The Scottish Rogue, Part Two
by Christine Morgan
Author's Note: the characters of Gargoyles are the property of Disney and used
here without their creators' knowledge or permission. Latin by Tim Morgan
(thanks, love!!!). Mature readers only due to sexual content and violence.
Bibliography:
GURPS Swashbucklers, by Steffan O'Sullivan;
Under the Black Flag -- the Romance and the Reality of Life Among the Pirates,
by David Cordingly.
Excerpt from a letter to Albert Barker
From his brother Henry, a passenger aboard the Marie Jeanette
August 14th, 1698
... when another sail was sighted and the lookout identified it as the
Valorous, the ship of the man coming to be called the Scottish Rogue. This threw
our captor, named Santiago, into no small distress and he gave the order to get
underway.
As this was midday, the gargoyles of the Wyvern were all in wood,
unmoveable in their perches alongside the ship. Santiago, being more concerned
for his own fate, took the Marie Jeanette and left the Wyvern with a skeleton
crew to follow or fend for themselves.
The Marie Jeanette still laden with provisions and goods as well as we
seven prisoners, and as such was slower than either other ship. A fog had begun
to settle, further making difficult the endeavors of the crews to stay near one
another. Soon the Wyvern was gone from our sight.
The Valorous overtook us, this despite Santiago's (in my mind craven)
attempt to divert the attention of the Valorous after the Wyvern by playing upon
the fears with which many hold gargoyles.
There followed the only words spoken by the Scottish Rogue that I
remember clearly. A great and powerful man he was, of advanced years by the
silver of his hair and the tremendous weight of years that seemed in his eyes, but
you and I should hope to handle ourselves half so well when we are that age, my
faithful Albert.
"I have no quarrel with these gargoyles," said he. "Not yet, at any
rate."
And with that, he and his men made short work of Santiago's cutthroats,
and took excellent care of us and saw us safely to Santo Domingo ...
* *
The Atlantic Ocean
November 1705
"I must find her, man!" Henri Nejou declared, his voice ripe with
brandy and desperation.
"We will find her," the man now calling himself Findleagh Moray said.
"Ours is the faster ship. Your Isabelle will be restored to you."
"If they've harmed her ..." Nejou broke off with a strangled sob.
"They'll not harm her," Moray said grimly. "If that had been their intent,
they would have done so already."
This failed to comfort Nejou, who, in his shirtsleeves hoisted the brandy
bottle and took a swig straight from the neck. "But when they reach Algiers --"
"They will not."
"My precious Isabelle! Sold to some fat, oily pasha?"
"I tell you, my friend, it will not happen."
"I once thought I would lose her to you," Nejou confided. "I thought
then that I should rather devour my own liver than see that, but now I would
gladly stand aside and wish you all the luck in the world, if only to see her again,
free and unhurt!"
"She loves you, Henri," Moray assured him. "You will be reunited, this
I vow."
He upended the brandy bottle again, this time draining it, and by now
his urgent pacing of the cabin had taken on a tilt contrary to the pitch of the
deck. "From the moment I saw her," he said. "Loved her from that moment.
Picking flowers in her father's garden. Her hair had the luster of polished
cherrywood, and those eyes, like the winter sea on a cloudy day! I had never
seen such a beautiful creature!"
"Yes," Moray said softly, lost in his own reminiscences.
"Do you remember ..." Henri chuckled drunkenly. "D'you remember the
time we even dueled over her? I thought I had you!"
Moray rubbed his chest. "If not for the medallion that had been a gift to
... to my great-grandfather ... from Queen Elizabeth, you may well have slain me
that day," he lied.
"What was I thinking? Dueling with my own best friend. Why, if I
had slain you, Isabelle would have been furious. She was furious anyway.
D'you remember how she threw that vase at me, shouted at us both? For
foolishness, she said. That we'd be shooting each other over her? She'd sooner
have neither of us!"
"I remember."
"I shtill ... still don't know how I won her," Henri said. He picked up a
silken handkerchief, regarded it for a moment, and then crushed it to his weeping
eyes.
Moray caught a ghost of a scent. Lilies. Isabelle's perfume. His heart
wrenched in his chest. But he showed no sign of it, just patted Henri firmly on
the shoulder.
"My Isabelle!" Henri choked.
"We will find her! I swear!"
So vowing, he left Henri to his own grief and worry, and went above.
Still no sign of their prey, the pirate galleon Sea Hawk. Still no sign, and with
each day that passed, pretty Isabelle's fate grew more bleak. If they did not
overtake the Sea Hawk before it reached Algiers ... but no, that did not bear
thinking on.
He remained on deck until night fell, then returned to his cabin. Henri
was sprawled face-down on a fine rug, snoring thickly, a second bottle of brandy
in his outflung hand.
"I thought I'd locked that cupboard," Moray said to himself. "Ah, well,
old friend, at least your sleep will be deep." He covered Henri with a blanket and
went to bed.
Distant gunfire brought him instantly and fully alert, moments before
one of the crew hammered on his door. Henri still had not moved, and showed
no signs of stirring even when a sudden roll of the ship made Moray stumble
over him.
A tropical storm had whipped the sea into a landscape of troughs and
valleys, with curling curds of white foam at the tops of the slate-grey waves.
Lightning flashed on the horizon, but Moray didn't think for a moment that he'd
mistaken the sound of thunder for that of pistols.
"It's the Sea Hawk, captain," the crewman reported. "And another ship,
a merchantman flying the English flag. Or was, afore she struck her colors."
"Close in," Moray ordered. "Ready the cannons, but hold your fire."
"Aye, sir."
He hurried to the rail and took the proferrered spyglass from his second
mate. The Sea Hawk swam into view in the circle of the lens. The other ship was
the Cecily, and by the look of it, they had surrendered promptly. The gunfire
looked celebratory, the pirates firing into the air as they gleefully looted the
holds.
Just then, the sky opened like a faucet. The gunfire instantly ceased;
black powder was unreliable in the best of conditions, and all but useless in the
rain. Moray lost sight of both ships, seeing nothing but hissing sheets of dull
silver.
"If we can't see them ..." he said, then turned to his crew. He was
already drenched to the skin, as were they all, but they knew what was expected
of them.
"Cutlasses," he said. "Prepare to board."
"Should I wake Lord Nejou?" the cabin boy, Pierre, asked anxiously.
"No," Moray decided. Even if they could rouse Henri, he would be in
no condition to fight, and they hadn't come all this way just to let him die in
Isabelle's arms. If all went well, Henri could awaken to the sight of his bride-to-
be's beautiful smile.
He belted on his own cutlass and tucked a flintlock boarding pistol into
his sash beneath his coat. The ship kept to her course, and now and then through
the shifting rain, Moray was afforded a view of the Sea Hawk and the Cecily.
Hopefully, the pirates would be so concerned with stowing their haul that they
wouldn't notice the Valorous upon them until it was too late.
Closer now.
His crew waited, tense and silent and armed to the teeth. Men held to
the rails, grappling hooks and rope piled in neat coils at their feet.
