Mistress of the Stone (7 page)

“Is it now?” She narrowed her eyes at him. “I intend to make sure.”

“That shapeshifter has filled you with lies, Luísa.”

“How do you know it was Daltry who told me?”

The question seemed to stun him, but he wasn’t one to admit secrets readily. “Who else but that wolf’s head? The beast is misdirecting you. Wolves often lead their hunters astray to better their chances for escape.”

It almost sounded true.

“The corridor is only a few days’ sail from here. And we have time yet to make the rendezvous.” She squeezed Paqua’s hand under her own. “Please, Paqua. If Papa is there, we have to rescue him. If we sit there, waiting for whoever took him, we leave ourselves open. You know that. Better we make the first move and keep the element of surprise in our favor.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “If Inácio is on the
Isla de Sempiterno
then it is already too late, Luísa.”

“Then the island is real?”

He took a few seconds to admit his lie and finally nodded. “Yes, blast it.” He unfolded the chart and patted it down flat on the table, tapping a finger at the picture of the fog dragon. “There’s a reason no God-fearing mapmaker puts it on a chart. It’s an island for the damned, with creatures so vile, even the devil takes his leave. We cannot go there.”

“I wasn’t asking, Paqua. It’s an order. My order.”

“We command together.” His voice sharpened.

“Not this time. Not now that I know the island is real.”

She pulled her knife out and cut a thin line into the palm of her hand, flinching when the sharp edge cleaved flesh. She didn’t cut too deep. There was barely enough blood to stain the skin, but it still stung. “I’m offering a pirate’s oath, Paqua. I will wager full command of this ship if my father is not on that island. Furthermore, I’ll agree without quarrel your right to marry me off as Papa intended. You’ll have the
Coral
all to yourself and me off your hands. What say you,
viejo
? An oath in blood. A pirate’s bond.”

Paqua pulled off the long brown scarf he wore atop his smooth head and wiped the blood off her hand. “Daltry has filled your head with false hope.”

“Accept my bargain, Captain. I’ve run out of options and that devil has offered me the only prospect I have left.”

His nose flared wide as he breathed, angry that he’d been pushed against the rail. “Keep your blood, Luísa. I will read the signs and give you my answer.”

He strode out with Luísa at his heels. The men stared at them expectantly. They’d been awaiting their next orders and it made them nervous when their captains weren’t in accord. They had arrived at the first leg of their journey, a vast turquoise sea with no land masses about. It was time to make a decision.

“I need a chicken, quartermaster,” Paqua bellowed.

Black Barbosa walked over to several wood cages lashed together. Chicken eggs were a luxury and what Paqua proposed would have been unthinkable on another ship, but he was a mystic of extraordinary measure. More than once he had saved the crew and the
Coral
from certain doom through his readings. Luísa wasn’t a believer, but if it would help him save face, she’d go along with his wiles.

It was certain to be quite a show. Half Catholic and half heathen, he bridged both religions with careful pageantry, mesmerizing the men with his weirding ways. The crew lay silent—expectant. Only the gentle roll of the ship and waves splashing against the hull dared to break his spell of enchantment.

The chickens clucked softly, wary of the commotion outside their pens. The warm afternoon sun made the birds chirpy and agitated. Paqua glanced at a row of hens, sidestepping back and forth inside their cages. Their claws tapped out an anxious warning that something seemed amiss. It wasn’t their feeding time and the eggs had already been collected. One plump hen droned a long, nervous
ba-awk
,
ba-awk
,
ba-awk
. That was Khourru, a red-speckled biddy that always had something to say.

Paqua walked silently past each cage then back again, pausing and chanting at each worried hen. A bony brown finger waggled at each bird but settled on Khourru.

One side of Luísa’s mouth lifted up. How did he happen to choose the one biddy that had been producing poorly as of late?

Barbosa pulled the bird out of the cage, and held it firmly against his chest. Luísa couldn’t help but notice how the quartermaster petted the bird with near tenderness. Black Barbosa had a soft spot for small animals and this hen in particular.

