Chapter Five

 

 

 

Merritt’s abilities sharpened in that cave as he held each bewitched object in his hands. He soon knew who owned what, including a small gold ring that belonged to Denny. Merritt would wear it until he saw Denny again. He slumped against the cave wall, remembering that his sister had said Denny would soon be here. She could only know that if he’d been arrested and would face trial for his crimes.

The trials on the island were often harrowing.

His sister was on probation with the court, forbidden from bewitching another soul. Instead of following the judge’s orders, she’d hexed her own cousin. How long had she been doing this to Gremma? Merritt would put a stop to it. He would find a way to stop all of it.

A heavy rain fell from the sky and he huddled against the chill. He was hungrier than ever now. Oh, the sandwich! It hadn’t been poisoned so he could eat it. He glanced at his hands. His previously cursed, blackened fingertips were their normal color once more. He had to wash them, though, after all that negative magic had moved through them.

He had a plan but a clear mind would help him execute it.

Why had Cillian died if the apple hadn’t been poisoned? What had killed him? He’d seen his sister cutting his shoulder, but Cillian had had no wound when Merritt had found him in the stables. Wait. Avery was from the elf community and their magic cured animals’ wounds. Merritt would ask him, but suspected that Avery must have found the cut and assumed that Cillian had injured himself on a tree branch and had healed him.

Merritt stepped outside and let the rain wash over him. He’d danced in the rain on the deck of the La-Di-Da with Denny. They’d laughed and sung songs, until Fortunata had appeared, furious, and the dancing had stopped.

Soaked now, he moved back into the cave, feeling refreshed. Thankful for his hiding place, he dropped to the floor and opened the package containing the sandwich. He ate fast. Perfect. He slumped against the wall again, trying to ignore the rumbles of hunger still scratching at him from within.

Just a little bit of rest and he’d set out at dawn and confront Gremma. He’d restore her natural beauty and force her to no longer hex people. He knew how he would do it, too. He’d threaten her with an unbreakable hex she could never lift. That nobody could lift.

He’d turn her into a Scylla, a six-headed, twelve-footed sea monster, destined to spend her days alone in the ocean hunting for food and being hunted by those who desired to kill such beasts. Merritt grinned at his own creativity. It was an especially cunning idea, considering Gremma was deathly afraid of the sea.

Merritt tried to settle into sleep, dozing on and off. Denny’s face was there, smiling and laughing. “My love.” Merritt reached out to him from his dreams.

 

* * * *

 

Denny awakened from his sleep late in the afternoon when Barthelmass returned with a jug of mulled cider. His dream of Christoph seemed so real he looked across the room expecting to see his former shipmates’ cells from the bars of his own, but they weren’t there. A strange emotion tugged at him. Merritt had hovered over the edge of the dream and it devastated him. Why do I feel as though I cheated on him when I didn’t even know him then?

Without him, Denny felt as though life was imprisonment. Denny’s father, who’d had little education, was fond of quoting some old French philosopher who’d apparently said, ‘Man is free but is everywhere in chains.’ True enough. The heat from the fireplace in Christoph’s office no longer warmed him. Back to reality, he remembered returning to his cold cell. This was a different cell in another time and place. He wasn’t free. He was everywhere in chains.

Barthelmass’ voice invaded his thoughts. “It’s non-alcoholic, so drink up.” He’d also brought a hearty bowl of fish stew and a thick hunk of fresh, hot, crusty bed.

Denny sat at the little table and ate with gusto. He wondered if Ebba had made this. She’d certainly prepared him many a good meal during her time with him until she had left the ship. He was certain she’d been asked to be set free in Tenerife. He was convinced things had been good between them. How had he not known of her curse?

He nibbled at his bread. Maybe she asked me before we were both cursed and I forgot about it. She got off my ship, though. In one piece. He suddenly remembered her reference to having two husbands. He couldn’t help asking Barthelmass, who chuckled. “Yes, she was married twice. Dead unlucky she was. Both drowned at sea. Left her quite rich.”

Denny listened, wondering if she’d offed her husbands for their wealth. As though Barthelmass could read his thoughts he said, “Doesn’t matter how rich a woman is, if she is cursed, no amount of money can shift it.”

“And the prince won’t allow you to marry?”

“Some people are destined for sadness.” Barthelmass sighed, looking so unhappy Denny felt miserable for the poor fellow.

Denny stared at him. What a strange thing for Barthelmass to say. It was not the first time Denny had heard these words. A twinge of angst hit him between the eyes and made his wings twitch.

“Excellent!” Barthelmass seemed pleased, forgetting his own concerns as he touched Denny’s feathers.

Denny was lost in thought, still shaky from his dream. He’d never seen Christoph again after Piggins had procured the crew’s release. Christoph had stayed in his office when Denny and the others had left their cells. Whatever had occurred between him and Denny remained their secret. The other crewmembers had treated Denny kindly after that, believing Denny had given of himself to save all their asses. It was partly true, but he’d enjoyed his time with Christoph. His incarceration had allowed him to explore his own sexuality and he found he wanted, and deeply desired, men.

