Boundaries would need to be set with Drake later. For now, she’d try meditating. Maybe her grandmother could help her find common ground with Ashley.
Heather had to protect her. Somehow.
…
David stared at Heather’s text, poised to remind her again that getting mixed up with the Sea Dog crew was a mistake, but his phone rang, interrupting him. He checked the screen and answered, “What do you have for me, King?”
“I may have found something useful.”
All thoughts of warning Heather evaporated. David reached for his yellow legal pad. “What is it?”
“I ran a thorough scan of dark web postings that included the word ‘figurehead.’”
David nodded, pen at the ready. “And…”
“And most were useless, but I did find an interesting posting.”
David rolled his eyes, his patience wearing thin. “All right.”
“There was a thread of conversation regarding the Flying Dutchman and the legends about the figurehead being the source of the ship’s power, luring lost souls to work on the crew for Davy Jones.” He paused, almost long enough for David to speak. “And Dr. Trumain’s name turned up.”
Trumain used to be the director of the maritime museum in Savannah, but somewhere along the way, he was lured into the Serpent Society. The historian died during the shoot-out at the Bonaventure Cemetery, the same night David’s distant nephew perished.
David jotted the name on the pad. “What did Trumain have to say?”
“He claimed to have a buyer if anyone had the artifact. He offered to inspect it for authenticity.”
David frowned. “The date on the post?”
“Six months ago.”
Trumain was definitely part of the Serpent Society at that point. David tapped the pen against the paper while his brain chewed on the information. “Safe to say if some treasure hunter actually did find the figurehead, the buyer was the monks from the Serpent Society.”
“That was my thought, too.” King cleared his throat. “But what would religious fanatics need with the Flying Dutchman’s figurehead? It’s not a part of the Bible.”
“True, but I’ve been reading over some of the captains’ logs from the maritime museum that mention the relic calling to lost souls in the sea. Some went so far as to believe the figurehead could control the ghosts.” David paused, mulling it over. “Maybe he read those stories, too. If that figurehead is real, it could be a threat to the Serpent Society’s dogma.”
Kingsley hmm’d in agreement. “They might purchase it to keep anyone else from discovering its existence.”
“Exactly.” David wrote a few frantic notes. “That gives me a place to start. But it doesn’t explain how a coven of witches got it.”
“Pity.” Kingsley sighed. “That’s where my trail goes cold. I’ll keep searching.”
“Thanks, King.” A few months ago, David would’ve hung up by now. Instead, he added, “This was a good lead. I appreciate your help.”
Kingsley mumbled something, obviously unsure what to do with David’s praise. Finally he settled on, “I’ll be in touch if I find anything else.”
The call ended and David set his phone aside. He’d bet his life the Serpents wouldn’t sell anything to a woman. They saw females as daughters of Eve, the original sinner. If they achieved their mission of entering Eden again, it wouldn’t be with a woman at their side.
There’s no way they’d sell to a coven of witches.
And that left him right back where he started. He circled the word coven over and over, but an answer didn’t become clear. Not yet. But it would.
If the relic really could force spirits to obey commands, Americans could be in danger, and Heather might be caught in the crossfire.
Chapter Ten
Drake hit the call button beside an ornate black wrought iron gate that spelled out Flynn. “It’s Drake. Open the gate, Captain.”
“I thought we taught you how to operate that paperweight you carry in your pocket.” Flynn’s voice cut through the quiet of the darkened driveway. “It’s after eleven o’clock at night. Use your cell and call me tomorrow.”
Drake punched the button again. “I’m not discussing this on a damned phone. I drove all the way to fucking Atlanta to talk, so either open this damned gate, or I’ll drive my truck through it. Your choice.”
“Fuck,” Flynn scoffed through the speaker, but the gate rolled open.
Drake parked near the front door of Flynn’s castle. The outside of the custom home resembled the castles they’d left behind in England centuries ago, but the interior featured every modern-day luxury.
How the captain could tolerate it was a mystery. Drake was still adjusting to cell phones, and only because his crew had insisted they be able to reach him, but that’s where he drew the line. Technology made him twitchy. He didn’t understand how it worked, and as a carpenter who had spent lifetimes building things with his own two hands, the not knowing unsettled him. Because of that, he didn’t own a computer, have an email, or a social media account to post and hashtag, whatever the hell that was.
The door opened as he approached, and Flynn narrowed his eyes, scanning the driveway. “What is so damned important?”
Drake crossed his arms. “Why are you trying to buy Heather Storrey’s home in Savannah for more than it’s worth?”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Flynn clenched his jaw, a copper brow shooting up. “What does any of that have to do with my ship’s carpenter?”
“She’s my friend, and I know you well enough to know this deal will benefit you much more than her and her twin sister.” Drake balled his hands into fists, struggling to channel his frustration. “Are we going to do this on the doorstep?”
“This is madness.” Flynn stepped back, muttering as Drake passed by. “You don’t have any friends.”
Drake spun around as