A gust of powerful wind belled the Valorous' sails outward and made
the ship leap like a toy sailboat blown by a child across a mudpuddle. The mast
creaked in protest. One line snapped and the end whipsawed through the air,
striping a weal across a crewman before it was wrestled into submission.
The sheets of rain parted, and they were almost atop the Sea Hawk.
Now the enemy crew was aware of them, their shouts of alarm audible even over
the storm. They began to come about for a broadside, but were too late.
Grappling hooks flew like striking snakes, catching on the rails of the
Sea Hawk. Moray's men pulled with all their strength, locking the ships together,
while their companions swung or leaped or clambered over and engaged the Sea
Hawk's crew.
Cutlass against cutlass, the deck planking slippery with first rainwater
and then shed blood as the battle was joined. Moray led the charge, hacking his
way toward the helm. He spied the enemy captain, backing toward the longboats
with a struggling woman held before him.
Isabelle!
Her glorious cherrywood hair was turned to sodden maroon strands, her
eyes and mouth were wide in terror, her gown was soaked and pasted to her
body. The captain held a knife to her neck, the point dimpling that smooth skin,
a bead of blood already welling.
Moray advanced, his jaw set tight, a cutlass in one hand and the large
parrying-knife known as a main-gauche gripped in the other.
Three men moved to block his way. Two were the lowest and scurviest
type of cutthroats to be found in any a seaside town. The third was a tall man
with long black hair, and as he raised his cutlass, startled recognition filled his
eyes.
"Captain?"
"Tag!" Moray said in astonishment. The youth of eighteen had become
a man of thirty-five, but still easily recognizable.
"I thought ... I'd heard ... they said you killed Bosun Guthrie in a
Kingston tavern six years ago, but I never believed ... you look just the ..."
"What are you waiting for? Kill him!" the enemy captain ordered.
"No!" Tag whirled and put himself between Moray and the two other
men.
"Findleagh!" Isabelle gasped, extending one pale, trembling hand.
"You treacherous dog!" the captain bellowed at Tag.
Cutlasses clashed as the two other men attempted to cut down their
former crewmate. The captain dragged Isabelle back, throwing a quick glance
over his shoulder to the waiting longboat below.
Moray hesitated, torn between the woman he loved and the man he'd
raised as his own son.
"Don't worry about me!" Tag yelled, deftly disarming one opponent and
matching blades with the second.
Knowing that to say such words all but ensured Tag's death, Moray
nonetheless had no choice. The captain saw him coming and set the knife's edge
to Isabelle's neck.
"Another step and I'll slice her up like bait."
"Findleagh --!" she pleaded.
"Let her go," Moray said, "and we'll finish this between us."
"Do you think me a fool? Stand down!"
He was weary of debate. He slowly extended his arm, letting the cutlass
drop to the rain-slick deck.
"And the knife!"
Moray complied.
A hideous gurgling scream came from just behind him as Tag opened
the belly of one of his foes. Moray didn't turn, didn't look, but the captain's eyes
flicked that way and his arm around Isabelle loosened for just an instant. The
instant Moray had been waiting for.
He yanked the concealed pistol from beneath his coat and fired,
knowing that a malfunction now would mean Isabelle's death.
The pistol roared, belching black smoke and jerking in Moray's hand.
The ball took the captain in the side of the jaw, shattering it so that fragments of
broken teeth sprayed from his mouth like bits of crockery. His head snapped
back, he collided with the rail.
Moray sprang forward, seized Isabelle, and delivered a kick to the
stomach that sent the captain of the Sea Hawk over the side. Then Isabelle was in
his arms, pressed against his chest, shaking like a leaf in a gale.
"Oh, Findleagh!" she wept.
He let himself hold her for a moment and turned to Tag, expecting to
see the younger man fall. But contrary to his expectations, Tag was still standing,
breathing hard and bleeding from a cut to the forearm but otherwise unhurt.
Beyond him, the crew of the Valorous had succeeded in overpowering the
pirates.
Victory was theirs!
Isabelle was safe!
With a heavy heart, Moray let go of her and set her gently away from
him.
"Let's go see Henri," he said.
* *
Manhattan
May, 2000
"So you saved her and she went home with Henri, huh?" Birdie asked.
"She was his bride-to-be," MacBeth said.
"Still reeks. You're the hero; shouldn't you get the girl?"
He laughed, not without some bitterness. "Is that what I am? As it
turned out, it wouldn't have mattered. Isabelle died three years later."
"Oh. Oh, I'm sorry."
"She died of a fever. I was worried for Henri's sanity. If not for Giselle,
I believe he may have gone mad."
"Who's Giselle?"
"Their daughter," MacBeth said slowly. "She was born in 1707, only a
year old when her mother died. Henri was devoted to her, but because he was
concerned for her safety, he raised her as a boy. Until she was thirteen, that is. At
that point, her ... burgeoning womanhood ... made such a continued ruse
impossible. Some women can manage it, but Giselle was to become very buxom,
and of sweetly abundant hips."
Birdie looked down at herself. "Yeah, I get the picture; I'd have a hard
time passing myself off as a boy too."
"It didn't matter so much by then; Henri was governor of St. Gilbert and
his seagoing days were mostly at an end. He had his duties and his plantations to
oversee, and his daughter's future to think of."
MacBeth paused, sighing.
"And, oh, how she resembled her mother."
Birdie's eyebrows went up. "I'm getting the feeling there's still a lot
more to this story."
"Yes ... in 1722, I married her."
"Jump back! You married a ..." she did some quick subtracting, "... a
fifteen-year-old girl? And you fed me that line about being too old for me?"
"As you said, there is still a lot more to this story ..."
* *
Kingston, Jamaica
September 1717
"Why should I believe you?" Emil Santiago asked scornfully.
"Fer I were thar, boy! I seen yer father die!"
All around them, the Running Roach Tavern was rioting with noise and
activity.
About a third of the patrons were gathered around a wooden box on the
floor, wagering fortunes on racing roaches. Another third were engaged in lively
games of knucklebones or Squall (or the attendant arguments that went along
with each). The last third were involved in a variety of other pursuits ranging
from solitary steady drinking to negotiating with the blowzy whores that lined
the bar.
Nobody was paying attention to the corner conversation. Emil himself,
twenty, hot-blooded, and hell-bent on avenging the father he'd known only
through his mother's stories, looked with wary disdain at the man sitting opposite
him.
Sitting, perhaps, not the best word. Sprawled, more like it. Overflowing
his chair in all directions. The only narrow part of him was the stout wooden peg
that replaced his left leg at the knee. His beard lay over his vast bulging belly
like a hairy blanket, clotted with food and matted to the point that Emil would
not have been surprised to see a rat's head emerge for a quick look-around.
He stank, too, like a gone-over egg soaked in vinegar. But it was only
one more rank odor among many, so Emil leaned closer.
"You were aboard the Marie Jeanette?"
Fat Jim nodded and knocked his fist against his wooden leg -- a bit of a
reach, but he made it. "Whar d'ye think I got this? I were thar, right enough."
"And it was Moray, the one they call the Scottish Rogue, who killed my
father?"
