The Jinxed Pirate (Graylands Book 2) Page 6

  Within Graylands, the city of Seba carried an infamous reputation. It was said to be a nesting place for outlaws, thieves, and mercenaries—run by corrupt lords and ruthless brigands. No Sentry Elite would dare enter Seba without a legion at his back. It was because of this unsavory reputation Arkady thought it would be the perfect place for them to hide.

  Hell, boss, he would say. You’re Krutch Leeroy! If anything, you should be running Seba!

  That would be true, Krutch thought, if he was anything like his reputation made him out to be. In reality, he was no great warrior or thief or pirate. His legendary reputation was nothing more than a literal curse—a jinx that convinced all the world he was some infamous marauder and cunning swashbuckler.

  His one attempt at trying to be a great warrior—even a hero—resulted in getting blown up and nearly incinerated by a dragon with the scars to prove it. He stretched his right arm, flexing his hand, cringing under the stiffness of his healed burns. Parts of his arm were discolored, and he suspected the scars caused by the dragon’s fire would be with him for the rest of his life.

  If he was a different sort of man—perhaps a man more like the Krutch Leeroy the rumors and stories made him out to be—he’d take some measure of pride in having actual dragon-fire scars running up his arm. Were he a different sort of man, the stiffness and pain caused by stretching would be a fun reminder of his grand adventures and badge of honor.

  But in the end, the incident at the Blind Cliffs confirmed something Krutch already knew about himself: he was a loser. A loser kept alive by dumb luck and his pistol which didn’t even have any more ammo. One who would more than likely get himself killed in a city like Seba.

  “Someone’s played with fire.”

  He found Jessica at the trap-door to his room. She climbed inside and leaned against the opposite wall. Her hair was loose and dropped down her shoulders, giving her an alluring, unkempt look. The candlelight highlighted the curves of her body, and her shirt offered a hint of her midriff.

  Krutch—having little experience or luck when it came to women—did not interpret her presence, expression, or choice of clothes as anything. Under ordinary circumstances he’d be tongue-tied and nervous around such an attractive woman, but he was too tired to notice or care.

  “More like the fire played with me,” he murmured. “So is it Anne or Jessica?”

  “My name isn’t Anne Anwater,” she said. “And I know your name isn’t Dan Dirkwood.”

  “That obvious, huh?”

  “Alliteration is a poor choice for an alias.” She sat beside him on the cot and looked at his burn scars. “How’d it happen?”

  “I got blown up by a dragon.”

  She looked like she was about to laugh, as if he’d told a joke, but hesitated. After a moment, her eyes widened. “You mean..? The Blind Cliffs! There really was a dragon?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you saw it? You were there?”

  He held up his scarred arm, letting that be answer enough.

  “That’s incredible!”

  Her green eyes lit up, and Krutch was surprised to discover not only someone impressed by him, but for an actual reason and not due to his curse. For once in his life, he had a true story to his name.

  “Yeah,” he said. “There were cultists, and the Enforcer was there, and they were trying to sacrifice a princess, and then a dragon appeared.”

  Jessica’s jaw dropped. She held his scarred arm and asked, “And this—you got this from the dragon?”

  “Yeah,” he said, scratching his hair. “I, uh, I kind of got blown up.”

  She smiled with a glint in her eyes that made his blood warm. “Sounds like you had quite the adventure,” she said. “I bet a man like you gets into all sorts of adventures.”

  “Um, well,” he said. “Sort of, I guess. I usually try to stay clear of trouble, but … uh …” He let out an awkward chuckle and finished, “What I get for trying to play hero.”

  She gave him a sympathetic look and caressed his burns. “You don’t strike me as the hero type.”

  “I’m not.”

  She leaned close. “You’re a villain if I ever saw one,” she said with a wink.

  He tried to say something, but the words caught in his throat.

  “Who are you?” she asked “Really?”

