The Devil's Tide Read online

  Copyright © 2012 Matt Tomerlin

  All rights reserved

  Kindle Edition (July, 2012)

  No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without prior express written permission by the author.

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  Visit Matt Tomerlin's Blog: mtomerlin.com

  For two fiercely lasses... my mom and my sister.

  Table of Contents

  PROLOGUE

  NATHAN

  CALLOWAY

  KATE

  HORNIGOLD

  ANNABELLE

  NATHAN

  KATE

  DILLAHUNT

  CALLOWAY

  ANNABELLE

  HORNIGOLD

  NATHAN

  KATE

  NATHAN

  CALLOWAY

  HORNIGOLD

  ANNABELLE

  KATE

  DILLAHUNT

  NATHAN

  KATE

  CALLOWAY

  ANNABELLE

  CALLOWAY

  KATE

  ANNABELLE

  VANE

  CALLOWAY

  KATE

  DILLAHUNT

  CALLOWAY

  KATE

  DILLAHUNT

  KATE

  CALLOWAY

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  DON'T MISS BOOK 1, "THE DEVIL'S FIRE"

  NOW AVAILABLE ON AMAZON KINDLE!

  PROLOGUE

  The water gently lapped at Ranger's hull as her sharp bow slid through the calm night sea, like a knife silently cutting glass. The waxing moon shimmered in the delicate ripples that spread from the ship's wake. Sails fluttered softly, plump with the mild yet persistent wind that urged the ship forward. A pirate snorted in his sleep, his hammock swaying as he rolled onto his side.

  "This won't last," Bastion said in a thick islander accent, aiming a finger at the brilliant starry sky. A storm had been chasing them since departing Nassau, a dense cloud growing heavy and black on the aft horizon. No matter how fast they pushed the ship, the cloud's mass slowly increased, like a great monster that had all the time in the world. The wind was constant, and Ranger was a fast sloop, but the storm could overtake them in a few easy steps if it so desired.

  "Nothing lasts," Bart replied, plucking the last sliver of meat from a chicken bone. His belly was full to bursting, but he knew better than to waste good meat in the early stages of a journey. The crew would be living off hardtack and rum before long, and chickens would plague their dreams. Bart savored the final juicy bite and tossed the bone to the sea, watching as it tumbled downward and made a little splash in the dark water. Not much of a meal for the sharks.

  He rested his arms on the rail beside Bastion, letting the cool breeze sweep over his face.

  "How long before Governor Rogers comes for us?" Bastion said, peeking nervously over his shoulder, the whites of his eyes showing brightly around his pupils. His dark skin would have rendered his features indiscernible in the night if not for the moonlight.

  Bart had specifically chosen a best friend who would enhance his mental and physical appearance in every way he could possibly conceive. Bart was a head taller and more powerfully built. Bastion was five years older than Bart, who was twenty-five, but Bart thought him no wiser than a teenager. In fact, there were few aboard Ranger that Bart considered his intellectual equal.

  "I don't know," Bart said with a lengthy sigh. He didn't care to think about what was behind them, only what was ahead. He had run away from his overly strict parents in New York when he was eight and had never looked back. He spent much of his youth moving from family to family, conning each with various fictions that detailed a tragic heritage, though in truth he had suffered no tragedy. He spent a year or two with each family before growing tired of them, gathering up whatever valuables he could conceal, and moving on to the next. Eventually, he ended up working on a merchant ship, where he displayed considerable aptitude mending sails. He remembered little about his mother, but he was certain she had been a gifted seamstress. That gift must have trickled down.

  Bart was recruited into piracy when the trade ship he served aboard was set upon by Benjamin Hornigold and his protégé, Edward Teach.

  "Rogers isn't after us," Bart continued. "He's after our dear captain. You and me, we're ghosts. Once we've got that treasure, we'll disappear."

  "What if there's no treasure?"

  Bart shrugged. "Then we'll disappear as poor men, same as always, and move to the next venture until we can disappear as rich men." Bastion was always dwelling on what might go wrong. As far as Bart was concerned, there was an easy way out of any situation, if one only bothered to look for the escape route.