"Shot 'im through the brainpan, 'e did. But ‘twas the gargoyles what let
him die. If the Wyvern'd stayed with us, we'd've sent that Scot to the bottom o'
the briny sea. They turned tail and run, the cowards, an' left us all to die. So, me
boyo, if ye're lookin' for who killed yer father, don' just look ter the Scot. Look
ter the gargoyles what betrayed him."
"I knew it! No good can come of allying with such hellspawn! The
Scottish Rogue was a pirate hunter, aye, doing his job though that won't save him
from my sword. But the gargoyles, who betrayed their own captain -- they are
the ones who must suffer! But how? No vessel on the seas can best the Wyvern!"
"Not by night, aye," Fat Jim said cunningly.
"No one ever sees the damnable ship by day!" Emil said.
"I've a plan that may do for ye, boyo. I've two nephews, an' as luck
would have it, one be a ship's cook --"
"Which would explain much," Emil muttered.
Fat Jim either didn't hear or pretended not to. "Aboard the Paris Maid,
which be Le Nez's ship. Le Nez be sworn enemies o' Benedict Tate, the
Wyvern's captain. An' the other nephew, Bloody Pete, 'e be Tate's first mate."
"What are you proposing, old salt?" Emil was more interested now, a
plan already forming in his mind. "And what do you want out of it?"
"Same's ye, same's ye. Revenge. I bore the mocking o' those devil-
beasts many a year, an' this leg o' mine were but the injury added to the insult. I'd
see 'em gone, one an' all."
* *
Near Vera Cruz, in the Gulf of Mexico
March 1720
"'Tain't right, sailing without our captain," said Alistair Phipps, second
mate of the Wyvern.
"On his own orders, it was," Bloody Pete, the first mate, disputed
testily. "We're in need of provisions, and sugar's cheapest in Campeche."
"Could've waited for the captain."
"He be sunk balls-deep in that mistress o' his," Bloody Pete said. "Ye
know as well as I that thar be no reasoning with him once he's started thinking o'
those sweet tits."
Alistair, who had harbored a secret and poetic love for Ione even if she
was the captain's mistress, didn't take kindly to Pete's words. "She is a good
and decent lady --" he began.
"Imp! Come back here!" a female voice interrupted.
Just then, two small forms pelted past, nearly toppling Pete and Alistair
off their feet.
Imp, the spiny-backed hatchling that was the veritable apple of the
whole clan's eye, was riding astride the gargoyle beast Chimera, who disproved
the old adage that two heads were better than one. Or, perhaps, if Chimera had
had only two heads instead of three, he would have been better able to decide
where he was going. As was, he always crossed the deck in something of a
whirling crablike scramble, trying to go three ways at once, and as a result, the
twosome did run into the approaching quartermaster and knocked him cursing
onto his backside.
"I swear, woman!" the quartermaster roared, lurching upright to
confront bare-breasted Melusine as she pursued the rambunctious pair. "Get that
brat o' yours out from underfoot or I'll lash 'im to the mizzenmast!"
"My apologies," Melusine said, plucking Imp from his perch.
"He's gotten into the chickpeas again!" raged the ship's cook, storming
toward them waving a cleaver. "And that pet of his tore the very devil out of a
whole sack of salt pork!"
The rushing swoop of wings heralded Reaper's arrival, the clan leader
landing majestically between his mate and the irate crew. He socked the end of
his scythe handle against the deck, looking from one to the next impatiently.
"What is all the ruckus?"
"I don't know what we're going to do with him!" Melusine said, yet in
her tone was more of an indulgence than a true exasperation -- isn't my Imp a sly
little thing? it said.
"I can't run a proper galley like this!" the cook all but screamed. "When
the whole crew's got naught to eat but biscuits, they'll have those two to thank for
it!"
"None of the other hatchlings cause so much trouble," Scylla said
smugly, hefting her own two onto her hips. "You spoil him, sister."
"Imp," Reaper said sternly, "what have you to say for yourself?"
Imp turned large, soulful eyes to the humans. "I'm sowwy," he mumbled
around the thumb corked in his mouth.
"Oh, there, see?" crooned Melusine. "He meant no harm."
"He'll never learn unless you discipline him," Scylla said.
"What would you have me do, lock him in the rookery hold all night?"
Melusine snapped.
"Praise God!" the cook cried, flinging his hands in the air. "A whole
night of peace?"
"I will do no such thing!" Melusine said indignantly.
Brand landed beside them in a glowing corona of fire. "You'd better.
And all of the other hatchlings as well. Our patrol has sighted the Paris Maid,
and she's almost upon us!"
At that announcement, the crew went into action. Humans and
gargoyles alike prepared for battle. Madre, which was what they all called the
matronly she-garg in charge of looking after the rookery, shepherded the young
ones below while the rest took to the air in anticipation.
Not once did anyone think to signal the Paris Maid and inform Le Nez
that his archrival, Benedict Tate, was not even aboard. Le Nez, who had earned
his nickname after Benedict's sword had flayed his nose wide open so that it now
clung to his face like an ugly flower, wouldn't have believed them even if they
had.
Alistair, who had been a jeweler's apprentice before being lured to the
sea by talk of fabulous wealth and high adventure, checked and re-checked his
pistols nervously as he looked out over the dark and silent sea. Although he
couldn't see anything, he could almost sense the deadly weight of the Paris Maid
closing in.
He glanced over at Bloody Pete as he would have glanced over at
Benedict, for reassurance. But Pete, he realized, had never led the crew into
battle before, and was probably even more nervous than Alistair himself.
What's this? Either Pete was the best playactor Alistair had ever seen ...
or ... was that a knowing look in his eye? An expectant look? Was there some
treachery afoot?
"Sail ho!" came the cry from the crow's nest, and then the Paris Maid
hove into view.
"Attack!" Reaper thundered from on high. "Defend our ship! Defend
our home!"
Cannons and flintlocks began to hammer their deadly music into the
night, and Alistair put all other thoughts but survival and victory from his mind.
* *
Veradoga Island
May 2000
"There he goes again," Brand murmured, nudging Melusine and
motioning toward Reaper.
Their leader, sitting at the mouth of the cave and staring out at the
hissing curtain of the falls, had slumped into a melancholy. His dark-and-light
bone patterned arms were propped on his knees, hands dangling almost
lifelessly. His scythe leaned desolately against the wall.
"He blames himself," Melusine said softly. "Had you and he not gone
after the Paris Maid --"
"We would have been destroyed alongside our brothers and sisters,"
Brand cut in. "And you, Imp, and Chimera would have been left alone. There
was nothing he, or I, or any of us could have done."
"If we'd patrolled more diligently, we might have seen the Venganza
laying in wait beyond that island. We might have found out what Santiago meant
to do."
"But we didn't," Brand said harshly. "What use is it dwelling on the
past? If not for the fisherman who saw the Venganza leaving after destroying our
clan, we never would have known who to seek revenge against. We would have
had nothing. We did at the time what we thought was best, and that is all. His
brooding like that does him, and us, no good."
