The Damned Treasure: 

a World of Hek novel

by Robert Ford

 All rights reserved.  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author or publisher.

Copyright © 2023/2024 by Robert Ford

Also by Robert Ford:

Christlike (1996)

The World of Hek, Book One: Forever (2010)

The World of Hek, Book Two: Savior (2011)

The Curse of the Translucent Monster (in color) (2013)

The World of Hek: Tales of Love & Revenge (2013)

A Christmas Burglary (2017)

The World of Hek: First Wish (2020)

Ease the Pain: a World of Hek novel (2023)

PROLOGUE

The pretty Asian-American’s eyes opened with a start. She wasn’t sure when she had drifted off, but she knew that the other woman wasn’t in the room when it happened. The woman was stunning, like a model, and was wearing a skin-tight red dress, a slit running up the length of her left leg. She had long, blonde hair and was facing Sergeant Bella, who was trembling and talking on her phone. Why was she so scared? “Mami loves you, okay, baby? You be a good girl and…and get some sleep, comprende?” She was scared and tears flowed freely from her eyes. Then Mercy saw the blood running down the sergeant’s body and onto the floor. She had been stabbed in the chest, her clothes covered in blood. The beautiful blonde turned her head toward Mercy and put a finger to her pursed lips, silently asking for no noise.

That was impossible. Mercy let out a terrified shrill just before the blonde snapped Bella’s neck, allowing the phone to fall to the floor. That was when she realized that she’d seen this blonde before, in her dreams where she had slept with her boyfriend. Before that, the woman was an angel and had given Mercy her beautiful wings. Just appeared on her back like magic. It wasn’t real, right? Of course it wasn’t, it was only a dream! But then the woman that gave her wings had brutally hacked them off, leaving scars that had revealed themselves in the real world. The angel/witch was real! “Who–who are you?” Mercy asked through her trembling lips, still shimmering in a hot pink lipstick.

“Baby, you already know who I am. I’m your dream girl, your fantasy,” Grace cooed as she strolled over to the captive, a bloody scimitar in her hand. She sat in Mercy’s lap, legs spread around her and their faces almost touching. Grace kissed her lips softly. “I’m the one Jack loves and you’re the whore who tried to steal him away from me.” She placed the blade against Mercy’s neck. “Fucking Chinese slut. Jack and I will be so happy when you’re gone, don’t worry. I’ll make him forget all about your diseased pussy and your fake candy perfume.” She placed her nose alongside Mercy’s ear and took in her fearful aroma deeply. “You won’t be missed.” With that, she plunged the blade deep into Mercy’s stomach.

But then, something incredible happened. Grace witnessed as the bonds that tied Mercy to the metal chair burst, sending the zip ties flying to the other side of the room. Grace fell back to the floor and Mercy stood in front of her, the blade dropping by her boots and the fresh blood gone from her white “Broken Bottle” t-shirt. Behind her, wings of glory spread out wide. Mercy’s stunning eyes of violet widened as she turned and saw what had grown out of her back. “How the frick??”

“You have my wings, you bitch!” Grace screamed as she leaped to her feet, scimitar in hand once more. “Give them back!” Furiosity masked her lovely face as the former angel ran for the winged Mercy to strike her again, but Mercy dove out of the way as a wing knocked the crazed blonde into a wall with a crash.

“You lost them, Grace,” Mercy declared proudly. “I don’t know how I know this, but you’ve also lost the chance to earn them back.”

“What…what do you mean? How do you know?!”

“No idea,” Mercy answered. “It’s just a feeling. When you gave them to me, you lost them forever. You may have been an angel once, but now you’re just a demon pregnant dog. What?” she uttered confusedly. The tan, barely five foot Mercy often had a foul mouth and didn’t normally hold back, especially in the presence of people she couldn’t stand. What the heck am I saying?”

Grace’s eyes glared with resentment. With fury. Those were her wings and now they’re gone with no hope of getting them back. Not yet, anyway. She would need time to figure it out. Time to devise a plan.  “I will have them back, you fucking whore!” And then she was gone. Like magic once again, she just disappeared. Not even a cloud of smoke or the fuzzy shaped lines from her animes. Just gone.

Mercy felt stronger than ever as she latched onto the door handle. She pulled with all her might, but it just wouldn’t open. Why, though? She felt so powerful, as though a simple locked door shouldn’t stop her. “Get me out of here!” she screamed as she tugged and pulled at the door some more. 

After several minutes of rage, the winged beauty sat still on the floor, arms around her knees and crying. “Someone please get me out of here. I want to escape, to go away,” she cried. Her only goal today was to start cleaning out her apartment so that she could move in with her boyfriend, Captain Jack Nelson. Her friends had even come over to help. Of course, they drank more than they packed. After they left, she went out for a quick bite to eat. Never even made it to her red 2019 Volvo Concept Coupe because some men had grabbed her and brought her to this frickin’ place.  A body lay in front of her and she was trapped with no hope of escape until someone opened that door. And who would that person be? Would it be Jack? Or someone sent to kill her? She closed her eyes and rested her forehead on her knees before the impossible happened.

“Darling girl, you are amazing!” a British voice spoke. Mercy opened her eyes to find a tall, handsome man in white standing in front of her, his hands comfortably resting in his pockets. “Your wings are just lovely!”

“Who are you?” she asked. “And where is Jack?”

“I’m tending to him right now, my love,” he answered the latter question, intently ignoring the first. “But I had to come to see you straight away. I heard your cry for help and could never allow myself to ignore the cry of such a pretty young thing. You wished to get out of here, to escape, hum?” Mercy nodded, hoping this man was actually here to help her, not caring at the moment how he arrived in the room with her, or how he knew that she was pretty before his arrival. “Good, good. Let’s get up then, shall we?” The man then held out his hand and she took it, allowing him to assist her to her feet. “Oh, my, that is much better. You are gorgeous, my sweet. I can see why the captain is completely mad about you,” he gushed. “And I simply love the wings on you! Poor Grace should not have given up on them so quickly. She gets confused sometimes. Such a pity.”

“Where is Jack?” she asked, disregarding the mention of Grace for the moment.

“Do you wish to see him, love?” he said, withdrawing a yellow parchment from his pocket.

“Yes,” she demanded.

“One wish at a time, Mercy,” he said, slipping the paper into her hands before she disappeared.

CHAPTER ONE

Swaying. Rocking.

A feeling almost like she felt when that man drugged her. Put his hands where they shouldn’t have been.

The room around her was moving back and forth.

Where was Jack to beat up whomever did this to her? Where was her man? Her hero?

She, or the room, was jutting…up and down??

Side to side.

Slowly, carefully, and afraid of what she might find, the twenty-three-year-old opened her bright, violet eyes to a room that she had never been in before. “Frick! Second time today,” she grumbled, alluding to another adventure all together. Knotted, multi-shades of ugly brown, planked wood all around her. The walls. The floors. The frickin’ ceiling. A round table, again, made of wood, set with a few silver plates and pewter mugs was off to the side and surrounded by four old-time chairs with crimson velvet cushions. Several bookshelves encompassed with a crap-load of books lined some of the small walls of the room. The cabin? Several oil lamps hung, and weaved gently, along metal hooks along the corners of the wall and the ceiling. The smell of what must be the sea filled the whole room. She was on a frickin’ boat! Off to another side was a window with an elegant desk in front of it. Atop the desk was a large map, a few open books, a globe, and some kind of silver telescope held up on a tripod.

“How often does a flowery thing like this happen to gosh-darned normal people?” she asked herself as she sat up in a bed covered in thick furs. The mattress was of material she was not used to; maybe stuffed with cotton? “And why the heck am I talking like a darn Catholic school girl?” A shape caught her attention in her peripheral vision and she turned her head, shocked at what she saw. Her hands, shaking, reached back and felt exactly what her eyes saw: attached to her shoulder blades were a pair of large, strong wings, like that of an angel. Mercy’s mouth dropped as she realized the dream she had was real. The crazed angel woman, Grace, really did give her wings to Mercy and really did try to hack them off. She really did try to kill her with a frickin’ scimitar! The man in white really did send her away, too. But to where exactly?

Mercy eased her feet off the large, almost king-sized, bed and onto the hardwood floor, her black Converse sneakers and white ankle socks still covered her feet from that morning when her girlfriends had come over to her apartment to help her clean out some crap and pack up. She was ready to move in with her man. He was ready for her, too. They were in love, it seemed. But then she was taken, kidnapped, tied up and held captive by Jack’s evil military team, stabbed by an angel, gained some frickin’ wings, and sent away to…here. She touched her legs, still wrapped in the same pair of tight, distressed and ripped, mid-rise American Eagle jeans from earlier. In front of her was a light brown, walnut dresser with polished brass handles and a mirror that had been stained and streaked from too many years at sea. The image it contained, however, was a young, pretty, twenty-three-year-old with long black hair teased up into a spiky contortion. She still felt radiant, just as her friends had described her. Glowing, almost. Allowing her wings the freedom to move and breathe, the young Asian-American was lucky enough to have on a black Nike elastic tank top with a single strap in the middle of the back. She smiled, her mouth glistening in a hot pink shade of lipstick. She wasn’t scared anymore. She felt powerful. Strong. Ready to take on whatever the frick was waiting outside this room.

Still wished Jack was here, though.

Before she could even lay a hand on the door however, the handle turned and the thick oak door pulled away from her hand, revealing a brilliant blue sky, a burst of warm sea air, and the figure of a woman standing directly in front of her. At about seven inches above Mercy’s barely five foot frame, the young ebony-skinned woman looked pleased to see the winged beauty up from her slumber. “Angel! ‘De angel has awakened at last! I knew it was time! I told ‘im it was your time, Angel!’” She was stunning, in a sort of frightening or intimidating sort of way. Her hazel eyes were set within a dark shade of violet and had tiny cuts of what appeared to be diamonds fastened around them, creating a mystical strength about her. She had on an abundance of jewelry fashioned from bone, jewels, gold, silver, leather, and heck knows what else, all along her ears, neck, arms, wrists, fingers, and ankles. Mercy found herself thinking that this woman looked very much like some sort of voodoo goddess. She wore a tight, dark crimson leather bodice that  pressed her large breasts together, providing a healthy view of ample cleavage for any male (or female, of course) on this boat. A broad leather belt hung just below her thin waistline and on a flowing, dark purple skirt that lengthened to her bare feet. Before Mercy could react, the woman’s strong arms were wrapped around her, squeezing the massive wings against her back. A gentle kiss was placed around both her cheeks. “My heart is filled with joy to see ya up an’ about, Angel!” The woman released her back and then immediately clasped onto Mercy’s biceps. “Ya just appeared upon 'de crow’s nest, layin’ there like a sleepin’ angel, ya were. Sleepin’ peaceful as if laid there by God himself.”

Mercy’s violet eyes looked past the powerful presence of the woman before her to find that she was on some kind of a pirate boat. She saw four tall masts, massive sails of white, too numerous to count, a tan helm with brass inlays and an inscription that was too far away to read. Men of all races scurried about in garb that she’d only seen in the One Piece anime: open shirts, scarves or hats covering their heads, wide belts and sashes, and a variety of baggy pants of different material and color. Their feet were mostly bare. How the frick she wound up on some tourist pirate ship off California she had no clue! Did the man in white drug her and send her here? Had she been kidnapped once more? Frickin’ boyfriend had some explaining to do about the associates of his in his little, frickin’ secret military organization. It was almost safer to go back and shake her balloons at Janequin’s Strip than be Captain Jack’s girlfriend. “Where’s all the customers?” she suddenly asked.

The black woman smiled politely and took Mercy by the arm. “Dear-heart, there ain’t no customers here. Trust ole’ Marie, love, it ain’t what ya think.” 

“Really?” Mercy said in bewilderment as her eyes soaked in her surroundings, accepting only that she wasn’t in Las Vegas anymore. She wasn’t on land anymore. This was some kind of tourist-less cosplay frickin’ acid-trip vacation that the man in white drugged her into. That’s what it was. That’s all it could be. The wings were the coolest part of it all, though. She figured that if it was all a dream, she may as well take to the skies and fly like an eagle. Then again, not a good idea if she were actually on top of a building in the real world right now. Maybe she should just stay on the “pirate ship” and meet the “pirates”. “LOL,” she whispered. “Marie?”

“Yes, Angel?”

“Name’s Mercy,” she said pleasantly. If it were all a hallucination, she may as well enjoy it for now. “But you can keep calling me Angel if you like. I kinda like it,” she admitted with a smile. No one had ever made it a point to call her that before. Maybe these wings would become a blessing?

“I would like that, too, Angel. It fits ya like ‘de sunshine.” Marie smiled so pleasantly at her, motherly almost. Maybe aunt-like, but not like any mother or aunt she ever had the misfortune of having. Then she pulled her onward. “There is someone ya ought meet now, Angel. ‘De captain of ‘de ship, my husband.”

Just then, Mercy’s arm brushed past the sweaty, muscular arm of a blond-haired man, about 5’8” in height. From her peripheral vision, she could of sworn it was “Jack?” But as soon as the word left her mouth, she knew she was in error. This man was definitely not her Jack. Their builds were similar: muscular everything, six pack abs, a body made for wrapping another body around for an hour or two. But this body was covered in viking tattoos like she had seen in some of her favorite characters in Assassin’s Creed Valhalla. However, this dude was for real…or just in her drugged head. His skin was covered in tattoos of snakes, birds, letters, and strange symbols of some long forgotten language. Almost every bit of skin, except who knew what lay beneath whatever his leathery kilt covered. The man wore a variety of rings and bracelets, too, and had a daring haircut of a mohawk pulled into a long ponytail in the back. His rough, tan face was partially covered in a thick blond beard as well. His blazing, sky blue eyes peeked out at her from behind those same tattoos: a skull in a crown surrounding the right, whilst symbols that looked similar to ᚱᚦᚲᚺ were inked above and below the left. Definitely not her Jack.

“Afraid not, miss,” he spoke a tad too slowly, as if carefully pronouncing every sound. “I am glad you are safe,” he said thoughtfully. “Jim found you in the crow’s nest,” he added, pointing to the high platform that seemed to almost touch the white clouds above. “He is too small to bring you down so they called for me. I almost did not believe the boy when he said an angel was sleeping up there.” Strange how the mind wanders, Mercy thought. If this were porn, she’d be climbing on top of this Viking and…but no, it is all just a bad acid trip or something. She nodded and refocused on the hulking Viking. “I carried you down and laid you in the captain’s bed-chambers, making certain to first threaten any sailor who would attempt to rouse you from your slumber.” Good boy, she thought, but ain’t nothing rousing her from this slumber until the man in white’s drugs wore off. “I hope you are well rested,” he concluded.

“Njord is our quartermaster,” Marie interrupted with a slight stroke of his arm, “and a right gentleman. Trustworthy, Angel.” Mercy glanced back at the captain’s wife, almost surprised to find her still there. How many more stereotype video game characters were going to be in this dream? she wondered. “’Ave ya seen the captain, Njord?” the dark-skinned woman asked.

“The last I saw of him, m’lady, he was at the bow with some of the men.” Njord answered the captain’s wife dutifully but his eyes were on the angel in his presence, particularly on her wings. It appeared for just a moment to Mercy that he was about to reach out and touch them, stroke them. An awkward feeling overcame her then, for that moment, instinctively forcing her feet to take a step back as her hands crossed her front, blocking at least partial access to her angelic gifts. Realizing his accidental offense, Njord also took a step back before uttering, “ladies,” and moving on with his duties.

Seeing the concern in Mercy’s eyes, Marie wrapped an arm around her back whilst another touched her shoulder. “Ya are safe here, love. Ain’t no harm comin’ to ya.” Besides, it’s all just some weird trip anyway, right? She’ll wake up soon and find herself back in the real world. Hopefully Jack will have rescued her from the room they had trapped her in and she’d be in some hospital bed with her man watching over her. She’d pull her hero onto that uncomfortable hospital mattress with her and thank him several times over for rescuing her. But when the frick would she wake up was the big question here. “Come, dear, I can see ‘im now,” Marie said warmly as they walked along the deck. 

Mercy gazed lazily, hazily, at the crew in their old, tattered clothing, at the smaller boats that some of the men were scrubbing with all their might, the netting used to climb the masts, the humongous metal cylinder with large rods and thick rope attached to it that were used for…how the heck would she know? They were big heavy looking things that seemed to have the ability to turn. Surely they had some important use as big as they were. The whole experience still seemed so unreal. She had wings and she was on a pirate ship! Her old boss, Slicer, would have a field day here. The owner of The Broken Bottle chain of bars absolutely loved pirate ships, and for some reason even talked like a pirate. He claimed it wasn’t just a ruse, and that that was how he talked. Dude even had a prosthetic left leg and a scarred, permanently closed left eye like a frickin’ pirate! Walked and talked like a frickin’ pirate all the darn time. She wished she was back at the bar now, sitting on the bar counter, chatting it up with Slicer while while showing off the tip of her g-string to the customers behind her. They often tipped big for that “accidental” peep show. It was a fun job, didn’t pay as well as she would’ve liked, but that was okay. Her man was gonna have her move in with him. Jack had a nice cabin up in Mount Charleston and she was excited for the upcoming move. All she had to do now was wake the poop up. Wake the frick up. Dang! What happened to her ability to curse, dang it?! Marie came to a stop just a few feet behind the captain, who was in conversation with some of his crew.

“Captain?” she announced to his backside. 

He was about two inches shy of six feet, but with the black tricorn hat with crimson red trim, he would be above that six foot mark. His graying hair was pulled into a ponytail that stopped at his shoulder blade. He wore a thick, dark black coat with that same crimson trim along his cuffs and the lining. Handsome and shiny black leather boots were on the captain’s feet, surely polished by his crew, Mercy imagined, if any of this were real. The Pirate Captain! Aargh! She was laughing out loud in her own head. Until he turned around. “Slicer?!” Mercy exclaimed as she got a good look at his face, shocked to find her former boss as the frickin’ captain of a pirate ship. His scarred, closed right eye. His dark, emerald left eye. The rough, tanned and weathered face with a classic Abe Lincoln beard, but longer than she was used to seeing. The usual gold hoop earrings still hung from both ears and he had the same kind, yet sardonic smile that she adored. Her arms immediately wrapped around her friend and boss even as he tried to escape them with a quick back-step.

“Aargh! What the hell be this all about, girl?” he uttered as her body was pressed tightly against his, his arms reaching out to the air around them, not comfortable touching her in the least.

“I don’t care if I am just imagining any of this crap, boss; I’m just glad you’re here to share this insanity with me!” She was clearly elated that there was some sort of familiarity to be had in any of this.

“I don’t know ye, lass and if’n ye wanna be getting that close to me person, ye best do it with yer drawers pulled down an facin’ the other direction first,” he growled as he managed to squirm out of her embrace. “Marie, what be the meanin’ o’ this girl attackin’ me like some whore of the streets?” The captain brushed and flattened the creases of his coat as he took another couple of steps back and away from the crazy angel on his ship.

“’'De angel appears ta know ya, husband,” Marie answered as she reached out and rubbed Mercy’s shoulders from beside her. “An’ if ya want ta be keepin’ me as your wife, I wouldn’t be speakin’ about havin’ sex with no other girl in my presence, understand?”

Without missing another beat, and suddenly becoming unsure that this was just a drug-induced hallucination, Mercy spoke up: “Boss, Slicer, it’s me. It’s Mercy.” She had been abandoned and forgotten too many times before. The boy who got her pregnant. Her parents. Her aunt. Jack, on his frickin’ poopy birthday. Not now, please! “Slicer, come on! You know me. I work at The Broken Bottle, man!” The captain’s one good eye opened wide. The other pulsed a bit under the scarred skin. “You know me,” she pleaded.

“The way ye be talkin’,” he thought out loud.

“You know me,” she repeated as the first tear slid down her cheek.

He shook his head. “I don’t, lass. Not yet anyways.” The pirate captain placed his hands on his hips and considered at the stranger on his ship. He looked at his wife for a moment before returning his focus to Mercy. “The two of you, follow me.” It was not a request. The captain brushed past both ladies and headed directly for his quarters. Marie and Mercy followed dutifully. Marie, proudly. Mercy, head bowed, tears falling slowly, and body shaking, unsure of what was going on. Marie held her arms as best she could with the giant wings obstructing her embrace. As they entered the room, the captain gently closed the thick oak door and showed them to the round table in the center of his cabin. Marie and Mercy each took a seat on one of the solid mahogany chairs as the captain stomped his way over to his desk. His legs both walked powerfully. He had no limp. No prosthetics as he wore back at the bar! Grasping at a bottle of unknown contents, he took a large swig before returning to his captive audience. “Shh,” he warned with one finger to his mouth. Captain Slicer then proceeded to lick the wetness off his lips before pouring a sample of his drink into two pewter mugs for Marie and Mercy. “Drink,” he ordered. “I need those lips loosened afore we start talkin’. I want the clear truth outta ye both.” He then took another swig and sat down in a chair that faced the both of them.

Mercy eyed the captain and took a sip.

“More,” he commanded.

She then emptied her mug, slammed it onto the table, and made a sour face. “What the frick is that crap?”

The captain grinned knowingly. “That there be bourbon, ya weakling landlubber. Picked it up in Georgetown last winter. Tastes kinda heavy on grain, like dirt in me mouth, but it serves its purpose, don’cha agree?” The warmth passed through her throat and into her stomach like a smooth fire, if that were such a thing. Remnants of vanilla remained on her taste buds. She did feel better, she guessed, and nodded in agreement. “So what year be ye from, lass?”

“What the frick do you mean what year am I from?”

The captain sighed and repeated his question. “What year are ye from, lass?”

Mercy looked at Marie with a look that asked why her boss was being an idiot before returning her attention to him. “2022.” She reached out across the table and interlocked her fingers. It was his turn for some explaining. She chewed on the side of her mouth and stared down her boss.

He nodded deliberately and grew a frown. “Me, too. But I was not the same me as ye apparently know me as. The me that came from 2022 was a right fat-ass schlump of a man. Right disgrace to me very bones. Me Serenity, me wife, got feckin’ sick of me. I was a slob, accomplishin’ naught but learnin’ pirate trivia. I was obsessed with ‘em. Their freedom to sail, rob, and rape as they saw fit. Weren’t nothin’ ta stop ‘em unless they were stupid and got themselves caught.” He sought understanding in Mercy’s eyes. “Some of ‘em were caught, ta be sure. Hung like criminals! Fed ta the’ birds, they were! But I wanted ta be like th’ smart ones. The winners! The powerful! The feckin’ gods of the seas! Serenity got sick o’ me. While I became greasier, she got hotter than all-fire. Became a Penthouse model, she did, and left me ass for some other fella named Jake. Right bastard, Jake was! I had nothin’ left then and I made a dumb-ass wish ta be a feckin’ pirate…” Slicer’s voice fell silent before abruptly returning with, “how the hell did ye get here, lass?”

