Vampirates 3: Blood Captain (8 page)

13

THE IN-BETWEENS

Was this part of the dream? In many ways it seemed more unreal than what had gone before, but looking up into Shanti’s wild eyes, Grace knew at once that this was real. Shanti had never liked her and now, for some unexplained reason, she was trying to kill her.

As Shanti’s hands pressed against Grace’s throat, she felt her consciousness ebbing away. I’m going to die, she thought. I’m actually going to die here, in this little room. She felt sad. It seemed such a premature way to exit life. After everything she had been through — everything that she imagined lay ahead of her — to perish at the hands of a demented donor for no reason she understood was just grim.

She wanted to scream but Shanti’s hands clasped her neck too tightly, rendering her vocal cords useless. In a moment, it would all be over. Somehow she had to make a sound. She began drumming her feet on the floor. Her feet were still bare and it didn’t make as much noise as she would have liked. Was it enough? She swung her feet from side to side, hoping to make contact with something, anything. Preferably something large and breakable. But there was nothing there. Feeling her chances ebbing away, she continued drumming her feet on the floorboards, feeling no pain, only a growing sense of numbness.

Suddenly the door was pushed open and flew backward. Shanti was flying away from her. Grace realized that two pairs of hands had grabbed the manic donor. It took a moment before she realized that Shanti had released her grip from her neck. It still felt massively constricted. She let out a breath. She had come so close to death. Only now did she allow herself to tremble. Only now did she feel the pain from pounding her feet against the floor. But it had worked. It had worked!

“I knew this was a mistake,” Olivier said, gripping Shanti’s hands behind her back.

“Let me go!” Shanti snarled at him, her head swinging, her teeth gnashing together. “Let me go or I’ll kill you too!”

“You’re not going to kill anyone, lady,” Olivier said. “Here, Dani, take over for me while I check on Grace.”

Olivier’s companion stepped over to Shanti and slipped a pair of handcuffs over her small wrists. Still, she bucked and wailed like a wild beast.

“Are you all right?” Olivier asked, lightly touching Grace’s neck.

“Ouch! That hurts.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Your neck’s a little raw. She really had a go at you.”

“Yes.” Grace nodded, and the action was painful. “But why? I don’t understand. What’s gotten into her?”

They both looked up at Shanti, who, though held in Dani’s clutches, was still seething and muttering in the vilest terms.

“It’s very simple,” Olivier said, walking over to her. “See, your friend Shanti took something that didn’t belong to her.” With that, he reached his hands into Shanti’s hair and unfastened the ribbon she had knotted there. At once, Shanti calmed down. The fury drained from her eyes, her limbs ceased their wild movements, and her voice faded into silence. She stood there, as limp as a marionette whose strings have been cut.

Olivier took the ribbon and rolled it around his wrist. “There,” he said. “All quiet now.”

Grace was dumbfounded. “It was the ribbon?” she said. “The
ribbon
did this to her?”

Olivier nodded. “Like I said before, it did not belong to her.”

Grace scrambled up into a sitting position. “So Shanti meant me no harm? It was the ribbon. No, the
person,
who the ribbon belongs to?”

“I’m not here to answer your questions,” Olivier said. “Just to ensure that chaos does not break out again.” He nodded to Dani. “Take the donor away to the donor quarters.”

“No!” Grace protested, but Olivier gave Dani a look that left her in no doubt whose word was to be obeyed. Dani led Shanti away. The donor followed obediently, all strength apparently drained from her body.

“Perhaps you will understand now, Grace Tempest, that there are powerful forces here at Sanctuary. You would do well to listen to those of us who know of such things and not assume you can play hard and fast with the rules.”

Grace felt suitably chastened but she was indignant at Olivier’s manner. Did he feel threatened by her? Was that why he had to keep stressing his greater knowledge?

“Thank you,” she said. “You saved my life.”

“Yes,” he said, with a smile. “Yes, I suppose I did.”

“So now what?”

“So now, if you’re up to it, you join me for breakfast. I’ll wait outside while you get dressed.”

“Breakfast?” said Grace. “But surely the vampires don’t have breakfast?”

“No indeed,” Olivier said. “But since neither you nor I, to the best of my knowledge, are vampires, we will partake of some food.”