"Leave him be! He lost his clan --"
"We all lost our clan. I lost my mate, our child. What gives him the
right to make as if the weight of all the world's wrongs is upon his shoulders? I
recall how it was when we returned that next night, sister mine, to find the
Wyvern half-sunk on that sandbar, not a sign of life aboard her, the sea around
littered with shards and flotsam that had been our clan. He thought you were
dead; to this day his grief-stricken cry chills me to the soul. In the face of his
anguish, my own seemed diminished, swallowed up. But you lived, sister. His
mate and child were restored to him. So if any carry the greater burden now, it
should be me!"
Melusine touched Brand's brow ridge. "Brother ... I had no idea you felt
so strongly! It is Reaper's nature to take all the sufferings of his clan upon
himself; I never stopped to think that it might dim our own sorrows."
"It does no good," he said, brushing her hand away. "The past is gone.
We lost our ship, our clan, and eventually our freedom. Now we are here, and we
should make a new place for ourselves, carve it out of this modern era just as our
elders did when first they sailed." Having said his piece, loud enough for Reaper
not to have missed a word of it, he stalked off.
"Yet ... how can we forget the past?" Melusine wondered quietly to
herself. "When it is still so very fresh in our minds?"
* *
Near Vera Cruz, in the Gulf of Mexico
March 1720
In the rookery hold of the Wyvern, Melusine yawned and stretched,
shaking wood chips out of her hair. She checked her side, just above where her
skin and scales merged. The wound was gone, completely healed by a day's
sleep.
"Hungry, Mama," Imp said.
Chimera capered around her flukes, obviously in agreement with Imp.
"Are you to be my good little hatchling tonight?" she asked, picking
him up. "You were into much mischief last night. You know when there's a battle
you're supposed to stay down here."
"Didn't want to."
"And you didn't mind Madre, either."
"Wanna be a warrior," he informed her, jutting his jaw.
"And you will," she promised. "A great warrior, like your father. But
not until you're grown. You could have been hurt last night. A battle is no place
for pranks."
He pouted. "Wanna help."
"When you're older," she said. "For now, my little one, you must do as
Reaper and Madre and I say. We don't want to have to spend another day down
here, do we? We should be on our perches, in positions of pride and honor."
"I will, Mama," he agreed, with such a sigh that it was as if she'd asked
him to give up all that he held most dear.
Chimera growled and whined, scratching at the floor.
"What is it?" Melusine set Imp down, only now noticing that the floor
seemed to have a pronounced tilt, and that it was far damper down here than
normal. Further ... she saw that the belongings of the clan had shifted, sliding
against the hull. She herself had awakened in a different spot, some five yards
from where she'd been before.
"Mama --"
"Hush, Imp."
She listened. None of the usual shipboard noises came to her ears. And
the constant swaying motion had ceased. The ship was not moving. No sails
belled or flapped in the wind.
"Becalmed?" she asked herself, knowing even as she said it that it
wasn't right. Even becalmed, even with the sea smooth as glass, there would be
some sense of movement, some gentle rising and falling as if the Wyvern rested
upon the breast of a sleeping giant.
"Mama --"
"Hush, I said!"
Hurt, he stuck his lip sullenly out and kicked at the soggy straw. She
never spoke to him like that, and was instantly sorry. But she couldn't comfort
him now; something was badly amiss.
"Have we run aground?" She thrust her tail against the planks,
undulating toward the hatch leading up to the deck.
The ship was canted at an angle that made the stairs, never easy for her,
an impossibility. She used her strong arms instead, hauling herself to the hatch.
When she made to throw it open, it only moved a few inches before colliding
with something heavy that held it shut.
What she saw through that narrow opening, though, was enough to send
the blood fleeing from her face. Her mouth gaped, the dainty gills along the
undersides of her jaw fluttered.
"Mama, what is it?" Imp, fearful and subdued, crept to her side.
Melusine could not speak. Her eyes darted around what little she could
see of the deck. The human bodies were the least of her concerns. The wood ...
the long jagged splinters and the hewn chunks and the identifiable limbs and
torsos with wedges hacked out of them ...
A scream built in her, but she could not release it. Instead, in desperate
denial, she slammed the hatch and clutched her son to her chest. This was some
dream, yes, she would yawn and stretch anew in a few moments and everything
would be back to normal.
She held Imp too tight but ignored his protests and squirms. She rocked,
back and forth on the bunched muscles of her tail. Chimera crouched next to her,
making a low worried noise in his throats.
She didn't know how long she stayed like that, but then her shock was
broken by Reaper's voice, from out on the platforms above the cannon ports.
"My ... angel of the deep!" he choked. And then a long, drawn-out howl
of rage and loss made the timbers shake.
"Reaper!" she called, dropping Imp and flinging herself to batter
against the hatch. "My love, we're in here!"
How could she have forgotten? Last night, after the battle had taken
fearful tolls on both sides, the Paris Maid had turned to flee. A foolish mistake
on their part; didn't they realize that in a mere hour or two, half the Wyvern's
fighting force would be rendered immobile with the dawn?
But Le Nez hadn't wanted to lose any more of his men, and with barely
a handful left, had come about and sailed for the horizon. Reckoning without the
wings of gargoyles.
Reaper and Brand followed, confident that they could chase off those
cowards by themselves to prevent them from returning during the day. They
hadn't returned in time! They'd been spared the fate that had befallen the rest of
the clan!
"My love!" She pounded harder.
"Papa!" Imp joined her, and Chimera bayed loudly.
Debris slammed against the deck, a broken mast by the sound of it, and
then the hatch was wrenched open. Reaper's shadow blotted out the stars.
"My ... my love?" he asked, hardly daring to believe. "You're alive!"
She propelled herself into his arms, weeping.
"Are there any others?" Brand asked pleadingly.
Melusine shook her head. "Are they ..."
"Gone," Reaper said. "Our clan is gone. Only we five are left."
"What of the Paris Maid?"
"Burnt," Brand said grimly. "We finished off Le Nez and his crew, but
by then daybreak was upon us. We spent the day asleep, adrift. But before we
left, I set her ablaze."
"Then who ...?" Melusine looked around at the horror clearly revealed
by moonlight and the strong glow from Brand's wings. "Who did this?"
"We will find out," Reaper swore. "And then we will have our
revenge."
* *
Manhattan
May 2000
Birdie, bundled in a cushy terrycloth robe with the hotel's name stitched
on the left breast, opened the door and admitted room service. Class all the way,
she thought as the uniformed man wheeled in a cart. Just like in the movies.
He was about her own age and couldn't keep from giving her an
interested once-over, which turned to a look of surprise as MacBeth, in a
matching robe, emerged from the bathroom toweling his hair. MacBeth merely
returned the look coolly as he signed for the bill.
"I need a message delivered to my uncle," Birdie said, handing him a
fiver and a sealed envelope (hotel stationery too). "Brendan Vandermere. He's
attending the conference, or was. You might find him panting after one of the
speakers, Dakota Jones."
He nodded and left, and Birdie chuckled.
"For all I know, Uncle Brendan's in the room next door," she said with
a sly wink at MacBeth.
"He would," MacBeth pointed out, grinning slightly, "have recognized
your voice."