Marie Laveau touched Mercy’s arm firmly and stared down her husband. “I think I know de answer to that one, dear: 'de admiral is who done it. Hek. 'De man in white, no?”

Mercy’s thoughts flew back to an hour ago. Two hours ago? Seemed like a world away when the British man in white appeared to her to console her, forced some papers into her hands, and then…she was here. She reached back and felt the rolled up paper in her back pocket. No idea what it was or why he gave it to her. “It must have been him,” she said. “I thought he was there to rescue me.”

“He ain’t never around ta rescue people, love. Trust me,” the captain warned. “He granted me wish and I wound up on a pirate ship in 812 AD.” A pained grimace crossed his face, not wanting to reveal too much about that experience. “Been here sailin’ the seas ever since. Got a right smart collection o’ valuable trinkets, gold, and jewelry buried all over th’ Earth for me retirement. He says I’ll be sailin’ till 2022 comes ‘round again. That’s when I’ll make it right with Serenity, I promise ye.”

Mercy placed the paper on the table and unrolled it.

“Gods be wit us,” Marie exclaimed as she slid closer and placed her hands on the yellowed, fragmented parchment. “Where did ya get that from?”

“What is it?” Slicer asked.

“I don’t know,” Mercy answered them both. “The white dude gave this crap to me just before I appeared on your frickin’ boat.”

“This was my fourth husband’s,” she said, studying it intently. “It’s dangerous.”

“It’s a map,” Slicer noted excitedly. “A damned map!” He stood and excitedly slid the paper toward him, gazing at its drawings and words. His attention suddenly returned to Mercy. “Did he say anything else about it?”

She shook her head. “But, boss, I’m not done…”

“Shh,” he muttered. “Nothin’ else did he offer? No warnin’? No guidance? No nothin’?”

“No,” she answered as she and Marie both stood and crossed to his sides. “Not a gosh-darned thing. But I’m not ready to discuss this,” she informed him. “Who is this man in white? Who is Hek?”

“A demon,” Marie answered bluntly. “He grants wishes to those unlucky enough to come in contact with him, like my husband here. Bad man. Verry bad. I knew a girl who wished to him that Port Royal would sink if he wouldn’t process his love for her. June 6, 1692, it was covered by ‘de waters. Sunk. I got out with husband five here.” Slicer turned the map to a different angle, not showing whether he was listening to them in the slightest. “Husband four, he give ‘de map to another man, a good man who I was chattin’ with. His name I can’t remember…”

“Jack?” Mercy asked hopefully.

Marie thought for a moment. “Jack?”

The winged Mercy walked behind the pirate captain, still studying the map, and latched onto Marie’s hands. “Jack! Yes! You’ve seen him?!”

“Dear-heart, twas almost a hundred years ago.” Mercy wanted to question the numbers, the years, but not yet. Marie closed her eyes and searched the memories of long ago. Fragments of a man. Auburn or blond hair. Handsome, maybe? They met in a tavern, The Skull & Bones, where the man killed her husband and took the map. “Had to have been him that was your Jack. Wit the demon everywhere, any time, your man could be one in the same. But Hek is 'de one that give ya ‘de map?”

“Yes,” she answered quickly.

“Then that map is sure to be cursed. Husband?”

“Yeah?” he said, not turning around.

“’De map is cursed. Damned. It come from 'de demon, 'de admiral. Shouldn’t we throw it overboard and be done with it?”

Captain Slicer, without hesitation, rolled up the map and kissed his wife’s cheek. “Hell, no, Laveau! We set sail for France!” 

“An why would we go an do a thing like that with a thing that be cursed?”

The captain slid the map into an inner pocket of his jacket and smiled brilliantly. “Wife, last I checked you an’ me were gifted with magic that’s been keepin’ us safe for a mighty unnatural long time. We both had aar dealins with Hek. I think we’ll be okay. ‘Sides, this here be only my third treasure map aside from the many I’ve made! We be goin’ for it!” He strutted past them, towards his cabin door.

“What’s in France?” Mercy asked.

“Marius. Marius de Villeneuve!” he exclaimed.

Following the captain and Marie Laveau, such a familiar name she had, Mercy’s head was still filled with questions. Why did Slicer have both his legs? How the heck had Jack been in 1692 Port Royal? How have Marie and Slicer both been around for so many years? Centuries? And why the heck did this Hek character send her here? Mercy stopped suddenly and stared at the vast ocean all around her, put her hand to her heart. It was beating rapidly. She was alive. She was breathing. This was frickin’ real! “How often does a flowery thing like this happen to frickin’ normal people?” she repeated. “At least three times,” she answered herself.

CHAPTER TWO

 Blood.

Red.

Sticky.

He didn’t mean to do it. 

It was an accident after all. 

Oui?

His killing days were over.

The beast that was once Marius de Villeneuve gazed its bright yellow eyes upon the blood caked onto its rough paws. It looked on in bewilderment as the stripped, pink flesh that hung loosely from his claws dripped fresh blood into pools at his bare, hairy feet on the brick pavement. The man he was an hour ago had not meant to be out so late. Had not meant to drink so much, nor to flash his proudly earned silver at so many of his friends, old and new. He had not meant to be a showoff and lure the two buxom prostitutes upstairs for some fun. He had not meant to fall asleep afterwards in their arms. Marius had taken care to turn his name into a good one when he returned to France ten years ago. He had left a vagabond and returned a king. Almost. As rich as one, at any rate. Just not quite as smart as one, unfortunately. He should have paid the dark-haired one and her friend to leave after having his fun and order the owner bolt the door from the outside. But, no. Pride got the best of this former pirate. And stupidity. Mostly stupidity. It was late then, the moon almost visible when he noticed the three men approaching him from behind, keeping up with his hurried pace, doing his damnedest to return to his estate and to his safe-room. It was not to be a full moon, when his ability to control the wolf within would be at its most difficult. Still, he did not normally like to take chances. His home was only a few blocks away. Without their damned interference he would have made it, too. Unfortunately, the metal staff they used on his legs hindered his progress. He warned them to stop, knowing it was almost time. They ignored him, the peasants, as they kicked him and punched him repeatedly as they dragged him into an alleyway past several overturned carts, chairs, doors, and other large objects. Leftovers from a recent skirmish between people like them and the ruling bodies’ armies. He was no longer a filthy peasant as they, but he certainly did not deserve their ire. He had nothing to do with their struggle. He employed no-one but his in-house servants. He did nothing to keep down their social status. He was once one of them for goodness sakes! Moved away and made his fortune on a pirate ship! They could do the same as he if they so desired to put forth a little effort into digging themselves out of their own filth! Marius struggled to push the filthy vermin away as they spat in his face and tugged at his pocket watch. They held his arms secure as they removed his rings and chains. Kicked him in the head as they slid off his fine leather boots. Screamed out loud as he shredded the first man’s back wide open. Tried kicking him away as he seamlessly ripped another man’s leg from his femur. Fought back with fists until the fingers and hands were torn away by an animalistic mouthful of furiously sharp teeth. The beast then dragged the three terrified thieves further into the alley and consumed what he could. Their pitiful resilience was almost laughable, if a werewolf had the ability to laugh. A petrifying howl into the night air was the next best thing, the only emotion that the beast would share with the alley around him. The sounds of several doors and windows shutting followed immediately, prompting the beast to turn away from his carnage for a moment and study the air. The smell of gunpowder lingered from yesterday’s fighting. The smoke from the fires may never go away. The smell of men. The sound of boots. Of guns being loaded. Torches being lit. They heard the screams and would be on the hunt. So stupid! He knew the full moon was coming this evening but he had to go out anyway. The wife had her cake, and he was damn well going to eat his, too! Even if there were silly tiny battles commencing in the city. Money could buy one’s way out of any trouble, no? If not, wolf teeth certainly had that ability! But now he had to go. Had to run. But where was the…pocket watch! Still in one man’s hand, two meters from the body. And the ring sat next to another man’s foot. The rest did not matter. There was no time. A roar of a gun echoed nearby and a bullet ripped through the side of his ear and slammed into the brick wall to his right. Fight or flight time. There was at least ten of them.

Flight, of course!

The beast sped through the choking, smoky streets of Paris toward the Saint‑Germain‑des‑Prés, south of the River Seine, perhaps knocking over a few innocent bystanders in his pursuit of safety. He had used his earnings to purchase his way into the Second Estate, thereby securing his right to a nice home in the vicinity of other nobility, born and raised, earned, stolen, or purchased. Marius had then rented out some land to farmers to make some extra profit, and even married one of his renter’s daughters and paid him a healthy sum for her. Prettiest girl on all of Paris. Just had to clean her up a bit and put her in a fresh robe à la anglaise. And take her out of it, too, but of course! To get out of her one room shack, she was more than willing to move into his mansion and give him as many children as he liked. Using her new found life, she also enjoyed a few games of hide and seek with some of her handsome male servants. Marius did not mind in the least. Their life came with certain frivolities that only money and power could buy. Only in Paris!

Hence, the late night quandary he had put himself in!

Claws digging into the stone walls, the beast climbed to the top, finding the windows and doors already open on the third floor to allow any kind of breeze in during this sweltering summer! The sweet aroma of the linden flowers permeated throughout the room as he climbed in. The whole house, actually, carried the scent as the wife simply adores it and has the lot of the gardeners fill baskets almost daily to keep the scent alive throughout. It also made a great tea to calm the beast inside him. Turning to close and bar the window, the wolf took notice far below and in the distance. The flames of rebellion were seemingly headed his way. But how could that be? They couldn’t have seen him come this far, could they? He was much faster than them. A growl emitted from his throat as he pondered his situation. His wife, Anaëlle, and their children would be sleeping by now. At least the children may be. Anaëlle would surely be attending her her house guests, the Janequins, a pair of actual nobles that she had taken a liking to during a visit to Versailles. The Janequins had never earned their money, having received it through bloodline, a quality that should be admired and celebrated, thought Marius. Such an inheritance would have saved him ten years of hard work on the high seas and gifted him a life of leisure instead; something he now enjoyed immensely. But still…

Normally Marius would gain enough control to lock the beast in this room before the blood-lust took over. This time, however, the blood-lust got the better of him and it seemed that a mob may be headed this way to do away with the beast once and for all.

 And a bird as well?

A pitch black raven with a note tied to it suddenly perched itself on the window sill as he studied the lights in the distance. The note was quickly in his hand as the aves was shoved in his mouth. Disgusting habit, but what Parisian man or beast could turn down a free snack? The note in hand was from his former captain, requesting his presence aboard The Holy Terror. It seemed they needed an expert on an island off the coast of the Viceroyalty of the Río de la Plata. The River of Silver! The location of such an unfortunate accident! The captain would be near the docks if he could meet him there. Preferably if Marius could travel with them. If not, could he at least have some wine with the captain and help plan a strategy? He would be compensated, of course. The beast looked out on the horizon, the lights coming closer. It seemed to Marius that another adventure was in order. But this time, he would have to bring a family with him. Unfortunately, they hadn’t much time to ready themselves and would have to make with a hasty getaway. Most unfortunately, his children had never had to see him like this. A beast. Neither had the servants. He would have to warn Anaëlle to get the kids and then he would head out before them though the tunnels or the front and distract the mob. He only had moments to get everything in order. Fumbling paws and claws picked up a quill and scribbled hommes avec le feu à venir (men with fire coming)! It would have to do. His vocals only allowed growling, barking, and howling. Throwing the door open, the beast sniffed the air for his wife. He had to get to Anaëlle before anything else. Their bedchamber! Several monster-sized leaps and a violent kicking open of the door and the beast roared loudly at his wife and the Janequins, in the midst of various states of undress and explicit behavior. “Marius!” Anaëlle called out in shock. “What is the meaning of this? Why are you prancing ‘round the house as a complete behemoth?! Do you not see that we have guests?” 

“Marius, old chum!” laughed Lucien Janequin, poking his head out from beneath the sheets. “Drop your hairy ego and do join us, man!” His wife, Léna, laughed gaily beside Anaëlle, her arms wrapped around Madame de Villeneuve’s bare breasts whilst kissing her neck.

The beast roared again, leapt atop the bed, dropped the page near his wife, and ran.

Lucien’s eyes grew wide with fear as he read the note. His hands shook as he turned to his wife and the lady of the house whose bed they shared. “The revolution has not stopped. They are coming here.” Frivolity seemed to come crashing down at that instant. No longer were they the carefree upper class. They had now become the hunted. “We have to move! We have to move! Get the children and go to the tunnels! Quickly!”

* * *

When he returned to Paris in 1779, Marius sought out friends and loved ones. He had made his fortunes and wanted to spread the wealth amongst those whom he knew and trusted, but his search was all for naught. They had either disappeared, starved to death, or passed away due to smallpox or one of the many types of fevers that plagued the area. His next challenge was to find the perfect home with a tunnel access due to the reoccurring dilemma brought about from his treasure hunting near The River of Silver. A quick escape may be called for one of these days, he told himself. This, however, may be the last time he would use it. After tossing the scribbled note on his wife and her lovers, the werewolf tore through the house, trampling over a few servants on his way out the front doors. What did it matter? They were of little use to him now as they were sure to turn on the wolf and his family when the mob of money-hungry peasants arrived to take everything from them. Or just torch the lair of the Beast of Paris! Either way, the mansion would be lost. As would his staff. Hopefully, Anaëlle would be able to get herself and the children out before they arrived. As he approached the front of his property, so did the torch-bearing, gun-toting mob. Taking out the bloody flesh of several arms and legs, the beast led them on a quick game of dodge the bullet through the weeping willows and Oriental planes that surrounded the property’s pond and into the large gardens and maze that lay beyond. With the shoutings of the angered mob and the blasts of the guns not far behind, Marius ran as far as he could, leading them away from his home and loved ones until they were close behind no more. As the night became clear of crazed Parisians, he headed in the direction of a nearby forest, that in which the secret tunnel exited to safety inside an old cemetery. Specifically, a gray stone mausoleum under a gable roof with two enormous pillars in the front and guarded by two sinister-looking gargoyles, each sitting atop the front and back of the structure. Their eyes once glowed red in the night until some brave souls plucked them out one winter evening.  The long forgotten name Evrémonde still embellished the entryway, just above the heavy double doors. Whatever became of the bodies in the mausoleum, Marius knew not nor cared one bit. The lead and stone coffin just below the imprint of a long gone cross, (most likely crafted of gold or silver), on the stone brick wall, when slid open, revealed a tunnel that led directly to his home.

As Marius approached the stone building, however, he could see in the distance that his home was no more. Flames, almost from Hell itself it seemed, had already engulfed his hard-earned mansion. The place where he married his wife. The place where his four children were being raised. The place where five others had died in childbirth or sickness. The place for parties and dinners and conquests over young maidens and lords alike. Games and balls. Weddings and great banquets. Bodies buried in the maze from those unfortunate to cross paths with the beast. No more of any of it. The beast growled at the fire, dashed into the darkened structure and shut the doors behind him before throwing open the casket with the secret tunnel. The distant flames of torches reflected far below and deep within. His family had gotten out in time, he realized with a heavy sigh as he began his own descent.

The tunnel was dark and made only of Earth, top, sides, and floor. The occasional rat scurried away from the heavy, trampling feet of the werewolf as he desperately raced onward, deeper and deeper into the tunnel to find his loved ones. “Marius!” he heard his wife call out as he saw her beautiful shape and received her embrace. “Whatever shall we do? They attacked just as we were entering through the trap door,” she began as Lucien interrupted.

“We got dressed as fast as we could, grabbed your children and our Laetitia and ran like the devil himself were at our heels!  Those monsters! How dare they enter the home of a private citizen and —“. 

The wolf wanted to speak, to tell them his plan, but was unable. He saw the terrified children clutching onto the dress of Léna Janequin, unable to approach their own father for fear of what he’d become. As Lucien continued to speak, Anaëlle looked back to see her frightened children, placed a hand on her husband’s hair-covered chest and interrupted her friend. “Clément. Rémy. Océane. Marie-Noëlle. This is your father! He is in a silly costume,” she lied. “It’s all right. No one will harm you. It is just a silly game we play called…” her voice trailed off, overcome with emotions of fear, confusion, and of trying to be brave for her children, all dressed in their sleeping clothes.

“Wolf in the hen-house!” Léna Janequin called out whilst patting the heads at her waist. “We found you, you silly wolf. Now you must show us where you hid those eggs!” The children’s eyes lit up with fascination. “A midnight game of utter terror,” she laughed playfully as if it were all a joke.

“Bad wolf!” Rémy laughed quietly, pointing at his father.

“Leave the chickens alone!” Océane growled in jest as she released Mrs. Janequin and put her hands on her hips.

The ladies’ ruse had been a success as the children were becoming braver, more trusting as they slowly began to approach their father, just a tiny step at a time, mouthing words of confidence toward the wicked wolf all along. Even Laetitia released her mother’s dress and was slowly moving toward the beast. “There, loves, see: he is just a silly old wolf and we have caught him. The game will end when he takes us to his secret lair where we will rescue the chickens.”

Anaëlle picked up the prompt. “It must be a looong journey though, right, you big bad wolf?” He nodded his head as she gently kissed his hairy cheek. “Full of danger, and cemeteries, and darkness, oui?” Again, he nodded, all the while wishing for the sun to come out so that he could speak to his family, to comfort them. That was his job as husband and father. It would still be several hours until daybreak, however, and hopefully the children would soon tire and would have be carried. When they awake, the sun would be out and they wold all be off on a new adventure aboard a real live pirate ship, ready to take them away from this city gone mad. For now, they would have to hide in the dark tunnels until he turned into a man once more. When they emerged from the crypt, it would be a new day at last, but the end to his fortune, however, unfortunately. “But, we are safe,” added his wife, with promise of hope, “and there is nothing to fear because we have found the wolf. And he is an honest wolf and a good wolf. He only took the chickens because he was hungry. Perhaps we’ll even let him keep just one for his hungry wolf tummy, no?” The wolf nodded, knowing, hoping at least, that the children would soon fall asleep. Then they would just have to remain hidden in these tunnels for just a few hours. The sun would be up soon, he reminded himself, and then freedom would arrive. 

* * *

Even in the dark tunnels, with just the torches to see in front of their faces, it was not difficult to tell that the sun had risen in the world above them. The beast that was Marius de Villeneuve’s other identity had gone. His sharp teeth, dangerous claws, and massive amounts of hair had disappeared. Where does it all go would be a mystery that may never be solved. And that’s the way it was with magic. There never was, and may never be, a way to explain such things as such things were not as common as it sometimes seemed. Marius had never, in fact, even known that such things were possible until he joined the crew of The Holy Terror. Such things were just things. Stories. Fairy tales. The Bible, with its magik that only occurred when God Himself willed it. But then came beasts of legends. Giant octopus. Minotaurs. Vampires. El Dorado. That place was the worst. Yet the captain needed him for another such journey. The captain had not visited the island with him as Marius had been involved a tiff with some of the others on The Holy Terror and had left them for The Fancy. On to greener pastures and fresh men to play with. Unfortunately the island took them all, including The Fancy, leaving Marius with nothing but a row boat and a cursed hide. Luckily, Captain Slicer was a forgiving sort. Burying his memories deep within, the tall red head, nearly naked save for some torn pants and shredded blouse, touched the head of his wife and placed a kiss on her forehead. “Ma chérie, it is time.” Very slowly, Anaëlle opened her eyes and gazed upon her sleeping babes, close to her feet, still slippered in high-heeled shoes decorated with pink of silk and a silver lace. The shoes, however, were now covered in the filth of the tunnels. “I apologize for our loss of last night. I should have been able to stop them but…”

“Shh,” she comforted him before laying a few kisses on his lips. “It is over now. The Bastille was taken yesterday as well. Our homes would have been next anyway. Paris is no longer safe for us, Marius. At least we made it out alive.”

Marius stared into her sky blue eyes and sighed heavily. “I thought I would lead them away. I thought I would trick them, but they did not all follow me.”

She patted his hand. His wedding ring still attached. “We will survive, mon amour. We will survive. Do you have a plan?” She sat up then and tried to brush off some of the dirt and must that had gathered on her dark blue dress.

He shook his head, rather disappointedly. “I happened to receive a message from Captain Slicer last night. It seems he is here, at the docks, waiting for me for some assistance. He will secret us away on his ship.”

“Isn’t he a pirate, mon amour?”

“It is true, but it may be our only hope. We will have to leave behind most of our clothing, however, before we emerge from this mausoleum. If we enter the streets with these clothes on our backs, we will be recognized as Second Estate…”

“We will be torn apart,” she whispered before looking back at their sleeping children. “Or worse.”

Marius studied the sleeping Lucien. His clothes were not as bright and colorful as the ladies. The children were still in nightgowns, perhaps not so noticeably of the higher class of citizenry. Lucien and I can leave first and find some clothes somewhere for you and Léna. I have some coins in my bag. We can buy some and can hurry back for you all. Then we will trek, as fast as we can, to the docks…” He took notice of her pale face and hesitant eyes. “What is it?”

“Pirates,” she spoke bluntly. “Filthy criminals.” Marius wanted to argue. Wanted to get mad. But this was not the time. She was scared, and it was understood. “I do not know that I would feel safe enough to go with you, Marius. I do not know if I can bring the children on such a ship.”

“And you would stay here? And do what? Surrender your lives to these monsters that burned our house to the ground? Stormed the Bastille? God only knows what else they are capable of, ma beauté. We have to flee. It is the only way.”

“I can go to my father’s. He will gladly take us all.”

“It is not the life you are used to anymore. The children would never understand the change.”

“They would never understand living with murderers and thieves on a pirate ship, either. You have to see that this is the wrong choice, Marius!”

“Who is to say that they will not attack your father’s home next?”

“He is a poor farmer, Marius. He has nothing of value to them. We will be safe there. I know we will.”

