They hurried forward along a thinly-cut trail, drawing their cutlasses and listening for any human sound. The jungle growth stoppered the moonlight and occasionally they were forced to feel their way blindly, slashing at vines and brush. Crimson heard the chitter of monkeys and felt a pang under her heart. Tyree had kept a capuchin for a time, named Mendicantino—little beggar. She opened the satchel wider and felt the ash wood on top within easy reach.
“Shhh,” Welsh said.
“What?”
“A noise. Stand ready, girl.”
“Always.”
She almost spoke her husband’s name. And then they heard a cry: human and horrified, straight ahead.
“Faster, goat.”
“Towards that, yer thinkin’?”
“I’ve not come this far to meet up with only a corpse.”
He let out a grunt. “Haven’t you now?” he asked.
“Follow me and fasten your gob.”
Lashed and slapped by the heavy undergrowth, they followed the sparse path that vanished in places. They had to keep chopping through bush and branch until they found their way again. Crimson pushed on through clouds of mosquitoes, trying not to slip in spots still muddy from recent rains. Welsh wheezed and huffed behind her. He’d replaced his cutlass and held only his dagger now. Good, he was better with a short blade, and it wouldn’t tire him so much to carry it through the jungle.
“Torches,” he said.
“I see no light.”
“I smell the tallow.”
He was right. As they crept through the brush they came to a clearing of land where the village itself lay like a growth upon the granite face of an unknown god. Two dying torches illuminated the area. Huts made of bamboo, stone, vine, foliage and fronds ringed a huge spit where, Crimson guessed, communal meetings were held. Rain barrels of drinking water were lined up on the south side of the semi-circle while two rusted cannons resided on the north. There must have been hidden tunnels with hoists of some kind for Villaine’s men to bring up the large guns.
“Not much stench from any latrine,” Welsh told her. “If Villaine has either buccaneers or savages with him, they’re not many.”
“A lazy lot. No one’s scraped the cannons down to keep them clean. Hedrick said they were probably bunglers.”
“No sadder sight than a shiftless pirate resting on his treasure chest. I’m thinkin’ we ought to lighten some of their load.”
The village appeared deserted. No movement or sound of any kind within. But still there persisted a sinister sense that something unspeakable had happened here—a plague or slaughter. She could almost feel Tyree’s chilled lips on hers and she fought to keep her concentration. “Let’s check the huts.”
“Careful.”
The first seven bungalows were empty. The pirates had apparently shacked with some of the native women—pots, blankets, seashell combs and colorful cloths sat out in the open upon beddings and warped wood furniture. Gunpowder too wet to be of any use lay in uncapped barrels. Some haughty jewelry and wooden boxes of coins were in plain sight. Villaine’s crew was treated so well they didn’t even bother to hide their spoils from one another.
“Odd company, these privateers,” Welsh said.
“Agreed.”
“If it’s a battle they had, they weren’t expectin’ it.”
“Not most of them, leastways.”
They were leaving the seventh but when they heard the unmistakable sound of a woman weeping. It seemed to come from a bungalow on the far side of the circle. Crimson quickly strode across the common area but Welsh tugged at her sleeve. “Caution, girl.”
“Hush.”
She jerked free and yanked her flintlock from her sash. With a deep breath, she used the edge of her sword to toss back the piece of dark cotton cloth used as a curtain in the doorway. Her eyes had no time to focus before a shot exploded and Welsh’s forceful arm smacked her to the ground even as he flung himself aside.
Another wail rose, this time one of immense and undying remorse.
Crimson scrambled to her feet and dove forward, slashing with her cutlass. If she’d been hit she didn’t feel it yet.
The silver cross was heavy around her neck and she let loose with a groan that broke free from somewhere deep inside her chest. If this was Daemonia Wampyros, she knew she had to slice through the neck with one blow, or so the myths went. She had to believe in something. If it was some other unhappy spirit or shape-shifter, then who the hell knew what to do next.
The aroma of recently cooked meat filled her nostrils. A small fire flared near the back of the spacious hut. Twisting shadows played upon the walls and ceiling, like talons scratching out for her.
Firelight bronzed the face of a young woman cradling a dead man’s head.
“Daphna Maycomb?” Crimson asked.
The girl glanced up without expression. She held a smoking pistol pointed directly at Crimson, the finger on the trigger still holding tight. Her dark hair was tangled and dirty, filled with dust and rotted leaves. Her taste in clothing ran in the same vein as her mother’s: her dress was a bright blue peignoir made of Merino and trimmed in velvet. She must be wildly uncomfortable in this moist heat. There were bruises about her neck, and her hands were so white they appeared almost transparent.
The corpse, too, was filthy, and from his chest rose the handle of a stake made from bamboo. In the corner were a pile of other sharpened sticks. They’d been prepared for a hunt, it looked like. His once-white shirt bloomed red and the blood glistened in the firelight. He’d not only been handsome but almost pretty. Even though he was dead, she could see the strange marriage of nobility and piracy in his bearing. The harsh rugged lines of his jaw and the seamless skin around his eyes. His clothes were ragged now but once they’d been refined, and his lengthy hair—almost as long as Tyree’s—remained tied back in a ponytail with a black silk ribbon.
Replacing his dagger, Welsh said, “It’s Villaine she holds.” He turned and kept watch from the door in case the cries or sound of the shot aroused anyone in hiding. The prevalent, consuming silence continued.
With her free hand, Daphna Maycomb gently stroked her lover’s face as if she were trying to get a child to sleep. His lips were curled back but not far enough that Crimson could see his teeth. The need to know if he had a mouth full of fangs caused her to kneel beside the body and reach out, but Daphna let loose with a soft bitter sound and Crimson drew back.
“Put up your flintlock, Daphna.”
“What’s that?”
“Your parents sent me here to find you.”
“Yes,” the young woman said, stunned and staring through Crimson. “So like them to send someone else and not come themselves.”
“They’re here, off shore, and they paid a good deal in diamonds so that you’d be found.”
“Why didn’t they come for me before? Why didn’t they stop me?”
The girl was caught somewhere between petulance and shock. “Here now, we’ll soon have you home again.”
Daphna’s mouth drew into a ghastly and scornful grin. “Too late, you see, far too late.”
“What happened to Villaine?”
The girl again began to sob, mewling, and her knuckles were white as bone, still unable to release the trigger. “I killed him,” she said, “but the misery on this island does not know how to die.”
“We’ve company,” Welsh said from the doorway, staring into darkness. “And these here aren’t pretty ghosts.”
