Chapter Twenty-Three
Drake caught Heather in his arms. Her entire body was rigid, every muscle contracted, and pain lined her pale face. “What’s wrong, love?” He removed her dark glasses to find her gaze distant. Panic swelled inside him as he shouted, “Colton!”
No one responded. His head snapped up, scanning the ship. Keegan lay on the deck, curled in a ball, his fists pressed tight to his ears, his jaw taut, grunting in pain. Colton sat against the railing, head in his hands, panting with effort.
What the hell was happening?
“Salt.” Heather gasped. “The dead. Everywhere.”
“Fuck!” Drake growled. How could Ashley be attacking all of them? And why wasn’t it affecting him? No time to figure it out now.
He laid Heather on the deck and raced for the galley. Inside, One-Eyed Bob placed fresh hush puppies on a platter next to a huge plate of fried shrimp and blue crab. He looked up with a grin. “I brought a folding table from the restaurant. You can set it up topside. I’m almost ready.”
“Salt.” Drake searched the countertop. “I need salt.”
Bob frowned and reached into a cupboard, handing him a shaker.
Drake shook his head, desperation gnawing at his insides. “No, I need more. A canister or something.”
The cook bent down, fishing through his rations. “Is something wrong?”
“Everything’s fucking wrong. The dead are here.”
“Ghosts?” Bob stood up, offering a canister of salt. “I thought they were after you?”
“They were. Apparently the target has changed.”
He took the salt and ran. Heather was right where he left her. Her face shone with sweat and tears rolled freely from her eyes. He made a circle of salt around her. “They lie, love. She makes them lie.”
Heather coughed, gripping her head and struggling to control the sobs shaking her chest. “I’m…fine. Save the others.”
“Stay here.” He hustled around the deck, circling each afflicted crew member with salt.
“What the hell is happening?” Caleb jogged up the steps from the lower deck. The ship’s navigator was more comfortable with his books than his crew, but his loyalty never wavered.
“The witch is using the figurehead to command the dead.” Drake finished circling Colton and moved on to Greyson.
Caleb flipped his head, knocking the unruly curls of his black hair away from his face. “How can I help?”
“The witch needs a personal item for the ghosts to find you.” Drake glanced his way. “You’re the smartest member of the crew. Find out what connects all these men and Heather.”
“And why didn’t it affect you and me?” Caleb mumbled, already pondering the problem.
Drake circled Greyson before rushing to John’s side. Blood trickled from the boatswain’s nose and ears. The figurehead’s magic was hurting him, but the Grail would keep him alive. Drake circled him on the deck while shouting to the others, “Stay inside the salt until we figure out what’s going on.”
John sat up, wiping his nose. “What the fuck was that?”
“I’ll explain in a minute.” Drake sprinted to the wheel where Keegan sat with his knees pulled into his chest and his head buried between them. His shoulders shook with sobs.
Drake gripped his shoulder. “They lie, Keegan. Don’t listen.”
He trailed a line of salt around Keegan that included the wheel. In case they couldn’t break Ashley’s spell, at least Keegan could pilot them back to shore. Drake rose to his full height, searching the deck. “Where’s Eli?”
All of the crew had come aboard to sail tonight except for Captain Flynn and his first mate, Duke.
Greyson’s voice broke as he pointed toward the rear of the ship. “He went to the stern to pull up a shrimp net for One-Eyed Bob.”
Drake shook the canister. There was still some salt left. Not much. “I’ll find him.”
He ran down the deck, shouting for Eli. Greyson’s apprentice was every bit as old as the rest of the crew now, even though he still appeared to be a young eighteen-year-old kid. It was tough to shake that impression even after centuries together. Eli was the younger brother to the entire crew, and they all looked out for him.
No one replied.
Drake rounded the corner, shocked to find the deck empty. “Eli?”
Maybe he’d been immune to Ashley’s power like Drake and Caleb and One-Eyed Bob. Drake gripped the salt tighter, heading for the corner where the shrimp net was tied off. “Eli? Where are you?”
No reply. With his heart lodged in his throat, he leaned over the railing. Eli dangled from the netting, both wrists slashed. The wounds were still present, so he’d cut them in the last few minutes. Eli had fought the spirits’ torment as long as he could. He’d heal soon.
Drake set the salt aside and wove his fingers into the netting to get a solid grip, then with all the strength he could muster, he tugged, leaning back and grunting with the effort. One step, then one more.
“Shit!” Caleb rushed over to help Drake.
Drake tilted his head toward the rail, spitting his words out through clenched teeth. “Grab Eli. He’s tangled in the net.”