Marius climbed to his bare feet and took his wife’s hand as she held it out for him. He believed The Holy Terror to be the best solution. They would assist Captain Slicer with this mission. He knew the secrets of the island. The wolves would smell him. Recognize him. They would leave him alone this time. Oui? There could be no danger this time as Low and his men would not be there trying to rape and slaughter everything in sight. He would help the captain plot and navigate whatever he needed for the island. He may not even need step foot on it. His wife and children, absolutely would not need to. Perhaps the captain could even drop them off elsewhere? Tortuga or Nassau? He had some money put away in both places to keep them comfortable as he assisted Slicer. Their time with the pirates would be short. He was positive of it. And he was not willing to part from her and the children. Not now. Not ever! She just needed some convincing. He held both her hands and looked into her eyes once more. He then held her face and kissed her deeply. His hands found her hair, already mussed up from a night of passion and fleeing for their lives. When he released her lips, he spoke words she could not believe flew out of his mouth. “We are all going on the ship. There will be no going to your father’s. He is just a peasant, as you once were. And my children, Clément, Rémy, Océane, and Marie-Noëlle will not have such a life forced down their throats. Océane and Marie-Noëlle will not give their innocence away to some farm-boy or stable-hand. Fah! They are de Villeneuves, by God. And my boys, Clément and Rémy will enjoy the fruits of their father’s labor. They will have it all, whether Paris or elsewhere. We can collect some money I have stored in the Caribbean and relocate to somewhere safer. Somewhere beautiful! Normandy. Italy. England. Somewhere where we can buy some new property and new titles. We will make it, mon amour. But to do this, we must take up with the pirates for just a short time. That is all.” He ran out of words. He demanded that they come with him and there was no turning back.

“I could go to my father’s and wait for you there,” she argued with two steps backward.

He then latched into to her arms unforgivably. “Only if you want the wolf to rip his neck open. You will do what I ask, Anaëlle. There is no other option,” he growled.

CHAPTER THREE

   Marie was a tasty morsel. So sweet. Like a German butter-cream frosting. Not that he ate her, of course. Nor that he ate frosting much since he turned. He wasn’t that kind of monster. No, but the Palace of Versailles was made for the elite. The powerful. The deserving. The playful. And, by God, they played with the best of them. Dances. Opera. Music. Games. Desserts. General debauchery involving multiple persons at one time. Not a care in the world! He had met her through his lover, the delicious Petr Krejča, an actor whom she took a friendly liking to during a performance of Le barbier de Séville at the Petit Trianon. Petr soon became a regular at the Palace of Versailles, during the evenings, but of course, of which many took notice of, indubitably, and was considered a close confidant of the fair queen. When Petr was invited to live inside the palace as a regular performer, he brought along Vincent Morávek as his own “personal assistant”. Those in court knew exactly what kind of assisting Morávek did for the handsome Krejča. But they did not know everything, it seemed. Petr accepted the queen’s invitation only on the condition that the gentlemen could take a room in the lowest level of the palace, built within the tunnels. The actor also requested coffins as some sort of weird “sex thing”, noted the builders. He also requested not to be disturbed during daylight hours as that was his time for rehearsing. But the strange accommodations and requests meant little to the young queen. Anything her heart desired was paid for by the King, the treasury, and the people of France. They loved her. And she loved her playthings. Princesse de Lamballe, the queen’s favorite, first brought Vincent to the queen’s chambers one evening at the request of Petr, who was performing in a show specifically for King Louis XVI and his court. The actor wanted his favorite queen to meet his favorite assistant. As Vincent entered the cream-colored, bronze trimmed, wood paneled, octagon-shaped, Méridienne room, he beheld a feast of sweets served upon silver trays that were laid upon two different golden tables. A handsome man dressed in a lengthy purple suit with a cream-colored blouse underneath stood in a corner playing a violin for the queen, who was laying upon her bed whist perched up on large pink pillows and her enormous, comfortable beige blankets of a silk and linen blend. She was utterly beautiful in a lavender lilac and white beaded, ruffled dress. Her low cut corset revealed an ample amount of cleavage that would surely entice any regular man to do whatever she demanded. Her bare feet peeked out of the bottom of the dress, tickling her toes amongst the silky sheets. She eyed her companion as she and Vincent entered the room and licked some frosting from the tip of her ruby-painted fingernail. “Come,” she said as she patted the edge of the bed in front of her. The princess took the tall, thin man by his cold hand and led him to the queen’s bed and gently eased him down to sit just in front of the royal waist. The princess then sat next to him, almost on top of him, actually. “Kiss her,” the queen demanded as she stroked his leg. The musician played on as the pretty Princesse de Lamballe, her blonde hair in curls at her sides, placed her hands on the man’s cool skin and met his lips with hers. “Petr told me all about the two of you,” Marie confided. “He has shown me what he can do. He has taken me into his confidence and shared his darkest secrets. He’s also told me much about you, my handsome one. He’s told me why he loves you. What a scandal!” Their tongues entwined as Vincent held onto the princess’s side, wrapped loosely in a pink Robe Volante. Thoughts began to emerge in his head of wrong-doings. He already had a lover. But the lover had sent him to the queen. The queen ordered him to kiss this other woman, the princess. And all he wanted to do was bite her neck and drain her of her sweet blood. Now that would be a scandal! The youthful queen laughed softly and moved closer to Vincent’s ear, close enough to whisper softly to him as her powdery and floral scent flowed into his nose. “Show me what you can do to her, handsome one. Show me your teeth and then bite her. She is all yours.”

“Marie Thérèse,” the princess giddily informed the vampire as she tilted her neck in front of his mouth; his warm breath giving her goosebumps immediately. “That is my name, mon amour.” Vincent closed his icy blue eyes and licked his lips. If this is what she wanted, it’s what she would be gifted. More a gift for him, though. The vampire’s sharp fangs extended out of his mouth as he fastened them to the princess’s silky white, powdered neck. A sigh of pleasure eased out of her red lips as her arms wrapped around the vampire’s back whilst he eased her onto to the bed, closer to the queen’s bare toes. Vincent’s legs remained positioned just off the bed, his buckled shoes still touching the polished wood floor as he fed. His hands held the strands of the perfectly coiffed hair of the princess, never lowering them to anywhere that others may deem inappropriate. The princess, however, was already working on unbuttoning his pink, silk blouse to access his chest. The queen giggled in delight as she tickled the neck of the vampire with her painted toes. She squirmed with a chill as she saw a trickle of blood drip out of her friend’s neck and onto her leg. The blood felt cool, slick. Marie then hastily lowered her balloon sleeves a bit below her shoulders and coughed gently to get the vampires’s attention.

“Me, now,” she laughed as her body danced happily yet horizontally upon her bed. “Me, now!” she repeated; her ocean blue eyes fixed on the vampire’s pale upper back; his blouse and coat having been pulled down by her friendly princess.

Vincent released the exhausted Marie Thérèse and gazed at her now sleeping face. Pale. Powdered. Lovely. Her hair, perfectly coiffed no longer. He scooped up a bit of blood from her neck with a finger and sucked it clean before turning his attention to the queen. She kicked the edge of the bed repeatedly and laughed out loud once more. “Me, now! Me, now! Do it to me now!” She then lunged for the vampire with her hands and brought him down upon her, ready to enjoy the sensation that very few were privileged enough as her to experience. The world was her oyster and she knew it. She even had her own private vampires to kiss and nibble at her neck. She controlled them! She owned them! “Harder,” she purred as she dug her nails into his neck. 

The violinist played on as Vincent and Marie learned to know one another well. And that night they became more than friends. Lovers of a different nature. They did love one another, it was true, but the pleasure was different than a man and woman usually give each other. It was a love of a different sort. A different realm. Secret passions that only a creature of the night could provide. Passions that not man nor woman could provide. Passions befitting a queen. And Queen Marie Antoinette deserved it all. Everything she earned. Everything she needed. Everything she desired. There was none that could refuse her.

Until they did.

* * *

Petr Krejča burst into the room just after six o’clock in the morning after perusing the palace for a “light breakfast”. The once handsome actor/vampire’s mouth was covered in blood. His once, almost sparkling skin, was now paler than usual. His bright green eyes were now a dull brown. “There you are!” he spat, one hand on the door frame, body hunched over in visible pain. Marie Antoinette was latched onto Vincent Morávek for dear life, sitting in his lap whilst he sat in a beechwood armchair of light blue with gold trim. The horrible screams above could be heard more clearly now that the door was wide open. “We’ve been taken, my love, my queen!” he said as he fell to the floor, a small pool of blood forming beneath him. Vincent would normally be at his side, but could hardly move; his body was almost stiff as a fresh corpse. The queen was at his side instead, touching his hair, kissing his forehead. “They just burst in through an unwatched gate…it was planned, I think…” he coughed.

“We heard the screams from the kitchen and ran here,” the terrified, but still beautiful, lady cried. “Vincent became sick as we approached your room.”

“Something we ate, I think,” Petr managed, thinking back to the servant boy who came into their room earlier that night, knowing that no one was permitted to be there without an invite. He was handsome, just sixteen, and willing…begging the vampires to feed upon him. Angered at the interruption but lusting after the pretty new servant, they agreed to fulfill his desire. They fed eagerly on him. And even though he seemed at first eager and willing, his gray eyes filled with fear and death soon after. He died all too soon. It was a ploy. A planned suicide mission to disable the queen’s favorite actor and his lover. The boy’s blood was filled with something, though Petr knew not what. His glazed-over eyes fell on his greatest love at the foot of the chair as he slipped slowly to the floor. Their eyes gazed weakly on one another. Marie’s rushed to his side and soon had hands covered in blood as she lifted the actor’s face and looked into his empty mouth.  His teeth had been violently ripped out by some of the most heinous individuals that Paris had to offer. She could not speak as her face trembled in shock. “They stopped me cold in my tracks. Tied me to a bed and ripped them out one by one with whatever tools and weapons they had in their filthy hands. They plunged their swords and knives into me. Phht,” he spat. “They tried to burn my forehead with a golden cross. I killed several in the process but I…” he rolled over on his back, put his hand into a gaping wound where his heart had once beat strong. “I am done. Your children escaped with the king, I think, but the poor Princesse de Lamballe, I heard her screams.” Antoinette buried her face in his chest, reached for his arms, and put them around her. “She pretended to be you, shouting that she was the queen and for them to leave. They raped the courageous woman right in front of me and…” Petr could not describe how they beheaded her when they were done with her. That act was what gave him the strength to burst from his bondage and slay the men and women in the room before going to find Vincent and Marie.

“Shh,” the queen consoled and kissed him. “We will get through this. I am the queen and we will have the guards stand beside us and —“

“Listen to me,” Petr cried. “You need to get Vincent to safety.”

“Petr! No, no. You will go with us!”

Petr shook his head weakly, yet defiantly. “You! You have to be strong for me, Marie. Wrap Vincent in coats and blankets! Do not let the run rise on him, do you hear me?!?” She nodded. “You must be strong! Go through the tunnels and seek out passage on a ship. Disguise yourself and Vincent. Do not let anyone know you you are, nor what he is!.” He turned his head towards the doorway at the sound of distant voices growing closer. “You must go now,” he whispered.

Marie Antoinette, Queen of France, kissed her friend upon his bloody mouth and laid his head on the floor. She then stood and ran toward a large chest of drawers, threw open the compartments and dug frantically for anything to cover her beloved, sickly friend. Taking several garments in her hand, she wrapped what she could around Vincent Morávek, and pulled him to his feet. His movements were tremendously difficult to manage but both pressed onward. As they stepped beside the fallen, dying Petr, Vincent fell to his knees and atop his lover, his best friend, his creator. Though neither could speak, their lips locked together one final time. Their reign in Paris had come crashing down. Petr closed his eyes and slipped away; their cold lips still touching.  Marie had to use all her strength to pull away the crestfallen Vincent and scurry out of the room, turning left into the darkened tunnel, and flee her home for their very lives. Should she return now to Vienna a lost queen? A beaten royal? A lost little girl without a home? Or should she flee with the vampire and start again anew? Unknown? These thoughts crossed the fallen queen as she carried the weight of her loved one, her friend, into the unknown.

* * *

A singular, glimmering light shone ahead, bouncing up and down awkwardly as if someone was struggling with it. The youthful gunner and sometime lookout, Jim Sauvage lowered his torch to get a better view. “Someone is coming, Captain,” he whispered as his heart raced onward. He had not stepped foot in the palace since leaving five years ago at the age of twelve. He had been a lowly servant boy, bringing teas and cakes to the filthy rich just as his parents did. Oui, Madame, oui, Monsieur. No Madame, no, Monsieur, just as his parents did. Slapped around, just as his parents were. Roughly turned around and had his drawers pulled down, though he never knew if the same horrors had happened to his parents. But it happened to him too many times. You are hurting me, Monsieur! Stop, please, Monsieur! He hated the royals with a passion. Some of them anyway; mostly the men. He abandoned his family and sought out the high seas. He had heard about the legendary exploits of Marius de Villeneuve and had to see if he could have the same luck. But now he was back. The captain asked him to accompany him to see what could be made off with from the palace during this time of strife, looting, and violence. A pirate’s life, to be sure! Knowing that many others would be going through the front gates, the captain asked if there might be a hidden entrance, one that would lead to secret treasures and such. Jim, of course, informed him of these secret tunnels, but not let it be known that this was where he used to come alone to cry. 

“Be ready for anything,” Captain Slicer growled. Swords and pistols were already at the ready just as his crew was trained to do. Jim led the way with the captain, Njord, and seven others. Ten pirates moving silently through the secret tunnel that would lead them to the Palace of Versailles where Jim hoped to find some of his attackers dead on their golden floors, blood seeping from their battered bodies.

A moment later, Jim Sauvage saw the one person he never expected to see. She was still the most beautiful creature he had ever laid his eyes upon. The Austrian with strawberry-blonde hair that often smelled just as it looked, sweet as strawberries and sunshine, blue eyes with the depth of an ocean, and youthful, pretty freckles splattered across her cheeks. She also had ample cleavage that often times brought a tingling sensation to his lower half. He had never spoken to her and would have been too shy if she had even asked him to open his mouth and do so. But now he was a man. He was strong. He had found an angel dropped from the Heavens. Who else to claim that but him? “The queen!” he whispered loud enough for those behind him to hear. But she was not alone! The gunner rushed to the lady’s side to assist her with her injured friend. “Allow me to help you, Madame,” he offered as he maneuvered the tall man to his own arms. The weary man did not look familiar to him and may have arrived at the palace after he had abandoned it. 

“You are too kind,” she sighed in English as the young man took hold of Vincent. She held up her lamp to study his face. “I thank you.”

“What a handsome one,” Vincent laughed weakly.

“You will get not one kiss out of this hero, my sweet,” the queen breathed out as she touched her savior’s face. “I thank you again, kind sir, and your friends as well.” She had no true idea of the men’s motives but was always taught to be polite when meeting new people. Except whores. They deserved no kindness. “I am Queen Marie Antoinette, wife to King Louis XVI of France. This is my home that you are entering through a passage that few know of while other criminals have fought their way in through the main entrances. Are you here to harm me?” she asked bluntly. Jim held on to the unknown stranger as he stood by the queen’s side, his eyes on the captain.

“Marie Antoinette?” the pirate captain laughed out loud. “And ye made it out alive, did ye?” He stepped in front of her, touched her cheek with his finger and looked her face over. “All in one piece, I see. Head on tight though a bit o’ blood clingin’ ta it?”

“I know not what you are referring to, sir, but if you are here to harm my friend and I, then let us get this over with.” She was defiant, her eyes piercing his one open eye. “I am not afraid to die.” Slicer smiled devilishly and looked back at his crew for dramatic effect. He then casually tried to put his arm around the queen’s back when she elbowed his chin in offense to his familiarity. Cursing, he stepped back a couple of feet. “I am the queen, sir. You may kill me if you like, but none lay a hand on my person without my say so first. Am I understood?”

The captain laughed out loud again and bowed before her. “Yer majesty, I apologize, I certainly meant no offense. The queen, my God, what d’ya know! Look, yer highness, me an’ me crew are here as no offense to ya personally. We’re here b’cause we be pirates, right an’ honored ta be in yer presence as all get out. But we be pirates, nonetheless. We’re here ta take what we can find an’ get the hell outta Paris soon as we be done. We’ll leave ye here and move on ta do what we came ta do. Let’s go, men,” he shouted as he strolled past her to head deeper into the tunnel. Jim stood his ground beside Marie Antoinette, still holding up her friend.

A third of his crew passed the queen before she shouted, “Stop! Stop, please, for the love of God and all that is mighty. Stop for the queen and her injured friend. Please, whatever you need, you shall have it. But we need your assistance in getting free of Paris as well. You have a boat, oui?”

Njord touched the back of the captain as he paused in his tracks. Both men considered the stately lady  and her soon to be offer. “We are pirates, yer highness,” Slicer repeated, “of course we have a ship. The Holy Terror is a seventy-four gun galleon with a hun’erd fifty-five men—“

“One hundred sixty-two, Captain,” Njord corrected him.

 “--and is docked at yer ports right now an’ she’s a beauty!  None finer in all th’ seas, I assure ya. Of course we have a ship!”

The queen, clothed in a chiné silk dress with a floral pattern freshly spattered with someone’s blood, crossed her arms and titled her head. “Then you have room for my friend and I and…a secret palace treasure, I assume?”

The captain smiled joyfully and walked back to her. “Secret palace treasure, hm? I be all ears, Queenie. But we’d best be movin’ quick. I think I be hearin’ land pirates comin’ arr way.” 

Marie listened carefully to the sounds of loud voices and things breaking. All too close for comfort. There is a room just three doors down. It looks like a prison with cells and bars. But beyond that room there is a library, full of mostly books on law and governance.” She shook her head, not wanting to reveal this secret, but must for her life, and the life of her companion. Behind the third bookshelf there is another room, a room with treasures unheard of, that which is left from the royal accounts. It is…it is mine. Mine to give, mine to use as I see fit. I give it freely to you and your men, Captain, if you can give us escape with you and your crew.”

“Are you sure, my pet?” Vincent asked. “We can come back for it later, when all of this is over.”

“No, my love, it must be now, or we will surely die at the hands of one form of piracy or the other. Have we a deal, Captain—?” She extended her lowered hand as a sign of an offer.

“Captain Slicer, at yer service, yer Highness. Now where be that room?”

* * *

The battle did not last long, though four of the captain’s crew died in the cells that night, all for the promise of a room full of secret palace treasure. They had been overtaken in the tunnels, just as they opened the door to the underground prison. Twenty-six men and women, invaders of the royal palace, saw the queen with the pirates and they attacked like rabid dogs; gnarled teeth, spatting foam and clawing madly. Swords, pistols, clubs, and other sorts of weapons were used to halt the getaway of Madame Deficit. Vincent wanted to help, to fight, but could hardly muster even the strength to stand on his own. Could not even bare his canines to rip open the flesh of the intruders. It was up to the crew of The Holy Terror. The space in the tunnel was too cramped for much movement or fighting as the first bullet pierced the leg of Bernhard, a big, burly, bald but bushy-bearded pirate from Austria. Cursing, Bernhard swung the door open for the crew and the queen to enter the prison as several pirates fired back at the oncoming horde. A second bullet felled Bernhard just as Pintel received the long blade of steel through his chest. The captain followed Marie Antoinette, Jim, and the stranger through the room of torture devices. Stretch racks, chains on the wall, the thumb screws, the breaking wheel. The smell of death lingered in the room though the queen promised it had not been used in a hundred years. That she’d admit to, he thought. The iron cells rattled as the hurried pirates bumped against them in a rush to get to the treasure and get out of this cursed city. The angered Parisians clanged the same bars with their torches and weapons, doing their best to scare those that the queen was trying to escape with. She had stolen from them. She once promised to look after them, to take care of them, to feed them. As they starved and died, they pleaded to at least let them have bread. The oblivious queen, someone said, did not understand why they wanted just bread, when there was so much cake to be had. She had ruled without reason. Spending their money, France’s money, on herself and her family. They wanted her head and would stop at nothing to get it! 

The queen inserted her ring into a tiny slot tucked behind Pennsylvania Was a Portent of the America to Be by Benjamin Franklin, and angled her hand to the right just a tad, until a clicking noise was heard. The pirates bravely fought the attackers just meters behind her. Ben, a pirate of twenty years of age, and with teeth as black as oil, fell beside her ecru-colored shoes, blood spewing from his neck. Njord howled a series of Norwegian curses as he lifted an attacker off his feet and broke his back against the corner of a rack, already stained with the blood of the long-ago tortured. He then swung his mighty axe into the back of the final intruder just as the captain and the queen pushed open the bookcase to reveal the secret treasure room and all its contents. “Close it all up,” he called to the men outside the prison, lest other intruders found their way amongst the bloodshed and bodies. “Well, what have we here, oh, Antoinette?”

The remaining six pirates stood confused as they gazed at a compact bedroom of beige wood paneling with two doors, two dressers, and many mirrors. The furniture was of expensive, detailed carvings of gods in various sexual positions. Gold and silver trimmings adorned everything in the room. The king-sized bed was clean and straighted, and made up of red silk sheets, white heavy fleece, and giant pillows pink in color. “This be the treasure room? Looks more like a secret room a some other sort,” Captain Slicer observed out loud.

Without a word of excuse, the ravishing queen dug through a drawer of a dresser and pulled out a pair of brown pants and a clean white cotton shirt. “Look through the other drawers,” she suggested as she moved toward the bed. “This is the room where I could escape the doldrums of the palace.”

“With someone in particular?” the captain asked as he waved his men on to search the room and the drawers. “What was his name?”

Marie was under the thick covers removing her bloodied dress. “Not that it has anything to do with now, but his name was Count Fersen. Together we would secret away from the palace to enjoy the outside world without the confines of the crown.”

Slicer watched the queen intently as his men searched the drawers for anything of value. Jim and the injured man stood silently nearby. “What happened to ‘im?”

Marie stopped changing for a moment to collect her thoughts. What right has this impudent pirate to ask her these most intimate of questions. “He is at the moment plotting to kill anyone who dares to harm me or my friend,” she lied.

“I hope ye can find ‘im again someday, Queenie. You about ready?” he asked, holding up the handful of jewelry that his men brought him. Rubies, diamonds, silver, and other various jewels embellished the trinkets. “Is this all ye got? I thought ye said this be a treasure room?”

“I said nothing of the sort,” she corrected him as she threw off the blanket and slipped her bare feet into her shoes upon the marbled floor. “I said we would find treasures unheard of. I said noting of the amount in which you would find. You should really have your ears checked, Captain. I apologize that there is not much left. I have expensive tastes.” She then motioned for Jim to bring over her friend so that he may rest on the bed for a moment.