  He looked at her, almost lost in her eyes, and considered telling her. She knew his name wasn’t Dirk-whatever and didn’t make a scene about it or tell Lucas. Would there be harm in telling her he was, indeed, infamous outlaw and fugitive Krutch Leeroy?

  He almost said it, but thought about the incident in the tavern. It’s all fun and games when she thinks he’s some harmless drifter using a phony name—if she found out he’s a wanted pirate, that’s a whole different story. A gamble not worth taking.

  He could’ve come up with a better alias, but said, “Sorry. Can’t say.”

  “Aw, come on,” she replied. “I won’t tell Lucas, I promise.”

  “I know, and I appreciate that. But let’s just say it’ll be safer if my real name stays unknown.” She made an exaggerated pouting face, sticking her lower lip out, and he chuckled. “It doesn’t matter anyway. I’m probably heading out of here tomorrow.”

  She nodded, and there was an expectant look on her face he couldn’t read. He recalled she had seemed anxious during supper, but wouldn’t speak with Lucas around.

  “How did you end up here?” he asked. “You seem like you want to leave.”

  “My family has a farm near Melba,” she said. “My father beat me, so I ran away. I didn’t really have a plan or destination, so one thing led to another, and I wound up here with Lucas. He said he would take care of me, but …”

  Jessica trailed off and frowned. Although she didn’t say it, Krutch could see a mixture of frustration, despair, and even anger in her eyes.

  “Why stay?” he asked.

  “He won’t let me go.” He was about to speak, when she flinched as if she heard something and darted to the trap-door. “I’ve said too much. If he catches me talking to you …”

  Krutch said nothing—although an image of punching the Brother in the face came to mind. He held it in check, remembering the last time he sprang to an endangered woman’s defense he found himself face to face with the Enforcer.

  As Jessica started down the ladder, she asked, “Are you going to Seba?”

  “I really don’t know,” he said. “I’m sure you know what they say about that place.”

  “Oh, I do,” she said. “But I think a guy who can face down a dragon can handle anything Seba can throw at him.”

  She flashed a smile and pulled the trap-door closed.

  * * *

  Gareth didn’t return until the next morning, and Katrina stayed awake the entire time. She didn’t bother trying to find a room or place to sleep. She didn’t even move. She sat on the stone wall beside the pond and waited as the sun passed behind the mountains and sky shifted to the purple hue of evening.

  Torches and candles lit throughout Lester and in the small houses. The orange and yellow lights glowed in the misty haze of nightfall, and it looked so peaceful and safe and beautiful, she found herself hoping—against her better instincts—she would be accepted among her people.

  As the moon rose and shined against the still water, she wondered what she would do if they turned her away after all. She couldn’t imagine how likely or unlikely it might be, but she knew it would be foolish to assume she’d be welcomed back with open arms—especially given how Gareth reacted to seeing her.

  She didn’t know what she would do. She tried picturing it in her mind, imagining Gareth or one of the others coming and telling her they wanted her gone, and could not guess how she would react or what she would do next.

  Her eyes fell upon her wrists, where she found she’d been caressing the scars there. In the moonlight, she saw the narrow white lines that marked each wrist, and she remembered that day long ago.

  She had fulfil
led her destiny and killed Armand Tyrell. It was supposed to be the dawn of a new age and an end to the decadence that had sent Vigor into decline. She would reclaim her family’s throne and take her rightful place as Princess—no, Queen—of the land. It was to be the end of years of preparation and fighting. Instead, by killing Tyrell, she unleashed the Red Plague that wiped out her home and (so she thought) everyone in it.

  She had held the knife—or maybe it was a shard of glass—to her wrists and dug into her flesh. She could remember not feeling the cuts and staring at the blood seeping from her wounds. She remembered it dripping from her wrists and pooling on the ground at her feet.

  What she didn’t remember was what made her stop the bleeding and save herself. She didn’t know what made her decide to continue living, but she closed the wounds and left Vigor to begin her self-imposed exile in Graylands.