Caleb bent over the railing. “I’ve got him.”
With Caleb bracing Eli’s weight, Drake wrenched the net over his shoulder and turned around, leaning into it as he walked to the other side of the ship, dragging the net and Eli on board.
Caleb scooped Eli into his arms, carrying him away from the net. “He’s free.”
Drake dropped the net, exhaustion biting at all his limbs. “Thanks, mate.”
“Where should I put him?” Caleb cradled Eli, a feat, since Eli was taller than Caleb by at least four inches.
“Take him to the bow with the others. I’ll circle him with salt.”
“Aye.”
Caleb turned and walked away while Drake bent down to retrieve the salt canister. What lies had the spirits told Eli to drive him overboard? He’d heal, but seeing him lifeless had shaken Drake to his core.
Death.
The reaper lost his power when they drank from the cup the first time, and recently when the healing effects started to wane, they’d all taken a second sip. Everyone except Colton. He chose to remain mortal and start a family.
Someday they would lose him.
Just like he would lose Heather if she refused to drink.
He followed Caleb back to the others, conflicting emotions gnawing at his insides. He could be sure of only one thing. Tomorrow he would go back to Miss Bianca, and no matter the cost, he would have the power to save the woman he loved.
…
David took the file from Janice Kwan, Department 13’s top attorney, and tucked it under his arm. “Thanks for getting the warrant so quickly.”
“Did you have any doubt?” She raised a perfectly sculpted brow. “Although your team gave me compelling evidence of her connection to the Digi Robins, you need to be aware that once you charge her, she has the funds to hook up with a pricey defense lawyer. Without a clear confession to the crime, she could make bail, and a woman with her IT skills will have no trouble creating a new identity and leaving the country. You’ll lose her.”
David rubbed his forehead. “So without a confession we’re screwed?”
She gave him a halfhearted shrug. “I’m just saying a signed confession would help keep her in custody until the trial.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
She handed him another sheet on a clipboard. “I just need you to sign here that you’re the acting officer on the warrant.”
He reached into his jacket pocket and…he patted his other pockets. “Damn it. That was my favorite pen.”
“Here, you can use mine.”
He took hers, signed, and handed the clipboard back. “Thanks again, Janice.”
The lawyer walked away while David sent a group text to his team to let them know their work paid off. Six months ago he wouldn’t have wasted the time, but he was a different man today. Recently he’d learned that his team was the only real family he had left in this world, and letting them know he appreciated them wasn’t a waste of time. Ever.
The helicopter was already waiting for him on the helipad to take him back to Savannah. If the fates were kind, he’d have Ashley Storrey in custody tonight.
…
By the time David drove into Ashley’s community, it was dark. He found a place to park a couple blocks away and killed the engine. Tonight, he’d arrest her. With any luck, he’d get a signed confession for the court and the location of the figurehead for Flynn and his crew to make the grab before anyone else got hurt.
In a few days, the relic would be locked in the vault. This could be his final chapter with Heather. If she chose to live dangerously with a member of the Sea Dog crew, he could walk away with a clear conscience. He could leave Savannah in his rearview mirror.
He was getting ahead of himself. He had to find Ashley first. If fate was kind, she’d be at home. He folded the warrant and slid it into the inside pocket of his suit. Showtime. He got out, walking briskly toward Ashley’s place, when something made him stop.
An eerie melody. Maybe a chant?
He frowned, following the sound like a siren’s song. It crescendoed louder, until the source of the screeching exposed itself. This was no siren.
This was a banshee.
David covered his ears. It didn’t muffle the glass-shattering wail in his head. He scanned the darkened houses on the street. No lights turned on. This torture was meant for him alone. He was the target, and the attack existed only inside his mind. He forced himself to lower his hands from his ears, struggling to fight his natural instincts. He’d trained for metaphysical battles for more than one lifetime. The key was to keep panic at bay.
A young girl approached him from the shadows. Dressed in a pink poodle skirt and her hair in a ponytail, like she stepped right off the cover of an issue of ’Teen magazine from the 1950s. He recognized her face but couldn’t place the name. She had been the victim in one of his first cases for Department 13.
“You let Daddy kill me,” she said matter-of-factly.
Now he remembered. Lori Miner. The thirteen-year-old girl’s file found its way onto Department 13’s radar after an internal FBI report could find no scientific explanation for an arson case.
Lori’s classmates all claimed the girl had started the inferno with her mind. No amount of questioning swayed their stories. The arson investigators never found evidence of an accelerant, and more worrisome was the lack of a starting point for the blaze. It was as if the school exploded in fire. No bomb fragments existed, either.