The captain released a heavy sigh, sat down on the edge of the bed. “Destroy the furniture, me hearties. Strip ‘em of what’s valuable and let’s be off.”

“We’ll be safe, oui, Vincent?” she asked with a firm grip of his body to hers. “Oui?”

Vincent nodded, though his eyes were on closed tightly as he nestled into her bosom. “Be not afraid, mon  chérie. They will help us. I will get stronger. We will find life anew.”

She kissed the back of his head as the pirates began to smash her furniture. “But what of my family? My children?”

“They escaped. They are safe,” he coughed. “We will reunite you with them when we are able. For now, we just need to flee, oui?”

“Oui,” she said with a sadness so great, a weight on her shoulder that she felt she may never be able to release. “Oui, my pet.”

CHAPTER FOUR

The door to the garage slammed loudly, making him drop the bottle of glue and lose his concentration on the model he had been working so diligently on. It was of Queen Anne’s Revenge, Blackbeard’s famous ship. It was a little pricey, but he had picked it up anyway at Michael’s with some of the money he had saved from skimping on groceries the week before. Why get Corn Flakes at the store when the Albertson’s brand is so much cheaper? Same goes for sliced cheese, paper towels, toilet paper, and everything else. Why not save a buck or two and get something fun, other than brand name groceries? Yuck! Serenity wouldn’t listen to reason, though, no, sir. Her way or the highway. He was perfectly happy with her when they were both two average people and working at the local tax office behind the car wash station. Life was so much easier then. She was much more accommodating too; easy to please. No problem at all. They just sat around behind the counter making people wait hours before they would get a chance to talk to them…just like celebrities at a comic-con! She would play with his long, curly hair and slide her hand in inappropriate places beneath that counter just to tease him. After they were married, he chose to work at home more, taking on a career in internet sales. She went into real estate. He was home all the time; she was out. He became stagnant; she became a mover. He ate whatever cheap junk food he could find; she began to make healthier choices to make herself more presentable, to make more sales. He added pounds; she became hot. He wanted to sit around and watch pirates on the TV or play video games with them it in; she wanted to experience life for herself. He built models; she became one. Serenity Slicer became an actual centerfold model. Penthouse Magazine! Norman Slicer became a fat slob of a man, so unlike how his surname should have been presented. At least he still had his awesome hair and cool earrings. They couldn’t take those away from him. 

Sticky glue on one hand, orange Cheeto's powder on the other, Norman wondered why she had slammed the door so. “Ser?” he called out as he adjusted his bifocals with his elbow, his dull brown eyes back on his model. He licked his lips and picked up a small black plastic piece that would connect the sides of the hull and wiped the glue from his fingers onto it as best he could.  “Serenity?” he called out again as he gently placed the piece inside the model. “Shit,” he mumbled as he realized the ship had orange powder on the inside. He then chuckled a bit, thinking it almost looked like gold dust, leftovers from a treasure that may have spilled out from a pirate’s chest. “Aargh,” he whispered as he wiped his scruffy beard with the back of his hand, climbed off his custom-made Pirates of the Caribbean vinyl stool, and placed his red Crocs on the floor. “Bonnie, Treasure Room light off,” he commanded the virtual assistant tool as he crossed into the hallway. “Serenity?” he called again as he paddled through the quiet living room. She quit giving him an inch to decorate their living room his way as it was now free of ships, posters, action figures, collectible telescopes and anything else having to do with pirates. It was pirate-free. They were banned. Illegal. Hence, the Treasure Room. He called it the Booty Room for about two and a half days. She hated the name. That ended badly. The living room was now filled with flush white furniture, glass tables with gold or silver trim, a curio cabinet filled with dolls and animal statues. Girly stuff. An amazing oak wood entertainment system filled with Disney collectibles, angels, and teddy bears. She won the war. He received the Treasure Room. The other spare room had become her gym, filled with mirrors, weights, benches, dance poles, and benches of all kinds. “Dammit,” he cursed as his left leg tweaked a bit from his pace. It wasn’t age and he knew it. He was only thirty-three and he knew was the real problem was. It was the stress she was putting on his already 233 pounds. He sat down on the comfy recliner, massaged his aching leg, and stared into the kitchen. Bright lights, marble counter-tops, brand new appliances. Everything she dreamed of, she got. That’s when he spied the note on the counter. There was a pen on the white tiled floor below it. “Ugh, what now?” he mumbled as he climbed to his feet once more after trying unsuccessfully to brush off some Cheeto’s dust from his Pirates of the Caribbean t-shirt.

The note was soon in his hands and brought them to trembling soon afterwards. Serenity met someone new. Jake from her office. He understands her. He used to be overweight, too. He used to be slovenly. Slovenly? He had a heart attack and began taking care of himself. He takes care of her, too. Makes sure she eats right, complements her, asks her for her hopes and dreams, wants to start a life with her. His whole life revolved around her, not pirate ships. The man named Slicer just wanted to live the way of his surname. Slicer sounded so…pirate-ish, what more could he have done? He dropped the note and crumbled to the floor and wept, burying his face in his soft hands. He thought they would be together forever. He thought she liked the pirates. She did like the pirates once upon a time! Until Jake came along. Jake. Sounds like a fake! Norman Slicer leaned his head behind him, into the back of the couch and looked at the ceiling through his teary eyes, blurry and wet though they were. It wasn’t fair. Life wasn’t fair. They were perfectly happy until Jake the Fake came ‘round and now he had no future. Who else would want a forty-seven year old, fat, land pirate? Nobody, that’s who. He shook his head and lowered it once more, crying now into his knees whilst his hands gripped his hair in case it started falling out. Walking out on him, too. Just like her. A bald, fat pirate would be even worse. “Why? Why did you have to leave me, Serenity? I could’a changed for you if you asked. If you just asked, I would’a,” he lied to himself. He would never have changed. He had become sediment. He enjoyed his life. He enjoyed the computer, the models, the movies, the safety. The home he had built. That they had built. But now it was over. There was nothing any more. His eyes lingered back to the Treasure Room. “I wish I were a pirate,” he announced.

* * *

Captain Slicer could see Paris through his telescope.

The sun had finally risen after quite an adventurous night on land. The pirates had completed their mission, just as the raven had completed its. They had it depart after they lowered the Jolly Roger and hoisted the stolen Austrian flag as they approached France last night. The country was in a bit of a turmoil and nobody was quite happy with the British. Those flags were out of the question and remained locked away for future use. They rendezvoused with Marius, who brought his whole blamed family and then some more, turning The Holy Terror into some sorta hotel or cruise ship! The man was below, sleeping off an adventurous night with his entourage in tow.

Slicer tuned his mind on the treasure map, but he really needed that beast Marius de Villeneuve to help him with the navigation of the island and to form a plan. Nice guy, Marius, sometimes, but didn’t always use his head. All too often the man thought with another part of his body all together. Hence, all the baggage that came with him.

Slicer placed the telescope on his mahogany desk, atop the map and a nearby book, sat down in his chair and breathed out a large amount of air that he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in. His eyes rested on the yellowed map once more, but there was nothing more he could do until he had that animal in his cabin so he decided to turn his thoughts to the winged girl instead. But first, another bourbon. He poured a tall one and chugged a good-sized swallow. The girl, the angel…Mercy said she was from 2022, just like him. The demon Hek, at it again. Playing games with people’s lives. It seemed like a long time ago, years even, since he last laid an eye upon the wish-granting demon. Did Mercy’s arrival foreshadow the man in white’s return as well? He flung his tricorn hat to his bed and placed his chin in the palms of his hands. The girl would have questions for him if she knew him from before. And he would have to answer them for her if he wanted her cooperation with this map she brought with her. That Hek gave to her. But why? What the devil was so special about this map that he would give it to her and send her to his ship? Another swig would help. Slicer wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and considered the girl. A girl on his ship. Multiple, actually with the werewolf’s wife and the others. Marie was here, too, but she slept in his own bed. She was his wife for now. But the women? Like royalty, almost; can’t be alone with some of the more…uncivilized of his crew. Where could he stick them on a permanent basis? Mercy was with Laveau for the present, but another night would come soon. Maybe take Njord’s cabin for the lot of them? The Viking wouldn’t mind, would he? He could stand outside their door. Make sure no-one slipped in on them. The girl, Mercy, knew a different version of the captain. One she trusted. Liked. Respected. He felt as though he would have to earn that trust from her as well. At least till they got the treasure and she moved on somewhere else. Maybe she could could find a nice man and… The captain chuckled softly, realizing that there weren’t too many winged girls running around presently out in the 18th century. They could drop the others off somewhere else, but the angel girl might be stuck on The Holy Terror for quite a while, like it or not.

He turned and looked out the window again, spotting the distant flames of rebellion, and pondered what kind of trouble exactly Paris had gotten itself into. And how would history change with Antoinette making it safely away on his ship? They were sailing back out into the sea and were headed toward the coast of the Viceroyalty of the Río de la Plata. But what did it all have to do with Hek? He decided then that is was finally time to have a word with the girl. Couldn’t do anything with the map now anyways. He crossed his quarters and opened his door to the outside world beyond as a fresh breeze of sea air flew in his face. “’Tis a beautiful day fer treasure huntin’, ta be sure,” he announced to no one in particular. “Where be the angel?” he inquired of a gaggle of pirates cleaning the floors and walls on the ship. Following their directions, the captain soon found himself on the forecastle deck with Mercy and Marie Laveau, both leaning on the shiny railing overlooking the the Bay of Biscay as they watched France fade away into the distance. “I was told ye’d be out here,” he said with an interrupting cough as he closed the door to the cabin from where he came. 

Mercy turned to face him. She was still easy on the eyes but had a fresh white linen top on, held tight just below her neck and fastened again just below her beautiful wings as well. The wind gave her hands work in trying to keep her spiky black hair out of her bright violet eyes. “Hey, boss…Captain,” she smiled joyfully. “Do you realize you’ve got Marie frickin’ Laveau AND Marie Antoinette on this boat?”

“I have realized that, yes,” he responded as he stood next to her side, staring out at the ocean as she leaned against the rail and faced the opposite direction. 

His wife faced the ocean as well but turned to face him. “Oh, don’ worry, child, for he knows who be on his ship. She tells me, husband, that she’s heard stories of me as ‘de Voodoo Queen. I must say that I like ‘de title.”

“I don’t blame ye, wife. ‘Tis a powerful name indeed, an’ sure ta spell out greatness fer yer future. An’ as far as Antoinette, we might jes keep that between are’selves. I’ve convinced th’ men ta see ta it that we don’t be spreadin’ rumors like that shite ‘round this here vessel or it may wound up outside this vessel jes as fast. That’s not the’ kind a heat I be wantin’ whenst we get where weer goin’. Her existence here is ta be a secret. She be jes Marie ta anyone on this ship. Savvy?”

“Sure thing, Boss.” She didn’t change the title this time on purpose. Mercy then rested her elbows on the brass railing. “So what’d ya track me down for anyway?” 

He sighed first and then said, “Hek. I want ta ask ye again how it transpired that ye acquired that map a yer’s. Did he say anythin’, any kinda clue as ta why he would’a dropper yer arse here on my ship?”

Mercy stood up straight, crossed her arms, and titled her head. “Nothing but what I told you, boss. I just wished to be free…and I wound up here. But since we’re on a question-quest here, how have you two been alive for so long?” She turned to Laveau for this one.

“As ya said it, sweet one, voodoo,” she laughed out loud, eyes to the clouds. 

“An’ I’ve been cursed by th’ demon ta live like this. ‘Till I’m back wit’ Serenity, I guess.”

“And you’re okay with him going back to first wife?” Mercy quickly interrogated Laveau.

“Dear-heart, that’s 250 years from now,” she laughed as she passed in front of her and into the arms of the captain. “If he can wait over a thousand years for ‘de love of his life, then who am I to stop him? For now, he’s mine,” she said before giving him a deep kiss, her arms wrapped over his broad shoulders.

“My turn,” the captain claimed. “Those wings. Did ye always have ’em?”

Mercy’s head inadvertently turned to look at the win on her right. She had somehow managed to forget about them. “No,” she laughed. “It’s another weird, long story that I’m not even sure I understand. There was some crazy angel supermodel chick that was chasing my man, Jack, and accidentally gave them to me. No idea how that happened exactly. Then again, I’m not really used to all this magic crapola yet.”

“Can ye fly?”

“Frick if I know. Besides, it’s my turn: why the flowery flowers do you have both your legs? When I worked with you, one of them was a prosthetic.”

Slicer grimaced and looked down at his legs. “Which one didn’t I have?”

“The left, I think…yeah, the left one. You always had a limp.”

He had a vague memory of an aching leg a lifetime ago. Before his life changed. Before he became a pirate. Back when he was a landlubber dreaming of a better life. Nothing has come close to injuring him that bad since his arrival in 812. “Whatever it was that took that from me, lass, must’ve been one Hell of a battle.”

“Or a Hek of one,” Marie whispered into his ear.

He smiled at his wife before turning back to the dark-haired girl with wings. “Now then, can ye learn ta fly?”

* * *

Marius de Villeneuve set his empty mug down on the captain’s table and wiped his mouth with a handkerchief before placing both hands on the map. Njord stood behind both men, leaning on the cabin wall whilst nursing a tall ale. “What say you, Wolf?” the Viking asked.

Marius sighed. He did not appreciate the nickname. The wolf was not who he was. It was what he had been cursed with. It’s not like he asked the wolf on The River of Silver to rip into his flesh. The truth of the matter is, he was very much so against it! He would very much rather have the ability to peel off others’ clothes than his own whenever the sun descended. However, he knew there was no arguing with Viking with a zoophilia complex. “I never made it to cover as much this map displays. Our crew started dying off to nothing as soon as we arrived on that cursed island. I wanted to flee the very next day but I was convinced otherwise.”

“Low?” Slicer asked as he placed his mug across from Marius’s.

The pink-skinned Frenchman turned to his former captain and made a slashing movement across his own neck with a finger. “I was dead if I tried to run. Edward did not take well to abandonment.” He turned back to the yellowed map. “Besides, I had a special friend that was a very brave soul and he wanted to stay and find the gold. So I stayed too.”

“Must have had delicious sausage,” Njord sated, disapproving of Villeneuve’s penchant for variety.

“One of the many things I loved about Charlie, may he be resting in pieces.”

Captain Slicer already knew the outcome of that fateful venture. Captain Low did not have a map of the island, but happened to have located the place by an unfortunate accident. Their ship, The Fancy, was tossed about in a terrible storm just off the coast of the southern end of the Viceroyalty of the Río de la Plata, and lay injured. Whilst most his crew made repairs, Low took a large group of pirates ashore to explore the island. Marius de Villeneuve was amongst them. What they found was death, like the island itself was out to get them. Quicksand, cannibals, mosquitoes, venomous snakes, harpies, and the damned wolves. Once they started dying off, Low had it in him that an island this dangerous must be hiding some sort of incredible treasure. According to the angel’s map, he must’ve been right, though he never made it out of there to tell anyone. Cornered, it wound up to just the three of them: Low, Charles, and Marius. Damned fool should’a never left my ship after the falling out with Cheung, or whatever his name was, the captain thought. The wolves and their queen, the harpy, descended on them. Tore Charles to shreds as the harpy dragged Low to his death, her dinner plate. Marius, though attacked, somehow managed to escape by the skin of his hide. Grabbed hold of a log and plunged into a waterfall to flee the ravenous wolves, hungry for more of his flesh. He was lucky. The crew still on The Fancy? Not so much. When Marius finally made it back, there was no one left to tell any tales. What happened to them, he had no idea. With no one around to stop him, the pink-skinned pirate hauled as much treasure as he could into several rowboats and took his chance with the seas. Wound up at Isle of Georgia whereby he hid the treasure, rowed out again when he saw a passing ship, and sought refuge in Antigua. Eventually he found a friendly face that he could trust, Captain Slicer, and booked passage to collect his treasure and then fled to France. How many deaths happened between the Isle of Georgia and his return to The Holy Terror, the captain was unsure of, but Villeneuve requested chains and a barred door for each evening so that it would not happen again. That was the end of his pirating career…for a while.

“With this map, can ye tell us where the treasure lay? And where the dangers are most prominent?” the captain asked, one hand placed on Marius.

Marius crunched his face and chewed on a fingernail. Nasty habit he picked up after the wolves had a taste of his flesh. “If we follow this path here, it will lead us directly to this mountain. The treasure seems to be within…or just out the backside. The drawing is unremarkable, but it has some of the elements that I remember well. The quicksand, the forest of salix and populus, the smaller mountains near the swamp. It’s all there, so similar, though poorly drawn.”

“You said ‘we’,” repeated the Viking, moving closer. “You are coming along?”

“You expected me to cower out of this, heathen? I have more right to this treasure than any one else does. I’ve already bled for it, if you don’t recall.”

“And became a monster for it, I recall well chaining you down and guarding your door at night, axe at the ready.” He placed his strong, weathered hands flat against the map, though his sky blue eyes studied the Frenchman. “How do we know that you won’t run again like a scared little girl? Like when your sausage was taken from you.”

“Njord,” the captain warned.

“It’s okay, Captain,” Marius said, shaking his head and facing his accuser. “I know the island. Just telling you what the pieces of this childlike map are won’t help you survive when the mosquitoes bite your flesh, when the snakes suffocate you and crush your bones, or when the wolves pounce on you to strip you of your flesh and your life. I know the ins and, most importantly, the outs.”

“It’s been over ten years, man. Arr ye sure ye can do it again…and survive?”

Marius took a seat at the table and chewed another fingernail. “It shouldn’t be too hard to locate the mountain, once you get past the natives…the wildlife…” he looked up at the tattooed Viking. “We’ve got our own that can take out most of them. But I do have one concern.” He crossed one leg over the other and poured some wine into his mug.

“And what would that be?” the captain spoke, sitting down in front of his pirate returned.

“The harpy queen intrigued me. She was beautiful in a…bestial way. Right up our Viking’s alley I believe. She wants attention. She craves trophies and treasures if the stories have an ounce of truth to them. We’ll need a gift for the harpy queen.”

“And what kinda gift would we be needin’ exactly?”

“A pet. She’ll positively eat anything less.” Marius took a long satisfying swig of his wine.

“I’m fresh outta puppy dogs besides yer’self, Marius.”

“She has plenty of those, Captain. What she doesn’t have…is music. Fresh music. Loves music.”

“Explain, Frenchman. You are boring me,” Njord belched after finishing his ale.

“Come over here, baldy, and get the excitement from me that you crave,” he argued as he spread his legs in the Viking’s direction, patting his lap as he did so.

“Ugh,” Njord responded in distaste.

“Captain,” Marius continued after shushing the other man in the room. “Harpies love to sing. They entice their prey with their sweet voice while plotting to eat them directly afterwards. It’s so simple. They love praise, they love music. Give her a sacrifice and an expert pet with something she’s sure to be unfamiliar with, like a didgeridoo, and we’re free of her and her pack of wolves.”

“Could it really be that simple?” the captain asked.

“After traipsing past the quicksand, cannibals, and poisonous everything that grows there? If we manage to survive all that, sure. All we have to do then is to find the queen harpy that seems to guard the mountain. Being a queen, she’ll want to be admired and gifted, just like our friend, Antoinette. She’s sure to have heard all the other instruments out there. The aborigines of Australia don’t get out much, though, and will be quite unknown to her. Simply capture one or two and gift them to her.”

“Sounds like slavery ta me. Ye know how I feel about that, Wolf.” Captain Slicer used his angry voice.

Marius scratched his crotch and sighed out loud. “Do you want the treasure or not, Captain? It’s not slavery if you go willingly. We’ll find the right one. The right didgeridoo-ier. Trust me. Now then, all this mediocre wine I’ve consumed, I really need the privy. Then my wife. Or a cabin boy, either way. If we’re done here?”

The captain nodded. “Australia it is.”

“Where?” Njord asked, confused.

CHAPTER 5

In 1972, Captain Jack Nelson was born. He was a baby then, he thinks.

In 2006, he had his left eyeball dug out after being captured by the enemy in Afghanistan. His friends stormed the cave where they had him, where they did other unspeakable things to him. His friends did worse to them.

In 1990, he had his first grown-up conversation with a demon.

In 2001, Jack married Deborah Gibbon and they had a kid.

In 1692, he met actual pirates in Port Royal, Jamaica.

In 1975, he made a wish to be like his daddy.

In 2022, he fought a battle to save the life of the woman/women he loved. He won, he thinks.

In 1779, he woke up on the outskirts of London.

No wonder he’s not right in the head, as they say.

Been through so much in the past fifty years. Or 331 years? The newest adventure began just seconds after the last one ended, the one where he saved some of his loved ones. He saved his son from some maniacs, saved his girlfriend with the help of some vampires…tried to save her, anyway. They killed all the bad guys, but he never found her. He told a demon named Hek that he would go through Hell to find her. He asked the demon to tell him where she was. 

“She wished to escape,” Hek answered bluntly, giving time for that answer to sink into the soldier’s brain before continuing. “It is what I do, you realize. I grant wishes. She has escaped and is now free…and amazing, by the way! You made a good choice in that one, son. She’s strong; stronger than you realize.”

“If you’ve hurt her, Hek…” Jack began with a threat, but could not figure out how to end it. How does one hurt a demon?

Hek chuckled. “I would never hurt her, Jack. She’s much too special for that. Would you like to find her?”

“Of course, I would.”

The powerful demon crossed his fingers and leaned back in his chair. “Would you kill to find her?”

Jack closed his eyes and growled. He never wanted to be a killer. He only wanted to be a soldier, like his father. Apparently, Dad was a great soldier because he was such a good killer. “I will,” Jack answered.