"People always ask, 'are you a moaner or a screamer,' and I say, why be
so limited?" She started lifting lids, and oohed. "You sure know how to spoil a
girl! What'd you do, tell them to send up one of everything from the dessert
menu?"
"Very nearly," he said. "Except for the fruit cup and the sorbet."
"Yeah, to hell with the lowfat healthy stuff!" She patted her hips.
"Maintaining a bod like this takes some serious calories!"
"Do it with my blessings." He scooped a finger through a blob of
custard and brought it to her lips.
She took her time slurping it off, then fed him a hearty dollop of
chocolate mousse in the same fashion. They ended up parking the cart next to the
bed, feeding each other in between long slow kisses and leisurely foreplay. Not
at all to Birdie's disappointment, one thing led to another and they eventually
agreed that they should have showered after dessert.
"So," she said, "where were we before we were so sweetly -- in every
sense of the word -- interrupted?"
"I was about to tell you of Giselle, of St. Gilbert, of Santiago and the
gargoyles ..."
* *
St. Gilbert, also known as Dead Man's Cove
September, 1721
The Lady MacBeth, a lovely schooner of clean and classic lines, a swift
and sure ship known with dread by every dark-hearted scallywag who sailed
beneath the Jolly Roger, sailed into the sheltered harbor of St. Gilbert.
Once known as Dead Man's Cove as the result of a fierce battle that had
left the waters choked with corpses, now the gentle bay curved against the docks
of a tidy, thriving town. The governor's manor sat on a hill at the east end of the
bay, overlooking the town and the fields. A small fort guarded the point. The
people looked happy and prosperous.
"It seems Nejou is doing a fine job," Tag remarked as he followed
Moray down the gangplank of the Lady MacBeth.
It often caught Moray with a startling pang of concern that the boy who
he had taken from his dying mother's arms with a promise to look after him, now
appeared to be of an age with him.
Tag's black hair had greyed considerably over the past decade and a
half, and lines had begun to carve themselves more deeply into his sea-weathered
face. He had a wife now, pretty Bonita Alvarez in Havana, and although Tag's
duties as Moray's first mate kept him away more than half of each year, they had
made good use of his shore leave and borne seven children.
Moray, of course, remained unchanged by time's passage. His secret,
known only to a few, was now known by one more.
Once father and son, then mentor and student, they now climbed the
slope to the governor's mansion as friends.
Although the years had been kind to Tag, the same could not be said for
Henri Nejou. Having nearly lost his beloved Isabelle before they'd even wed, he
had made the most of their next few years. But her death had taken half of his
life as well, until he lived for only two things: their daughter Giselle, and later
for St. Gilbert.
He came to meet them, leaning upon his cane. A wildly-swinging
yardarm, torn loose in a terrible hurricane six years ago, had left him with a
broken leg that had never healed properly. But his smile was wide, his eyes were
bright.
And his hospitality, as always, was beyond compare. Weeks at sea were
soon forgotten as Moray and Tag were bathed, dressed in new clothes, and given
the run of the grounds.
Moray, hungering as he always did after a long voyage for fresh fruits
and greens, took himself to the walled orchard that sprawled behind the house.
He plucked a fat orange from a tree, peeling it with his thumbnail as he strolled
beneath the shade-giving leaves.
Perhaps Henri had the right idea, he thought as he walked. Perhaps
retirement to a warm, peaceful plantation was what he should consider. He might
be losing his taste for the wide waves, losing the inner fire that had driven him to
become a pirate hunter.
He'd been one of many last autumn trying to catch John Rackham, the
infamous Calico Jack whose crew included the notorious Mary Read and Anne
Bonney, but despite his best efforts he had consistently missed bringing them to
justice. That honor had fallen to Jonathan Barnet, a brisk young fellow who had
never even heard of the Scottish Rogue.
Musing to himself that his time may have passed, he didn't notice the
odd sounds at first, but finally they pierced his mind and he stopped, then looked
toward the source of the rustling, under-the-breath genteel French oaths, and the
irregular thump that sounded like someone kicking a mast.
No, not a mast, a tree trunk, he saw, and had to bite the inside of his
cheek to keep from laughing aloud at what he beheld.
Giselle Nejou was dangling from a tree, her hands locked over a sturdy
branch while her feet flailed for purchase, thumping against the trunk but finding
none. A rickety ladder lay on the earth, near an overturned basket and a litter of
oranges.
"Are you in need of rescue?" he asked, unable to keep the amusement
from his voice.
She twisted toward him. Her elegant chignon had come half-askew and
hung against her shoulder in a deep auburn mass. Her eyes were widely spaced, a
clear green-grey fringed with dark lashes.
It struck him with nearly physical force how like her mother she looked.
Yes, Isabelle was there, in her coloring, in her features, in her shape -- far better
revealed by the light gowns popular here in the islands than her mother's had
ever been by the heavy fashions of Europe.
"Are you going to stand there smiling, m'sieur, or help me down?"
Giselle inquired.
He bowed. "At once, dear lady."
Crossing to beneath the tree, he grasped her legs, trying without
measurable success to tell himself not to notice how nicely formed they were,
how plump her thighs, how charmingly cushioned her hips. This was Giselle,
daughter of one of his dearest friends. Giselle, who had been as a favored niece,
very nearly as a daughter, to himself. Further, she was fourteen if she was a day,
and never mind the womanly figure.
Yes, he told himself all of those things, but as she dropped into his arms
and her full breasts, riper than any oranges in the orchard, pushed against his
chest, he doubted he was listening.
"The ladder fell over," she told him as he released her, she apparently
innocently unaware of the effect she was having upon him. She bent, and the late
afternoon sun slanted through her gauzy skirt to outline her legs as she gathered
the spilled oranges.
Moray inwardly argued with himself, turning his eyes away. She was
not Isabelle, not the dear lost love he had never fully won. He should not look
on her as he had once looked on her mother.
He helped her pick up the fruit, then accompanied her back to the
house. She filled his ears with lively chatter, her spirit shining bright and
vivacious. Raised for the first several years of her life disguised as a boy, she had
been accorded far more freedom and travel than most young ladies.
They enjoyed a delicious dinner, the four of them, and spent the next
several days touring the island, visiting the shops, and generally relaxing. St.
Gilbert seemed like a bit of leftover paradise on earth
The crew of the Lady MacBeth had money to spend in the taverns and
the brothel, so Moray knew he wouldn't be hearing from them until it was time to
cast off again (and even then, he might have to send some men around to roust
them from overindulgent binges in their various pleasures).
On the dawn of their sixth day, Moray was awakened by the urgent
tolling of the bell in the town square. He sat up in bed, his first thought being
that a fire had broken out in one of the buildings.
Then the gunfire began, and the panicked, wakeful screams of the
townspeople.
* *
Veradoga Island
May 2000
Melusine descended to the grotto, to the seacave where the Lady
MacBeth waited. Not much of a ship, a mock-up of a true craft, made of some
light but tough imitation wood. Engines were concealed in the hold, the sails
mostly for show.
