochlanaire. You counted paces for a duel. As you turned, the viper that defiles your ship shot his weapon. He killed you. I ran toward you but Zore trapped me.”

“It is quite the nightmare. I see why you are despaired.”

“No, you do not. The monster despoiling your ship is starved to drain your blood, Lochlanaire.”

He replied, “If what you suggest is so, Siren, why not just kill me? He, clearly, could at any moment.”

“He’s ferocious for vengeance,” tolled Siren cryptically.

“Vengeance? Did he profess such?”

“In so many words, yes. Alas, before he achieves his revenge, he longs for you to be destroyed by your past assassinations, Lochlanaire.”

“The blackguard is cowardly, Siren. You must arise faith for my survival. The barbarian lacks courage so tragically that he refuses to show himself to me. Obviously, he cannot triumph. Such is why he avails of you. It is the only power he brandishes.” Lochlanaire made light of the carnage trussing him, anxious to calm Siren.

“He was here.”

“Here?”

Siren nodded, gracing the plump pillows behind her. “When I took my bath, I nearly fell asleep in the tub. The mercenary entered as I lay therein and strangled my throat.”

Lochlanaire seethed. “Bloody bastard.” He dashed to stand.

Siren halted him. “He told me about a duel you engaged against Elias Larnon. He said Elias was stabbed, disgraced. Are his words true?”

Disgruntled, Lochlanaire tugged himself free and advanced on the window. “I remember little of the tale, Siren.”

“But Grayson must have said something. He knows what occurred. Am I wrong?”

Staring upon churlish waves, Lochlanaire nodded, not coveting to admit why he was imprisoned.

Siren retrieved one of Lochlanaire’s lengthy shirts, donned the covering, and stilled by his stiffened back. “What happened at the duel?”

Lochlanaire sighed. “Grayson says Elias intended to dishonor me. Elias secluded a man in the forest where he and I were supposed to duel. Elias decided that if he couldn’t pillage my life honorably, he’d do so shamefully. I heard the crack of the tree bough where the trickster assassin hovered in wait. I shot him dead. As the pistol sequestered only the one shot, I stabbed Elias for his betrayal. Wolf Larnon, Elias’ brother, sought revenge. He achieved his reward by swearing that his brother was slain in disgrace.”

“What ensued with Wolf’s accusation?” Siren asked, not desirous to hear his forthcoming answer.

“I was arrested for Elias’ murder, thrown into prison.”

“You’re a
condemned
murderer?” Siren’s question revealed how stunned she was by Lochlanaire’s lifeless admission.

“I killed him in self-defense, Siren.” Turning, Lochlanaire searched her forlorn eyes. “Although, I cannot wholly say that I’m assured of my innocence. Grayson, however, claims that it was fair for me to kill both men owing to their treason.”

Siren understood. “The lashes scarring your body…?”

“Are whip marks slashed for torture. They were executed by the guard who despised me as he applied the Cat O’ Nine Tails in the asylum,” Lochlanaire soberly replied.

“Your bloodied wrists…?”

“Shackles trussed me as an animal, because I am an assassin who cannot be tamed into submission unless wretchedness be affected,” Lochlanaire stated.

“Your memory…?”

“My memory was stolen, for I stood eclipsed in the blackness of a prison cell, withdrawn to lunacy.”

“And the death knell song…?” Siren began to feel ill.

Lochlanaire eerily sang… “
‘Evil’s cast ye here. Hell has spat ye out. Heaven will not weather ye, prisoner shall ye be. Crazy, crazy, were Satan’s whispers, hang, hang, hang ye, dead, dead, dead ye be.’
It is the brutal chant an imprisoned creature sang in Heathgate prison where I was of late captive.”

“How long…?”

Lochlanaire reached for the wine decanter, poured a chalice full, and downed stinging liquid. “I was imprisoned for two years, Grayson attests. I was only pardoned so I could hunt you.”

“I’m such a sinister creature that I require a condemned assassin to chase me?” Heartsick, Siren wandered to the chair, wilting upon its pump seat.

“You were not hunted for being a sinister creature, Siren. Either the fact that you’re King James II’s daughter or the signet gracing your finger baits you to be chased.”

Siren whispered, tears stung her eyes, “Have I…have I lost the child?” It was the first time that Siren admitted she was with child.

Lochlanaire crouched at her feet. “I do not believe so. You’ve suffered a scare, one which urges you to caution.” He straightened. “The terrors the mercenary imposes brought about this horror. I must heighten the search for the scoundrel.”

“I am his captive, Lochlanaire,” Siren coldly declared.

“What?”

Siren hesitated to speak, vilified that Thorn would declare her seditious if he unbridled her mutiny. “He said that if his identity becomes unmasked, he’ll kill you, Lochlanaire. Thereafter, Shevaun loses her life because Zore will kill her, for you’ll not be alive to grant to him for ransom. He implies that your death
and
hers will be sanctioned by my betrayal wielded against him.”

“My God, what horror this rake exacts.”

“Lochlanaire, promise me. Do not imprison him. He could have others woven in his trap, those who may be ordered to murder you should he be caught. We cannot risk your life.”

Lochlanaire advanced on the window. “You’re
asking
me to allow him to haunt this ship without remorse, meting out his crimes at no opposition? Siren, are you mad?”

Groping to her feet, Siren hurried to him. “Lochlanaire, for your life and my sister’s you must not hunt this man, no matter his cruelties. He’s brandished a pistol on you from afar. You were never aware. He can cut you down at any second. I cannot live if you’re slain because of my infraction.”

Lochlanaire warred against the dread sparkling in her eyes. “He butchers without end, accosts you with no burden of disgrace, nearly forces you to lose
our
child at his ghoulishness, yet I cannot challenge him. What injustice.”

“Please.” Siren pleaded, “Please.”

Damned, Lochlanaire was defeated. “I’ll not seize the bloody cad.”
‘Which’,
he thought,
‘is precisely what the beast craves with his cunning depravity.’

“And the search?”

“I’ll order Grayson to suspend it immediately.”

“Since he’s not murdered in quite a lengthy time, this may stall the phantom of his hunt.”

Lochlanaire appeared cynical. “For a time, aye, then he’ll loose whatever poisons he’s spelled for me. Butchers are rarely renounced of tyranny for long.”

“We must have faith that he’ll not forge maliciousness against you if he’s not trapped. Such purchases time.”

Lochlanaire shrugged. “Time for what? Either Zore or this bloody titan will kill me.”

Siren portrayed, “No. With our own spun wickedness, we’ll cage both Zore and the slayer.”

  Lochlanaire felt raw and bloodied. He left Siren to rest, having ordered her to bed. Soon after, he posted a guard outside his cabin door, assured that Siren was protected from the mercenary.

Gracing the billowy mattress, Siren thought of just how to entrap two malevolent executioners.