  "Captain Benjamin cannot disappear so easily."

  "He's a fool," Bart growled. Hornigold, a former pirate turned pirate hunter, had been Governor Woodes Rogers' right-hand man, and he'd thrown it all away thanks to a mysterious woman's promise of a buried fortune. Under cover of night, Hornigold held a covert meeting with his crew in Nassau harbor, informing them that he planned to abandon his duties and seek out this treasure. Hornigold would bring the woman with them as a guide; a kind of human treasure map. She was a pretty thing who called herself Kate, with untamed hair that might have been colored in blood.

  Bart and the majority of the crew, most of whom had been former pirates, were more than happy to oblige. They weren't making enough under the employ of Woodes Rogers. If Rogers apprehended them, they could always feign ignorance and say they were simply following Hornigold's orders and didn't realize that he had acted without Rogers' permission.

  "Once pirate, always pirate," Bastion said. Probably something he had heard one of the men say. Like a parrot, Bastion often latched onto phrases he had overheard, even when he didn't fully understand their meaning. Bart often found himself explaining the meaning of the phrases whenever Bastion used them inappropriately.

  "Problems arise when a pirate makes a name for himself," Bart replied, digging a strand of meat out of his teeth with a fingernail. "A man can't disappear when everyone knows his face." He nudged Bastion with an elbow. "You and me, we're nobodies. You know why history doesn't tell of successful pirates?"

  Bastion thought about that for a moment, frowning. When he came to a conclusion, he looked like he might throw up. "Because successful pirates do not exist?"

  "No, you fool," Bart spat. "Because the successful pirates were nobodies, like you and me. They were smart enough not to make names for themselves. They kept to the shadows and kept their mouths shut. Men like Hornigold want the fame and the fortune. You can't have both. The smart ones, we'll never know their names, and that's the way they like it."

  "Maybe them not smart," Bastion suggested with a shrug. "Maybe them just lucky."

  Bart ground his teeth. "Luck's got nothing to do with it. A real man makes his own luck."

  "No," Bastion said, shaking his head ardently. "You cannot make luck. My father told me this."

  Bart pushed himself angrily off the bulwark. "Well then your father was a bloody idiot! You really don't know anything, do you?"

  When Bastion regarded him with a raised eyebrow, Bart flung his hand contemptuously through the air. "You've gone and sullied my jovial mood," he said. "I must recover it from the bottom of a bottle."

  Bart left Bastion standing there staring dumbly after him. His anger slowly waned as he zigzagged through several sleeping crewmen sprawled about the deck and made his way below. He found a dozen men in a corner of the hold, where they were huddled around a few candles, passing around a large jug of rum. He squeezed between Andrew Harrow and Fat Farley, who were seated on a long crate. Harrow slapped Bart on the back and handed h
im the jug, which had a third of rum left in it. Bart eagerly tipped the jug and took a huge swig.

  "Slow down, Barty," Farley chuckled.

  Bart righted the jug and handed it back, wiping his mouth. A bubble of air climbed his throat, and a massive belch popped from his lips. "I needed that," he said.

  "Have another," Francois Laurent, one of Ranger's gunners, grinned. "We're fully stocked."

  "For now," Bart said. "A few more nights like this will make short work of it." But that didn't stop him from taking another swig, and another, and another. Soon the bottle was empty, and Francois stumbled across the hold to fetch another. As Bart groggily watched him disappear into the dark, he saw something. Just before the candlelight's reach faded into the pitch darkness, a bare foot dangled from a crate. He scaled the leg to a vague, slender figure sitting in the dark. Even in the shadows, her hair shone red. Her hand rested on a bottle of her own, which was half drained. Black linen breeches hugged her hips, fastened tightly around her thin waist by a black belt. She wore a man's white shirt with ruffled sleeves. The shirt was loosely laced at the neck, revealing her cleavage. Her eyes were shadowed by her hair, but her mouth was visible and clearly smirking.

  "She's been there all night," Farley whispered in Bart's ear. "She just watches us. Gives me the creeps, she does."