  It won’t come to that, she thought. Even if they turn me away, I wouldn’t try that again. She caressed the scars and tried to imagine Gareth telling her to go. I don’t think I would.

  As the sun rose, she resisted the desire for a drink—not after the mess she caused. She didn’t want to be even the slightest bit drunk when Gareth returned and risk making a bigger disgrace of herself. And besides, she thought, if they did accept her, she should make an effort to quit drinking.

  Just imaging that made her hope things would work out. If they took her back, she could clean herself up. There’d be no more wandering, no more destroying herself, and she could be a whole person again.

  The morning turned warm and burned the mist away. The grass seemed to glow in the light, and the pond shimmered with a bright glare. Finally, Katrina saw two figures approaching on horseback. The one on the left was Gareth, but she wasn’t sure of the other. She hopped off the wall, stood up straight, and tried not to look as tense as she felt.

  With Gareth was a shrewd looking man with a thin goatee and brown hair that was flecked with gray. As he came closer, she recognized him and felt uneasy. She recalled his name was DeLance—an old Vigorian family from the upper-class who secretly helped the resistance.

  DeLance glared at Katrina, looking like a businessman considering some important deal. “So,” he said, dismounting his horse, and with one word, she could hear disdain dripping from his voice. “The Ghost Princess has deigned to grace us with her presence.”

  “I,” she started. “I didn’t—”

  “I know,” he interrupted. “Nora already told us.” He sighed, though it sounded more like a groan. “So you wish to join us? Wish to reclaim your title as Princess, eh?”

  “N-no,” she said. “I don’t want to be your leader or anything like that. I just—I just want to live among you. I want to be with …”

  DeLance just stared at her. His face was dour, and she got a feeling where this was going—confirmed when she looked at Gareth. Her eyes were cast to the ground, and her face was somber. Katrina hesitated and looked at DeLance, and his eyes were cold. She had their answer.

  Feeling lightheaded, she whispered, “Why?”

  “Princess Lamont,” DeLance said. “After the Red Plague destroyed our home, we’ve spent nearly ten years trying to salvage what pieces remained. Even those of us that had served Armand Tyrell had to carry on. And in these past years, we’ve managed to hold together this humble community.”

  “Why can’t I be a part of it?” she asked, not even bothering to hide the pleading in her voice. “Why am I not allowed—”

  “We decided your presence would be too disruptive,” he said. “You are representative of painful memories, Princess. For both sides. Your presence would only serve as an … unpleasant reminder of past conflicts and old … beliefs.”

  Katrina felt her chest tighten. She strained, grinding her teeth and trying not to cry. “I didn’t ask to be your Chosen One. I only did what I was told I needed to do.”

  “Be that as it may,” he said. “Those of us who remain don’t need to be reminded of all that business. We’ve moved on, and there’s no place for you.”

  “I’m sorry, Katrina,” Gareth said. “It was unanimous.”

  She felt her heart pounding. Her fists clenched so tight, her nails dug into her palms. Part of her wanted to lash out—to shout and scream about how wrong they were. Wrong to judge her, wrong to cast her out, and wrong to think their pain was in any way worse than hers.

  But even the thought of fighting back exhausted her. There was no place for her. She was back where she started—Rien, the aimless drifter. Katrina Lamont was dead. She was the Ghost Princess.

  “Fine,” she growled. “I’ll go.”

  “Katrina …” Gareth began.

  “I’ll go,” she repeated through gritted teeth. “You made your decision, and there’s no place for me here. None of you will see me again.”

  6

  Lily sat pressed against the wall to put as much distance between herself and her neighbor as the small space allowed. She felt a cramp near her hip from sitting like that, and her skin crawled the entire time. Her eyes were locked on the window, and she dared not look at the Brother seated next to her—even if he was just reading his book and made no attempt to bother her.