Paqua waved his hands about him, brushing the mob aside as if whisking away the crumbs from a table. With hushed mumbles, the men drifted backwards, opening a space for the painted brown man and his foreign ways.

The mystic pulled out a small leather satchel that rattled when he shook it. He swaggered along the perimeter of men, hopping on one foot and then the other in a jig of his making. He rattled the pouch by each man’s ear and then his own. “Hear the bones,” he cried. “They demand to speak!”

Paqua closed his eyes and mumbled a prayer, first to God and then to the four winds. He hefted the small bag above his head, one foot in the air, the other hopping to the rhythm of a silent drum.

Paqua chanted for a vision. “
Huesitos
! Let me see what you see. Show me where our future lies.” He stopped and hugged himself tight, his face to the sun. “
Huesitos
! Speak to me.”

Once more he waved the bag over his head and almost imperceptibly slid the knot loose. In one fluid motion, he poured the contents of the bag into a callused hand, rattling them like a die before a wager.

These were human finger bones. Wagging tongues bragged that Paqua had killed the original owner of these bones in a gruesome sacrifice, but Luísa’s father had told her the truth, a story far more grim and sorrowful. On a beach he refused to name, they found the remains of men burnt to a crisp, as if the fires of hell had roasted them in their sleep.

Inácio and Paqua were boys back then, not much older than Dooley, and they roamed the seas in search of adventure. Her father found his calling at the prow of a ship, but on that day, Paqua found religion. It was the bones of these unfortunates that induced his first vision. He had seen the demon that had killed them and he made Papa promise never to return to this island. It was a promise readily made.

They buried what was left of the bodies, minus one charred finger from each corpse. Paqua slipped the remains into a satchel. Papa was horrified, but his friend assured him the dead had asked to be taken so that part of them could be remembered and mourned. It was the least he could do.

As the years went by, the relics proved a reliable oracle. Then he painted them with strange little symbols and the visions became even clearer. Paqua had found his vocation. He was the shaman of the sea, a speaker for the dead.

Now as then, he sat on his haunches and prayed over the bones, lifting them to his lips and kissing them before tossing them to the deck.

The bones scattered everywhere, dancing end to end as if they were alive. They clicked against the heavy wood deck, chattering like teeth in the cold, whirling until they surrendered their energy.

Some of the men jumped like scalded dogs when a bone got too close to their vantage point. They scrambled over one another, certain the touch of a dead man’s bones could curse them.

The crew held a collective breath as the runes tumbled to silence. Even Luísa was caught in the spectacle of revelation. What did the shaman see in these little bones, their sides painted in a language only he understood?

Paqua mumbled something, bowing his head several times in succession, then gathered the bones and threw them once more.

His eyes narrowed into thin slits and his jaw stiffened. He turned over a couple of the bones so he could read their symbols and then scoffed.

“Bah! The spirits are selfish today. They demand blood for the telling.”

Once more he collected the bones and threw them, their rattling clicks marking every somersault in slow motion.

Paqua leaned over the bones, his hands bracing either side of his knees while his sour breath bathed each magical piece.

He nodded his head. “Very well,” he said as if speaking to some invisible being. He fished out a fresh cloth and laid it on the floor, then motioned to Barbosa. “Bring me the chicken.”

The quartermaster did as he was told, but there was hesitation in his eyes when Paqua pulled out a knife. Barbosa handed the hen over to the shaman, then withdrew behind the packed crowd. Black Barbosa had killed men for the tiniest of indiscretions, but he had no stomach for seeing his pet chicken meet the knife.

Khourru clucked nervously in Paqua’s hands. The shaman stroked her gently, calming her with an enchantment and she settled down, her eyes closed as she met the inevitable.

She made no sound when Paqua jabbed the knife from inside her mouth and through the top of her head. He held her firmly while the bird flapped its last. A mercy that it was so quick. What little blood was shed he captured on a clean cloth.