Denny never said so, but other men who were so inclined drifted toward him once he took over the ship and renamed her. Freedom came with piracy, and he had a lot more success than some. He had often dreamed of returning to the port in Tarragona, and had done one time, about three years after his imprisonment. Christoph had no longer worked at the jail but when he’d asked a few locals in one of the tavernas, the innkeeper had remembered him.

“He was a sad one. They say he was married but was in love with another.” He dropped his voice. “They say it was a man. One of his prisoners. He left the island long ago. Hasn’t been seen since.”

Denny might never know if he himself had been the prisoner Christoph had loved, but when he was honest with himself he realized he probably wasn’t. They’d shared an intense physical connection but their contact had been brief. Denny had learned over the years that sensuality did not mean love. Men could share the highest form of intimacy and not have genuine love feelings for one another. Denny had found lovers who pleased him, and he them, but until he’d met Merritt, love had eluded him.

Barthelmass urged Denny to work his wings again, but this time wouldn’t touch Denny to help him. Denny tried hard and managed to get some action, and he did until his still-sore wing smacked the wall and sent spirals of pain shooting through his back and shoulder.

“You’re getting there. Wait until you can fly. You won’t regret your curse then.”

“How do you know? You don’t have wings, do you?”

“Well,” Barthelmass demurred, “my ladylove says my cock flies her to the moon.”

Denny winced. “I could have lived without knowing that.”

Barthelmass shrugged. “You asked.”

True enough. Denny finished every last bite of food and drink then finally plucked up enough courage to look at his face in the mirror above his desk. He looked horrible.

“We’ll send somebody to give you a shave later,” Barthelmass promised. “And we need to take care of your straggly hair.”

Straggly? Denny touched his sparse hair that had once been long and luxurious. He looked an old man. An old man with wings. Cripes. I’m never gonna get laid again. What the hell had happened to him?

“You haven’t been sipping nectar,” Barthelmass told him. “You’re a fairy. You’re supposed to drink flower nectar and honey. Don’t worry. We can make you look okay. You know what? Frogmorten can help you.”

“Who?”

“The humanized bumblebee. He pollinates flowers all the time. If you ask him nicely, I bet he can accommodate you.”

“Can you ask him to come and see me?”

“Sure thing.” He glanced at Denny. “He’ll expect repayment.”

“I’m sure he will.” Denny didn’t mind. Thanks to Barthelmass’ interference with his person, Denny was gagging for some cock. But the bee man didn’t turn up for a couple of hours, during which time Denny fell into the trap of letting memories from his past come back to haunt him.

He plunged back to the time he, his father and Polly had been forced to enter a spike, or workhouse, because his father was behind on his payments for basic things like rent. Denny’s mum was gone. But that was another story.

Denny was ten years old and the New Poor Law had been passed. Adults as well as children could be admitted and forced to work as a way to pay off debts. Denny, and Polly, who was eight, spent the eleven months the family was confined in the workhouse picking oakum, which would later be used to fill the hulls and working joints of ships.

“You are helping your country,” their overseer would say, his voice booming as he paced between rows of virtual slaves bent to their tasks.

Denny hated the work, which involved picking apart old cords and rope with a metal spike—hence the nickname for the workhouse—and rolling the coarse threads into balls. Polly cried a lot but managed to get some work done. Their father had the worst job. He had to crush human bones to use for fertilizer. Though the work was easy, the new law meant lots of people kept coming to the workhouse and food was scarce. His father admitted to Denny one night that some of the starving men fought over the bones so they could suck out the marrow before crushing them.

Denny wasn’t as disgusted as he should have been. He wouldn’t have minded a bit of bone marrow. He didn’t mind the food and, being the children of neglectful parents, he and Polly were fed better in the spike than they had been at home. They got bread and porridge for breakfast. Though porridge was a staple British breakfast item, it had never been something Denny and Polly had eaten before, and it became his lifelong obsession. Polly preferred dinner, and he liked it too, especially when they got the rare treats of cheese, butter and potatoes with their bread and pickled meats.

Their father, however, was never the same after their time in the workhouse and soon vanished once they were released. What had once been their home, a basement flat in East London, was now overrun by numerous displaced families. Denny, at the ripe old age of eleven, wound up on the streets finding ways to make money to pay for Polly’s keep in the apartment. She worked occasionally as a chimney sweep with Denny some days, hiding her long locks under a cap so she could pass for a boy. Denny tried to look out for her, but was soon working in a cotton factory where he spent long days waterproofing the fiber with rubber gum, which was then used to produce Mackintosh coats.

