Page 12 of The Summons (Legend of the King’s Ring #1)

O

nce again, the familiar sounds and sensations of being out to sea drifted past Emeline’s ears—the creak and groan of a ship, the gentle purl of water against the hull, the rolling movement of waves. And the shouts of sailors going about their duties.

Only these shouts were in a foreign language.

Terror seized her, attempting to pull her from the fog that coated her mind. Prying her eyes open, she blinked in an attempt to clear the blurry scene. A cabin. A ship’s cabin. The bulkhead and door oscillated in her vision…grew smaller, then larger…then smaller again. Pain thundered in her head. She slammed her eyes shut and spread fingers over the cot beneath her. A soft quilt. An odd scent of bergamot stung her nose.

She pushed to sit up. The cabin spun. Nausea churned in her stomach. Gripping it, she forced it down, trying to remember what had happened.

The last thing she recalled was falling asleep in Delphine’s house.

Someone had come into her chamber!

Her head felt as though an anchor had embedded itself into it. Moaning, she dropped it into her hands.

The ship bucked over a wave, and she grabbed the cot to keep from falling. Shouts grew louder above her. Spanish? Nay, Italian.

Jesuits .

Fear clenched her belly, resurrecting her nausea. Lord, where are You? Why is this happening?

No peace came. No gentle voice assuring her all was well. Nothing made sense anymore. What could she have possibly done to be worthy of such punishment? She opened her eyes again and examined the cabin. An Italian chest of drawers was bolted to the wall beside a tall looking glass. A pitcher and basin sat atop it, along with two rather large books. Across from her, a brass-buckled mahogany trunk perched in the corner while a silk-woven rug graced the floor. Not an ordinary seaman’s cabin.

Lord, what do they want with me ?

She remembered her father’s words. Whenever you don’t understand some tragedy that has befallen you, you must trust that God has everything under control. There is a purpose for everything. Our job is to obey and have faith .

At the time she had thought it wise advice from a godly man. Today, it seemed nigh an impossible task.

Alone. Alone again. She hugged herself. Whenever she’d been frightened, whenever she’d felt alone, she would seek out her mother or father or siblings. And her fear and loneliness would dissipate. But now? The cabin spun again. The bulkheads rippled in her vision and seemed to close in on her, shrinking the already tiny space. Was she to be crushed alive?

Heart racing, she gulped in deep breaths in an effort to calm her breathing. She’d been given a drug of some kind. That was it. She was not going mad.

A grinding clank sounded. The door burst open to a blast of salt-laden wind and a tall, lithe man dressed in black. Narrow eyes set too close together undressed her with their gaze above a grin reminiscent of a crocodile’s. Without saying a word, he grabbed her arm, hoisted her onto her feet, and yanked her out into a long hall. Lanterns perched onto walls mocked her with gruesome shadows as he dragged her behind him and then shoved her through an open door into a much larger cabin.

A captain’s cabin. Signor Arturo Della Morte set down his quill pen and rose from his chair behind an elaborately carved wooden desk. He flicked bejeweled fingers at the man behind her, and within seconds, the door slammed shut. A jolt of fear shrieked down Emeline’s spine, as dizziness spiraled through her head.

“Please, sit, Signorina .” He gestured to a chair upholstered with red velvet before the desk.

Normally, she would not obey a command from such a deviant, but she feared she would fall to the deck if she didn’t. The cushion was soft, the chair arms carved and hard, but she gripped them nonetheless, doing her best to stay conscious. “What did you do to me?”

“Do?” Grinning, he circled the desk, tugging at his lacy cuffs.

“I am ill.”

“No. Not ill. We merely gave you a bit of opium to assure your cooperation.”

Of course. The reason for the nausea and dizziness. Straightening her spine, she faced him. “It will take more than a drug to gain my cooperation, Signor .”

His lips tightened. “Father. You will address me as father.”

“I cannot do so, for I only have one earthly father and one heavenly One.”

He stroked his pointed beard. “I see the rumors are true. English dogs have little control over their women’s idle tongues.”

