Mistress of the Stone (21 page)

“Be quiet! You know nothing of what I prefer. Monster! Lecher! Be on your way, before I let loose the winds and destroy your harbored ship and all her hands.”

The men mumbled among themselves, each taking a nervous glance out to sea. Saint-Sauveur silenced them with a snap of his fingers. He nodded to the docked ship.

“Sibyl, if you love your brother, you’ll tell him to board that Portuguese ship out there and never return to this island. The pirate girl is mine and through her I will free all the were-tribes. If he interferes again, I will kill him.”

“And then what, Luc? Do you think I will love you when he’s gone?”

“I think the pack will be cleansed when we’ve seen the last of his wolf’s hide. He has divided us for too long. As for you… Someday you will see that I was always the right man for you.”

“You’ve never been the man for me, Luc.”

“Ah,
ma chere
, but at least I am a man.” He took another step forward and Sibyl found herself backed against the Oracle’s altar.

Her hands braced themselves behind her. “You are no man, Luc. And I will not stand idly by while you hunt my brother. I would give my soul for his life.”

The words were soft and gravelly, but the Oracle marked them well and answered her appeal. It began as a subtle breeze, a warm kiss of air that swirled around her. Then the sand beneath her feet shifted, trembling from the force of something deep within the bowels of the earth, churning to the top.

Sibyl’s first instinct was to flee, but she couldn’t. Her hands felt as if they’d been nailed to the altar and she could feel great heat well up from inside the Oracle’s mouth. What had she done?

She screamed and Saint-Sauveur rushed toward her. But before he could reach her, a thunder rumbled out of the Oracle, knocking him and his men to the ground. The bowels of the Oracle roiled like an angry volcano, opening the fiery gates of hell. Somehow Sibyl had displeased this ancient god, and now she would pay the ultimate price.

There was no time for prayers or mercy. The flames shot out of the Oracle’s maw and grabbed Sibyl with its blazing tentacles, wrapping her in an embrace so tight she thought it meant to squeeze the soul out of her.

Instead, it swallowed her whole and brought her to a place so dark, even the effervescence that clung to her withered away.

From a distance, she heard men scream and Luc’s anguished cries. “Sibyl! Sibyl, beloved.
Sacre dieu
! What’s happened?”

Her dark place grew cold and clammy, and through the murky haze dim shadows appeared. She could see Luc and his men on the beach where she once stood. They scrambled around the Oracle’s altar, one man even sticking his head inside the great maw when Luc forced him at musket point. There had been no fire, nothing burnt, and the men didn’t seem to sense anything amiss aside from her disappearance.

They cursed the Oracle and fired musket balls into its great mouth. Luc went mad with grief, hugging his head as if it had been blown off. Tears streamed down his face, and his voice had gone hoarse from screaming. He fell to the sand with a curse.

“Destroy it! Destroy this wicked thing.”

His men acted quickly, taking a heavy cask of gun powder from their provisions and rolling it around the altar and emptying its contents. Saint-Sauveur took a smaller keg of powder with a fuse and lit it.

“For my love,” he cried and then threw the small keg into the mouth of the Oracle.

Sibyl heard the explosion, and she felt her world rock, but still she remained whole, or at least as whole as she’d ever been.

The men disappeared, as did the ship in the harbor, and the beach in front of the altar. There was nothingness, not even pain. And that made it worse. That made it hell.

A woman’s cackle echoed in the distance. “Welcome, Sibyl. You are indeed a pleasant surprise.”

The voice sounded as if its owner stood right next to her, yet she could see nothing.

Slowly, the weedy form of an old woman materialized before her.

Izabel
.

The Sorceress clapped her bony hands and squealed a laugh. “Only this morning, I had asked the Oracle to show me how I might regain my vigor. And here I see, she brought me thee.”

A strange sensation came over her, and she felt her innards grow hot. Inch by inch her body stiffened until she could move no longer.

