Page 11 of The Redd Key (Bone Coven #1)

C offee was quickly the villain of the morning—a double-edged sword. I needed the caffeine to exist, especially after my restless night battling the relentless nightmares. On the flip side, all the bitter elixir would do is send me into a frenzy since I was already anxious about whether Nathan would materialize on Peak Drive. I pulled out the moonstone Anabel gave me and examined the crystal from under my pillow.

“None of that was any less confusing. You didn’t clear up anything that bounced around my head,” I said to the rock. The psychic properties of the stone were useless. My nightmares were a whirlwind of the cove, a storm over the sea, and those gleaming eyes from RJ’s painting.

Just like those steady eyes, the wooden chest sat in the corner of my apartment, giving me the uneasy feeling of being watched. The chest gave an air of knowing. Judgment, even. It was early, yet I knew I would soon be bombarded by texts from Bridget and Sarah inquiring about what we found in the cove. With my coffee mug in hand, I stood over the thing and contemplated the integrity of its structure.

“How have you survived unscathed?” I pondered as the chest sat in silence and unable to reply. Taking a sip of my coffee, I speculated. It had been completely dry when I lifted it from the tide pool. The wood was not weathered, splintered, or waterlogged. The finish was cured and had a sheen to it, matching the gleam of the black stone inlays. I ran my hand over the smooth lid.

Blooming beneath my palm, a subtle warmth spread through my skin, reaching up toward the crook of my elbow as if I had just dipped my hand into a sunbathed tide pool. A crimson ray of morning light illuminated the small keyhole. In fact, not a single speck of rust marred the iron adornment. Either the chest had been conserved in a way that somehow broke the laws of nature as it slumbered in the shallows, or maybe it was placed in the cove recently.

What secrets could the chest possibly hold? My fingers investigated every detail, searching for a way to bypass the use of a key. Perhaps it was jammed, and I just needed to wedge something under the lid. Briefly considering grabbing a knife from the block on the kitchen counter, I quickly dismissed the notion. Possibly damaging an over three-hundred-year-old artifact such as this one would be too painful. However, I needed to open the chest.

Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath, and the comforting scent of pumpkin spice from my coffee swirled in my senses. Joining the cloves, cinnamon, and nutmeg was the crisp fragrance of the fresh apple slices I was snacking on. The chirping of birds and the soft crashing of waves created a serene symphony in my ears. It was pure harmony. A cool morning breeze billowed through the barely open window, making a pleasant chill roll across my skin. The entire atmosphere calmed me, slowing my anxious heart and allowing me to focus. Visualizing, I saw myself opening the chest, lifting the lid gently with both hands.

Click.

It opened—just the slightest bit. Coffee threatened to spill from my mug with how badly my hands began to shake. Through the chest’s slit, I could see a soft glow; but as I blinked, it was gone. Perhaps it was the sunlight catching on an object within the chest, but it was even more radiant.

Steadying my hands, I apprehensively opened the chest fully. The hinges didn’t even groan against the movement. I didn’t know what I was expecting to be inside, but it certainly wasn’t the unremarkable collection before me. A drab and tattered pouch, a rusted but ornate key, and a leatherbound journal sat alone within the wooden box. And as one might have expected, there was an extraordinary lack of gold and jewels.

“Treasure chest, my ass.” I pulled each item out one by one. Though small enough to fit in the palm of my hand, the key was solid iron with a surprising weight. The pouch was made of canvas, browned with age. Inside were three vials: one with a dark liquid, another with flakes of some sort of red gemstones, and the last with a lock of blonde hair. I studied the small glass bottles, each one giving off an unusual sensation. My brow furrowed as energy flowed from the items, like they were calling out.

On the bottom, the journal laid, looking incredibly nondescript. What if it’s cursed…like Riddle’s Diary, and I’ll get sucked in and have to fight a Basilisk or something? My mind begged me not to touch it, to leave it be. However, curiosity got the best of me. I’m not trying to fight any mythical creatures right now. I cringed and reached to pick up the journal, but a flash of grey made me pause.

