Mistress of the Stone (14 page)

Luísa screwed up all her strength and forced him to his feet. “Damn your cursed English blood. You’ll come with me if I have to carry you.”

“The demons,” he groaned. “They’ll catch us.”

Catch?
That wasn’t her worry. It was what the beasts planned to do with them after they’d been caught that scared the wits out of her.

She faltered under Daltry’s weight, her body, like his, now covered in blood. What was she doing helping this God-forsaken creature? But she couldn’t leave him, not after what he’d suffered at her expense.

They trudged up the steep slope, the growing wail of ghouls closing fast. As they reached the top of the hill, she saw a thick wall of fog rise at its base. Common sense told her it wasn’t safe. But then it wasn’t safe out here either.

Daltry’s head lolled on his shoulders. His feet slogged forward, moving by momentum rather than intention.

Luísa looked behind her and saw the forest glow with a thousand eyes. A murmur on the wind echoed the refrain:
She’s here.

Luísa headed into the mist, dragging Daltry with her.

As they disappeared into the fog, a woman’s voice whispered through the trees.

“Welcome to Sanctuary, Luísa. We’ve been expecting you.”

Chapter Twelve

Dios mío.
What had she gotten into?

Daltry grew heavier; soon he’d give up walking altogether. The fog diminished, but it was still too hard to see. Even the dawning sun feared to show its face here. She dragged him toward a fat palm, but a voice stopped her in her tracks.

“
Portuguesa
…you’re going the wrong way.”

Luísa shot a glance all around her, but they were alone.
A hallucination?
The wind picked up and tickled her ear.

“Follow me,
Portuguesa
. You’re almost there.”

Daltry lifted his head as if he too heard the voice, but his eyes remained closed, his steps heavy. He trudged forward, even while Luísa resisted. The angry din of the jungle forced her to pick up her feet.

They scraped through the high bush, its thorns and branches like fingers, tugging, scratching and restraining them. The jungle wanted them. Even the vines reached out to touch them.

A little light shone ahead and Luísa aimed for it like a lifeline. Daltry was getting heavier, and soon she wouldn’t be able to bear his weight. They collapsed a few feet from the clearing. Luísa squinted her eyes. Was that a hut? There was something there, almost imperceptible among the heavy vegetation.

“Xander, wake up. Please. I’ve found shelter.”

A twig snapped and Luísa looked up to find a fair-haired woman standing over them. She scrambled to her knees and felt for her knife.

“Calm yourself. I’ve come to help you. Together we may be able to lift him.”

Struggling under Daltry’s weight, they neared the small hut. The door, nothing more than a woven flap, seemingly lifted on its own. Her mind was truly jiggered.

They dragged him in and laid him on a straw mat under the hut’s only window. Luísa collapsed at his side, grateful for the respite no matter how short.

The woman, no more than a girl, sped away then returned with a bowl of water and a cloth. She looked oddly familiar, though Luísa couldn’t place the face. Her hair was the color of new wheat and her earrings were curious baubles made from seashells. The gown she wore was homespun, dyed green and trimmed with a web of lace around the collar that looked like tangled seaweed. For some reason, she reminded Luísa of a mermaid.

A rope belt with three knots cinched around the girl’s tiny waist. Each knot was tied in a monkey fist, an anchor knot that was difficult to weave even for an experienced sailor. It seemed a peculiar addition to her country garb.

Luísa had seen such a rope only once before at a harbor in Tortuga when she was but a girl. It was worn by a hag of a woman who shared her bed with the pirate, Lord Jim, captain of the
Devil’s Eye
. As handsome a man as she was wretched. Paqua pulled Luísa away from the couple, warning her to keep her distance. The hag was a sea witch and she guarded her lover jealously.

A sea witch controlled the winds by tying and untying her knots. The
Devil’s Eye
was a fierce ship and a lucky one—lucky, until Lord Jim made the fatal mistake of bedding another. The very next day, the
Devil’s Eye
went down in a terrible storm. And the sea witch once again was in the market for another lover—and another ship.