“You’re not a vampire?”

“If you continue to ask all these questions, we’ll never get anything done.” He sighed. “No, I’m not a vampire. I work for Mosh Zu. I’m not a donor, either, before you ask. I’m like you. An in-between, I guess you’d call us, for want of a better term.”

“An in-between,” Grace repeated. It wasn’t the loftiest of titles.

“Exactly,” said Olivier. “Now I’ll wait outside while you get sorted. But do be quick. Saving damsels in distress always gives me a hearty appetite.”

“So how long have you been here?” Grace asked as she and Olivier sat down to eat.

“Questions, questions. We have a rule here at Sanctuary. No questions.”

“But how do you learn anything?” Grace asked.

“There you go again,” said Olivier. “For you, everything is a question. Oh, it’s not that I’m not as inquisitive as you, believe me. I hunger for knowledge. But I have learned, in my time with Mosh Zu, that it is better to let people open themselves up to you, in their own time. In that way, you will learn everything you want to know and more besides.”

“But what if people don’t
want
to open up to you?”

Olivier smiled and took an orange from a bowl in front of them. Deftly, he ran his fingers along the surface of the fruit and shucked away the peel.

“It’s really just acquiring the knack of getting under the skin,” he said.

“But don’t you . . .” Grace began.

“That’s sounding very much like the beginning of another question,” Olivier said as he divided up the segments of the fruit.

Grace sighed and shook her head, lifting a plum from her own plate.

They ate the rest of their meal in silence. It was only the two of them in the room, and Grace wanted to ask if there were other “in-betweens” at Sanctuary or if it was just the two of them. But she realized she’d have to hold on to this question and await the information when the time was right.

“You’ve finished,” Olivier said.

“Hah!” Grace said. “That was a question.”

Olivier shook his head. “Not a question but an observation. You appear to have eaten everything on your plate. And so have I. Our breakfast is over and now I will take you to Mosh Zu.”

“Mosh Zu has asked to see me.”

Olivier shot her a frustrated look.

Grace shook her head. “Not a question,” she said. “An observation. Anyone would think you didn’t know that Australians often sound like we’re asking questions, because our voices rise up at the end of sentences. It’s called a High Rising Terminal, just in case you didn’t know. There we are, I just gave you some information you didn’t ask for. I think I’m getting the hang of this.”

Olivier shook his head. “I can see you’re going to be quite challenging company,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” said Grace.

“Don’t be sorry,” Olivier said, a smirk playing on his lips. “I enjoy a challenge.”

Just then there was a knock on the door. Dani stepped inside. “Sorry to interrupt your breakfast,” she said, “but the captain is preparing to leave.” She looked at Grace. “He’d like to see you before he goes.”

Grace stood up, surprised. “Yes, of course.” She hadn’t expected the captain to leave so soon. Had he had enough time to talk through all the things he had wanted to consult Mosh Zu on? Or was there another reason why he was hurrying back to
The Nocturne
?

14

THE TYPHON

The central of the three wishes had been lowered to allow Captain Wrathe and his companions an easy passageway from
The Diablo
to
The Typhon
.

“What exactly is a Typhon?” Connor asked as they passed the ship’s sign.

“It’s a mythological creature,” Cate said. “A monster with a hundred heads and a hundred serpents in the place of legs. He was supposed to be able to create terrible storms.”

“Nice!” said Connor.

He felt a little uncomfortable dressed in the stiff shirt, jacket and tie Molucco had lent him. Bart seemed to be having similar problems but that was possibly less because of the starch in his shirt and more because the velvet jacket, though stylish, was a tad on the small side for his broad shoulders. He squirmed as he walked. “Did we really have to wear these threads?”

“I think you’ve both scrubbed up very well,” said Cate with a smile.

“Are you making fun of us?” Bart asked.

“Oh no,” she said, the very picture of innocence. “It’s nice to see you clean-shaven, for a change, and smelling of lemons rather than sweat.”

Connor was amused to see Bart blush. He noticed that though Cate had refused to “dress up,” as Trofie had requested, she had nevertheless given her hair a wash and knotted a fresh bandanna about her head. Now she nodded at Connor. “Make sure you keep that map case dry,” she said.

“Aye, aye,” Connor said, giving her a mock salute with his free hand.