Such ships they'd seen since their awakening! Enormous ships, larger
than islands. Some carried stack upon stack of metal crates called boxcars, others
were warships the likes of which no one had ever imagined. Five gargoyles and a
false schooner could not hope to ever take such a prize. They had to limit
themselves to pleasure boats, fishing vessels, and other small craft.
She slipped into the water, sighing as it coursed over her scales. Not
even gliding could compare to the sensual joy of swimming. She opened her
wings, waving them in lazy finlike motions to steer as her tail moved her along.
They would have to make some hard decisions soon, she knew. Their
clan could not last forever like this, eking out a meager existence of piracy and
hiding. They would have to seek out others of their kind. More warriors to fight.
More females to breed. Brand was too practical to let his grieving get in the way
of their future; he needed a new mate. Someday, Imp too would need one.
Were there more of their kind? Other gargoyles, yes, their stone-turning
landlubber cousins, but she wasn't even sure if two such diverse types could
successfully breed. What would the children be? Wood, or stone?
Three centuries ago, there had been rumors of clans in Polynesia.
Gargoyles the humans worshipped as gods. Tikis, she believed they were called.
Something like that.
But at the time, sailing far around Cape Horn, the tip of South America,
had been one of the most dangerous courses a ship could set. And there had been
no need, as their own clan numbered in the strong dozens.
Now, though? Now that, according to their charts, humans had cut a
canal through Panama? The idea bore exploration. Surely, such a valuable canal
would be guarded, though. And who would protect them during the day?
She surfaced, rolling onto her back and watching the shadowed ripples
dance on the cavern ceiling above. Even if such a long voyage were possible,
would Reaper consider it? Would he be willing to let the past alone?
Their revenge, after all, was not complete.
Yes, those who had killed their clan were dead. Would be dead by now
even if they hadn't personally seen to it. She flexed her claws, remembering how
Santiago had begged for his life when Reaper pulled him from that prison cell in
St. Gilbert. His pleas had fallen on deaf ears.
There had been a moment, a brief and blessed moment, when their
revenge had been complete. Their clan had been avenged. It had taken three
years, three long years of shipless wandering and fruitless searching, but at last it
had been done.
And then the Scottish Rogue had come along, and enspelled them.
Robbed them of their satisfaction. Stolen their world from them, leaving them to
revive three centuries later in a strange and foreign one. Where they found that,
by some sorcery, their foe yet lived.
That score had yet to be settled.
* *
St. Gilbert
September, 1721
When the battle was over, Moray was able to piece together what had
happened, and felt dire guilt burrowing into his heart like a worm.
His fault.
When would he learn? He'd slain Duncan but spared Canmore, and then
Canmore had come back. Now here was another enemy's son, glaring up at him
from his bonds.
"Emil Santiago," he said.
"My father was Enrique Santiago; you killed him!" the young man spat.
"For that, I will have your life!"
"Good fortune to you," Moray muttered. Louder, addressing the
captive, he said, "For that, you've attacked this town, murdered innocent people?
If you wanted me, pup, you should have come for me! Not lead your army
against those who have done you no wrong!"
The attack had come not just by sea, where the fort's cannons would
have been able to repel an assault, but overland. The Venganza had moored on
the far coast of the island, and Santiago's men made the trek through the jungles
and farmlands to come at the town from its less-defended side.
Once they'd taken the fort, more ships poured into the cove. Only quick
thinking and quicker action on the part of Moray and the crew of the Lady
MacBeth had put an end to the battle.
Now the pirates were dead or in chains, but they'd cut a vicious swath
through the sleep-fogged streets. Those townsfolk not busy tending the wounded
were hard at work by the gallows. The surviving pirates would hang, all but
Santiago and his first mate.
Moray would just as soon see them swing as well, but the Englishman
Benedict Tate was offering a modest fortune for the chance to deliver his own
justice upon Bloody Pete, and the price on Santiago's head by the governor of
Jamaica would go a considerable way toward repairing the town, the stipulation
being that he was delivered whole and alive.
"Lock them away," Moray said.
The soldiers obeyed, conducting Santiago and Bloody Pete to the
prison, where they could stew and fester amid the rat-ridden filth for a while.
Best of all, the tiny barred window afforded a view of the gallows, so they could
watch their companions hang.
Leaving Tag to oversee the rest, Moray hurried back to the governor's
mansion. Giselle Nejou met him at the door, visibly trying to hold up. The poor
girl had lost her mother when she was too young to remember, and now it
seemed certain she would lose her father as well.
"How is he?" Moray asked. A useless question, that of a bystander, but
what else was there to say? He was no physician. The finest on the island were
already in attendance.
"They say his heart ... his heart gave out," Giselle managed before
breaking into a fit of sobbing.
Moray embraced her, stroking her hair while he looked past her to the
door of Henri's chamber. His heart. He hadn't even reached the plaza before
collapsing. It had been Moray who led the soldiers and rallied the townspeople
for defense, while Henri was rushed home.
"He wants to see you," Giselle said against his coat, her voice muffled.
He lifted her chin. Her face was smeared with soot and gunpowder-
residue, making him look down and swipe a hand across his coat. It came away
black.
"Here, now," he said kindly, finding his handkerchief and offering it to
her. "I've made a mess of you."
"Will he ... will he be all right?"
How he wished he could tell her the consoling lies! But he could not.
"You must be brave, Giselle. He would want you to be brave. Remember, you
won't be alone. I'll look after you."
"Do you promise?"
"I swear."
She nodded, and hurried off to wash her face while he went into the
room where his dear friend lay dying. Henri's sharp gaze fell upon him.
"Moray." It came out a croak.
The physicians were hovering over him, mixing medicines, but he could
tell just by their movements that they knew it was futile.
"Is this farewell, Henri?"
"I want you to take care of Giselle," he gasped.
"You needn't even ask." He found Henri's hand and squeezed it.
"Marry her."
"What?!"
"I want her to have a husband who will always be there for her. Who
will always be there." His words were coming with more difficulty, his chest
heaving.
"You know."
Despite his pain, Henri smiled. "Do you take me for a fool? I've known
for years. Will you? Marry her, and be governor after me. The king will approve
it. You'll take care of my daughter, of my island. I know you won't fail me,
Moray."
"Henri --"
"Don't fail me, Moray." His breath turned into a wheeze, his right hand
clutched Moray's. "Ah. God."
"Henri!"
"Father!" Giselle rushed in. "No!"
"Isa ... belle ..." his final word gusted out of him, and his lips curved
into a smile before going slack.
"Oh, mon pere!" Giselle threw herself to her knees, wailing.
Moray folded Henri Nejou's limp hands across his chest. "I won't fail
you, old friend."
* *
Veradoga Island
May 2000
"I know what must be done," Reaper said.
Brand, who had been trying with little success to make sense of a
strange book scavenged from the Coral -- colored ink pictures chronicling the
adventures of foolishly-dressed humans who flew without the benefit of wings,
shot beams from their eyes, and had unlikely combats against equally ludicrous
villains -- tossed it aside and rose.
"Yes, leader?"