  "Why isn't she snuggled up with Hornigold?" Bart said. The sentence seemed to take minutes to escape his mouth, and he heard himself slur the words. The rum was doing its job.

  "I reckon the captain is asking hisself that very same question," Harrow replied. The rest of the men chuckled . . . but not too loudly. They glanced apprehensively at her, as though they didn't want to offend. Bart winced in revulsion. What kind of pirate was intimidated by a woman?

  Francois returned with a new bottle, filled to the brim. He sat down, popped the cork, and stole the first gulp. He offered the bottle to Farley, but Bart snatched it first. He took a swig and then dropped the bottle in Farley's lap.

  He aimed a finger at the woman in the dark. "Has anyone had a go at her yet?" He said it loud enough for her to hear.

  Everyone suddenly shifted in their seats, looking anxiously at each other. The woman didn't react. Her fingers lightly drummed her bottle of rum in dawdling succession.

  "Don't think so," Farley answered under his breath.

  "Reed said the captain wants her unspoiled," Harrow whispered.

  "Unspoiled?" Bart said, curling his lip. "That's a downright aggravating choice of words!"

  "Not so loud," Farley said, holding a hand out flat and lowering it in a hushing motion.

  "And why not?" Bart snapped.

  Farley's mouth fell open, but he had no answer.

  "That's what I thought."

  Harrow's hand fell on Bart's shoulder. "Bart, that's enough."

  "That's enough?!" Bart shouted, standing. The crewmen pulled away as he stumbled between them, knocking over one of the candles with his heel. It rolled against a crate, flame sizzling out as the wax spilled over the wick. "Have you forgotten who we are? We're pirates! There is no 'enough' for the likes of us!"

  Farley and Harrow exchanged a woeful look. Francois sniffed and looked down at the floor.

  "She's the reason we're here," a young blonde crewman Bart didn't recognize said timidly.

  "And that affords her the right to strut about our ship un . . . unspoiled?" He sneered the last word.

  "Bastion!" Francois suddenly cried, extending a hand. "I think it's time your friend went to bed."

  Bart turned. Bastion had entered quietly behind him, standing between two crates. "I come only for rum," Bastion protested with his palms up. "I do not solve disputes."

  "Damn straight," Bart said. "That's Reed's trade, and he's not here." Quartermaster Reed generally put an end to quarrels before they had a chance to begin.

  Bart faced the woman. The room swirled as he turned, and he thrust out a foot before he fell. "The very least she can do," he said, pointing at her, "is let a few of us betwixt her thighs."

  At that, the woman gathered her rum and slid off the crate. She left the room without looking back, hips languidly swaying. Her hair glimmered in the diminished candlelight after her figure had faded.

  Bart turned to the group, spreading his arms. His right hand raked against a crate, grinding splinters into his knuckles. He clenched his teeth and refused to openly acknowledge the pain. "She departs before I can finish," he said, blinking rapidly.

  "You had more to say?" Francois quipped with a little smile.

  Bastion sat down between Farley and Harrow, where Bart had been seated. He took a sip of rum, stared at the bottle for a moment, then fixed Bart with a very serious look. "This not a good idea. Captain Benjamin won't suffer dis . . . dis . . . what's the word?"

  "Disobedience," Francois answered.

  "Yes, that one."

  "We're pirates again," Bart hissed. "What's a little disobedience amongst scoundrels?"

  "Bart," Farley said, finger raised. "Your hand is bleeding."

  "Shuttup," said Bart.

  Bastion shook his head sternly, his large eyes unblinking. "Captain Benjamin work with Blackbeard. Him learn a thing or two about dealing with disobedience."

  Bart gave an exaggerated shiver. "See how I tremble! You know what they call Hornigold in Nassau? 'The Gentleman Pirate!' Not a fiercely name by any notion."

  "Bart," Farley said, "your hand looks ill, mate."

  Bastion's head was still shaking. "Captain Benjamin won't be happy if you kill the only person knows where the treasure is hiding."

  "He's got a point there, mate," Farley said, grabbing the bottle.