Rays of sunlight rose and fell over the hideous Jesuit, glinting off the gold epaulets on his shoulders and bold cross around his neck. Beyond him, rich velvet curtains framed paned windows through which waves of a cobalt sea frolicked as if naught was wrong with the world.

But everything was wrong.

Emeline shifted her shoes across the richly woven damask rug, lifting a silent prayer for God to protect her from this man.

“Where is the Ring, Signorina ?” He gripped the hilt of his jeweled saber, studying her.

“I do not have it. Which I’m sure you discovered when I was, no doubt, violated whilst I was unconscious.” The thought of these men’s hands groping her brought nausea back to her belly.

He laughed. “We searched you, though not the entirety of your person, for we are men of the cloth, after all.”

Men of the pit was more like it. “As I said, I do not have it.”

“But you know where it is.”

“I threw it in the bay at Basseterre.” She winced at her lie, but how else to gain her freedom?

“I do not believe you. You see, you were never out of our sight.”

Such intense darkness pooled in his lifeless eyes that she averted her gaze to a large wooden trunk. Birds and flowers were carved in gold along the sides. Quite exquisite work for shipboard furniture.

“Why do you seek it?” she asked. “’Tis just an old relic.”

His smile was wide and predatory. “You are quite full of lies for one so young.”

She feigned a chuckle she did not feel. “Are you foolish enough to believe a fable, a mere myth, that it holds power?”

His jaw tightened at her insult, and for a moment she thought he’d strike her. But then he drew a deep breath and fidgeted with a silver chalice atop his desk. “If it were not true, then why does Pope Clement XI, the vicar of Christ, demand I bring it to him?”

She wanted to tell him that no man was a vicar of Jesus, no man could ever represent God Almighty. But why anger him further? “I suppose he will reward you greatly for your mission.”

“To serve him is enough reward.”

Now ’twas her turn to laugh.

Sharp eyes, full of malice and hate, speared her. Then swerving away, he moved to a cabinet, opened it, and retrieved a bottle. “Care for some Chianti?”

“Nay. I prefer to keep my wits about me.”

“And you will need them.” He poured the wine into the chalice, then spun to face her. “For if you are wise, you will tell me where the Ring is.”

She studied him, his insolent stance, his posh attire, the authority he shielded himself with. In his place, a young lad appeared, thin, boney, dressed in rags, running through a small village. She blinked the vision away. Why was God showing her these things? What did they mean?

“You grew up poor, Signor , did you not? I see you as a young boy, hungry and cold.”

He sipped his wine, but not before she saw a flicker of shock cross his eyes and a wrinkle form on his brow. He laughed. “As you can see, Signorina , I am quite wealthy and powerful. Both of which would be to your credit to realize, for your very life is in my hands.”

“My life is in God’s hands alone.” She raised her chin. “Your god is power and money, and I assure you, he will only disappoint.”

Without warning, he threw his chalice at her. She ducked. It struck the bulkhead with a loud thump . Rage mangling his features, he charged her. She slammed her eyes shut, awaiting his strike. The scent of bergamot flooded her.

Strong hands lifted her from the chair and hurled her against the bulkhead. He clutched her throat and squeezed. She couldn’t breathe. Was this to be her end?

Lord ?

Struggling for air, she attempted to pry his hand off her neck, but his fingers were stronger than a ship’s gasket. She kicked, but her feet met only air.

“I tire of your insolence! Tell me where the Ring is, or I’ll kill you right here.”

He released her. Gasping, Emeline melted to the floor, gripping her throat. She heard him walk away, pour more Chianti. She had underestimated this man’s hatred, his need for power.

“I regret my outburst,” he said, “but your vicious tongue is not to be borne. You will find me a gentleman if you cooperate.”

Finally able to breathe, Emeline struggled to rise and stared at him. More than anger, more than fear, she felt pity for him. Though a grown man now, attired in velvet and lace, and bearing the mantle of the Pope’s authority, he was still that little boy, hungry and cold.

“I do not have the Ring you seek, Signor, ” she coughed out. “It was stolen from me.”

Cocking his head, he let out a sigh of frustration. “Ah.” He flung dark curls over his shoulder as his face lit. “Captain Blake Keene. I saw his ship in the harbor.”