Reaper stood slowly, stretching to his full impressive height. He
extended his wings until it seemed every dusky feather was splayed, taking up
fully the width of the cave. Then he exhaled and relaxed, and when he turned, his
air of melancholy was gone.
"It does not serve our clan to hide away in this cave," he said, "preying
on small ships when we have so few warriors. We must seek out others of our
kind."
"I was just thinking that very thing, my love," said Melusine, wringing
her hair as she emerged from the tunnel that led to the seacave.
"What of the Rogue?" Brand demanded. "And our revenge?"
"How would you have me find him?" Reaper countered. "You have
seen the maps; little of this world remains unexplored. He could be anywhere.
Could be far inland, places we would not wish to venture. In time, he may come
to us. Until then, we must look first to the survival of our clan. The
continuance of our clan."
"And if we are the last?" Brand asked. "The last of our seafaring race?"
"Then we die out," Reaper said. "But we do not die out in hiding and
cowardice."
* *
St. Gilbert
February 1723
He saw a shape against the moon, and his blood chilled.
"Demona," he breathed.
"Husband?" Giselle queried.
Moray flinched, not yet accustomed to having any other woman call
him by that title, and in the same voice of love and respect that his dear Gruoch
had used. Or perhaps it was that he was not yet accustomed to being wed again.
It did not seem right. Every night, when he got into bed beside Giselle, or took
her in his arms, or made love to her, a mantle of odd dread settled over him.
The shape was gone, if indeed it had ever been there. But its shadow
remained cast on his heart, making his skin creep with apprehension.
"What is it?" Giselle joined him at the window, which looked down on
the serene town.
"Nothing," he told her. "I thought I saw something, that's all. A bird, or
a cloud on the wind."
"Are you ready to come to bed?"
He patted her hand where it rested on his arm. "Soon."
She smiled at him, then returned to her writing-desk. "Another letter
from Captain Tate," she reported. "He's yet unable to come for his first mate, and
wishes us to hold him a while more. The settling of his father's estate is taking
longer than anticipated."
"Is there any news from the governor of Jamaica?"
"He promises the reward for Santiago soon," Giselle said, sifting
through papers until she came to the appropriate one. "But the state of his
treasuries is severely limited at the moment."
Moray sighed. "We've held those men for a year and a half. I could just
order them hanged myself and be done with it."
"They deserve to rot in their cell!" she said hotly. "A swift death is too
good for them!"
"Perhaps you're right." He was about to go to her, when the shape
passed across the moon's pale face again.
This time there was no mistaking it. A gargoyle.
But not Demona. No, even in that brief glimpse, he could tell.
"You still seem troubled."
Before he could answer, the dark gargoyle folded its wings tightly and
dove. Dove toward the town, toward the center of town. And now another one
appeared, whose phoenix-like wings wreathed its body in scarlet and gold.
That blazing light poured through the window, illuminating the room.
Giselle gasped.
"What --?" she began.
Moray clutched her by the upper arms, setting her away from the
window. "Stay here," he ordered. "I must attend to this."
Once again, gunfire and screams echoed through the streets of St.
Gilbert, this time counterpointed with gargoyle roars.
"Where are you going?"
He strode past her, yanked open one of the drawers of the writing desk,
and removed a brass-fitted leather case. From it, he took the scrolls he'd kept
since that long-ago battle against the Saunders, scrolls that had been buried alive
with him on a desolate stretch of beach, carried with him to Europe and back.
Scrolls that might now come in very handy indeed.
"Don't leave me!" Giselle threw herself in his path.
"I will return," he promised, pulling her into a quick hug and pressing a
kiss on the top of her head. "You needn't worry about that."
"Or let me come with you!"
"No!" He kissed her again, this time on the lips. "Wait here. I'll be back
soon."
That cold dread became a weight of ice. He held Giselle to him, fearful
that it was some premonition, that he would only see her again with the spark of
life snuffed from her eyes.
"Go to the wine cellar," he told her. "Do not come out, until I come for
you." It was as safe a place as any, if anyplace could truly be called safe.
He'd heard of these gargoyles many times over the years. They'd
supposedly been massacred in 1720, but a few had survived, making up for their
lesser numbers by committing even more brutal atrocities against unprotected
villages as they made their way eastward. Now it seemed they had reached St.
Gilbert.
"And here," he vowed as he left the governor's mansion and headed into
town, "here your rampage ends."
By the time he reached the squat brick building that housed the main
office o' the watch, half of St. Gilbert was in flames. The fire-winged gargoyle
flew from rooftop to rooftop, setting his burning sword to dry wood that went up
like tinder. The people were in high panic, the soldiers caught unprepared for the
task of dealing with airborne monstrous foes.
As Moray raced into the town square, he saw a giant black-cowled
figure looming over the tiny window that gave onto the prison. The light danced
eerily on his skeletal features, and those soldiers who had their wits about them
enough to attack fell back in superstitious terror from that death-mask visage.
Bone-white fingers wrapped around the bars. With a bellow of exertion,
the dark gargoyle tore the entire iron window free from the bricks.
Two others swooped down. One was a female with a sinuous fishtail
and green batlike wings; she carried a barrel and dumped it as she passed
overhead. The contents splashed onto a crowd of soldiers and townsfolk,
dousing them in oil.
Then the fiery one dove low, casting embers from his sword that lit the
oil. An inferno exploded in the square, then broke apart into a shattered flaming
phalanx as the burning victims ran in all directions.
Moray saw a tiny one, a demonic child-imp, capering and clapping on
the crossbar of the gallows. A three-headed beast with gnashing, foaming jaws
tore at fleeing humans.
The dark one thrust a long arm into the cell and hooked out a man. Not
Santiago but the other, the one called Bloody Pete. The gargoyle's reaction was
horrific.
"You?" he bellowed, shaking the man by the neck. "You?!?" Without
giving the man a chance to speak, the gargoyle punched his claws through the
man's chest and ripped him apart as if he'd been made of cloth and straw.
"Stop!" Moray shouted above the din. He put a pistol shot into the dark
gargoyle's shoulder to get his attention, quite effectively as hot-white eyes pinned
him like knives.
"We will have revenge for our clan!" The wound didn't seem to affect
him at all, not hampering his effort to reach back into the cell and pull out the
panic-stricken Emil Santiago.
Moray aimed with his other pistol. Just as he shot, something heavy
slammed into his back and drove him face-first to the cobblestones. He rolled,
groaning, and saw the female gargoyle circle around. She'd struck him with her
tail, a blow that might have killed a mortal man.
"Let them all burn and die!" the flame-winged one cried, brandishing
his sword. People fled before him, perhaps mistaking him for the wrathful
avenging angel of an angry God. His brow ridges gave him away, as did the split
hooves and the tail visible beneath his robes.
Tag was at his side then, helping him to sit up. His back protested, his
legs were useless meat, and Moray realized that his spine had snapped.
"Get ... get out of here," he ordered Tag. "Get your family to safety."
"Already done," Tag replied. "My place is with you."
The dark gargoyle had turned away from them, seeing them as no
further threat when the object of his fury was so close at hand. Emil Santiago,
who had borne his capture and captivity with sneering bravado, blubbered like
an infant as the gargoyle's huge hand closed over his face.