“Don’t be cheeky, Tempest,” said Cate, smiling indulgently.

Beyond the wish, crossing the deck of
The Typhon
was an actual red carpet. And waiting on it, arm outstretched, a formally attired butler.

“Good evening, Captain Wrathe,” the silver-haired servant said with a discreet bow. “Welcome aboard
The Typhon
.”

“Thank you,” Molucco said, sweeping past him along the carpet. “Well, I must say my brother and his wife do have some fancy-schmancy ways. Anyone would think this was a cruise ship, not a pirate vessel! Next thing you know, we’ll be throwing streamers over the side!”

Connor grinned as he and Bart followed Cate and Captain Wrathe onto the red carpet. Looking up, he saw that Barbarro and Trofie were waiting for them at the end of the deck, standing side by side on the red carpet like royalty — pirate royalty. They were both dressed, as might have been expected, in rare finery. Barbarro wore a dinner jacket and trousers with a bright blue sash and a gold medal sweeping across his chest. At his side, Trofie resembled a swan, shimmering in a tightly-fitted dress made of a diaphanous material that glistened in the light of the moon and the lanterns set along the deck. She was wearing a necklace akin to a spider’s web, with rubies at every connecting point. Connor couldn’t begin to imagine how much it might be worth.

“Good evening,” Molucco beamed, shaking his brother warmly by the hand. Skirmish and Scrimshaw popped out to greet each other. When their snake greeting was done, Molucco moved on and kissed Trofie on each cheek.

“Good evening, Molucco,” she said, looking over his shoulder at the others. “And how nice of you all to make such an effort. I’m sure you don’t get to dress up for dinner very often.”

“Erm, no,” Connor said, still fiddling with his collar. Meals on board
The Diablo
were generally a pretty rough and ready affair. If you bothered to shower before sitting down at the table, you were usually the object of much ridicule and ribbing.

“Welcome one, welcome all,” said Barbarro cheerily.

Trofie clicked her fingers and the butler circulated among the guests with a tray of tall glasses. “Champagne, sir?” the butler said, offering the tray to Connor. Connor reached out for the glass.

“Not while he’s on duty,” Cate said, handing the glass back.

“Come, come,” said Molucco. “A few bubbles won’t hurt the boy now, will they?”

“Quite right,” said Barbarro. “Moonshine loves the stuff!”

Cate shook her head as Connor, caught between the captain and his deputy, took hold of the glass.

Barbarro turned to Trofie. “Where
is
our Moonshine?”

“In his cabin, I expect.”

“I told him to be here on time!”

“Don’t be such a grouch,
min elskling
. You know Moonshine. Always busy with something . . .”

“Busy doing nothing, more like,” Barbarro snapped.

Trofie managed to maintain her fixed grin while hissing at her husband. “Not in front of our guests, dearest. Happy families, tonight. Remember?”

“Blowfish sashimi, sir?” The butler reappeared before Connor, holding out a large gold plate bearing tiny slivers of raw fish, arranged like the petals of a flower. In the center of the plate was a shimmering pile of fish skin and a small lime. Connor looked at the arrangement, thinking that it wouldn’t have looked out of place in an art gallery. Eating it was another matter, however.

“Isn’t blowfish poisonous?” he asked.

Trofie roared with laughter. “Are you worried we’re trying to poison you,
min elskling
? If we were, I think we’d be a little more subtle about it, don’t you?”

“Go ahead, dear boy,” said Barbarro. “It’s a rare delicacy.” Beside him, Molucco nodded encouragingly.

Connor took a pair of gold chopsticks in his fingers and lifted a small sliver of fish to his mouth. It tingled on his tongue. At first, he wondered if it wasn’t poisonous after all. Then, he realized that it was just the rare taste of the fish and its fiery dressing of lime, scallions, and radish.

Trofie smiled. “Phew! Not dead yet,” she said. “We’ll have to try harder next time, eh?” She gave him a playful wink, but Connor found himself shivering. He still wasn’t sure whether she was laughing with him or at him.

Thirty minutes later, after a second glass of champagne and another sliver or two of sashimi, Connor found himself relaxed and basking in the sense of well-being that radiated aboard the deck of
The Typhon
. It was clear that Barbarro and Trofie lived well, and in spite of Connor’s initial misgivings, they were proving warm and generous hosts.