Next thing the soldier knew he was waking up on a pile of hay in a barn in the middle of nowhere with a massive headache stemming from his lost eye. That hadn’t bothered him since 2006, not since Wyvern Technology implanted the computer eye with an AI system that could get intelligence, see through walls, place calls, and…now it was gone. Jack touched the eye patch that replaced his million dollar eye. Pressed into the center of it. Nothing. No high tech eye. Nothing at all but a hole. “What the hell, Hek?” the soldier growled as he climbed to his feet, realizing that not only had his eye changed, but so had his clothes as well. He was no longer in military tactical gear, but wearing a beige-colored, lined shirt, loosely opened to his chest. His dog tags were also missing.  His tactical pants with pockets and belt good for holding lots of weapons and tools had been replaced with a pair of brown linen breeches. A pair of gray stockings and low leather boots completed his new attire. Jack shook his head in disbelief and scanned his surroundings.  Far above his head was a thatch roof of mostly straw and branches, partially hiding several moving four-legged rodents, that was supported on a pair of upright beams of timber within trusses. All around him, the walls were a mix of timber framing and tarred, weather-board siding. Several of the closed pens within the barn held horses of mostly brown and black. Outside the barn, the 5’8”, sturdily built man could hear the cows and chickens residing on the farm. He sighed as he realized his Citizen watch was also missing. “I loved that watch. Friggin’ demon. No eye, no dog tags, no watch, and some funky clothes. Where the hell did you drop my ass, Hek?” 

In 1779, he was also shot as soon as he stepped foot out of the barn by a scared mother of three. She had a clear shot of his head, but the Short Land pattern musket had a habit of kicking too much to the right, landing the musket ball in his shoulder. Normally, the soldier would’ve been able to withstand the attack and fight back, but this time, time being what it was, falling back in time over 200 years, took the breath out of the normally fit captain and landed him back on his ass once more with a curse at the demon who had been haunting him for too many years: past, present, and more than likely, future.

* * *

“He was the strongest man I knew,” Mercy said as she placed her red checker on the mat and confiscated another white piece. “He saved me from a very bad man and it was kind of…love at first sight.” She crossed one leg over the other and studied her opponent, the Viking called Njord.

“This man is very lucky to have you,” he acknowledged, though his sky blue eyes studied the board laid out between them. The angel was beating him, as they always did the Vikings before him.

Mercy laughed a perfect, youthful laugh, throwing her head back and looking to the cottony clouds in the sky. “The other way around, Mister Muscles. I was a very screwed-up Chinese girl with nothing to show but the skin on my bones. I was abandoned so many times, I thought something was wrong with me. Jack accepted me for who I was, faults and everything. He’s my hero and my only real love.”

The tan Viking moved another piece, heard a quick snicker, and held it in place, not moving. “Do you think you will find him again?”

“I don’t know,” she said, studying the board. Five dark red pieces and three whites. “Separated by 233 years and a whole lotta magic that I don’t know shoot about. The man in white, Hek, just sent me here, said nothing about Jack. But if my man wound up in Port Royal and met Marie there, then maybe fate, or this demon, will have us meet again.”

He set the red piece down finally with a sigh. “This demon, Hek, do you know anything more about him? If he is a demon, why did he allow you, or Captain  Jack Nelson to live? He does not sound much like a demon, but rather like a god.” He wrapped his ringed fingers around the edges of the barrel that held the checker board and studied his next possible moves. He was a Viking warrior, and yet he was being beaten by a girl. An angel, true, but a girl nonetheless!

“I wish I knew more about him. He seems to grant wishes. Mine, Slicer…still feels weird to call him Captain Slicer…he was my boss, a bartender, back in ‘22, not a Captain for flowery sake. And Marie told me about a girl who wished for Port Royal to sink. The frickin’ demon granted her wish and wiped it out in a huricane!” She then moved her red checker and removed two more whites. “Some things he does seems really evil, while other are just mischievous.”

“Like a god. Much like Loki, as our legends tell the stories.” There was only one piece left. But he was a Viking, born and raised, and it would be an insult to all those residing in Valhalla to surrender. Death before dishonor! “If this Hek can bring the two of you together once more, pay heed and be wary. All gifts from gods and demons alike come with costs. Angels, too,” he added as she took his last piece.

“Njord, if I am ever lucky to see my man again, I will accept that gift willingly and happily. I don’t care if it would be a gift from God, demon, Hek, or Loki. I love Jack and he loves me. I’ll bet you right now, wherever he is, he is working his ass-inine…grr…I wanna frickin’ curse, darn it! He’s working his butt off trying to find me.

* * *

The captain woke in a cool room made of brick and timber. The window to the right of his four poster bed had its wool curtains drawn to reveal several cows drinking from a clear blue pond as a vast green forest spread out just beyond the farm’s property. He looked to his right shoulder to find it smelling as if it were doused in a sweet-smelling mixture of honey and sugar, wrapped in cotton bandages, and hurting like Hell. Someone shot him as soon as he exited that barn. And there she was…at the doorway to his “hospital room”. She was younger than him, maybe by ten years, yet had the wrinkles on her face of a long, hard life. Her dress was extremely old fashioned, yellow, cotton, long-sleeved, and with a white apron tied round. Her auburn hair was pulled into a tight bun behind her tanned, weathered head. Her calloused hands held the antique musket that shot him, aimed at him once more. “This time I aim higher, mister,” she warned in a British accent. “Me girls said ye lookt pleasant enough not to shoot ye after the first time as ye were past out from the shock. We bandaged ye up even though ye’re a stranger in our barn, perhaps up to no good. We took a chance on ye. What’s ye’re name?”

Slowly, Jack sat up and moved his feet towards the shiny oak flooring. They took care of their home, that was for sure, Jack realized. A strange man may seem too much a threat to their quaint lives. “Jack,” he answered. “Captain Jack Nelson…” his voice drifted off. He was in the past, wherever Hek dropped him. His U.S. military rank would hold no meaning here in…England? “Just Jack, ma’am. Sorry, I’m too woozy to think clearly. Where am I?”

She sniffed back some of the allergies that were irritating her sinuses before answering that “ye’re in me and my girls’ home, only to the grace of them, ye can be sure.”

“I’m much obliged, Mrs…?” he answered whilst rubbing his injured shoulder, unfortunately accustomed to battle wounds given from bullets and knives.

“Mrs. Bloxworth, young man, but I believe my kindness is only temp’rary, sir. As we dressed your wound, we noticed several other scars, wounds, all over your upper half only, of course. Are ye a troublesome individual sir, up to no good?” Her weathered face seemed full of what was once kindness, now bordering a disdain for others. Something very bad had happened in this home, he was sure of it.

“No, ma’am,” he answered slowly, carefully. “Those wounds are from long ago, except the one you just put in me,” he chuckled lightly.

The red-headed mother gave no smile. Disdain. Cautious disdain. “Ye’ve got a strange tattoo on ye’re left shoulder. Colorful.” 

The Captain America shield was inked onto his shoulder on a drunken evening in Panama several years ago…or many years from now,  Jack realized. The art was red and white circles with a blue center containing a white star.  One of his squad members, Greg Sanders, was a huge Captain America fan with the same tattoo on his right shoulder, had egged the captain into getting the famous mark of the superhero, too.  “Artwork a friend had come up with, ma’am. Could you tell me what town we are in? I’m lost, as you’ve probably already figured. Just had to crash…sleep somewhere for the night. Your barn looked inviting for a weary traveler.”

She studied him with intense hazel eyes. “Corfe, sir. Just in the lower shadow of Southampton. Are ye here to hurt me or my girls?” She was blunt, no doubt about it. But was she able to tell truth from a lie? The turquoise-eyed captain had no choice but to find out. 

He raised his hands in peace. “Ma’am, I’m honestly just passing through. I’ve got no business with you or your girls. I can walk out right now if you’ll allow me.”

“Ye’re strong, mister. We could use some help on the farm if ye are able.” The barrel was still aimed at him; his skull, in particular. “It’s really just me and my girls, mostly. One’s marrying age if ye’re not already spoken for. We’ve got some elder folks workin’ the fields, but could use some young blood if ye can stay?” Blunt, as he called it. A single daughter ready to be married off, but to an old man like him? And how old were these elder folks outside?

“Are you really offering me employment? And a marriage proposal?”

“Young man such as ye’rself needs work, Mr. Nelson. If ye’re able to work, yes. And do ye’re parts work?” She swerved the weapon in the direction of his crotch. “Could use some children ‘round here if they do. My eldest has just flowert last spring. Men from town would love to take her away, but I want her here to help look after her papa’s farm. Heart can’t bare to say goodbye to her. If ye’re willing and a trustworthy sort, she can be ye’rs.”

The floored soldier’s eye was wide open and his mind was taken aback. “Ma’am, I’m surprised at your bluntness. I don’t even know your name, and I am certainly not a young man anymore, not that really has anything to do with…”

“Boy, don’t you go playing games with me. Ye’re just past beltin’ age in this house. What are you? 17? 16? 18?” Lived quite a life for someone so young, no doubt, but I’m hoping that’s all in the past and that ye’re ready to settle down and…”

“Do you have a mirror, Mrs. Bloxworth?" he interrupted.

The woman lowered her gun in disbelief at his question. “A—? Yes. Come with me.” She turned abruptly and exited the small bedroom with Jack in tow. The house was small, just the tiny room on the ground floor with a couple others on either side of the hall. “Wait here,” she said as she climbed the staircase to where, Jack presumed, was her bedroom. He crossed his arms and scanned the area. The walls around the area were oak wood paneling with a painting or two hung about. A few ornamental wreaths, childrens’ drawings, cannisters on shelves, and various tools and brushes also were visible. He heard youthful voices in another room to his left and assumed it was the aforementioned “girls”. What was he doing here, he wondered. Hours ago he was fighting for the lives of his loved ones and now, here he was, lost in time on some British farm. Somehow, he had to get back to Mercy. “Here, Mister Nelson,” she said, surprising him a bit as he she seemed to appear just behind him. No one usually surprises him like this anymore. He was a trained soldier. A trained killer. A…he stared into the silver, hand-held mirror and looked upon a face he hadn’t seen in thirty years or so. He touched the skin of the young man in the mirror. Smooth, wrinkle-free. Crow’s nest-free. Not even a smidgen of gray hair on his face or head. “Ye look as if ye’ve never seen a mirror before, Mr. Nelson. Do ye want to sit?” His hand on his chin, stroking the skin of a, maybe, twenty-year-old, now this was a surprise in a way that only a demon could hurl at him.

“I think so; yes,” he answered.

* * *

“I’ve a passin’ memory of her man, Jack, love,” Marie sighed as she covered her bare skin and leaned against the pillows against the bed post. “So long ago, ‘de night before Part Royal sunk into ‘de ocean. Just before ya came an took me away.”

Captain Slicer climbed back into the bed with his wife after opening the windows to allow the evening sea air entrance to his cabin. Spring had arrived and the air was cool, salty, and sweet. The company in his bed was the only other thing he needed right now, until they made their way to New South Wales. “An’ what do ye remember, Laveau?” he said as he lit up a cigar before enjoying a few puffs.

“Damn fool didn’t want ta become husband number nine,” she laughed. “Could’a had all my goodies but he would not succumb to my advances.”

“Ya sure he was’na just gay, my fine one?” he laughed as he reached under the blanket and stroked her leg.

“Dear-heart, I know when a man is queer or not, an, trust me, he was about ready ta give in. Almost ready ta move in if I pushed him just a little bit more.” She took the captain’s cigar and breathed the tobacco in.

“So what stopped him then, if it wasn’t a love of the same sex?”

“’De love of a woman, husband,” she breathed out with three perfect circles. They hovered in front of her face as she twirled a long finger in the middle of each, passing the cigar back with the other hand. “For ‘de love of that angel. Mercy. But ‘de circles here say that it is not over. See here, love, how one circle is broken a bit, at ‘de bottom?” He leaned in for a better look, but she pushed him back a few inches. “Not so close or ‘de circles will be broken completely. This one is just now fractured. This one just died. Our Jack had three loves.” She spat into her hand and rubbed it with the other before tracing the two remaining circles. “This one,” she continued, “is fading, thinning, an’ almost over, forgotten. Love number one as it was ‘de first ring. But this one,” she began, before gently kissing the rough, stubbly cheek of the pirate captain, “is alive an’ strong, an’ absorbing ‘de others. This one is strong. This one is Mercy. ‘De angel.” She then blew the three smoke rings away and curled into the arms of her fifth husband. “De demon Hek is still playin’ his games, love. And right now, his favorite game pieces are ‘de King and ‘de Queen: Jack and Mercy. Destiny, or ‘de devil, will bring them back, of this ya can be sure.”

“Hek or no Hek, wife, I still want that treasure, and I got a strong feelin’ that I’ll be needin th’ services of our young angel ta get it.” He turned on his side to face to face his voodoo queen, leaning his head on his hand. “Maybe this Jack is also important in the whole thing.”

“If so,” she said whilst flatting his body down again and climbing on top, “then maybe ‘de three circles represent another thing entirely different. Three souls tied ta that treasure. Yours,” she cooed as she wrapped her legs around his. “’De angel, and ‘de soldier. ‘De criminal, ‘de angel, and ‘de hero.” Sliding her body back and forth underneath the blankets, she gave a passionate kiss on the lips to the man who saved her all those years ago. “And ‘de demon what controls them all.”

Slicer’s one good eye of emerald green lit up for an instant. If the wish-granting demon was still playing games, how would it all end? After all, according to the Voodoo Queen, Marie Laveau, one of those smoke circles died. He closed his eye again, trying to concentrate on the here and now. The future, or this past, could wait till the next day.

* * *

Captain Jack Nelson remained on the Bloxworth farm for the next three years, working hard for the ones who discovered him, never marrying any of the widow’s daughters, much to the widow’s regret, because he was still promised to another, and he wasn’t giving up on seeing her again. He explained as much to the ladies of the farm, and even though they grew to care about the lost “young” man, they had no choice but to watch him walk away one June morning, in the year of 1782, though he made a promise to check in on them when possible. Through journeys into town on behalf of Mrs. Bloxworth, he was able to learn much of the town of Corfe, spread out just beneath a ruined castle on a great hill. What few buildings erected there, most were constructed out of Purbeck marble, as it was part of a successful industry near the village. Nelson had even taken work in the quarry to extract the useful stone some 125 feet underground. With a combination of explosives, pickaxes, hammers, and other tools, Jack and the other miners would free the valuable stone, load it into heavy-duty wagons pulled by donkeys and horses, and drive it back to the surface. Some equipment used in the process was unfamiliar to the soldier from the future, and was described to him as left behind by a family of ogres who resided there many years prior. The 5’8” soldier normally wouldn’t have taken any such tales as serious, but after his past few years involving time travel, demons, and vampires, nothing seemed impossible. Jack took sleep in a workhouse provided by owners of the quarry and would often be met by Emily Bloxworth, just twenty-one, fair-skinned, rosy freckles, and fiery hair inherited from both parents, bringing a basket of dinner for just the two of them. Even though her mother’s former patient had sworn to be promised to another, some girl from far away and lost to time, Emily had in mind that, with some effort and patience, she would have the young man for her own. He was strong and handsome (minus the eye patch), smart and kind. He would make an ideal husband and father for her and their future family. And he would secure the family farm with her.

Time was all it would take.

And fate.

“Is it to your liking, Mr. Nelson?” the young lady asked as she wrapped her wool coat around her small frame. The setting of sun was still several hours away, but the cool August air was already causing her goosebumps to rise like pimples all along her skin. They sat close to each other on a blanket in a grassy field near a small pond. Emily and her mother had packed some cold sirloin roast with mixed vegetables, sweetbread, blackberry pie, and strawberry wine. Nelson, famished as always when coming off his shift, devoured his food hastily as she happily watched, having already supped at home.

“It is delicious, Em. You and your family are too kind to me,” he said, covering his mouth as he talked.

She graciously rubbed his left leg as she leaned onto his side. “It is our pleasure, Mr. Nelson.”

They sat quietly a little too long, watching the breeze move the clear water in front of them. The sky was free of clouds and the sun sat high above them. Jack knew from the awkward silence that something was amiss. “Emily, I…”

“Jack,” she began, more forward than usual, “have you heard from Mercy yet?” He had almost forgotten that he had ever mentioned her name to the Bloxworths. It had now been over three years since the demon Hek had sent him away, with never a guarantee that he would ever see her again, much less a guarantee that she was even still alive. He felt strongly that she was, but had no idea if it was true, where she was, when she was, or anything at all. Maybe it was all a lost cause anyway. He looked into the face of the kind young lady who sat next to him. Those light caramel eyes were hungry for him, he could tell. But it wasn’t just sex, it was something a great deal more. She wanted a future on her farm. She didn’t want to abandon her mother and siblings and move away. She wanted to stay, and she wanted him there with her. Jack considered her question carefully. He knew what her question really meant. Maybe it was time to give up? He loved Mercy and wanted to make up any wrongs he had committed to her, but would he ever get that chance? Doubtful. Very doubtful. They were separated by 240 years. And Emily? She was very pretty, often complimented by the men and boys in town. She was kind, and a hard worker. Loved her family and her farm. She blushed as he stared into her eyes. “What are ye thinkin’, Jack?”

He gulped hard. The wine was drier than normal; his throat was even drier. What he was about to do would be surrendering. Moving on. Giving up. Cheating. But there was no guarantee. Why sit around England for another thirty years waiting on something that may never happen? “Emily, you have been very good to me and I…I would like to stay and…” Jack turned slightly to the trees behind him where some British soldiers were laughing too loudly, pointing at him and the young lady. Choosing to ignore them, he continued, “…marry you, if you’ll have me. I don’t have a ring and…”

“Oh, Jack,” she elated before wrapping her arms around him and kissing him deeply. 

Claps and obscene noises and words erupted around them from the men in red. Releasing his fiancée, the former soldier turned to face the oncoming antagonists, six of them; some young, fresh into their mustaches and big boy pants, some older, graying, and a couple fat and stupid. One fat stupid redcoat had a hairy, shaggy face and was chomping on a cheap cigar. He gripped his own crotch and shouted/coughed, “when ye’re done with Cyclops here, missy, I’ll take a turn!” Another soldier, tall, handsome with a brown mustache and goatee punched the first in the shoulder and laughed out loud. To the former captain, both soldiers resembled villains from his past. Or his future. In the future, a different, yet very hairy First Lieutenant “Shadow” had a mean streak and took his license to kill to the extreme, even murdering Jack’s ex-girlfriend and her husband. The tall, handsome one looked too much like the demon Hek, about six feet tall and solid. The other four laughed nervously, hoping it was all in jest.

Jack climbed to his feet, taking Emily in his firm hand and pulling her behind him as the faux Shadow soldier approaching, still holding himself firmly. Jack gritted his teeth and responded with a warning, “You don’t want to bother us, guys. Our relationship is not your concern.” He was firm, strong, and filthy from his hours in the quarry. “Let us be.”

“That’s Emily Blox-worth it, men,” the vile one coughed, still chomping at his cigar. “Her mum owns the farm beyond the church. Her and her two sisters are ripe for the pluckin’, trust me. And this flaming one loves to give as she takes. Trust my experience, men. A shilling per round is all it takes fer her ta be all over ye poles and cheerin’ like a fool!”

“A right beauty,” the goateed one laughed and patted the big one’s shoulder. “Love a bit of a tryst with ‘er myself. I’m sure her dirty slob of a man would’na mind. We could even give him the shilling for a taste of his cherry pie there!”

“Jack!” she growled from behind him, standing firm and tall as possible at 5’3”. “They are disgusting, filthy liars! I would never…!”

He did not turn to look at her; his eye focused on the oncoming enemy. “No need to explain, Emily. I know these types.” His chest remained calm tough his adrenaline was increasing. He had dealt with far more dangerous foes, though not in the past. Not in this past at any rate.  “You come any closer, I won’t be responsible for what happens next,” he warned.

A hearty laugh erupted from the closest two whilst the others remained a few paces back, watching warily as the two daring ones came ever closer to Jack and Emily. They were clean, with straighted red uniforms and cocked hats.

“Be over b’fore ya know it,” chuckled the hairy one as he spat his cigar to the ground. “C’mon, little dasher an’ show ole Shadroch just what ye’ve been givin’ that young hemp in the hay!” His woolly hand outstretched to grasp Miss Bloxworth, but came too close to the muscular form of a fresh-faced Captain Jack Nelson, and soon found itsel bent back at an angle that it should not be bent at, emitting a shattering sound on bone. He also succumbed to a quick roundhouse kick in the gut. Laughter immediately erupted from the men watching, shedding no love lost for their damaged brother-in-arms. The tall one rushed at Jack to defend his brethren, but soon found a locked fist in his mouth as well as a bottle of strawberry wine on his skull. Jack held Emily behind him as she shouted obscenities at the men whilst waving a broken bottle in her hand.

The other soldiers were no longer laughing, and had their Brown Besses aimed at the engaged couple, also shouting obscenities. First Lieutenant Shadroch held his gut and climbed to his feet as he barked a threatening laugh, eyes first on the bloody head of his companion, still breathing but in need of medical attention, and then at his soldiers. “Don’t just bloody stand there like a bunch a mopuses! Arrest them on counts of assault on officers of the King!”

Young, pretty and irate Emily, still behind Jack, dropped her weapon and raised her hands in the air just as her new fiancée did. Jack weighed his options carefully. There were four armed militia, barrels pointed at the couple, with little chance of escape, not for the both of them at any rate. He could take out maybe three of them before the fourth could get a shot out. That one shot could be fatal if the remaining man was a good marksman. They had no choice. Three years of peace in Corfe had just come to a crashing halt because of one disgusting man that was a little too similar to a man of Jack’s past. He felt Emily’s hot, terrified breath on his neck. What would become of her? And what of the other Bloxworths? Jack closed his one good eye, lowered his head, and made a silent wish.

CHAPTER 6

The first few weeks after leaving Paris gave The Holy Terror and its crew calm seas and little to worry about on their journey to New South Wales. “And Laveau said the map was cursed,” the pirate captain laughed out loud all too often. “If this be cursed, then I’ll take a hundred more a’ those maps and live out the rest o’ me days on these waters!” The Voodoo Queen, taking offense to his boasting, spilt a bit of chicken guts into a pot of oil and stirred in a bit of ash, salt, and bone before tossing the mixture into the air, allowing it to flow into the wind. She whispered a curse in a secret language, thereby afflicting Captain Slicer with a minor case of laryngitis for a few days. Not cursed, indeed! 