“You’re wrong.” David struggled for coherent thought while the banshee’s wail tormented him. “I tried to save you. We wanted to help you.”
“Daddy took me out in the shrimp boat.” Her skirt faded before his eyes, and her hair changed, wet with seaweed and brambles hanging from her ponytail. He blinked hard, willing the image to clear as her skin paled to a dull gray, and all the color drained from her eyes. “He cried while he tied my hands together. He said you made him do it.”
“No.” David winced, searching his pockets for any charmed trinket that could save him. “I was going to teach you to control your power.”
“You wanted to lock me up!” she screamed. “Daddy sent me to heaven at the bottom of the ocean.” She wrapped her arms around herself, trembling. “It’s so dark. And cold.” Gradually, her lips twisted into a vicious sneer, exposing her rotted gums, her teeth still ghostly white. “Now it’s your turn.”
Her words carried on the wind of the banshee’s wails. David’s head throbbed under the pressure. Unable to fight instinct any longer, he reached up to cover his ears even though the sound reverberated from inside his mind, not from the outside physical world. When he forced his hands back down, his fingers were covered in blood. How much longer would he be able to withstand this attack before he was deafened permanently?
He continued fumbling in his pants pocket for something that would block the mental attack. The girl taunted him, coaxing him to draw his pistol, to put it to his head and embrace the silence. “You can make this stop.”
A reply wasn’t possible, his mind far too jumbled. His pouch of magical herbs was still in his pocket. They could heal any wound, even from a gunshot, and had already kept him alive more lifetimes than he deserved. Sadly, herbs weren’t going to quiet the banshee or the vengeful spirit in the poodle skirt.
She kicked his foot. It should mean something. Think, damn it. His thumb brushed a cool, smooth surface of the trinity stone in his pocket, granting him a split second of clarity. The ghost touched him. Poltergeist.
He gripped the trinity stone and pulled it free of his pocket. It was used to ward off demons, and although his tormenter was a ghost, it might work to break the manipulation she was under. The banshee shrieked even louder inside his head, making him cry out in pain. He couldn’t die, but he could lose his grip on sanity.
He squeezed the stone tight and withdrew it from his pocket. Sweat rolled down his face as he lifted his head and stretched his hand out toward the decaying spirit. “This stone…will protect…you.”
Her expression faltered, the twisted smile morphing into a frown. “She’s making me hurt you.”
“And you can stop her.” His hand trembled. The yellow glow of the streetlights danced on the smooth surface of the black stone. “Take it.”
She hesitated for a moment before snatching it from his hand, as though touching his skin might burn her. Clutching the stone, she closed her eyes. Color returned to her face and her clothes.
Smiling, she lifted her head. “I’m free.”
The trinity stone clinked on the sidewalk as Lori faded from this plane of existence. Too bad the banshee wail didn’t vanish with her. David crawled forward, struggling to retrieve the stone. The tremors in his hands were costing him time. He’d learned one thing. The figurehead only controlled the spirits of souls lost at sea and claimed by Davy Jones.
He clutched the smooth black stone in his fist. If Davy Jones was some sort of demon, then touching the Trinity Stone could free the souls from the Flying Dutchman’s captain, which meant Ashley couldn’t control them with the figurehead anymore.
Fuck. If he could hear himself think, he would’ve been able to come up with a workable plan. Right now all he could manage was one thought.
Stop her.
David ground his teeth, his jaw clenching against the wave of nausea as he stood up. The screeching intensified with each step closer to Ashley’s house. In spite of the sweat stinging his eyes, he kept his focus forward, fixated on his singular goal. One step at a time, each more difficult than the last.
By the time he reached her door, his breathing was labored and his gut tied in knots. He drew his Glock, unable to keep it from shaking. With his other hand he twisted the knob. Locked. He smashed the gun through the side window and stretched his arm inside to unfasten the deadbolt. Somewhere in the depths of his tortured mind it registered this was against rules, against the law, but he didn’t slow. Survival was more important.
He stumbled through the door, wincing as the volume ramped up in his head. Ashley was on the couch. Or what used to be Ashley. He blinked, lifting his weapon in her direction. She didn’t move. Her eyes were pure red and unblinking, her mouth shaped in a perfect O, and although she was indoors with all the windows and doors closed, her hair…floated. Like she was underwater.
He rubbed his arm across his forehead, fighting for coherent thought. It was an impossible errand against the shrieks in his head. Even so, he couldn’t shake the idea that maybe…Ashley was the figurehead.
Suddenly she blinked, her eyes once again human. Her mouth snapped shut, silencing the banshee in his head. Before he could squeeze his trigger finger, the world went dark.