"For my clan," the grim specter said, and clenched his fist, crushing the
front of Santiago's skull like an eggshell.
He shoved the man away. Santiago, blind and in immense agony but
still alive, reeled against the wall with groping, outstretched arms.
The gargoyle picked up a scythe that had been propped against a post.
Now, with that weapon in hand and his wings drawn about himself like a vast
black cloak, he was every inch Death's image. He swung the scythe on a slant,
the curved blade taking Santiago on the right collarbone and carrying clear
through to the left hip.
All of the gargoyles raised their voices in a howl of triumph.
"I'll heal," Moray said urgently to Tag. "Save yourself!"
Now that their main task was done, Moray expected them to go into a
frenzy of bloodlust, so that nothing would be left come daybreak but dead bodies
and smoldering wreckage.
"Fire!" Tag yelled.
Moray, startled, saw that several of his men, loyal ex-sailors who, like
Tag, had brought their families to settle in St. Gilbert, had wheeled cannons into
the square. The first bucked and jerked back as it went off, the cannonball
smashing through the brick wall only a few inches from the dark gargoyle. A
shower of broken masonry poured down, pummeling him to his knees.
"Reaper!" the female screeched.
The flame-winged one went for the next cannon, perhaps meaning to
light the gunpowder and blow it and the men to pieces. Moray was still holding
his other pistol, and only his legs were paralyzed. He fired, tearing a hole in a
wing, and the gargoyle veered in his flight.
Bricks went everywhere as the dark one lunged upright. "Go!" he
shouted to his clan, waving to the heavens. He bounded to an overturned wagon,
then to a burning rooftop. The beams creaked and sagged beneath his weight,
sending up a swirl of sparks. He leapt to safety, spreading his wings, just as the
building collapsed.
The three-headed beast glided past on stubby wings, the imp-child
clinging to its back.
"Fire!" Tag yelled again. The second cannonball clipped the female's
tail, scraping loose a path of scales.
Moray tested his legs. The feeling was starting to come back. "They're
going. Let them. We have to put out these fires or we'll lose the town."
Tag marshaled men to begin hauling buckets. "Where is Giselle?"
"Safe," Moray said ... then looked at the governor's mansion, entirely
engulfed in flames. "Dear God! Giselle!"
"Where?" Tag was already six paces that way.
"The wine cellar! I told her to go to the wine cellar!" He forced himself
to stand, his knees wavering and then buckling.
First Gruoch, now Giselle; was every wife of his destined to be trapped
in a burning building? Pins and needles coursed down his limbs but he made
himself run after Tag.
The orchards were ablaze. The garden, where they sometimes made
love amid the fragrant flowers in the cool summer evenings, was a hellish
landscape.
Tag plunged through the doors, arms crossed over his face to shield it.
Moray stumbled on the steps and struck his forehead, fighting to stay conscious
as blackness tried to encroach upon his vision.
That battle, he lost.
When he next opened his eyes, the first sight they beheld was the
blameless blue sky through a window framed with the blackened remnants of
white curtains. Bonita Alvarez leaned over him anxiously, bringing a damp cloth
to his face.
"Giselle --?" he asked. "Tag?"
She shook her head solemnly, and her dark eyes flicked to the corner of
the room. He followed her gaze and there was Tag, slumped in a chair with his
arm in a sling, bandages swathing his head, his hair mostly burned away.
"Giselle," he murmured, brokenly.
Tag moved, waking. The one eye not covered by bandages opened and
found Moray. "I'm sorry."
"Did you find her?"
"In the wine cellar. The flames never reached her, but the smoke ..."
"Tag brought her out," Bonita said quietly. "He thought you wouldn't
want to leave her there."
"Thank you," Moray said.
He lay back and closed his eyes, not wanting to show them the sudden
and intense burst of anger that came over him. Here he was, feeling whole and
sound with not a pain or an ache anywhere, healed when he should have been
dead. Here he was, alive and well, while pretty Giselle had died alone in the dark
and the heat and the choking smoke.
That same day, he toured the ruins of St. Gilbert.
The orchards had mostly burned, but the tree where he'd found her
dangling like the ripest and sweetest fruit of the island was mostly unmarked. He
had Giselle buried beneath that tree, and in the spring the orange blossoms
would cover her grave.
"You had these with you," Bonita said after the funeral, giving him the
scrolls. "I do not know what they are, but Tag said you might want them."
"Yes," Moray said, tucking them into his coat. "I have a use for one of
them, at least."
That night, Giselle only hours under the earth, he set out.
They couldn't have gone far. They had no ship, no human crew to
protect them during the day. St. Gilbert wasn't close enough to any other islands
to have let them reach safety by air.
It took him until dusk, but he found them, just waking from their
wooden sleep in an undercut bluff next to a bubbling spring.
"It is he!" the female said, unafraid after sizing him up and seeing
him unarmed. "You spoke true, Brand, it is the one they call the Scottish
Rogue."
"I am," Moray said.
"What do you want, human?" the fire-winged one, Brand, asked. "Had
you not enough last night?"
"That's why I've come. There's something left unfinished."
"Do you threaten us?" The dark one called Reaper drew himself up tall
and proud. "We've had our revenge; it is no concern of yours."
"This is not about your revenge, but mine!" He unrolled the scroll.
"Sorcery!" the female gasped.
Moray began to read the words of Latin.
The female came at him, so he pointed at her. Ladies first. A small
cyclone of tawny-gold radiance whirled up from the earth, trapping her
immobile.
"Melusine!" Reaper reached for her, but the moment his hands passed
through the cocoon of magic, he too was frozen in place.
The spell expanded, enclosing the young one, the beast, and finally
Brand. They screamed soundlessly. Their eyes shone blue-white and searing
turquoise in protest. But the woven wind of magic tightened around them, their
flesh becoming stiff and solid wood, their skin taking on muted colors as of
weathered paint.
"Vos Concludo penes somno ut Ligno donec mare fervat!" Moray
finished.
It was done.
* *
Manhattan
May 2000
After telling her about the spell, he was silent for so long that Birdie
was sure he'd fallen asleep. But then the sheets rustled as he moved, and she
sensed him looking at her in the dim light shed by the single bulb in the
bathroom.
"That," she said, "is one hell of a story."
"Yet you believe me."
"Every word. Why wouldn't I? I've seen plenty of weirdness myself,
mister, and you don't strike me as the sort of a guy who'd lie without a good
reason."
His sigh stirred her hair. "I thought telling it would hurt nearly as much
as living it, but instead, I feel better."
She kissed him, a warm, wet, openmouthed Birdie-kiss. "Glad to hear
it."
"Is there nothing that astounds you, woman?"
"Very little. What'd you do with them? The Pirate Clan? After they
were frozen?"
"For all they'd done, I could not bring myself to kill them. I understood
too well what had driven them to their deeds, and hoped that by sparing them, it
might someday break the cycle of vengeance." He sighed again. "It seems,
however, to have only delayed it."
"Because they're still out there."
"Yes," he said heavily. "They're still out there."
* *
The End.