Long minutes went by and the crew remained silent, waiting for the bird to realize its passing. When it finally stilled, Paqua pierced it below its breast bone and opened it up. Out spilled its entrails like dusky pearls bathed in slime. Paqua dug them out and scattered them onto the wide cloth.

He poked at the gizzard and then the intestine, wispy tendrils of steam rising from the tiny organs. He held its bloodied heart, and studied it for imperfections. Finally, he examined the liver and rubbed his fingers against the slick surface. It was mottled with purple spots and the bile sac had been torn. He lifted two fingers painted with the dark green smear of malodorous bile.

Paqua fell back on his haunches, his shoulders slumped in submission, while empty eyes looked beyond the mortal world. His lips moved, but no sound came out. Those words were for the spirits alone.

When he stood, he grappled to his feet as if he’d aged a hundred years. “Quartermaster,” he said with melancholy. “Your hen gave her life for a good cause. We have our answers now. Make ready to sail.” He glanced at Luísa, his brow more crinkled than before, a look of grim resolve. “The Mistress will give you your heading.”

Chapter Five

Luísa could only give the sailing master vague directions. They would need Paqua’s guidance once they got closer to the
Dragon
.

There were still several days’ sail ahead of them with little to do. She’d keep the men busy with repairs and cannon drills, but for her, the days would feel like months.

Paqua still wanted to throw Daltry overboard and part of her wanted to agree, but every time she looked into the
Inglés’s
amber eyes, she felt her resolve melt. The devil had cast a spell on her, and though she tried to stay away, she kept finding reasons to climb down to the bowels of the ship to check on her prisoner.

She never spoke, and she stayed out of lantern light, letting her eyes adjust to the dark and to the man who haunted her every waking moment.

Daltry looked at her once then turned away in disinterest.

The cad!

His hard lean body rocked to the sway of ship. Long dark hair, once bound, hung loosely, titillating her in ways she couldn’t comprehend.
Madonna
forgive her. She was beginning to know the full meaning of lust.

How dare he not acknowledge her? Men were always noticing her, sometimes to their misfortune if any of the crew caught them in the act. Papa had made it clear that Luísa was to remain chaste. It was up to every man onboard to defend her virtue—even when she didn’t want it defended so rigorously. What was wrong with a few appreciative glances?

Luísa bolted from the hold and cursed her way back to her quarters.

Blast that man and his demon ways. Why did he vex her so?

She kicked a chest, then winced, realizing too late her toe was the only thing punished here. Served her right for kicking solid oak. The devil, it smarted. She sank to the floor, and pulled off her boot so she could rub her poor foot.

Her gaze shifted to the trunk in front of her.

English like Daltry. Peonies and ivy. Ribbons and finches. And wood as hard as… A woman could easily find her desires tied up in both.

The trunk had been liberated from an earlier siege, and strategically left off the booty manifest. It was wrong and she knew it. Pirates shared their plunder. It was law. But she couldn’t bear to see these lovelies sorted and sold for mere coin.

This trousseau was her escape from salty air and sweaty men. She coveted its belongings whenever she was feeling particularly unappreciated.
Like now.

She opened it, then pulled out a silk dressing gown, pressing the cool, silky fabric against her cheek. These were fragile things. Woman things. Wicked pretties that filled men’s heads with lust. The ends of her mouth tilted up as she fondled her plunder. Ivory fans and silk handkerchiefs. Diaphanous chemises and lacy skirts. What man, she wondered, relieved the original owner of her silks and virtue?

The lady must have been a court favorite and Luísa could only guess at the delicious scandals that swirled around this decadent courtesan with her fine perfumes and delicate silks.

She pressed a whisper of fabric against her bosom and let out a breath as the cool, silky chemise kissed her bare skin. A wicked thought occurred to her. Surely, no one would know if she slipped it on beneath her shirt.