The old woman wrung her hands and laughed. Sibyl realized her doom. The Oracle had answered, but not to her. Izabel had asked her favor first.

Sibyl had been too late.

Chapter Nineteen

Luísa and Daltry dashed back to Sanctuary, behind the ring of perpetual fog. They had no time to waste. Jovis could bring the pack on top of them at any moment. More importantly, her ship was at harbor. Together they might be able to find her father and get him away from here.

Luísa opened every basket and jar, robbing them if they had any useful contents and stowing the provisions in an old satchel. They couldn’t stay. No words had to pass between them to make that clear.

Daltry rummaged through a trunk he kept there and pulled out a fresh shirt and breeches. He found a matchlock in the chest, but no powder. The humidity would have fouled it anyway by now. Instead, he opted for a long sword.

“Do you have another sword in there? I’m handy with a saber.”

“I’ll wager you are.” He tossed her a Spanish blade.

She caught it in midair.

Luísa hefted it in one hand and then the other, stabbing and lunging with practiced skill. She smiled. “It’ll do.”

“The
Coral
is on the other side of the island. If I can get you to the beach, we’ll be able to signal them.”

Luísa was in a lunge, her blade striking an imaginary foe, when she froze in that stance, turning only her head. “What of my father?”

He groaned. “Luísa, luv. Your father was captured a long time ago. Once Saint-Sauveur realized he had no value, he probably had him killed.”

The blood drained from her face. Her body turned toward him, her sword arm limp at her side. “That can’t be. Sibyl said—”

“He’d have no reason to keep him.”

Luísa stared down at the hard black earth. The glint of her sword caught her eye, and she remembered her vow. If her father was lost, his murderer would pay.

She found a scabbard for her sword and tied it to her belt. The sword sheathed, she threw the rucksack over her shoulder. “I’ll help you look for your sister. And you’ll help me find the man who murdered my father. I won’t leave until I have his blood on this blade.”

“Luísa—”

Luísa put her hand up. “It’s not an argument you’ll win. Saint-Sauveur wants me…and now I want him.” She turned away as tears welled up in her eyes. “Heave ho,
Capitán
. I have a score to settle.”

The
Coral
couldn’t have been in a worse location, but at least she was here. The distance might have been easy enough for a ghost to traverse, but it would take mere mortals a good part of the day to cross the same distance.

Luísa slapped at an itch on her neck.
Did everything have to bite on this island?

They raced through the jungle, trying to cover as much ground as possible. Luísa sensed Daltry’s growing worry about Sibyl. They paused at a fresh spring, and Daltry paced while Luísa refilled water skins.

“We’ll find her. She’s probably with her lov…I mean…” Luísa didn’t know what she meant. No answer would satisfy Daltry in his current state of mind.

“I know. She could be with her lover,” he said stiffly. “But that doesn’t mean she won’t earn an earful from me when we find her. She knows better than to make me fret like this.”

Luísa huffed at him. “She’s a grown woman. And it’s not like anything could hurt her. She told me so herself.”

Daltry kicked at a defenseless shrub. “I don’t care.”

“Why are men always so possessive of their female kin? It is the same way for me on the
Coral
. I could barely wander portside without Papa ordering a watch on my every move.”

“It’s our job to protect you.”

“Take a good look at me,
Capitán
.” She threw her knife and nailed a dragonfly to a tree. “I don’t need any man to protect me.”

Daltry stretched his neck, seemingly weary of the conversation before something stirred him to attention. “Don’t move.”

“What?” She took a step backward.

Daltry growled, a deep gravelly sound that told her the wolf spoke and not the man. He pushed her into the brush so hard it took precious moments to gather her wits.

“Neptune’s teeth! What in blazes was that for?” She scrambled to her knees as mad as a naked ram in winter. She intended to follow with a sound rebuke when she heard the unmistakable grunt of a jungle hog, an animal so fierce, it could tear them to bits in minutes.

