“Fuck off, Bob.” Drake glared up at his well-meaning friend. “You never should have told her where to find me in the first place.”
Bob sobered, shaking his head. “I’ve known that woman since she used to sit on the back steps of my kitchen and cry because the kids at school teased her. She’s got a lion’s heart, and when she told me you were in danger, you’re damned right I told her where to find you.” He nudged Drake’s shoulder. “Yer crew cares about you, even if you don’t.” He glanced over at the door. “And if you let a precious soul like that one slip through yer fingers, then you deserve whatever torment you’re putting yourself through.”
Drake laid some cash on the table and got up, staring down at Bob. “You’re right, I do deserve it.”
He left the one-eyed pirate behind, grinding his teeth as he ventured out into the darkness. Heather wasn’t lingering in the tiny parking lot. Not that he expected her to be there, but apparently part of him had hoped. Stupid. What would he say? He barely knew her. What if he explained his true age and she told others? He and his crew had been able to remain in Savannah because they were careful to keep their immortality hidden from the world. He didn’t want to lie to her, but he also didn’t want to lose the life his crew had built.
Somehow, she’d known he was lying, or at best withholding the truth. It didn’t matter. As much as she intrigued him, and even managed to make him laugh, it didn’t change the fact that a banshee wailed in his ears, and his long dead nephew was apparently back from his watery grave to torment him.
He wasn’t sure how the two were connected yet, but if he cared anything for Heather, he needed to walk away now. A Banshee’s cry meant death would be coming, and he couldn’t die. The last thing he wanted was Heather’s blood on his hands, too.
Drake pulled up to his house and shut off the headlights. He’d grab his tools from the back of his truck in the morning. His place sat at the end of a bluff in the outskirts of Brunswick, Georgia. He had plenty of privacy and no real threat of robbery. He walked past his humble private dock and into his elevated home. Being on the flood plain, many of the houses were built on pilings, piers, and stilts so the rising water during hurricane season flooded the garage and not the main house.
He climbed the stairs and went directly into the master bath, stripping off his clothes and stepping into the hot shower. His eyes burned from lack of sleep, and his chest still ached, tight with regret. Not going after her had taken more restraint than he’d anticipated, her stinging words still echoed in his mind.
When someone shows you who they are, you should believe them.
Fuck, even he didn’t know who he was anymore.
He’d thought he wasn’t the kind of man to drive a woman away, one whose only sin had been to try to protect him.
Until that moment, he’d enjoyed himself, which was rare these days. She made him forget his past and his future. With her, he’d been present, in the moment. Talking freely with Heather had felt natural, and yet far from normal for him.
With a hand on either side of the showerhead, he leaned forward, closing his eyes as the hot water poured over his head and down his back. The heat loosened the knots in his shoulders, enticing him to relax, but gradually, shadows crept in.
The splash of the water filling the tub became a darker sound, centuries old.
“We’ve hit the rocks!” Keegan shouted over the storm. “Drop the sails!”
“NO!” Captain Flynn bellowed through the darkness. “We can make it to port. Stay your course for Savannah!” He turned his steely eyes onto Drake. “Patch that hole! Keep us afloat.”
Drake grabbed an oil lantern and raced belowdecks, but as he descended the third set of stairs, the Atlantic greeted him, crawling up the steps like a hungry plague. Fuck.
Then a bolt of revelation lit through his bloodstream. He pushed his legs faster through the hip-deep water, calling to his nephew. “Thomas!”
He’d smuggled the eleven-year-old boy aboard when they left England. His sister had pleaded with him, coughing, her lungs surrendering to the consumption festering in her chest. Her time left on earth would be short. She’d urged Drake to take Thomas to the New World. She didn’t want to leave her son an orphan, alone and penniless on the streets of London.
He could deny his sister nothing. If he could’ve welcomed the disease into his body to spare her, he would have. Instead, he’d find a way to give her this.
The day the Sea Dog prepared to set sail, Drake smuggled the lanky boy aboard in his duffel bag, instructed him to stay in the workshop below the decks and remain hidden until Drake could get him off the ship in the New World. The boy was obedient and never complained of hunger or thirst, although he must’ve experienced both. Drake brought him rations saved from his own portion, but it wasn’t enough for a growing child.
And now the boat was taking on water, and Drake’s secret stowaway wouldn’t be secret much longer. But the boy hadn’t come forward at his calls. Adrenaline laced Drake’s bloodstream as he searched and started yelling over the roar of the storm. When he finally located his nephew, Thomas was at the edge of the battered hull, a hammer still gripped in his small hand.
He spat out water, fear in his eyes. “I tried to stop it, Uncle. But my legs…I can’t move!”
Drake pushed through the rising water just above his waist and hung the lamp on the wall. Frowning, he