On the second day of the captain’s laryngitis, the cows, pigs, and chickens on one of the lower decks sensed something in the air first, disturbing Queen Antoinette with their bleats and cries unlike any noises she had ever heard before. She had been trying to sleep just three decks above the ruckus in an officer’s cabin that she shared with her sick companion, Vincent Morávek, after suffering from a bout of seasickness herself. Vincent, after ingesting the tainted blood back in Paris, was beginning to recover, but was was not yet completely out of his stiff, rigor mortis-like state. As the queen was not sure if her own blood was safe for her friend, she was pleased to find some other acquaintances of hers were on board and enlisted her friend, and of course, one of the prettiest girls in France, Anaëlle de Villeneuve, to assist in feeding the vampire, keeping his bites to her inner thighs to avoid inquiry from the crew of pirates and other criminals. Madam de Villeneuve, who was already aware of the handsome vampire, was all too happy to assist in his wellbeing. Her husband, Marius, had been mostly keeping time in the Navigation Room, just above the Captain’s Quarters, with the Captain Slicer, the navigator, Quao, and the quartermaster, Njord. The gentlemen had been busily plotting the course to New South Wales and The River of Silver. 

The commotion also disturbed the winged and youthful Mercy, who had been practicing flying, and had managed to soar up to the lookout nest. She was not quite ready to make the attempt to the highest nest, the crow’s nest, nor to leave the vicinity of the ship to venture out over the deep blue ocean. The calm, evening sea had lulled her excited energies into a deep sleep, her tiny body wrapped up in a blanket of hand-woven wool. Her eyes opened at the noise of shouting and the crew running this way and that far below. And just as she saw the queen emerge from below amidst the others, the incredible happened. At that same moment, in her peripheral vision, she could have sworn (if she was able to swear anymore) that she saw a giant, yellow and green tail pass just off to the ship’s starboard. Then The Holy Terror rocked in the most frightful way, it’s aft rising at uncomfortable levels, reminding the young Asian-American of that old Titanic movie that she saw in middle school. Mrs. Snelling had to fast forward past the sex stuff to keep it more school-appropriate. Mercy’s bright violet eyes darted up to the crow’s nest where she saw the slim Jim Sauvage fearfully shouting something inaudible, most likely another language to some of the crew down below. Next, Mercy saw a flash of a blood-red liquid violently splash along the forward deck, shot out of a large bucket by the dark and mysterious Marie Laveau, also calling out words of an unknown nature to Mercy.

Then there was another flash of red as a tall pirate by the name of Brave Bart let out a horrific squeal as he was suddenly ripped asunder into two bloody halves and pulled violently away and into the ocean by two large and deadly fast arms or tentacles. Mercy wasn’t sure what they were exactly, but she knew they terrified her more than an angel with a scimitar! A scream wanted to leave her mouth, but it couldn’t find its way out. Petrified with fear, she watched as the queen screamed instead and sped away into her cabin as the pirates scurried about, readying their weapons for another attack from this vicious beast. She saw through the navigation room a brave captain trying to shout something at his quartermaster as the Viking rushed out of the room, two scary looking axes in his hands, and shouting at the men to ready the cannons and their weapons. Then he shouted something else: “Jörmungandr!” Mercy recalled the monster from a video game she played back when things made sense.  Jörmungandr was a fictional behemoth, a Norse legend, a giant snake-like serpent that could wrap itself around the world. Crazy, right? And yet…“Jörmungandr!” the bold Viking repeated, rippling muscles stretched out in his massive arms, ready for the fight of his life. “I am ready for you, snake! Come at my ship once more and you will see for yourself! I may not be Thor, but I am ready for you!” Another movement in the water far below caught the angel’s eyes and was followed, too late, by cannon fire. The ocean erupted and violently splashed the midday air around it. But there was no red to rise in that water. Just a bit of black powder from the cannon itself. They missed the beast!

An imposing shadow appeared suddenly, followed by a shrill scream erupting from a pirate she did not recognize as an enormous clawed hand shot over the ship and lunged at the man, possibly crushing his skull as it grabbed him and shot up and out once more before Njord or anyone else could react in time. BOOM! Another cannon fired to no avail. No blood, no dead monster, nor any monster parts floating nearby. Rushing toward the other end of her nest, Mercy caught sight of the Voodoo Queen, sitting cross-legged and floating a couple of feet above the deck. Her arms were outstretched and her mouth was moving at a rapid pace as she seemed to be chanting something repeatedly. Mercy assumed it was a series of curses against the monster. Would it be enough to stop this thing? Mercy had no idea.

 Another giant shadow over the deck. BOOM! Another cannon fired; followed quickly by pistols and angry and fearful shouts of the crew. Njord turned to catch sight of what caused such a colossal shadow, fully knowing what to expect. Another victim, this time the Bengali called Jalaluddin, and just like Bart, pulled apart in an instant. But this time, Njord was ready! Springing as would a wolf, the Viking dug his mighty axes into the sides of the left arm of the giant behemoth and wrapped his stout legs around it as well, and soon found himself flying off The Holy Terror and plummeting into the ocean at a terrible speed, the force being enough to kill any mortal man. But not Njord. The reasons why were secreted around his left eye in the runes ᚱᚦᚲᚺ. The first rune, raidho, meaning movement and leading by example, was etched into his skin by his friend, and firstborn son of Ragnar Lodbrock, after assisting in several successful raids along the River Thames. The second, thurisaz, a warning against temptation, was awarded to him after he discovered a plot to overpower Björn, and helped slay all who were involved. Kenaz was given next, by a shield-maiden to signify Njord’s awakening and growth after a particularly successful battle that he helped plot. Much gold and other treasures were earned thanks to the young Viking. Beneath the clear Bowes Moor stars that evening, the shield-maiden gave him more than just the tattoo, cementing his status as a man made and born. The final rune, hagalaz, that of hail or winter, was awarded not by a Viking, but by a dragon. A dragon not quite as large as Jörmungandr, but a dragon just the same.

Under the blackening depths of the North Atlantic, Njord witnessed the murky face of the monster, not quite as large as the world-destroyer he had heard stories of all his life, coming ever closer to him as he rode its enormous arm, rapidly carrying its dinner, the Bengali, towards its seemingly grinning mouth, reddening the waters with the blood of its pirate victims. If Njord could not stop this beast quickly, women and children would be soon in its belly as well. The enormous behemoth would be no easy defeat for the Viking, as Njord knew full well. Though he had no fear of being ripped apart by its teeth, each the size of two full-grown men, he did fear that he may not stop the beast before it was too late for the others. With one hand, Njord held  firmly onto the ash and hornbeam handle of his Skeggøx, which had its iron and carbon steel blended blade planted firmly into the flesh of the massive, scaly arm, whilst his other arm worked swiftly at the seemingly lengthy process of hacking away the wrist of Jörmungandr with his other axe, a double-bearded blade. The first, called Jarnbjorn, was a gift from his friend and former leader, Björn Ironside, whilst the latter, a gift from a long-lost love.  Jörmungandr would know pain beyond its comprehension before this day was through, Njord decided as he hacked away, just moments before he would come face to face with the sinister, forked-tongued beast, its evil eyes glowing through the murky waters far below the ocean’s surface. Though fiercely determined to see this leviathan defeated, his mind did travel back to another seemingly hopeless battle. One that essentially created the man fighting this mammoth creature even now.

* * *

In the late 9th century, in the year of 876, Njord traveled the River Greta with a fleet of Viking warriors and explorers under the leadership of Björn Ironside; an almost vacation of sorts, as they left Sweden to pillage along the rivers of England. Taking fourteen longboats and 448 Vikings, men and women alike,  they sailed along rivers that were familiar to them, sprinkled with small castles, churches, and villages ripe for the pillaging. Easy pickings. Until the fog rolled in, that is. It was early one November morning, the thick gray air blanketed the River Greta, so much so, that the once familiar area had soon become an undiscovered country, uncharted on any map that Björn and his crew tried desperately to make out of the maps and the barely visible terrain. Lanterns proved in vain. Lost for hours, the men and women of Björn’s party sailed aimlessly, trying unsuccessfully to find even the bottom of the lake with their ores, staffs, or any long items they could get their hands on. Nothing worked. With no aim to their direction, they instead used their ears. King Björn halted all his ships and called for silence. They studied the air for any hint of movement. The rustling of leaves. The fluttering of bird wings. The lapping of deer. All for naught. “Hold,” called the young shield-maiden, Gertrud, she of large ears and larger waist. She gripped her leader by the shoulder and stared hard into the distance, beyond the thick, gray fog. Björn focused in the same direction. And there he saw it. And heard it. The bells of a temple rose high above a distant mountain, above the gloomy blanket. But they were not just any temple bells. They were hauntingly beautiful. Tragically needful. How could one bell produce such a sound? His pale blue eyes lit up with wonder. He had traveled this river many times before, but never before had he run across this temple that appeared to him only due to the fog at hand. A land of wonder. A temple of unknown treasures! And surely a ravishing princess within commanding those bells, calling out to whomever was brave and strong enough to storm its walls and rescue her. And, oh, the wanton gratefulness she would demonstrate for her hero, the King of Sweden! He grinned and hailed the longboats to follow his. Adventure awaited them.

Its rocky shores were but a hint of the troubles that would soon follow the 448 Vikings into the mysterious castle, known only to them thanks to the bells of the sure-to-be-goddess somewhere within. “She’ll be mine,” the king boastfully announced as he set the initial boot on the gray, cracked earth. “As king, I lay claim first!” The others argued loudly. If a woman can play as lovely as that, than she must be quite the catch indeed! She was up for grabs for whomever was the strongest, and most clever to find her first! The shield-maidens also joined in on the claim. The sultry temptress playing the the bells that cried out for a hero’s arms would accept a woman’s breast just as willingly. She who was somewhere within those walls would belong to whomever found her first, man or woman! A jealous hunger crept throughout the party, but Björn was still in command, and still needed to find entrance first. Looking up at the steep, otherworldly black mountain, like something risen from Hell-itself, surely to trap the wondrous goddess within, the king saw no trail, no bend, no protrusion with which to begin the journey up. “Njord, Gunnar, take ten men each and make your way around the mountain. Find a way that we may gain entrance. And,” he held onto the cheek of both men, “do not enter without me. She is mine to claim first.” They wanted to argue. They wanted to slit their leader’s throat and take the treasure within for his own self. But for now, each man needed the other. Every man belonged to the other. At least until they found the covetable beauty within. Then it would be every man for himself.

The arduous minutes ticked by as 428 Vikings sharpened their blades, picked thorns out of their armor, boasted of how the trapped princess of the bells would rip off their clothes and take them on the cold floor, and searched for a way up the mountainside, when finally a huzzah erupted and was followed by cheers in the direction that Njord led his team. The king pushed his way through his warriors and soon found himself beside Njord and gazing up at a series of thorny branches that climbed up the height of hundreds of men, to what appeared to be a ledge of sorts. On that ledge, though much too high to see for sure, appeared to be a pair of enormous doors, perhaps surrounded by a gold frame. “She will be mine yet.”

“Not if you fall first,” Njord laughed heartily. Not that he would ever wish that on his friend and king. But for the love of the buxom beauty within, maybe just this once.

“My hands and feet, my muscles and concentration, have never been surer. Follow me, Vikings, and prepare for the adventure of a lifetime, which riches beyond measure, and a woman far more beautiful and vivacious then has ever been seen on this Earth.” With those words, Björn son of Ragnar, leapt and grabbed hold of the first branch, it’s thorns trying like hell to pierce his leathered gloves, but only shedding a few drops of crimson from a small portion of his exposed forearm. A forty-five minute climb later and those same leather gloves found found the base of the ledge that would grant him entrance to search for his next bride. The bells continued to call to him, to all of them, its tolling promising pleasures of the flesh and of the purse. They called out in yearning for a rescue, for a leader stronger and braver than she has ever seen. The bells tolled on, growing louder with every heartbeat for all 448 Viking who attempted that treacherous climb. The bells continued calling for the 379 who survived the falling boulders and breaking branches. The 379 that survived the thorns that seemingly reached out and severed their throats. The 379 that survived the slippery hands who could grasp no more. The 379 that survived his or her jealous warriors who kicked the others down when no-one was looking. 65 Vikings squeezed shoulder to shoulder on the tight ledge, aghast at the thick, dark brown, wooden doors that climbed to the height of perhaps twenty men. What manner of creature would have need of such large doors? At that moment, from somewhere deep within the bowels of those walls erupted a roar unlike anything the men and women had heard before. Stunned at first at what manner of creature could have made such a noise, but then turning towards his friend, the king asked, “What say you, my brother, shall we knock first, or just bust our way in?”

Njord gripped his leader’s shoulder and gritted his teeth, ignoring the apprehension caused by the explosive eruption, and responded, “Odin would welcome us mostly proudly if we did show the owner of this structure that holds the fair maiden hostage just what a Viking was capable of! Roaring monsters within be damned! I say we introduce ourselves as we do at any raid.” And with that, Njord firmly planted his Skeggøx, Jarnbjorn, into the wood of the door, penetrating nothing, save for the sturdiness of his own two feet. Stumbling back a pace or two into the cramped warriors behind him, the brave Njord began a short domino effect that sent three of the 65 Vikings on the ledge to fall off to their deaths. 377 remained, though no more chose to climb onto the ledge to replace their fallen brethren. Surprised eyes on the failed Jarnbjorn, Njord merely uttered, “it cannot be. How could Jarnbjorn not even gain an inch into this door?”

Björn laughed heartily and clasped his friend’s back. “Sounds much like your chances of success with the exquisite princess held within. You shall not penetrate an inch in her, either.” 

* * *

But on the massive Jörmungandr, Njord was able to penetrate flesh and armored scales as its left hand drifted away from its arm; leaving a trail of black blood that would assuredly attract some ravenous sharks momentarily, not that a few hungry sharks were anywhere near as formidable as a beast that could destroy a village but by slithering over it. Through the black waters, the Viking could just make out the gargantuan head and its glowing yellow eyes with slim, vertical pupils in their centers. There was a slight glow or shimmer about the gigantic plates that covered the top of its skull as it roared out in pain, sending an underwater shock-wave miles out. Njord knew it would want revenge for this loss and was prepared to face the consequences, though in the Scandinavian’s mind, it was not he that would suffer on this day, even as he would soon find himself an inch from the creature’s yellow, death-dealing teeth. 

The monster’s eyes found the little Viking man and had intentions to crush his bones and chew his flesh like any other bastard child of Odin, but to savor the flavor of this one for its foolhardiness. Never would the beast have imagined that the small man would leap from the entrapment of the great beast’s arm and onto bridge of its nostril. Never would the beast have imagined that the small man would escape a swipe of its right hand to dig its nasty weapon into its left eye. The searing pain this filthy man had caused the bringer of Ragnarok! This heinous man! This bug! This fly! This stain on the great Jörmungandr’s own flesh would know suffering! It dared to strike and dig and strike again and again at the eye that had seen millions of years go by without a real challenge! This pest that somehow managed to dive and dodge every swipe of the enormous clawed hand gifted by Loki and Angrboða would feel terror momentarily!  Jörmungandr cried out in anger as the rodent finally pierced the base of its eye, freeing an enormous amount of blood that would soon bring those equally annoying sharks to a swarm around its skull. Rodents! Pests! Filthy man! Swipe after swipe! Lunge after lunge the man dodged when finally, finally, Jörmungandr’s claws found the pink flesh of its prey. Man-blood exploded into the sea. And then the little thing disappeared. 

* * *

Swipe after swipe! Lunge after lunge! The jolt of metal against seemingly magical wood resulted in the  jarring, plunging deaths of fourteen more Vikings. No weapon could penetrate the portal that led to the captured, beautiful, gifted, radiant princess deep within. Distraught, but not surrendering, 363 Vikings rested their arms, axes, hammers, and swords. Their clubs, shields, staffs, and other tools rested at their feet. There had to be a way in! Njord, sitting on his bottom and remembering a lesson in seduction from his first woman, in which she laid a hand upon his bare chest after refusing him three times prior, whispered in his ear one evening under the Bowes Moor stars, “if want want in, simply knock.” Njord’s sky blue eyes lit up. His hair stood on end. His face grew a smile almost as large as that night under the Bowes Moor stars. He stood and pushed his way past thirty-seven men and stood at the right side of the gigantic doors. Then, with a nod to  Björn, he knocked three times. He did not see what immediately happened next. He saw only blackness. He did not see the door open with such ferocity, such velocity, almost crushing him between its foot-long depth and the stone wall behind it. He did not hear the screams of the eight Vikings who who joined their brethren at the base of the mountain. Didn’t witness the seventeen Vikings take steel arrows into their skulls, penetrating their bone and their brains, and rocketing through their insides and backsides. Didn’t see his brave compatriots raise their shields and hammers and swords and spears and charge onward, through the now open door. Did not see what awaited his 338 Viking brothers and sisters. Creatures with plated, leathery skin the color of death, an unreal shade of gray as only seen in a storm cloud high above the Earth. They each stood the height of two men with arms the width of a man’s chest. Eyes as black as the darkest, deepest sea, mouths as wide as a man’s bicep, and sharp, yellowed teeth the length of a large finger. Evil, foul beasts assuredly sent by the devil himself there to trap the lovely princess within. Their howls erupted with a noise unlike anything the Vikings had ever heard, somewhat like roar of a lion, a crashing wave, and a wail of a peasant woman who had just lost her children. From their mouths also exploded a smell of decay not unlike a ship of dead bodies that had been rotting in the sun for a month. Foul, foul beasts with the murder of Vikings on their brains. If brains are what controlled their hands armed with blood-stained clubs only meant for bludgeoning those who would dare enter their temple.

As soon as Njord could stand again, he found that his 338-strong warriors had already fought their way past the demonic beasts. Some of them at any rate. The crimson blood of seventy-two slaughtered Vikings stained the entryway of the temple. Blood from the cold bodies of the gray, leathery monsters also painted the floors and walls. Njord’s eyes fell upon the horrific scene before him. Bodies strewn about, severed, splattered, smashed, and pinned by a multitude of weapons. He was aware of the squishing noise that his boots made through the blood-stained floor, but could do nothing about it. The room before him was massive and adorned with gold, silver, and jewels of all kind. It would have been a magnificent great hall if not for the bodies. Five massive tables of polished wood and jewel-encrusted lining with lengthy benches on either side that could surely hold a hundred men each. Empty gold plates and bowls, silver forks, spoons, and knives. Silver mugs of with gold lining and rubies secured on their outsides. Napkins of pure white silk. Bodies splayed all about. Never before had Njord seen so much treasure. Never before had he seen such a massacre, either. Toward the back of the room was a spiraled staircase riddled with the bodies of thirteen more of his compatriots. Their shouts and screams echoed throughout. Jarnbjorn firmly in hand, the tattooed warrior charged upward, ready to battle alongside his 253 brothers and sisters.

At the top of the stairs, the young Viking found a marbled floor, painted in blood and body parts and a battle still in heated progress. Vikings vs. Knights! A battle to be heralded in song for ages to come! The palace’s second line of defense against the intrusion of the force of the Norse was a two-hundred strong army of knights straight out of legend, decked out in steel and iron helmets, plates, and chain mail. Powerful two-handed swords pierced any Viking flesh that contact was made with. Their helmets covered their faces well, leaving only a shadowed hint of what flesh may lie beneath. Their eyes seemed all of a pale blue. A cold blue reminiscent almost of death.  The knights’ speeches were limited to grunts and roars, growls and mumbles, as if possessed by a spell. “Glad you could join us, brother!” laughed Björn Ironside as he lopped off the arm of one of the mysterious knights. “I thought you had joined our friends at the base of the mountain or become a snack for one of Loki’s brutes at the front door. They seem to enjoy the taste of fresh Viking!”

Njord swung hard, pummeling a knight in the chest and sending him over the stone fencing and onto the floor below. “And miss the chance of having my way with the princess above whilst you fall just outside her door? I think not, oh, Sire! She will be mine,” he boasted.

“When we get through these devilish bastards that are keeping her, we will see for sure! Unfortunately, they don’t seem to die that easily! See over there?” Njord looked over his shoulder to see a fallen knight, the side of his chest open wide and blood-ridden, climb back to his feet just as strong as ever. A  prime example of a bedeviling magic if there ever had been one. “Our only chance is to permanently rid them of their arms and heads. A body with legs pose no real threat, I believe. Now let’s sever these undead villains from their deadly parts and be done with them!” With that command, he then pushed Njord from him and slashed off a head of a nearby knight, its body turned the other direction.

Njord did as ordered, fighting with every ounce of strength he could muster in his body, even as the head of his childhood friend, Finn, was thrown at him, bouncing off his shoulder and landing somewhere behind him. Even as the body of Magnus was ripped in two just in front of him by a most powerful sword owned by a powerful undead knight the size of a man-and-a-half. Even as Astrid, she who had given him three amazing nights in a cave buried in the snow, clutched at his chest in pain, her legs lopped off by one of the assailants. Njord fought on. When all was done, Björn clasped the hand of Njord and then the hands of the other Vikings that remained: Gertrud, Viggo, Lars, the other Lars, Una, Tove, Henrik, Elin, Klaus, and Espen. All brave fighters. All warriors, true! Beneath their blood-stained feet lay the rest of their countrymen, killed at the hands of the magic-controlled undead knights. Surely the final battle was nigh and the reward would follow soon.

So many dead. The end would have to come soon. 

* * *

The gods only know how many lives had been consumed by the great behemoth, Jörmungandr, but Njord was certain that its reign over the seas would end that very day. Though it had been both of their blood that had been spilt into the oceans. This great purging called out to a pack of pesky, blood-thirsty, ravenous sharks that had hastily made their way onto the scene. Besides the trail of blood, they found only their own deaths at the great claws of the true ruler of the seas. And when their blood was spilt, they also found their own deaths at the jagged teeth of their brothers and sisters. Hunters are fickle things. They sometimes stay out of one anothers’ way until they, too, become the hunted. Meanwhile, the brave Viking, Njord, had found a new place to dig his weapons: the dark tunnels of the beast’s nose. Soft flesh easily gave way to the might of his a double-bearded axe and his Skeggøx as Njord let loose. He would hack away at this devil of the ocean until it could no longer even defend itself against the brainless sharks that were currently nibbling away at each others’ corpses, but would soon concentrate their efforts of Njord’s prey. Njord wondered how far away the beast might have dragged him away from The Holy Terror during their battle. It would be most unpleasant to swim to the surface to find no ship to pull him up. Hopefully Odin himself would see to it that rescue was readily available. Damn the monster! Njord wanted to curse out loud as he saw the beast’s claw dig into its own nostril in hopes of catching the Viking. Foul beast! It would soon learn its folly! Jarnbjorn severed the end of the bastard’s finger from the rest of its scaly hide. Were he any normal man, the Viking would have been long dead, his breath given out long ago. But Njord was no normal man, no normal Viking, either. Astounding things had been visited upon him since he first sailed across the seas, but the most incredible had been brought forth way back in 876. 