But this girl was no witch, not with that soft pink face and watery blue eyes. She looked like the
Madonna
—the way the Italians painted her.

Luísa flinched when she looked at the young woman again. She could have sworn she wore tiny pink conches as earrings. Now they were tortoise shell.

The woman went to the man first, stroking him gently. Her eyebrows knitted in sorrow and tears glistened in her eyes. Silently, she washed and bandaged his wounds.

She snatched a nearby blanket and with a deft snap of her wrists billowed the thin fabric over his torso. Without a hint of emotion on her face, her hands burrowed underneath and pulled off his skivvies, saving them all from undue embarrassment. The woman tossed the frayed garment aside and returned to her ministering as if she had done this a thousand times.

Outside, howls and groans permeated the air. Luísa’s heart thumped wildly. Where could they go now, especially with Daltry so injured?

The golden girl, still calm, continued her ministrations. “They won’t enter this place, Luísa. You’re safe for now.”

“How do you know my name?”

A lazy shoulder tilted up. “The wolf told me.”

Each woman assessed the other, a look of suspicion on both faces.

The golden girl broke eye-lock first. “My name is Sibyl.”

The roar of malcontents wailed outside, and Luísa’s hand fell to her knife.

“Are you sure we’re safe here?”

Sibyl nodded. “At least until the blood moon.” She waved her fingers about her hovel. “This is Sanctuary. I alone control who may enter.”

Luísa looked down at Xander. Already his color was returning, and the bleeding had ceased. But he was a long way from recovery. He had suffered much on her behalf.

Sibyl threw out the pink water in her bowl, replacing it with fresh water from a cask. She pointed to a chest in a corner. “There’s a clay pot with a salve in it. Bring it here, please.”

Luísa did as she was told, retrieving a pot with a sackcloth cover. She lifted one edge of the cover and wrinkled her nose.
Maggots, it smelled bad.
It was obviously powerful medicine to reek so heinously.

Despite the grass roof and hardpan dirt floor, the hovel sported a proper English countenance. There was a fine oak chest, a brown stone hearth and a cabinet full of china, including a silver tea set.

It smelled like an island home though. Spotted basil, sweetwood and picao preto hung from the rafters. By the fire dried a small bowl of sweet tamarind and squash blossoms.

Sibyl knelt next to Xander and daubed his forehead with a clean, damp cloth, treating his wounds with practiced familiarity. When his wounds had been dressed, she kissed him on the temple, whispering words Luísa couldn’t make out.

Luísa knelt down next to her. “He’s badly hurt.” She touched his cheek gently.

Sibyl turned toward Luísa with a dismissive look. “You could have left him behind. I expected it, you being the pirate sort.”

Luísa’s jaw tightened. She wasn’t used to another woman speaking to her so sharply. “He saved my life. More than once. I would not have left him.”

“Even when you saw what he was?” She raised her right brow to a high oblique. “I’m impressed. Most people faint dead away.”

Luísa touched the hem of Xander’s blanket nervously. “I never believed in werewolves. I thought them the stuff of legend.”

“You thought wrong.” Sibyl tucked the blanket under Xander’s chin.

“Are you a werewolf too?”

She laughed, the pleasant sound filling the whole room. “You are daft. Know you nothing of lycans?”

Luísa got up and huffed at her. “Obviously not.”

Sibyl wiped her hands on a wet rag then crooked a finger at her, motioning her to a small table where she gathered a mortar and pestle. “I’ll need to blend a poultice for his headache. I’m sure he’ll wake up with one.” She pointed to a potted kalanchoe. “I’ll need a handful of those leaves.”

Luísa did as she was told. If there was anything left of the poultice, she’d welcome it for her own headache. During her travels, she’d been witness to every bizarre custom, creature and illusion the world had to offer, but nothing could have prepared her for this. She doubted even Paqua could imagine it.