  Beacon was far behind, and they were passing through a mountainous region. The train rode eastward along the side of a steep cliff. The mountainside plunged hundreds of feet to a wide river, and southward, the range lowered and gave way to a massive stretch of valleys and plains beyond. The sky and land faded into a blurred mist on the horizon, and the sun barely shined through an overcast sky.

  After excusing herself when the train left the station, Lily spent the first several minutes of the journey stewing in the vestibule. She struggled not to take the White-Vest sitting next to her as a bad omen. She knew she’d have to sit next to someone during the train-ride, and she’d only deal with more people on her voyage beyond.

  But of all people, of all the seats, it had to be this guy next to her.

  She sighed and tried to calm down. After all, she thought, she was going to have to get used to things like this if she hoped to survive outside Graylands. She could keep herself under control, but she would always need to hide that she was a demon no matter what. Sharing the train-ride with a holy-man was as good a test as any. Maybe it was a good thing he sat beside her..?

  “Yeah,” she muttered, dragging her hand through her hair. “Like catching a pox.”

  She had gone to the lounge-car, hoping she could hide there for the duration of the trip, but thought better of it when she got there. The car was empty save a small group of Sentry Elite. She debated whether she would be better off near soldiers or the Brother, when one in particular caught her attention.

  He stood a great height, towering over his fellow Sentries, with short, black hair and a sharp, stern face. He was thin, but not at all frail. There was strength and muscle in his lanky frame. Lily recognized him as Captain Byron Stark. He stood by the edge of the group, saying little and only letting out an occasional smirk or chuckle as his comrades talked.

  Lily had heard tales of Byron Stark. He was famous as a fierce and heroic fighter—but there were also stories that outside the battlefield he could be cruel and harsh to people he considered beneath him. There were also ugly rumors he was particularly abusive to women.

  Being a demon, especially a half-succubus, it was within her nature to sense the darkness in others—often, her preferred choice of prey. Although he carried himself as a great man in war, she sensed malice in the heart of Byron Stark. He happened to look up and spot her standing in the vestibule.

  With a shudder, Lily walked away, muttering under her breath, “I should’ve taken an afternoon train.”

  When she returned to her car, she planned on making some excuse, take her shoulder-bag, and seek out a new place to sit. Unfortunately, by the time she got back, every other seat was taken. Brother Myers had saved her place as promised and even asked if she was feeling better. Since then, he’d read his book and been nothing b
ut courteous to her. Lily almost felt guilty resenting him so much.

  It’s only because he doesn’t know what I am, she reminded herself. If he knew what I was, he’d be first in line to burn me at the stake.

  All Lily knew of the Faith was its belief in a single Deity responsible for all things. He (or she) was supposed to be some grand, benevolent being with a great, wonderful plan for all life. But Lily and her kind—creatures of the Black—were evil incarnate and had no place in the living world or the glorious afterlife promised by all these religions.

  “Are you okay?” the Brother asked.

  “I’m fine,” she snapped.

  He didn’t look offended by her tone. With patient sincerity, he said, “I only ask because you seem upset.”

  She chaffed in her seat, feeling guilty again. “I just—I’m fine.”

  He closed the book he was reading and placed it on his lap. “It wouldn’t have anything to do with my being a ‘White-Vest,’ would it?”

  “No,” she mumbled, already knowing she didn’t sound convincing. In her mind, she was trying to think of ways to drop the discussion—even thinking of just getting up and running away.

  “You needn’t be embarrassed,” James said. “I’m used to it. We got a lot of it at the mission.”

  “You were a missionary?” she asked, while in her head, she screamed at herself: No! Don’t encourage him!

  “To an extent,” he said. “The real missions are further south in the actual frontier. Like I said, I’ve never traveled that far. Anyway, I know the Faith is still rather new in this country—and not entirely trusted either.”

  Lily murmured in response. She had her arms crossed in front of her and sat with her shoulders slumped.

  “I know we’ve been lumped in with some fanatical cults,” he continued. “But I promise, we mean no harm to anyone.”

  “I’ll bet you don’t,” she hissed under her breath.