“Ferran, what the—” The little fluff jumped onto the lid, slamming the chest shut. “You almost caught my fingers!” I shooed him off the chest, making him reluctantly hop onto the floor. I checked the wood finish, making sure there weren't any scratches. This was a priceless antique that probably belonged in a museum. His little stunt reminded me to grab a set of cotton gloves before I carefully reopened the chest.

The historian in me was nervous to handle such a piece like the leather book, but the discovery was irresistible. Like a heartache, my chest tightened with the need to know. Once again, I couldn't help myself. The fact that this journal was inside a treasure chest found in the clandestine cove, a cove I dreamt about, had me throwing caution to the wind. In my hands, the leather cover of the journal was soft like velvet. I unfurled the cord that wrapped around the entire book. The spine gave way, as if the journal was well-loved and used often.

Peeling back the thin leather of the cover, I revealed the first page. The initials “S.B.” were scribbled on the corner of the rough leaf of paper. Nerves wracked my body as I pieced together the few context clues I spotted. Without jumping to conclusions, I held my breath as I turned the page.

8 March 1717

Storms, seas, and civilizations have come and gone this last year. Though, nothing from the wonders of the world can ever replace her splendor. I had never beheld such a creature in my life. Her spells have bewitched me, causing me to turn against ethics and duty. I have become a new man: in form and figure, in mind and meaning, and in soul and senses.

When I turned away from the Navy, I never imagined the journey on which I had embarked. Of course, I long to be back near Wellfleet to be with her, but my prospects have flourished as nights have passed sailing around the continents. Pride may be my fault, but I have confidence where confidence is due. No good men have been hurt , and no poor man has been robbed.

Villages and tribes that were to be bought and sold like cattle have been given the freedom of choice in their destiny.

The Whydah Gally is an extraordinary vessel , and I am honored to captain her. The fleet has expanded to four ships now since we acquired the Whydah. John Julian has shown great promise over the last few days , and he has shown a great deal of appreciation for this new life. The man and all those souls were to be slaves in the colonies. They now have rank and authority, wages and choice.

On this path, I set out to find riches and gain approval from Goody’s father to have her hand in marriage. Now, I know I am meant for so much more. The boundaries of land are not meant for men to squabble over, nor is one person any lesser than another by the sake of their birth. As I sail, we are all equal, and each crew member is held in great regard. This is the change the world has been begging for during its infliction of greed and piety. This is just the beginning.

However, I do not believe my Love shall forgive me…

S.B.

Air escaped my lungs as I let out a stale breath. In black ink were the words of the pirate Black Sam Bellamy. In my hands, I miraculously held the journal of the legendary man, witnessing his innermost thoughts. I spent the rest of the early morning hours thoughtfully reading the hooked script scribbled across the pages.

Suddenly, as if a government alert was sent out over the airwaves, my phone began to jingle and ding rapid-fire as soon as the clock struck eight in the morning.

Sarah:

Have you heard from Bridget yet?

Bridget:

Please tell your brother thanks for the ride home. Or you could give me his number, and I’ll tell him myself.

Then, there was the group chat…

Sarah:

Wait! The treasure chest!? Please tell me we’re like Nicholas Cage in National Treasure and we’re rich!

Bridget:

They have that crazy dude trying to kill them, too. We might actually be more like Nick Cage than we could have imagined.

It wouldn’t open though, right?

Sarah:

Don’t remind me. I barely slept at all. I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Nathan’s in Maine.

Both Bridget and Sarah:

WHAT?

And the chest opened.

Once again, both texted at the same time.

WHAT?!

Immediately following their responses, a video call request appeared. I joined and was met with their bewildered faces. Bridget was already in scrubs, navy blue today. Sarah lay in bed; her silk bonnet was such a bright shade of fuchsia that it burned my eyes.

“Morning.” I sang the word, eager to share the unbelievable events of the last few hours.

“Morning—” Bridget said bluntly. “Now show us!” she demanded.

“Please,” Sarah reprimanded her.

“Please,” she added.

“Okay, to be honest, it was a bit anticlimactic.” I turned the camera around to show them the inside of the chest. “But you won’t believe whose journal this is.” I lifted the cover and revealed to them the first page where the initials were branded.