Sibyl went about her business, taking the water-fat leaves out of Luísa’s hands and mashing them under her stone pestle, adding a good pinchful of hard seeds and a little honey. She spread it on a neat rectangle of folded muslin then placed it on Xander’s forehead. “Most lycans are born to the pack, though no one understands the rhyme or reason. Sometimes it can skip entire generations before another lycan is born. Xander was born under such a circumstance. When he reached seventeen, he had his first change and his family promptly disowned him.” She glanced back at his sleeping form. “But I loved him, and ran away from home so I could take care of him.”

Luísa’s face flushed with heat. She had had some pretty impure thoughts about this man, and now it seemed he belonged to another. “I-I didn’t realize you were his woman.”

Again the cheerful laugh. “We’re not lovers, Luísa. Xander is my brother.”

“Oh.” Now she was really embarrassed.

Luísa pinched off a few more leaves of the kalanchoe plant and handed them to Sibyl.

“I don’t need any more leaves. We have enough.”

“Not enough for my headache.” Luísa slumped down into a rocking chair, the gentle sway a comfort to her, a girl more used to sea than land. “It’s been a long row. I lost my father, my crew and now I’m on an island with demons and ghouls.”

Sibyl nodded with sympathy. “’Tis been hard for you,
Portuguesa
. I’ll not deny that.”

“What know you of my suffering? Did the wolf tell you that too?”

Sibyl smiled at her then looked away. “You’d be surprised what this wolf knows about you.” She was about to say more when something distracted her. Sibyl grabbed another clay jar off the hearth and handed it to Luísa. “I must check on something outside. Be a good pirate and make us some tea.”

She whisked out of the hut as if she were on wings. Never before had Luísa seen a woman so light on her feet. It was as if they never touched the ground.

Luísa put the jar on a table and crept over to the door flap to see where Sibyl had gone. Dawn had come hours ago, but the fog seemed even thicker than before. She strained her eyes to make out any shapes. That girl couldn’t have run off that fast, yet she was nowhere to be seen. Luísa was about to go back in when she heard voices. It was Sibyl in conversation with a velvet male voice, as deep and rich as the cantors who called the Arabs to prayer.

“Did they make it?” said the man.

“Yes. But Xander is hurt badly. I fear for him.”

Luísa thought the mist played tricks on her ears because the next thing she heard was the scrape of stone against stone.

“There now, dearest. Your brother is too stubborn to die. Give him time. He’ll recover.”

Luísa opened the flap further and stuck her head out, but all she could see was the thick breath of the sea.
Blast!

Some whispered nothings echoed from the haze and then the heavy flap of wings, struggling to gain lift.

She strained her ears for any more conversation, but all fell silent. Was that golden girl all right? Not that she cared, but Sibyl was the only creature who hadn’t tried to kill them—so far. Luísa couldn’t afford to lose any more allies.

“Si—”

“Yes, Luísa.”

Luísa jerked back. Sibyl seemed to have materialized straight out of the fog. “How in blazes… Where did you come from? I was looking straight in your direction and all of a sudden there you were.”

Sibyl shrugged unconcerned. “Fog can play tricks on the eye. Surely you know that, living a life at sea.”

“I heard voices too. Your voice and a man’s.”

“Really? I can assure you no man was with me. Fog can play tricks on the ear as well. It bends every sound and bounces it back as something else, sometimes as words we want to hear.”

“I’m not mad, Sibyl, and don’t mistake me for a fool either. I heard your voice and someone else’s.”

“You’re tired,
Portuguesa
.” Sibyl walked into the hut and straight to the hearth. “Why don’t I make the tea? You rest.”

Sibyl pulled out a fine china cup and spooned in a healthy measure of leaves.

The golden girl was right on one account. She was tired and no longer thinking straight.

Luísa looked over at Sibyl as she poured the hot water into the cup. Were her eyes playing tricks on her again? She must be tired. Now Sibyl’s earrings were long dangling bits of white coral.

Sibyl bade her to sit down and drink the tea. Tired, Luísa thought. She was just tired. The tea would help.