Stampeding toward them rushed a beast as big as a bull and twice as angry. It was a feral boar, his red eyes set upon her. The animal’s hooves pounded the jungle into mash. Nothing would keep him from his victim.

Daltry shouted at the boar, but the warrior’s yell turned into a roar no human voice could produce. The wolf inside him emerged. Muscles bulged and hair sprouted on every inch of flesh. His face darkened and lengthened until snarl met snarl.

The hog changed direction, and they charged each other with one thunderous blow, knocking both of them down.

The wolf gathered himself first and bit deep into the boar’s ear. The savage pig didn’t know how to break loose, and he bucked and squealed with the elegance of a scalded rabbit. Daltry didn’t let go until the hog drove him shoulder first into a tree. His tender ear now freed, the feral beast made good his escape while Daltry slid down the face of the tree, landing in a crumple of human flesh.

Luísa watched from her knees, shocked and shamed at being so ill equipped for land.

Daltry doubled over, gasping for breath. The man had returned in torn and bloody clothes. He turned toward her, his hands on his knees, sucking in air. “You were saying, madam—about taking care of yourself.”

Luísa helped him up. “Bloody men! And your damn pigs too.”

She made enough noise to rattle every creature in her wake. Monkeys and parrots chattered among themselves, while less brave creatures melted into the vernal canopy. Daltry caught up to Luísa and grabbed her by the arm.

“Enough, woman. Let us agree that we need each other.”

Luísa sulked. “I could’ve killed it.”

Daltry looked down at her and snorted. “He would’ve had you for breakfast. Feral hogs aren’t the most amenable of hosts, especially when you’re in their jungle.” He brushed the litter out of her hair and kissed her nose. “Unfortunately, their good will is better than most of the other creatures on this island. We need to keep moving, luv. There’s no safe haven for us out in the open.”

A shot rang out, and the piercing scream of a wounded beast echoed through the brush. Men shouted and cursed, a chorus of spittle and phlegm on a savage chase through thicket and thorn.

The French were back.

“Sink me! They’ve found us.”

Daltry shoved her to the ground, hiding them both behind a dense wall of hostas and palms.

The feral beast didn’t give up without a fight, and he raced through the jungle back in their direction. The fool hog led the enemy straight for them, leaving a blood trail for the Frenchmen to follow.

The dying beast careened toward them, so close they could see blood spurting from a cruel wound, his eyes wild with fear and bewilderment. It faltered, falling to its knees and sliding mere inches from their hiding spot.

Its breath, fetid and harsh, slowed into labored grunts. Spurts of blood siphoned out of its carcass to the beat of its heart.

Luísa and Daltry held their breaths as the French drew closer. Their cover would keep them safe for only so long. If the cutthroats got any closer, they’d be meeting the hog in the next life as well.

Long knives drawn, the Frenchmen slit the great beast open before it had breathed its last. One by one they cut out chunks of meat for their rucksacks. One man sawed off a leg joint while another stuffed his satchel with a carved-out piece of fatback and a roast glistening with blood.

But the third sailor, the ugliest of the bunch, shoved the others away and with bare hands dug for the hog’s heart. He ripped it out and ate it raw, its blood juices sliding down his black stringy beard.

Luísa hoped she’d seen the last of their barbarism, but the heart-eater wasn’t finished yet. He grabbed the boar by the testicles and sliced them off. He yelled in French.

“The boy. Bring me the boy.”

To Luísa’s horror, Dooley was brought forward, his face bruised, and his clothes tattered from the lash. Instinct pushed her up, but Daltry held on to her. He shook his head with an unspoken plea for silence.

Daltry was right. To cry out now would be the death of them all.

The heart-eater grabbed Dooley by the neck and shoved the boar’s testicles into his mouth.

The poor lad gagged and turned white as a sail before he bolted into the bushes and emptied the contents of his stomach. He dry-heaved for minutes longer, staggering into the bush where she and Daltry hid.