At last, Moonshine appeared on deck. Connor noticed that, as he did so, both his parents closed in on him as tightly as a clamshell — Trofie to adjust his bow tie and Barbarro to demand (none too softly) what
precisely
had kept him from joining them half an hour earlier. Connor didn’t hear Moonshine’s reply as behind him a gong was struck and the butler announced, “Captains, ladies, and gentlemen, dinner is now served.”

Barbarro turned and beckoned the others to follow him below deck.

“Marvelous,” said Molucco, striding across the deck. “Those fish slivers have given me an appetite for some proper food.” Connor grinned. You could take Molucco away from
The Diablo
. . . but he would always operate by his own rules.

“Say hello to Uncle Molucco,” Trofie said, once more pushing Moonshine across the path of his uncle.

“Whatever,” Moonshine said, apparently more concerned with pulling his long hair back down over his eyes.

“And here’s Cate and Bart, and you remember Connor, don’t you, darling?”

At that, Moonshine lifted his head and shook it so his hair flew back off his face. He stared at Connor, his eyes wild and bloodshot.

“Oh yeah, I remember Connor. Whassup?”

He reached out his hand and Connor assumed he wanted to shake it. As he did so, he felt a searing pain dig into his palm. What the . . . ?

As Moonshine released his hand, Connor saw that his flesh was bleeding.

Connor winced and glanced up at Moonshine, then around to see if his crewmates had noticed what had just happened. But the lure of dinner meant that suddenly he and Moonshine were alone on the deck.

“Oops,” Moonshine said. “I’m so sorry. This must have slipped out of my sleeve.” He picked up a star-shaped
shuriken
— a jagged circular throwing weapon. One of its prongs was now wet with Connor’s blood.

“What did you do that for?” Connor asked, scarcely able to control his anger and confusion.

“I thought it might help to jog your memory.”

“My
memory
?” Connor said. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t pretend to be any dumber than you are,” Moonshine sneered. “I’m talking about Calle del Marinero. Ring any bells, half-wit?”

Calle del Marinero. The Street of Sailorsor the Strip of Sin,depending on who you listened to.That was where Connor had gone with Bart and Jez on shore leave, a month or so after joining
The Diablo
. Nowadays, Bart and Connor referred to the trip as their Lost Weekend. Indeed, it was the stuff of legend aboard
The Diablo
. The self-styled Three Buccaneers had set out from the ship on a Friday night, and when it had returned for them on Sunday evening, the three young pirates had been unable to remember anything that had happened in the intervening forty-eight hours. Even more strangely, they had been discovered dressed only in their underwear with mysterious matching tattoos. Two months later, Connor and Bart were still being ribbed about it. And yet they continued to remember nothing. It appeared, though, that Moonshine knew something more than they knew.

“Were you there?” Connor asked. “Did we meet there?”

Moonshine sniffed in disgust and burst a zit on the side of his nose. “Give it a rest, eh, Connor,” he said. “You know exactly what went down at Calle del Marinero. I had my bodyguards confiscated after that, thanks to you and your pals. Dad thought I was giving him a bad name. Well, I’ll show him . . . and I’ll show you. Expect payback very soon.”

Payback?
Wasn’t a
shuriken
in the hand payback enough? What more did Moonshine have planned for him?

“Well, isn’t this nice?” Trofie’s voice was swiftly followed by her face, reappearing from the doorway. “Are you two young men becoming friends?”

“Yes, Mother,” Moonshine said, his voice as sweet as an overripe melon. “But Connor has had a little accident.” He pointed to the gash in Connor’s hand.

“Oh, no!” Trofie said, stepping forward to examine the wound. “You’re bleeding!”

“I’ll be fine,” Connor said. “It’s only a superficial cut.”

“Come on inside and we’ll fetch the sea-urchin salve,” Trofie said. “It might sting a little, but it will stanch the bleeding. However did you do that? Oh, don’t even tell me!” she giggled. “Boys will be boys!”

She ushered them through the door into a carpeted hallway with a massive chandelier.

Connor turned to Moonshine with a look of pure hatred.

“Get a move on, mutant,” said Moonshine, giving him a shove. “I don’t want to be late for din-din.”