* * *

Twelve Vikings remained to hear the enchanting bells, and now a voice as well, that called out from the floor just above them. Björn’s face lit up as would a puppy whose owner just arrived home. “Do you hear that, men?” He clasped the shoulders of those nearest to him. “She is mine for the taking! I can see her face now.” His eyes were wider than normal. Bright. Mad with desire. The others wanted her too, but would only get the chance if their leader were to die. Perhaps the door just opening at the top of the end of the hall would be the ones who would finally send him to Valhalla. But it was the other Lars who was the first to fall from this pack of foes as a spear cleanly removed his head from his neck, bringing about a fresh explosion of blood. The beasts that erupted from the adjacent room, brought the rest. Five more of those foul brutes from the entrance to the castle that slaughtered so many of his friends and countrymen came out fighting. Behind them, and next to an enormous fountain of the clearest, most refreshing water they had ever laid eyes upon, was one man, a knight adorned in gold armor from head to toe. A slit in his helmet revealed an hard, aged face, red with anger. Though the plated, leathery beasts seemed mindless, their leader was of his mind. And his mind must be dark indeed to trap and imprison such a lovely creature that played the bells, and now sang, so magnificently.

Creatures with plated, leathery skin the color of death, an unreal shade of gray as only seen in the strangest of storm cloud high above the Earth. They each stood the height of two men with arms the width of a man’s chest. Eyes as black as the darkest and treacherous, deepest sea, mouths as wide as a strong man’s bicep, and dangerously sharp, yellowed teeth the length of a large finger. Evil, foul beasts assuredly sent by the devil himself there to trap the lovely princess within. Their howls erupted with a noise unlike anything the Vikings had ever heard, somewhat like roar of a lion, a crashing wave, and a wail of a peasant woman who had just lost her four children. From their mouths also exploded a smell of decay not unlike a ship of dead bodies that had been rotting in the sun for a month. Foul, foul beasts with the murder of Vikings on their brains. If brains are what controlled their hands armed with blood-stained clubs only meant for bludgeoning those who would dare enter their temple.

“Attack!” roared the King of Sweden as he leapt into the air and onto the enormous chest of the grayest of the creatures before plunging his axe into its ugly skull. The other eleven Vikings fought just as bravely as the fearless leader against the onslaught of creatures of the castle. Njord, Henrik, Elin, and Tove held their own against a possible female species of the monstrous brutes, almost twice the size as its foul brethren, and with three hulking, armored breasts flinging around, each with a foot-long chain of lethal blades primed to slice at any flesh that came too close. The beast had a weapon for each of its four hands: a club, a mace, a great sword, and a spiked shield. Njord’s Skeggøx, Jarnbjorn, managed to free a bit of black, tar-like blood from the beast just as it freed Henrik’s right arm from his body with her shield. She let loose a wail of pain unlike anything Njord had ever heard before, almost as if pain was something she had never had to endure. Her eyes were like Hell itself as she locked onto the Viking. Like playthings she was tired of, she lopped off the heads of Henrik, Elin, and Tove, held her weapons in the direction of Njord and spoke with the most god-awful voice ever spoke on this Earth, each word unintelligible, yet had the ring of the foulest curse word ever, each one more foul than the previous. Her breath and the words she erupted were more offensive than the pile of shit that three little Viking brats had left outside Njord’s door one afternoon as a joke.

Latching onto a Ulfberht sword from the fallen warrior, Elin, Njord locked eyes with the repugnant female. Behind her, he spied the human of the castle slice the original Lars from head to heel while speaking not a word, cold as a frost giant. He would be a worthy adversary after Njord laid waste to this first monster. “Come get me,” the Viking growled from a nearby wall. The brute wasted no time in responding to him, charging as if she were the fiercest bull ever, her weapons prepared for a slaughter. Her feet rocked the ground below him. Her breath found him before she could. Her roar echoed throughout the stone walls. Njord would proudly enter Valhalla if this were, indeed, the end. Unfortunately for the three-breasted brute, however, it was not his time. Njord squatted at the last moment as her weapons struck the castle wall, sending large fragments of stone shooting across the room at the same time that Njord let his own weapons strike up at two of her arms to slice them in bloody halves. He then immediately jabbed them into her fat stomach. Before she could react, he had thrust the weapons upward, severing her stomach into three grisly pieces. As she fell to the ground, quite dead, Njord had but a second to see the mass of bodies scattered throughout the room. Oceans of blood streamed through the crevices along the stone floor, caked the walls, and decor.  In his second second, he witnessed the knight adorned in gold armor pierce the chest of Björn Ironside with a double-bearded axe, falling him next to the stone wall of the water fountain, its shimmering reflection painting a moving tribute upon his leader’s dying face.

Now there was one.

If Njord survived, the maiden would be his.

If.

The knight adorned in gold armor turned to face Njord. He did not smile as would a crazed villain in any other story. He was irate. Dark eyes glared from the shadow created by the golden helmet. A few strands of sweaty black hair stuck to his brow. What was visible of his pale skin showed a tense but tired man. Grayed stubble etched itself around his mouth and chin, all around a set of gritted teeth. “You should not have come here, Viking. A mistake on your part that has led to the death of all your compatriots. You shall follow them to Hell promptly.”

But Njord’s mind was not on his fallen comrades. The bells grew ever so louder. The beautiful singing became more and more entrancing, calling him to her. Promises of a passion unknown. Promises of the most beautiful creature ever to cross his eyes. Promises of a love stronger than death itself. Promises of forever. His eyes found the top of the stone stairway. They led to her. His princess. His queen. His treasure. His love. She was his and he was hers. He only had to defeat this man who blocked his way.

“She is not what she wants you to believe. She is a trickster, not unlike your false god, Loki. She only has one purpose, cretin, and that is domination and damnation.”

“Those are two purposes, clever Knight. You try to deceive me, but I know better. My princess is trapped up there, having been tortured and raped by you and your foul beasts for almost an eternity. But I, Njord Ulrikson, have finally arrived to save her. I would offer you the chance to step out of my way, but I will enjoy taking your head from your neck and gifting it to my future bride as a token of my undying affection.” 

And with those words, weapons clashed. Njord swung his Skeggøx and his newly acquired Ulfberht sword with determination at his foe’s arms first, hoping for a hasty finale but the knight was too fast, blocking one with a heavy shield and the other with the blade of a double-bearded axe, sending a series of blood-ridden sparks flying into the air. The knight then lowered his body, umbrellaed with the shield, and swung mightily at the intruder, but found him also just as quick, as Njord easily dodged his attack before inadvertently pummeling the red floor next to the knight’s foot with his borrowed sword. Both men locked eyes on the other after these three misfires.

“You are tired, Viking. Your friends are dead. If you require a moment to mourn their losses before we continue, I will grant you that moment before I send thee to Hell.”

Njord smirked at the offer. “You are the tired one, oh, Knight. I had a nap outside your castle and am fully well-rested and ready to send you to Hell first! I will never visit such a place. Valhalla is awaiting me on the other side, along with all my friends that your foul creatures have slaughtered.”

Another deafening roar rocked the walls of the castle, shaking the ground under the two warriors.

“And manner of monster is that which you have under your roof besides these that I have already killed? What more monsters have you that still live to torture anyone who dares to save your victim?” Njord asked, not really expecting an answer before swiping his weapons at his opponent once more.

“That beast you hear is not here working on the Good Lord’s behalf, it is here locked away for what it is, and as she is. They are monsters and are ordained to be treated as such, locked away so that they may not harm another so for as long as their damned, wretched lives continue. Leave now, Viking, and give me peace to continue my watch, my sentence, in guarding those that are locked away here.”

“You are the monster, Knight!” the Viking roared before swing as would an enraged berserker, axe and sword moving as if under a spell, barely able to be seen from a naked eye, pushing his adversary away, step by step. 

The knight tried desperately to block the deadly blades of his foe, but could barely manage, often unable to save his skin from the onslaught of steel; his blood bathing his armor and the Viking’s weapons of destruction. Step by step, the Knight slowly moved backward, unable to make a move towards his for. It was her doing, and he knew it. The witch had her rescuer at last! And then he fell, thanks in part to a grip round his ankle. The other damned Viking yet lived! The knight landed hard on the sticky stone floor and saw the bloody, shit-eating mouth of the Viking he had just stabbed before moving on to the final one. “You have no idea the hell that you have all just unleashed upon our world.”

“I know we have just ridden the world of one,” Björn Ironside, King of Sweden, spat.

“Your name, Knight, before I send you to Hell,” Njord demanded, now gripping the axe with both hands, positioned just above the knight’s neck.

“Sir Bors de Ganis, and I have been charged with…” 

“Your name was all I wanted, monster,” Njord spat before gazing upon his fallen leader and kneeling next to him. “We did it, my friend. We stormed the castle, and, alas, the princess shall be mine.”

Björn Ironside nodded, accepting his own loss before touching his friend’s knee. “Water,” he feebly requested. “So thirsty.”

And though a desire coursed through his blood to go free his treasure, his queen, his love, he resisted just long enough to grant his leader and friend’s request. He spied a beaten, weathered bronze chalice on the other side of the fountain and dipped it in. The water splashed lightly upon the skin of the young Viking, and sent a tingle throughout his body. After giving a final drink to his friend, he could surely afford a moment to refresh his own thirst before rescuing the fair maiden up the stairs, could he not? Gently, he lifted his king’s head and allowed his to drink deeply from the chalice. “Thank you, my friend,” he said feebly before closing his eyes. Njord softly released his friend, greedily drank from the cup, dropped it to the floor, and hurried upstairs like a man entranced. However, after spying the knight’s powerful double-bearded axe, he dropped the found Ulfberht sword and picked up the new weapon in its stead.

* * *

If there was enough light, Njord the Viking would see nothing but red ocean from the cavity he had created where Jörmungandr’s nose had been. But the beast was still not dead. It thrashed in the ocean’s depths, swatted at the whole where its nose had been, desperately trying to tear at the assailant within with its remaining great claw. It still lived. Njord’s duty was not yet complete. Onward and upward inside the behemoth’s massive skull he crawled along the squishy, slimy cavities until he found the one thing he knew would kill it. Before him was the final death of Jörmungandr. He couldn’t see it well, but the touch was right. Incredible. Immense. Knobby. Pink. Njord had found the creature’s brain and went at it with his two mighty axes, Jarnbjorn and Morgan. 

* * *

Njord felt as though he could break the lock to the princess’s door with his bare hands, but used the surest, quickest means instead: Jarnbjorn. The mighty iron and carbon steel blended Skeggøx made short work of the brass lock, splintering its pieces along the floor. He then pushed open the door to find her sitting on an old, knotted wooded chair beside a barred window. The gray skied had turned clear blue once more. The bell she had played was no more than the size of a hand and rested on the window sill. “My rescuer. My handsome rescuer,” she said calmly with an almost Irish-accented voice that was as smooth as honey as she rose to her feet. Quite stunning in a crimson-red, velvet dress and a pair of leather boots with a purple trim. Her skin was milky white after years locked away in this tower prison. Her long, raven hair was rich and full and tied into a long braided tail that reached her lower back. She did not exactly wear a smile on her slender face, but he could tell she was pleased nonetheless in her eyes of blue-green, as bright as the sun that shown once more. She sauntered to him and placed a soft hand, adorned with gold and silver rings and bangles and lengthy red fingernails, upon skin of his chest. “Let us leave, my prince.”

He then latched onto her wrist and gazed into her eyes, quite taken aback with her request. “I saved you. You are mine. You owe me,” he stammered, then allowing his eyes to fall upon a queen-sized bed just to her left. There was very little else in the room: a wardrobe, a bookshelf, a small table with two additional chairs.

Now she smiled. She looked back at her bed and then back at the Viking and shook her head, amused. “Njord, my love, do you think that after 300 years of imprisonment, all I would want to do is lay on my back? Honestly?” She laughed in his face, but caressed his skin at the same time. “Love, all I want to do is free my friend and get out of here.”

Dumbfounded, the Viking could barely speak, save for one word, “but…”

She held his face in her soft hands and looked kindly into his eyes. “Your friends have all died, leaving you alone for me? To rip of my dress and take me like the helpless and grateful maiden that I am? Oh, I am most certainly grateful, my Viking, but, alas, you are not quite the last of your friends to survive this battle. You gave your leader, the great and bold, Björn Ironside, the water, did you not?”

“I did?” he stammered with a question.

“In the bronze grail?”

He shook his head confused, and added, “and then I drank from it as well.”

Now an enormous smile crossed her face. “My love, my Viking, we have eternity in front of us, as does your friend. You both drank from the Holy Grail. It will protect you from death, unless, of course, someone manages to lop off your head or slice you in two. Then, alas, you will only live on in spirit, as will that cowardly knight, Sir Bors de Ganis, forever to remain here as will your friend, Björn Ironside, the new guardian of the Holy Grail.”

“So I am immortal?”

“And you are mine, forever” she said before bringing his face to hers and kissing him deeply for a long moment. He wrapped his arms around her slender waist, bringing her body against his. She was warm, comforting, and felt good pressed against him. He wanted her in the best, worst way. He wanted her now, and he wanted her forever. But he would have to wait. She latched onto his newly acquired double-bearded axe and hastened out the door. 

* * *

A light glow surrounded the knight’s axe as soon as they fled her prison. Njord followed his queen blindly throughout the castle’s halls and stairways, seeming to go in a maze of ups, downs, and circles aplenty. In the distance, somewhere within these walls he could hear his friend calling out to him. He was alive. “He must stay here. Without a guardian, Castle Corbenic will collapse upon itself and be lost in time. It will not let him leave unless someone takes his place.” Njord did not question her. He loved her and trusted her with his whole heart and soul. She was his queen. When they reached what seemed to be the lowest, deepest parts of the castle, a dark, dry and warm cavern that ended at a barred door, she took his empty hand and returned Sir Bors de Ganis’s double-bearded axe to him, a faint glow remaining for just a short moment later. “I hadn’t much power whilst imprisoned in that room. A curse put upon it allowed me barely enough to bring the castle to your world and find you, Njord Ulrikson. I will return the castle to its rightful place after we’ve freed my friend.” She held up his arm with the new weapon. “Strike now,” she commanded.

Njord Ulrikson studied the double-bearded axe in his hand and smiled. It felt more somehow powerful than before. Magical. Its blade was of silver and steel. Its haft was cast in steel but wrapped in reddish scales, strong and solid like a dragon’s, melted and shaped. As he struck the door, a fiery glow erupted and the door blew away from its hinges. His princess, his love for all eternity, hugged him tightly and planted another kiss on his mouth, before bolting ahead. Inside the enormous cavern, aglow with what seemed to be volcanic rock,  was a sight he never expected to find. Chained at multiple spots around its enormous body, locked tight to keep its belly to the ground and its arms and legs outstretched, was an actual living, breathing dragon! The Viking had heard tales of them, had even seen skulls and other bones that were said to be that of a dragon, but had never expected to see one up close. His love, his princess, had already reached the winged monster, its giant, leathery wings also bolted down. Njord witnessed as she hugged the creature’s neck as it spoke strong but calming words in a language he had never heard before in his journeys along the seas. As Njord stepped into the cavernous room, the smell of feces and urine almost overtook him. The beast had been kept prisoner as well for an ungodly amount of time. 

The beautiful lady in red stretched out her hands, looked to the ceiling, and began a series of enchantments in an otherworldly voice, and just as the dragon’s, in a language that Njord the Viking knew not. As she spoke, electric light surrounded her hands for several long moments before the chains began to break, freeing the shackles that held the dragon firmly to the rocky floor. It then leaned its head towards the magical woman and allowed her to hug hit once more. Together they spoke quietly, though they carefully watched the Viking whilst doing so. “Thank you, Njord,” she finally said to him, as she moved closer, her arms outstretched again as her hands formed a circular cup with a black mass of dust-like elements encircling them. “Upon your left eye, you have marked that you are a leader, that you are strong-willed against temptation, and that you have grown immensely as a Viking warrior.” She caressed that side of his face with the back of her glowing hands and kissed the right side gently. “We want to give you a new one. Through all you have fought, through all you have lost, you have fought bravely in my honor. You, my love, are a hailstorm. A force of the coldest winter to be reckoned with. You are deserving of hagalaz.”  She then rubbed the black dust below his left eye, focused just under the rune for kenaz, gazing into his eyes whilst doing so. “Do you love me, Njord Ulrikson?”

“I do,” he answered, unwavering.

“And do you trust me?”

“Absolutely,” was his immediate response.

“Good. Close your eyes and do not move a hair. It will burn.”

The dragon let lose a needle-thin stream of searing fire; the burning pain was agony for Njord, but he was a Viking and could withstand anything for honor. When it was over, his stunning, flawless queen took hold of his shoulders and set him to the floor, against a pillar. With his eyes still closed, he felt her sit upon his lap, facing him as she [laced her hands on his cheeks and laid a sultry, healing kiss on his burnt skin. “Open your eyes,” she commanded.

“My love,” he said.

She kissed him long and hard then. It was the most amazing kiss of his life.

“Rhys and I are leaving. I need to get him to safety.” She held his hands firmly, tenderly. “You will follow. Get to your boat and leave this area as soon as possible. My magic can not hold Castle Corbenic to your world much longer.”

“But,” was all he could say, even as strong a warrior that he was, he had no words. His love was leaving him after he risked all to save her.

“I will find you again, Njord.” She kissed him once more before rising. “My magic is now tied to your new axe and will give me your whereabouts when I am free to be yours forever. And since warrior men are fond of naming their tools; your other axe called Jarnbjorn. Name this one after me.”

“But,” he stammered as he climbed to his feet. He had never gotten her name! His princess. His queen. His eternal love that he would slaughter a million monsters and wait a million lifetimes for!

“My name is Morgan, my handsome warrior. Morgan le Fay. Save yourself for me, Njord. I will find you. I love you.” She then blew him a kiss from atop the dragon, Rhys, just before it opened its mouth and blasted an eruption of fire into the wall on the other side of the cavern, creating a gigantic whole large enough for three dragons to pass. The bright outside world was within walking distance. The smell of the fresh, warm, sunny day began to fill the once-prison of Rhys the Dragon as the dragon’s massive wings spread wide and flapped with tremendous strength, creating a powerful wind that nearly knocked the Viking to the floor once again. But he held fast, watching his love fly away, and gripping his weapons. Morgan, he held tighter than the other.

* * *

A bloody Viking burst out of the ocean, Jarnbjorn and Morgan in each hand and both needing a cleaning and oiling after such a battle deep in the ocean’s depths. His queen had guided him rightly from wherever she was now, showing him the location of The Holy Terror. From high up in the lookout nest, the overjoyed Mercy clenched the rails and shouted at the top of her lungs that he was safe. They were all safe from that ugly beast straight out of Norse legends! He defeated the Earth-killer,  Jörmungandr! She laughed uncontrollably as tears of joy, or sadness, rained down her face. She fell to her knees as her belly twisted in knots. She had been trapped in the past for a little over a month now and had seen so much that she had only ever seen or experienced in anime and video games. So much frickin adventure than she had ever expected to have out of her cruddy life. So much frickin fun! But, darn it all to heck! She wiped her eyes with her arm. All she wanted was to be back in Jack’s arms, not sailing on a bloody, frickin cool as poop pirate ship!

Captain Slicer stood on the forecastle, watching as Jim Sauvage and several others pulled his quartermaster onto the ship, turned to Marie Laveau and stroked her back gently. “Cursed, be we, Wife?”

She turned to face him with a bloody face and arms and patted his scruffy cheek with her jeweled, sticky hand. “We lost three good men, my captain. I would call that very cursed.”

He laughed out loud. “I say we only lost three good men, and we still have our ship. The map is not cursed, Wife; it may actually be lucky!”

“And will ya be wantin’ to celebrate our victory, Husband? Private-like?” she asked as she wrapped her arms around him and kissed him.

He stroked her thick black hair before releasing his lips. “Aye, don’t ye know it? But, first, I need ta see Quao about a pit-stop. After all that ruckus, we should dock and give us a good check for any damages. Get a refill o’ supplies whilst there. After I speak ta him, though…” he spoke passionately.

Hands under his shirt and on his chest, the Voodoo Queen smiled seductively. “I guess I have time for a hot bath then? I need ta get all this chicken blood washed off me body.”

“Voodoos a messy business, ain’t it?”

“It aided us, love. It helped ta ensure our success. Go see Quao, and then meet me in our quarters for an explosive evening. Just da two of us.”

“Pardon,” said Marius de Villeneuve as he brushed past Laveau on his way to his own quarters. Hesitating, he turned to the captain and added, “a solid win, no, Captain? That is good that we had the Viking and the witch to combat the sea-beast. The moon had not been out to allow my own friend to come out and play. Not sure what a werewolf could do such a creature, though.” After a few more words, he returned to his cabin, shared, cosily, with his friends, the Janequins. A nice romp in the sheets with his wife, or their friends would surely be in order after such an adventure. As he opened the door, however, he spied only his own children and the girl, Laetitia.

“Uncle Marius?” she uttered from the floor where they were playing with blocks, building quite the castle. The others shouted for their father and ran to him for a hug.

“Laetitia,” he laughed out loud as he squeezed and kissed his children, “come join us. I have hugs and kisses for you as well,” he said as he pushed the door shut with his foot.

Chapter 11

As the sky turned into a brilliant painting of pastel red and orange with clouds of yellow and pink hues, The Holy Terror limped away, devastated and bleeding out after the massive final attack from The Fancy just before it sunk into the depths of the Indian Ocean. Quao and the captain scoured the maps to find the quickest location for much needed repairs. Antongil Bay, they feared would be just out of reach. Cursing under his breath, the captain knew they had to find somewhere fast, before the sun sunk into the oceans once more. At that moment, Njord Ulrikson and the crew worked hard at patching the damaged hull as best they could and pumping out as much sea water as possible. Captain Jack Nelson had never spent much time on ships, but took to the work better than most would be able to. His strong arms, still hardened from years of military service, though younger now by a demon’s magik, slathered the hot tar across the spare wood and pressed firmly into the damaged walls. Emily Bloxworth, never one to shrink away from hard work, shared a slight touch of shoulders and arms now and then as she worked to repair the ship side by side with Jim Sauvage, four years her junior. Their eyes caught each other’s with a sly joyfulness that would have to wait to be fully explored until another time. The stink of the bodies of deceased crew and werewolves turned back to humans was almost too overwhelming for William Balding, but he joined in and assisted several crew members in dragging them to the sides of the vessel and throwing them overboard. They belonged to the sea now. Marie Laveau, the winged Mercy, and several other women on board were keeping busy tying to heel the wounded pirates, flesh torn with claws, bones severed by inhuman strength. Those bitten by the wolves had either bled to death or may have even been taken. In all, best count, thirteen pirates dead, seven missing. “Damned,” she uttered in disgust whilst wiping the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. “There’s nothing else to it.”