She thought to deny it, but what good would it do? This man was no fool.

“Since you have claimed to be a gentleman, Signor , I beg you to set me free. I am of no use to you.”

“Ah, but you are, Signorina. ” He grinned. “Are you not Captain Keene’s paramour? Surely when he hears you are in grave danger, he will give me the Ring in exchange for your safe return.”

b

Standing upon the quarterdeck under a brisk wind, Blake stared aloft at a moon mocking him from above. Sails trimmed to tops and gallants for the night fluttered in the breeze. Below him, pirates lulled about the deck, drinking their ration of rum. Some played cards, others told fables of great heroics, a few sung an old sailor’s chanty.

He rubbed the Ring tight about his finger. It had been a week since he’d taken it from Miss Hyde… Emeline . Thus far, it had proven its power over wind and wave, saved him from battle with a Jesuit frigate, and gained him the fortunes of two unsuspecting merchant ships. His crew was happy. Their wealth was amassing, their fame spreading. His plans were coming to fruition.

Then why did he feel like his world was being ripped apart? With the Ring, he could control God’s nature, defeat ships in battle, and, if need be, bring naval admirals to their knees. But he could not control his own demons. Each night they rose to haunt him, taunt him, flaunt their putrid damnations, their never-ending blasphemous slurs. Worse when his father appeared. Would the man not leave Blake be, even in death?

Maston slid beside him, bottle of rum in hand. “The crew are restless to spend their coins at port, Capitaine . Perhaps we should make for the nearest anchorage. Is not your island close?”

“They are happy enough.” The Summons leapt over a wave, and Blake gripped the railing, smiling at his bosun. “Perhaps ’tis you who longs to go ashore?”

Maston sipped his rum and snorted. “You know me well, Capitaine . I could use some female company.”

Aye, Blake did know Maston. They had much in common. They both had endured brutal childhoods, both sought all they could out of life, grabbing for every bit of wealth and happiness. But they differed as well. More than wealth, Blake needed control. He would never grant anyone the power to hurt him again.

“Very well. We’ll make way for Keene Island. I need to offload my portion of the treasure.” Home. At least the only home he’d known. “If the crew remains restless after that, I’ll find some debauched port to satisfy their lusts.”

Maston handed him the bottle. “I will inform them.”

Grabbing it, Blake took a sip and gave it back.

“I’ll be takin’ some o’ that,” Rummy called from the wheel behind them and, laughing, Maston headed his way.

Jabbering brought Blake’s gaze to Bandit swinging down the ratlines. The traitorous monkey landed on the bulwarks beside Sam Goode, who stood in his usual spot at night, brooding over the inky sea.

Blake had a question for the only man on board with half a brain. Leaping down the quarterdeck ladder, he eased beside him at the railing. Wind, ripe with the scent of salt and fish, tore over him, and he breathed it in like a familiar elixir.

Bandit screeched and leapt onto Blake’s shoulder.

“Good eve to you, Captain,” Sam said, though his tone indicated anything but pleasure at having his brooding interrupted.

“You are a man of philosophy and science,” Blake began, hoping the flattery would get the man talking. “What do you know of nightmares? Are they merely fabrications of one’s deepest fears? Or do they come from some outside source?”

Silence, save for the rush of the sea and the drunken shouts of pirates, answered him.

Finally, Sam leaned further upon the railing and clasped his hands. Moonlight glistened off his short-cropped gray hair. “What possible force outside of one’s own mind could they hail from, Captain? I fear these superstitious cullions you call a crew have befuddled your mind.”

Indeed. A fortnight ago, Blake would have agreed and dismissed the dreams. But he’d never had nightmares, even during the worst of times. Not like those since he’d acquired the Ring. “I do believe there are powers beyond what we mere humans can know.”

The wind shifted, flapping the sails above, and blasting over Blake, tossing hair into his face. He snapped it aside.

At the risk of his surgeon thinking him mad, he continued. “But what if nightmares become real, visible to one’s sense of sight and hearing?”