“No fucking way,” Bridget whispered.

“I don’t get it.” Sarah’s face was extremely close to her camera as she squinted to see the page. “I’m totally missing something, aren’t I?” she asked as her eyes darted around the screen. I chortled as the camera angle distorted her features.

“Black Sam’s, Sarah,” Bridget hastily imparted. Sarah gasped and pulled back further from her phone.

“No fucking way,” she repeated Bridget’s words, mystified.

“It is! I read some of it. There’s only a handful of entries in it. The last entry is on April 24th of 1717.”

“That makes sense,” Bridget grimaced. “I’m pretty sure his ship sank right around then. But that was over three hundred years ago, so how is this book still in one piece?!” Bridget’s brows scrunched with apprehension.

“Any idea what’s in those bottles?” Sarah gestured to the three vials, squinting again. “So, there’s hair. That’s gross. Are those pepper flakes?” Sarah’s face was even closer to her phone. “And ew, what is that ?” She scrunched her nose at the glass bottle of dark liquid and pulled away.

“Gemstones,” I corrected her. “And I don’t know what this is.” I pointed to the dark liquid.

“I won’t be done with work until around 4, but you should bring it all to Anabel’s. I can meet you guys there after I’m off.”

“Wait, wait, wait. There’s too much happening right now.” Sarah shook her head. “Also, how are we skimming over the fact that Nathan is in Maine right now? Like, did he come here to see you, or does he just happen to be in the state?”

“Yeah, Raina, where is he exactly?” Bridget adjusted her phone so her face filled the frame.

“He sent me a pin from Portland and said, ‘See you in the morning.’” I consciously withheld the “ doll .”

“Did he say why?” I shook my head in response. “If he shows up, are you ok with that?” Bridget’s eyes darkened as her features grew with concern.

The way my heart flip-flopped thinking about Nathan showing up at my door…“I think it would be fine, even though I don’t know how he found out I was here.” I felt myself blushing at the thought of his threats . “I honestly could use the distraction.”

Sarah snorted. “Sure, let’s call it that. A distraction .”

“I have to run. Rai, bring Ferran into the office anytime today to have him checked out. If you come later, I can walk over to The Wicker Basket with you after my shift,” Bridget waved and hung up.

“I need to get my life together, too. Let us know if you have any visitors .” A smirk grew on Sarah’s face. I rolled my eyes hard, and we said our goodbyes.

For a long moment afterward, I held the journal in my hands and thought about what I read. Bellamy wrote about the wonders and splendor of the world he had seen. From his words, I felt what he felt. The awe and desire to discover more, see more. To go . The man was rough and harsh, but fair. He did not let the corruption of the British government soil his vision of humanity. He had not allowed himself to become jaded. With an open mind, eyes, and heart, Black Sam learned as he sailed around the Atlantic and beyond. For that, I admired him.

As I read his script, images of his recollections swirled in my mind. I felt transported to the sea: smelling the salt air, hearing the canvas sails expand with the wind, and feeling the wooden deck rock beneath my feet. I instantly became fully immersed in the entire experience, even hearing the cawing of gulls circling overhead. Their calls grew louder and more chaotic, as if the flock quickly grew to hundreds.

Screeching and shrieking filled my ears to the point of pain, and I gripped the sides of my head to dampen the sound even a little. The journal fell to the floor and opened to the last page. In the same hooked handwriting were the words—

“Some things should stay buried.” I breathed the words aloud.

Bang.

Something hit the wooden door to my apartment. I approached the door and slowly opened it, wishing I had installed some sort of peephole or camera doorbell. No one was standing on the threshold, but something caught my eye, and my gaze lowered.

On my welcome mat lay an enormous seagull. Its neck was at an odd angle, and its wing twitched erratically. Only a few heartbeats passed, and it went still. A small trail of blood slithered out from an unseen injury beneath the seagull’s wing. The tiny red stream made its way down the landing’s planks, dripping over the edge of the stairs. The gull’s head was to its side, and the one visible eye was looking straight into mine. Lifeless.