“There is hope, possibly, here,” the scarred-faced navigator, his long finger pointing at an island just east of Antongil Bay, a famous pirate outpost. “We shan’t make it must past here, Captain, but we should be ale to hold out long enough for this island.”

Captain Slicer’s eye studied the tiny island, just half a day’s journey from their current location. “Has no name. An’ I don’ recognize it a’tall.”

Quao scratched the stubble building on his neck and sat down upon the wooden stool. “Me, neither, Captain. We don’t travel round here often, though. Could have been overlooked is all.” He sat quietly for a moment and sipped his rum. “But we’re desperate. They’ll be wood. Maybe not oak or pine, but we can always dock in Antongil Bay after if the wood’s no good, Rio after would be better, after The River of Silver, of course. Whatever we are desperate enough for, I’m sure we can figure out a solution here. Fresh meat, too. Take some time for the repairs and see what we can scrounge up there, Captain.”

Slicer ran his finger east along the map, hovering over the speck of the island, then to Antongil Bay, beneath the African continent, and then all the way to the Viceroyalty of the Río de la Plata. “Helluva journey to go, Quao,” he snorted. There was something not quite right about this island, he could feel it, but they had no choice. It was there, or the bottom of the ocean. A heavy sigh was expunged as he stood up tall and shook his head. “Make it so, Navigator. Make it so.” 

* * *

Captain Jack Nelson held on to Mercy and gazed at the scenic, mountainous island just out of reach for the now as the anchor was dropped early that evening. They had patched up the ship as best they could, and was told it might hold out for another week or so, but nobody wanted to take the chance. He was glad that he at least got the chance to talk to his once and future friend, the now Captain Slicer. He had only known him as owner of The Broken Bottle Bar & Grill, with several locations around the world in the 2020s. The captain didn’t seem to care much that they had known each other in a time-line that he had not yet experienced. The pirate was only curious about the treasure map that Jack had acquired when the demon Hek had taken him back in time for some beers at a tavern in  Jamaica. He had killed a pirate who was abusing Slicer’s wife, Marie Laveau. Funny to Jack that it had been only thirteen years ago to him, yet the year that it occurred was 1692, almost a hundred years ago in Laveau’s life. That was why she hadn’t recognized him at first, even with all of Mercy’s stories. Jack hadn’t had a chance to see or speak with Vincent, whom he also had known in modern-day Las Vegas. As far as he or Mercy had known, the vampire had not done any time travel, and had probably never even heard of the wish-granting Hek. He had just arrived on the ship when they were docked in Paris. A vampire fleeing the French Revolution was Marie Antoinette. Any Star Trek fan would have a shit-fit with the way Slicer and crew had been fucking with the time-line. Slicer’s only goal was to see the treasure that the map had in store, located on some dangerous island off the coast of Rio. Jack sighed and kissed the cheek of the woman he loved, wondering if they’d ever get the chance to go back home again. Or maybe they were better off here, in the past, where there were no psychotic demons or ex-angel demon girls haunting their every move. He stroked the soft wings attached to Mercy’s back. Besides, what would happen to her if they did go back? Where would she be safe from scientists who may want to trap her and study her like in all the movies. There was their child, too, for now safe in her womb. Until he could figure all this out, his only real choice was to partner up with The Holy Terror crew. Be a pirate. “Aargh,” he chuckled, looking into her eyes.

She looked up at him, sucker punched his shoulder, smirked, and gave a soft “aargh, right back atcha, babe.” 

* * *

Captain Slicer closely studied the empty docks of the mysterious island. Barrels and crates lines its length, inviting and ready for the taking. “Th’ Hell-?” he said to nobody in particular, holding firmly to the hilt of his blade as he stepped off his ship. “How th’ Hell have we never heard a this island yet, boy?” he asked Jim Sauvage, stepping right beside his captain, also in disbelief. The island was like a painting, a beautiful landscape of green, mountainous ranges, clear blue skies, and a yellow beach almost completely shell-free. Healthy, sturdy fruit trees of coconut, banana, pomegranate, and more fruit tress grew in abundance throughout the landscape. Beyond the beach was a blanket of green, dotted with flowering colors straight from the rainbow, each another fruit, vegetable, flower, or leaf. The captain ran his fingers along the length of the packaged supplies, marked water, rum, bread, rope, flour, and much more. Unlit oil lamps hung from posts that lined the way, ready to guide any visitors in the dark of the night or during a blackened storm. He stopped then, hand out to give pause to all behind him, all those brought ashore to gather supplies while many more remained on-board to begin the repairs on the outsides of the ship. A hunting and gathering army of about 65 crew-members including Marie Laveau, Jim Sauvage, Njord, and the new recruit William Balding waited for the captain’s orders.  Captain Jack Nelson, Mercy, and the Janequin family accompanied, leaving the Villeneuves and the Queen behind to assist in other matters. Squinting his eyes and breathing in deeply, Slicer caught a scent that captured his senses. “Smell that, me hearties?”

The Voodoo Queen stepped forward and put her hand lovingly upon his shoulder and breathed deeply. “Perfume,” she responded. “There are women around, Captain.”

Excited voices of the pirates almost overtook the Captain’s dialog, but he would not permit it. “Any man drops his breeches for recreational purposes b’fore The Holy Terror is seaworthy will lose their reason fer ever droppin’ their breeches again, get me?” He did not look back at the disappointing grunts. “We’ve a ship ta repair and a treasure ta hunt, lads.” He scanned the horizon and located a sandy path ahead. “Let’s get what we come fer.”

Hand on the captain’s shoulder, the beautiful Jamaican, Laveau, spoke softly, but firmly, “I’ve a feeling we’re being watched, Husband.” Then, turning to the soldier from the future, “Jack?”

“Hard to tell with one only one eye, but, yeah, my experience tells me that we ain’t alone.” He held the tender hand of Mercy in one hand whilst the other gripped a cutlass. He’d had training in a variety of weapons during his years in the military. And though he preferred a handgun, he was not comfortable with the pistols of the 1700’s yet. Too unreliable, too slow to load. Up close and personal combat? That he could do with a pencil! “There’s someone out there, to be sure. They’d a seen us from miles away.” He thought of his missing computer eye and how, with it, he could get a good scan of the area, identify the targets, and be ready for almost anything. Hell, he’d be happy with two regular good eyes if he could get the other one back.

In that moment, out of the vegetation before them that the armed inhabitants of the island appeared. Handsome, healthy men and women, all aiming bows and arrows at the crew of The Holy Terror. All wearing clean, white togas and stoles, leather quivers hanging on their backs loaded with arrows, swords at the hips. Their skins were from the world over: black, brown, peach, tan, yellow, red, and more. All beautiful, as if pulled from a 20th century magazine. All eyes carefully studying those that just stepped foot on their island.

“Captain?” Sauvage asked, not yet raising his own blade, but definitely at the ready. The others joined in with hushed comments, leaving the final command to the captain.

Slicer took a quick look back at his crew and then faced the armed inhabitants of the mysterious island. He left his pistol and blade holstered and raised his empty hands in the air; a sign of peace. “We’ve a ship in bad need a repairs.” He tilted his head toward his ship. “We’re hopin’ ta collect some supplies an’ be on our merry little ways if ye’ll allow us.” The men and women of the island said nothing, though their deadly arrows were still aimed in the direction of the captain and his crew. With his hands, the captain halted his crew from moving, though he, himself, stepped forward into the soft sands of the beach, just a few steps forward, eyes on a few of the beautiful but deadly individuals. “Name’s Captain Slicer. We’ve no ill intentions if ye’ll b’lieve me. We’ll gladly pay ye fer any assistance.” He closed his mouth and searched for one who may be in charge, and then he found her. She was a little taller than the rest, perhaps six feet. She was full figured, with hair and lips the color of ripe cherries. His creamy white skin was flawless, unless you consider a sprinkle of freckles a horrible thing. A round face, bright and serious eyes of jade, and a small nose, gave her a youthful complexion.

“Ye’re Columbia!”

The others took the knee, one hand on an arrow, one on the bow at the captain’s realization. This was their acknowledgment of his words. He was correct. Legends told of a woman goddess who helped guide sailors across the oceans, keeping them safe from storms and sea monsters. They told of her guiding men and women across the seas surrounding Pangea to safe haven, away from warlords and mythical beasts. They told of her taking a liking to Columbus especially, perhaps even sharing a bed with him him, until he betrayed her peaceful ways and wiped out entire civilizations. Books from the captain’s childhood also told of her heroic efforts in guiding Pilgrims across the seas in order to escape persecution. The stories told of how she valued freedom above all else and led his ancestors to the pure white stone, almost gem-like, that was to be used in building the Presidential Castle in Washington, D.C.! But those were just stories in Slicer’s head. Though he had seen many unbelievable things in his life, he never had much faith in the goddess Columbia being real. She was just made up for American pride until they switched to the lanky Uncle Sam. He also did not believe that she had a North American birthmark on her right buttocks, but would love to find out for sure, if Laveau would let him.

“Captain Norman Slicer,” she breathed in a voice like honey. He wanted to cringe at her knowing of, and speaking, his first name, but could only feel pride in her talking to him at all. “You are welcome here, Captain. You and your crew may make your repairs and take all the supplies you desire for your journey.” She glided toward him. “We are a peaceful people, Norman, as long as we are not provoked. We only want to help those who falter. That is our desire.” She was thisclose to him. Her right hand, soft as lotion, touched his hairy chest, sending a tingle throughout his body. Her lips were but an inch from his. “We are happy to assist you with anything you need during you time here. We have excellent ship-builders.” Her breath was like sugar. Was he married? “Come,” she said, taking his hand. He hoped his hand was not sweaty. He wanted her to like him. “My people would love to hear your tales, your adventures over a meal before construction begins.” Her hair blew across his face. Soft. A scent of vanilla. God! She was incredible! Her people moved past him, all smelling amazing, like chocolate and azaleas and cedar and citrus. They were all beautiful, too! He could not turn around, he did not want to turn around, focusing on the shape of Columbia’s curves and the way she flew, barely touching the ground beneath her. He could hear her people take his people by their hands and leading them onward. “We have such a feast prepared for you, one you won’t soon forget, Norman. You will sit beside me at our table and be my guest of honor. You must meet my sisters, too. They will love you.” He already loved her, it was true! He had loved her since he was but a child, looking at her picture in a textbook in 2nd grade. She was so graceful, so pure! He had never loved anyone else and had always wanted to be with her, his Columbia!

* * *

Laetitia Janequin looked into the mirror in the marble room that the beautiful warrior had led her to. Her mother had gaily allowed the woman to take her daughter from her so as to ready her for dinner. Two more women soon followed, and soon bathed her in warm, soapy water, with bubbles that flew across the room. The pretty women giggled with her as Laetitia popped the bubbles with her fingers. They then dressed her in a fine, white, silken dress; long and pleated, her arms bare. The lower portion of the dress had an embroidered purple border while the middle had an similarly styled aiguillette with golden tips wrapped around her lower waist. The mirror revealed her youthful face, prettier than she had ever been, with a fresh clean face, accented with colors of dark purple upon her lips and around her eyes. She turned and admired her raven hair, elaborately crafted and twisted into a style that Marie Antoinette herself would admire, completed with purple ribbons and a crimson rose. But something else was there in the mirror that she had never noticed before. Within her emerald eyes there was a certain gleam, a power, a strength that she had never seen before. Not only was she beautiful, but she was strong. Powerful. Bewitching. A force to be reckoned with. The three radiant women behind her smiled gracefully, pleased at their work of art. One touched her shoulders and complemented her with, perhaps, the sweetest voice she had ever heard, besides that of Columbia, of course, but what the woman said, Laetitia could not say. She was focused only on herself, on her beauty that she had never seen before.

* * *

Captain Jack Nelson was in love! He smiled as he had never smiled before as he backed his lips away from the stunning woman before him. He gazed at her beauty, her slender face and heart-shaped chin. Her eyes were a deep, soft green, so deep that he could run in them forever. She was what he had always wanted. He had alway dreamed of this lovely, auburn-haired woman with painted, thin lips, standing just a couple of inches shorter than he. He placed his strong hands in her luxurious, long, curly hair that stretched down her spine. He felt the scars on her back and wondered what had happened to this incredible creature that he had loved all his life. He kissed her again, gently as he moved his hands to her smooth cheeks, savoring every inch of skin that he was lucky enough to trace with his fingers. “I’ve missed you,” he finally uttered, sounding much like a love-struck schoolboy, a complete idiot for this woman. “I never want to leave your side again,” he cried as a tear fell from his eye. She kissed that eye and then, gingerly, slid off his eye patch, and kissed the blackness that was revealed. Her arms found his bare shoulders and caressed them as she continued kissing, ever more passionately, his missing eye. She then backed him onto a bed, climbing on top of him. When he was able to see with both eyes, he finally had the bravery to say her name: “Grace.” 

“No, my love. Courtney.”

* * *

Jim Sauvage and William Balding stared at the enchanting faces in front of them. “Praise Columbia!” they cheered as the women dangled grapes over heir mouths. They went cheerfully along with the three women and the one strapping young man as they led them into an enormous spring of almost too hot water, steaming and bubbling throughout. They did not attempt to stop them as they playfully removed their filthy pirate garb and pulled them into the water. The pirates had no argument when the women and the man began kissing them all over. Jim wanted to protest, remembering the times in the castle where he was all too often raped by men much older and bigger than he, but this was different. He also knew there was someone on the boat that he held a connection with, but could not remember her name. Besides, how would he know if that was true? Didn’t she belong to another? This was true. This was gentle. Caring. Passionate. Love. This was where they were meant to be, where they had both dreamed of being all their lives. How had Jim known what William, a young man whom he had barely known, wanted all his life? He knew not, but he knew they were alike. They had the same hopes and dreams and desires. Nothing else mattered outside of this island. How had they gotten there again? Didn’t matter. Jim kissed the blonde girl as she passed the juiciest grape he had ever tasted from her mouth to his. “Praise Columbia,” she repeated. William laughed out loud as the man he loved nibbled on his ear and the woman he loved put her mouth on his didgeridoo.

* * *

Marie Laveau had never felt like this before. Younger. Prettier. Sexier. They had given her a warm bath, washed away any stubborn makeup, paint, blood, and dirt from before. They washed her hair and straightened it out, allowing it to flow softly down her back. They treated her not like a Voodoo Queen, but as an island princess. As a poor teen in Jamaica, she had no education, no future unless she slept with the pirates visiting her island for a handful of coins. She had no choice if she wanted to escape her past. She had to become a prostitute. She had dreamed of her escape forever. She had learned voodoo from the island witches to help her on her journey, to trick men, to control them, and to extort them. To use them. But it had never felt this way before, though. She cared little for her past husbands, except for their money. Perhaps even the man that owned the boat. The Holy Threat? But this was quite different, indeed! The handsome young black man she danced with long lengthy dreadlocks, hanging freely just below his neckline. He was caressing her arms and kissing her neck and was the most incredible kisser ever, just like the other man, perhaps his twin, kissing her shoulder. The blonde one, a strapping, tan, young man kissing her lips was also heavenly. She loved her new men, her next future husbands. They promised her happiness as they sauntered around the musically-enchanted room, lit only with an abundance of fireflies, and she believed them. They said they would take care of her forever, if she would only love them in return. She held one of her new lover’s faces and gazed into his dark green eyes. “I love you,” she sighed. “I’ll love you forever.” She allowed her gaze to fall upon the other men that held her, skin upon skin. “I’ll love each of you, forever. Praise Columbia.” A glimpse of a man then appeared in her brain. She seemed to know him from long ago. He was different from the rest. She loved him, differently from the rest. He was kind, caring. A raspy voice; Trim beard, but starting to gray.  She opened her eyes suddenly as one of the men was easing her onto a bed. “No,” she whispered. 

* * *

Njord Ulrikson allowed the women to scrub his naked body clean with a harsh brush made of camel hair. He did not like the feel, but fought his urge to stop them. He represented the crew of The Holy Terror and he had to be polite. He must give consent for the women to scrub every bit of dirt, sea water, blood, war paint, and grime from every part of his body. He squirmed as they lifted his arms and scrubbed. He laughed as they gently stroked his belly, tickling the warrior with some odd salts, using a circular motion upon his skin. He cringed as they lathered and washed the parts between his legs. When one kissed his mouth, he backed away suddenly, and turned his face away, surprising the five young women in the tub with him. He would, against his better judgment, give permission for them to cleanse his body, but not to take advantage of his good will. His lips, his body was not free to give. He belonged to another. His body belonged to another. They laughed giddily, not taking the Viking seriously as they continued kissing him softly, if not his lips, then his arms, his chest, his stomach. He nudged them, trying to push them away without violence, but they would not willingly accept his refusal. They cooed and begged, laying kisses upon his body whenever they were not being pushed away. “Enough,” he warned, quickly climbing out of the bath. He was in a dark room, lit only with an assortment of candles. A quartet of harpists, played softly upon their instruments, in a corner of the room. The Vikings eyes darted around the room, looking for an exit as they girls in the tub were calling him back, singing his name with all desire. “This is not right,” he said angrily. “Where is the exit? Where are my clothes?” The musicians played on. The girls in the tub splashed lightly and giggled. They called him back, over and over. The Viking, confused and angry, wet and unsure how to free himself from this trap, looked up through the glass roof above and made a prayer to the gods for answers as he felt multiple hands on his back, drawing him backwards, toward the warm water once more.

Then the sound of heels made the girls turn with a start.

* * *

“What the crap?” the winged Mercy snapped. She had allowed the handsome, bushy eyed stranger and the radiant young woman to lead her away from the group, even allowed her to undress her body from the nasty pirate clothes, bathe her, (while the man stood in the corner, taking the occasional peek), and redress her into an elegant, clean white stole with golden borders and aiguillette to match. She allowed them to make up her face in her favorite shades of pink. Even allowed them to do up her hair, trimming it and giving her a fresh spiky ‘do. They complimented her beauty, her eyes, her dragon tattoo, her wings. But then they touched her a little too inappropriately. They, both, tried kissing her lips, amongst other areas. Enough was enough. She shoved them both away. “I am taken, witches!” she fired away, body tense, ready to fight if necessary. “I’ve already got a man and ain’t no one else sticking their tongues in parts where they don’t belong, MFs.” She stormed away from her would-be admires, begging her to come back, to love them, and pushed open the door to escape the bedroom they had led her to. She sighed heavily and leaned against the door as she slammed it close. Far away, down the hallway, lit with candles along the wall, scurried a girl, about her own age, carrying a bundle, wrapped in black cloth. Mercy could swear she heard whimpering. “The duck-?”

* * *

Captain Slicer sat at the head of the grand table, stretching down the great room, with space for at least thirty more people to join him. More tables and benches filled the room, waiting for the arrival of the others. Before him was a vast selection of foods: grilled ham with pineapple rings, creamed corn, fresh-baked bread, greens seasoned with a million spices, pastries and cakes. Beer and wine. Chicken and sweet potatoes. Juices and fruits. To his right, the goddess Columbia piled as many delicacies as she could upon his plate of silver. “I trust you will enjoy everything our chefs have created for tonight’s meal. They’ve been preparing for days!” Her scent was incredible. He wanted very much to push aside all the food and take her there and then, but he didn’t want to be rude. That, and he reeked of sweat and filth. After a bath, perhaps? The captain peered around the red-head so see that the room was devoid of the others, nothing save for the goddess, himself, the tables, and all the food. “Your crew shall be along after their baths,” she stated as she sat herself to his right in a velvet chair.

“A bath does sound good,” he said out loud.

The beautiful goddess smiled at his words and patted his leg. “We’ll have one drawn once we’ve completed our business.”

Her lips looked so soft. He wanted to kiss them. He loved her dearly. “And what business would that be, m’love?” he flirted.

A slight chuckle escaped her lovely mouth. “I do so enjoy your company, Norman, but it’s not that kind of business. She patted his thigh and proceeded to slice his ham with shiny silverware with golden trim. “We have a proposition for you and your crew. You will, of course, receive all the supplies you require. We have an abundance of supplies as you may have already wagered. We are happy to share with you.” She placed food in his mouth. She smiled. She was so pretty. He wanted to kiss her. Wanted to marry her. Wanted to make love to her. “We only ask that some of your crew remain here.” He stopped chewing. Eyes on hers. So pretty, but what did she just say? “We desire to grow our population and for that, we need more breeders.” She dabbed his mouth with a silk napkin and paused for his reaction. He repeated her last word, as a question. She laughed again, cautiously. “We’ve a small population, Captain. More men, and women, of course, are needed to further our development as a populace.”

“You need…” was all he could say. She wanted his crew to stay and populate her island.

“They will be very well taken care of, of course. They every desire and need fulfilled. Every man and woman will be his or hers for the taking. Every need. Every desire.” Her hand was on his. So soft. “There are no dangers here, Captain. No sickness. No starvation. No aging.”

“No…”

“They will be beautiful, forever, Norman, much like yourself.” She stroked his stubbled face, now a bright red. “As long as they are on my island, they will stay young forever.” She leaned forward, her lips brushing his. “Wouldn’t that be a treasure?”

“Treasure?” he repeated, rapidly blinking his eyes and shaking his head. He took a fresh glance round the room at the empty tables, stood, and slammed his hands on the table. “Where’s my crew?”

* * *

Vincent Morávek woke with a start. Queen Antoinette lay by his side, sound asleep after a hard day’s work assisting in the ship’s kitchens, chopping and storing fruits and vegetables gathered from the beaches. He tried to rouse her, gently nudging her shoulders and calling her name. The hunger within him was growing. He had not fed in the month since they docked on the mysterious island, besides a nibble or tow from the skin of the queen and a handful of willing pirates. A month? He realized as he stepped out of the darkened cabin in the lower decks of the ship. “Hello?” he called out. No answer. He listened and smelled. Nothing. No one save for him and the queen. The ship was empty.

How long was he out?