Pirate: Space Gypsy Chronicles, #1 (20 page)

S
leep eluded
Rafe as he lay beside Emma. She, on the other hand, fell into a deep slumber. Her breath fluttered soft and even. He tucked a stray hair from her face and traced the curve of her cheek. What was it about her that made him act out of character?

Annabelle was right to accuse him of neglect. Given the trouble on the space station, his first thought should have been to watch for pursuit, not fuck Emma while still in sight of his enemies.

But then again, what was the use of having the reputation of a pirate if he didn’t take risks?

As if I need more danger in my life.
The bounty on his head was sizable, enough he was tempted to turn himself in to collect it. It would make many idiots rash in their attempts to capture him. What he couldn’t discover was, who wanted him alive? His uncle would probably prefer it if he died. Rafe was a reminder of the scandal he’d tried to erase.

But his uncle loved his sister, Rafe’s mother, which meant he couldn’t just outright kill Rafe. He needed to do it in a way that couldn’t be traced back to him. Or had he changed his mind? Did he now want Rafe alive? Because, if Rafe died, what he knew died with him.

Was that why Luca seemed determined to tag along? Had his cousin been sent to spy? They’d had only a short time to talk on the space station, most of it spent on veiled innuendos and boasts. Rafe tired of the deceit. For once, he wanted straight answers.

With Emma in a deep sleep, he eased from the bed. She noted his absence and uttered a sleepy, “Where are you going?”

“I’m going to check on the ship.”

A grunt was her reply as she drifted off again.

He tugged on some pants and his boots before leaving the room. He took the stairs two at a time down to the bottom level where he’d imprisoned Luca. A cell existed there, a tiny room fit for only one, a remnant from the previous captain, probably used to transport the occasional slave. It bore a bed bolted to the wall, a waste removal receptacle, and not much else.

As Rafe entered the room, Luca, who lay on the bed, opened a single eye and made a moue of distaste. “Is this”—he rattled the chain on the arm that kept him tethered out of reach of the door—“really necessary?”

Leaning against the doorframe, Rafe rolled a shoulder. “Aren’t you always the one boasting of your lock-picking skills?” Hard to pick a manacle welded onto his wrist. Rafe knew better than to trust a lock.

“I don’t see why you thought this was necessary. I did nothing but try to help.”

On a hunch, he accused. “Help? Were you helping me when you ratted me out to the king of the Triple Cock?”

“He already knew all about you. I just pointed out the reasons he should keep you alive.”

“He did more than keep me alive. He let me go. Why?” Because, despite the extraction of a promise, it seemed too easy. Too tidy. Rafe didn’t trust or like it one bit.

“I’m just as surprised as you that he chose to listen and set you free.”

Rafe leaned close. “And what are the reasons you gave him,
cousin?
We both know my uncle would prefer it if I disappeared.”

“Not everyone believes the way he does. There are grumbles. Talk that the gods are angry. That they have forsaken us. Things have been happening since you left. Bad things.”

“The gods?” Rafe snorted. “The gods don’t give a damn. We are but passing entertainment to them.” No one knew where the spectral entities came from. They just were. And they meddled.

“Be that as it may, the gods are no longer answering our calls. The priestesses—”

Rafe couldn’t help but interrupt with a snort. “Don’t tell me the clan is resorting to listening to crazy old women who see portents in everything.” His bitterness had a foundation. It was portents and supposed prophecies that led to a less than stellar childhood.

“Are they crazy?” Luca fixed him with his mismatched eyes. “They claim the last son of the thirteenth clan will lead them to the promised land. Lead them home.”

“Legends about the thirteenth clan have been going around our entire lives and those of our forefathers. They are dead. Gone. There is no promised land. There is nobody to lead them home.” Forget the rumors about his father. Whispers that said Rafe was the last son…true born son at any rate.

“You claim there is nothing, and yet you’re searching for the map.”

He kept his expression blank. “Map? What map?”

The sly shine of a predator entered his cousin’s eyes. “Don’t feign ignorance with me. I know you’ve been collecting shards. Specific shards, I might add. So is our uncle.”

What did their uncle know? Rafe had only begun because of the medallion his mother had given him. The only thing he owned of his father that had a symbol on it, a symbol that he found repeated on the first shard he ever found in a marketplace bazaar. “You are misinformed. I have no interest in relics from the past. I deal in the here and now.”

“I know where one of the shards is. I’ll tell you if you let me join you. I want to help you find—”

Rafe cut him off. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. There is nothing to find. And I have no interest in this shard thing you speak of.” Such a lie, and his cousin caught it.

“Why must you keep pretending? I know you’re looking for the pieces. If we join forces, I could help you find them. I have connections.”

“I don’t trust you.”

“But you need me. I know where the next piece is.”

“Tell me.”

“Not without a promise from you. Swear you will take me with you.”

“The only thing I will swear is to not kill you. Now tell me where it is.” No point in hiding his interest anymore, Luca knew. Apparently, his uncle and others did too. It seemed the race was on as to who would get the most pieces and solve the puzzle first.

I don’t intend to lose.
Which meant he needed the piece Luca claimed to have knowledge of. A shame Luca wouldn’t just give it to him. But there were ways to get that knowledge.

In the end, he kept his promise to Luca. He didn’t kill him, and the bruises would heal. However the answer might prove more difficult to handle.
I know where there’s another shard. Another piece to the puzzle.
Just one itty bitty problem. Its current location would make it almost impossible to retrieve.

Awesome.
I do so love a challenge.
And the Pit on Lac’uus would certainly give his subterfuge skills a good workout.

I must have that next piece.

As Rafe sat on the bridge, the various shards he’d collected piled in his lap, he stroked them, feeling the heat that always seemed present and the low hum that almost seemed to talk to him.

What secrets do you hide?
Were these the missing clues to finding the world the Rhomanii had lost so long ago? Or were these for something else? Only one way to find out. Collect more pieces.

Caught in his thoughts, he missed the soft footfalls of his wench. No time to hide his secret.

“What are you doing?” she asked. “What are those?” She grabbed a broken piece and squinted at it. He refrained from snatching it back. Perhaps it was time to give a little trust, and who better than someone who had no ulterior motive? Someone with perhaps a fresh perspective.

“These are parts of a map, I think.”

“You think? You mean you don’t know?” She grabbed a second piece and held it alongside the first. “Why is it broken?”

“Because whoever made it didn’t want it to be found.”

“So where does the map lead to?”

“Treasure, of course.” And maybe answers… “Are you up for some more adventure, wench?” He gave her his best pirate leer.

Emma laughed and gave him a salute. “Aye, aye, Captain.”

“Annabelle, set course for the wormhole. We’ve got a treasure to find.”

What a shame trouble found them first.

D
rip
.
Drip
.
Drip
-fucking-
drip
.

The steady patter of liquid irritated his throbbing head, especially as it kept hitting him in the same spot on the temple.

A rough surface grated at his cheek, definitely not the softest pillow he’d ever slept on.

He rolled onto his back and peered without recognition at the vaulted stone ceiling above him. The stone blocks appeared pitted with age. Cracked and damp, so damp some of the moisture pooled and dripped.

A drop threatened to attack so he heaved his body to the side, flattening on to his stomach. Forget rising, though. A wave of dizziness kept him on his hands and knees. His body felt weak, sluggish.

What happened to me?

How had he ended up here, on the dirty stone floor of a cell?

Why was he here?

Did it matter? He could probably state with confidence that finding himself in a cell didn’t bode well.

It never did.

Especially since he couldn’t remember a single thing about his past.

Who am I?

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