  "I don't mean to kill her," Bart replied, blinking at the blurry blob that had just spoken. "Maybe I'll just teach her a lesson."

  Harrow tittered. "From the look of her, I'll wager she's learned many lessons."

  "None so hard as mine," Bart said, and he swiftly pivoted on his heels and made for the exit before bravado could flee him.

  "No stopping him now," he heard Francois say.

  "I'm not about to try," Farley muttered.

  Bart shouldered through many crates, which seemed to be sliding in on him. The walkway was far more cramped and difficult to navigate than when he had come in. A chicken scurried about his feet, flapping its wings and squawking. He kicked the bird with all his might, propelling it into a crate. The chicken landed flat, one wing flapping spastically. "Might want to cook this one now," Bart called back. "I tendered her up for you."

  "Stairs are the other way, Bart," Harrow called.

  "Don't need stairs," Bart guffawed.

  He found one of the ladders to the deck and started climbing, scraping his nose on a rung. He cursed, shaking the dizziness from his head. Halfway up, he peered over his shoulder. The crewmen stared after him from their distant patch of light. Farley waved, his face bright red as though he was ready to burst out laughing. Bart spat at them and continued climbing.

  His hand slipped on the next rung, leaving a smear of blood. A massive splinter was jutting from his knuckle, blood seeping between his fingers. He tore the splinter free with his teeth, feeling no pain, and wiped his hand on his pants.

  He slapped both arms on the deck and wrenched himself upward. He stood, invigorated by the cool fresh air. He scanned the deck, his vision blurring in and out of focus. Pirates were scattered everywhere, sleeping soundly. He looked to the bow but didn't see anyone. Had she run to her captain at last, fearing the inevitable?

  He looked to the captain's cabin, set in a stairway carved in the deck. The door was shut. Bart started toward it. They were pirates again, after all, and the captain's quarters on a pirate ship were not exclusive to the captain. Bart would barge in and take what was rightfully his, and there was nothing Hornigold could do about it.

  A slender shadow stirred above the cabin on the aft deck. Her hair was unmistakable. Bart sprinted up the three steps to the deck. No pirates were sleeping here tonight. It was just him and her
. She smirked suggestively and slowly moved to the bulwark. She set the bottle of rum at her feet and faced him. She was framed by the black storm clouds in the distance, ever vigilant on the horizon. "What took you so long?" she said.

  "I knew you wanted me to follow you," Bart slurred.

  "Picked up on that, did you? And here I thought myself subtle."

  Bart moved closer, wobbling on unsteady legs. He had overdone it with the rum, but that never seemed to damage his libido.

  "The others wouldn't have picked up on it," he said.

  "You're smarter than them," she replied knowingly. She placed her elbows on the rail behind her, stretching her shirt across her chest, nipples pressing against the fabric. Bart's heart thumped in his chest as he advanced.

  "You were right, you know," she said. Her voice was wincingly raspy, almost masculine, as if she had screamed too many times.

  "About what?" Bart said, pausing.

  "About ghosts," she replied.

  "What about ghosts?" he said, trying to sound casual. The ocean was moving slowly away from the ship, the sails billowing with all the haste of a snail struggling through molasses. If Bart didn't get to his business soon, he would pass out.

  "When ghosts disappear, no one notices," she said, running her tongue across her upper lip.

  He frowned, gradually recalling his conversation with Bastion. "You were listening in?"

  She laughed. It was a harsh sound, like pebbles grinding. "I was passing by and overheard."

  "You have good ears."

  "I only have the one, you see." She trailed a finger across her temple, drawing back her hair to reveal a garbled mess where her right ear had been. Bart flinched. What had happened to this woman? "Don't look too disappointed," she chuckled. "It's only an ear. I have a spare."

  He swallowed his revulsion, pushing the unsettling image from his mind. She was still very attractive, two ears or one. It was fortunate that her hair concealed the mutilation. He supposed he could get past it.

  She curled a finger, summoning him closer. "You'd better hurry," she said, eyes descending to his crotch, "before the spirit absconds."