Grunting, Sam gripped the leather baldric strung across his chest and gave Blake a look of censure. “I’d say you’ve been overindulging in rum, Captain. Perhaps ’tis the woman that has driven you mad. You abandoned her on St. Kitts?”

“Aye.” Though Blake bristled at the term abandoned .

The old man’s gaze locked upon Blake. “Good. Beware of losing yourself to feminine devices, for they are only illusions.”

“Never fear, I have not thought of her since,” Blake lied. The enigmatic Emeline Hyde had oft been on his mind this past week. No matter how hard he tried to scatter all memory of her. Yet…he studied his friend, only then recalling that ’twas a woman who had ruined him. “Are you never to seek the company of a good woman, Sam?”

He gave a sad laugh. “Is there such a thing?”

Bandit, silent until then, let out a screech as if answering the man . Oddly, it sounded as though the monkey had said yes! Blake shook his head. This wasn’t the first time he thought he understood the little beast, nor the first time it seemed Bandit understood him. He twisted the Ring on his finger. Either he was going mad, or this was another power the Ring possessed. But to what purpose?

Blake chuckled. “Perhaps next time, choose a woman who is not already married?”

“I admit to the mistake.” Sam stared out to sea. “But ’twas her betrayal to her husband, the admiral, that enslaved me upon a ship of the line.”

Blake nodded. So he’d heard.

“Was it not a woman who nearly ruined you?” Sam asked. “You would be wise to learn from that mistake.”

Blake ground his teeth. Josephine Arnaud . ’Twas the French vixen’s betrayal that set him on his present course. “ Nearly ruined , being the prudent phrase, for I learned much from the encounter.” And the heartbreak. “As should you. You are free now, Sam. You have wealth. You can choose more wisely and live out your days in happiness.”

“Bah.” Sam shook his head. “’As for man, his days are as grass: as a flower of the field, so he flourisheth. For the wind passeth over it, and it is gone; and the place thereof shall know it no more.’ That is the lot of all men.”

As if confirming his words, a gust of wind tore over them, forcing Bandit to grip Blake’s neck to keep from falling.

Scripture? Sam Goode quoting the Bible? Surprising. ’Twas even more surprising that Blake recognized it from the times his mother would read to him the Holy Writ. So many years ago. He gripped the cross around his neck. He’d always thought the passage morbid. Why ponder one’s fate when there was still life to live?

“Then I leave you to your musings.” Pushing from the railing with Bandit still atop his shoulder, Blake mounted the quarterdeck ladder and nodded at Rummy as he leapt down the companionway. As soon as he approached his cabin, the madcap monkey leapt from him and rushed back down the hall, screeching as if he’d seen a ghost. Blake could swear he heard the word evil within the beast’s shrieks.

Perhaps he had. Ever since Blake had returned to the ship, Bandit refused to enter his cabin. It made no sense, but then again, many things didn’t make sense at the moment. Like the darkness he felt in his cabin. More than a sense of evil. A palpable presence. Eerie cries and moans that burned his ears, sights that turned his blood to ice. Not only when he was in his cabin. He’d seen and heard the specters throughout the ship. Yet when he pointed them out to his crew, no one else could see them.

Pouring himself a shot of rum, he perched on the stern window ledge and stared upon the dark sea where faint moonlight sprayed white glitter over select waves. He rubbed his eyes. He’d not slept in a week. The Ring warmed his finger, and he closed his hand over it and braced for what was coming.

The black creatures returned, swaying, undulating, filling his cabin with a weight Blake felt pressing against his soul. Then the voices came, all muttering together, anguish and agony in their tones. He could make out only a few phrases in their demonic babble.

Doomed. Murderer. Worthless.

He closed his eyes, trying to shut them out, hoping his father would not join them as he so often did.

Emeline Hyde . Hadn’t the dark figures vanished in her presence? There was goodness in her. Purity. She kept the evil part of the Ring at bay. He craved its power, but he could not go on like this. He found no joy in his recent victories, no peace in his sleep, no happiness in the pleasures he once enjoyed. He must find a way to control these demonic forces, and he had but one recourse.

Aye, no matter what, he must find Emeline and get her back.