Polly was too young by law to work in factories because she was not yet nine. She had learned to steal and managed to snatch a loaf of bread or a potato here and there, but Denny’s long hours in the factory kept him away from her. By the time he went to the apartment to find her one Christmas Eve, he learned that the people he’d been giving money to, to care for her, had sold her off as a junior housemaid. He tried so hard to find her but learned right after New Year that she had been arrested for stealing a loaf of bread.

Now eleven, she was legally old enough to work, but it took Denny almost a whole other year to discover that she had been taken in by a British officer and his wife. Denny traveled to their home in Somerset, only to learn that they’d set sail for Botany Bay in Sydney, Australia. The officer had just been appointed in a position of authority at the penal colony. Denny became frantic. His mother had been banished there for stealing an onion. He’d learned of her circumstances and feared Polly winding up the same way. He decided there and then at the age of thirteen that he would become a seaman and make his way to Australia to rescue his sister, if not his mother.

It would take another four years for Denny to make good on his promise to himself.

“Wake up,” a gravelly voice snapped him out of his reverie as somebody viciously shook him, making Denny’s tender wing throb with pain.

“What is it?” Denny almost fell off the bed. “What’s wrong?” He looked up to see Frogmorten, the bumblebee man, standing over Denny, a large pewter mug in his hand.

“Barthelmass said to bring this to you. He said you needed it.”

“Is that nectar?”

Frogmorten nodded. When Denny reached for it, he snatched it back. “How am I to be paid for this elixir of life?”

Denny worked hard not to act on the kind of violent thoughts that had gotten him into so much trouble in the past.

“If you let me have the nectar now, I can show you how I intend to repay you.”

“I—” Frogmorten blinked as Denny held his gaze. They exchanged the kind of silent contract only men can sign between them. He gulped. “Okay.” He let Denny take the goblet.

Denny drank every drop, ecstatic at the taste of the nectar. Oh, it was the most delicious thing that had ever touched his tongue. Wait a minute. The perpetual ache from his wings went away. His muddled thoughts vanished. Nothing hurt. He felt fantastic.

“Can you get me more?” he asked, excited that he could move his wings with total ease. Denny was learning how to stretch his wings, literally, without hitting the wall. I can’t wait to see if I can fly.

“I’ll get you more. You pay me first.”

Denny didn’t hesitate. He sat on the bed and undid Frogmorten’s cotton pants. The bumblebee man’s cock was half hard and very generously proportioned. His entire body from the neck down was human and he was quite sexy underneath his clothing. The sight of that huge shaft made Denny drool. He was surprised at the sweetness of the gigantic cock in his grip. Did all of the men here come so well endowed? Now that Denny thought of it, bees consumed only nectar and pollen. He longed to drink a long, cool glass of nectar. It was his new drug of choice. This was what he thought about as he brought Frogmorten carnal pleasure. Denny enjoyed giving a man the ultimate satisfaction with his mouth. Frogmorten’s ropey juices flowed quickly down Denny’s throat. He moaned, and his cock wouldn’t go down.

“You want it again?” Denny asked.

Before Frogmorten could respond, Denny dipped his head and began the whole process of sucking and licking the huge cock again. Frogmorten had made no sound during the first time around, except for the occasional, delirious sigh. This time, he groaned…the sound so unusual yet so erotic to the seasoned pirate that Denny was soon on his knees, moving his hand to Frogmorten’s balls and squeezing them. Frogmorten twitched at this unexpected contact, but did not otherwise resist. In fact, he seemed to thrust even harder into Denny’s open mouth.

Frogmorten came hard and reached out one massive hand to hold Denny’s head to him. When at last Frogmorten stopped coming, Denny knelt back on his haunches.

“I think you enjoy paying your debts,” Frogmorten murmured.

“Very much.” Denny looked him right in the eye. He was aware of a rush of heat to his own cock and wished he could jerk off quickly, but Frogmorten had other things on his mind.

“I will bring you more nectar. And you will give me more…joy.” He left the cell, taking the empty goblet with him. When Frogmorten returned later, he was about to receive payment for the second goblet when Ebba and Barthelmass arrived.

“They’ve stepped up your trial.” Ebba looked upset.

Barthelmass was carrying another basin of water and set it on the table. “The prince has a keen interest in this case and he only leaves the castle at night. He won’t come to court in the morning.”

Ebba grimaced at Denny. “And I am sorry to tell you that my brother is one of the crown’s witnesses against you.”

Denny shrugged. His wing felt wonderful.

“It’s twitching!” Ebba gasped. “You got it to work!”

“I did. With Barthelmass’ help.”

“Good, good.” Ebba pointed to the goblet. “Drink that nectar. Each cup lasts about two hours. We may have time to get you another cup before your trial starts.”

Barthelmass stepped forward and said, “I’ll shave him while you coach him.”

“Okay.”

“But first, Denny’s going to wash his teeth. His breath smells like he ate a dead person.”

Denny said nothing. He swallowed his nectar then grabbed the toothbrush and the canister of dental powder Barthelmass handed him and brushed. After using the bowl of water that Barthelmass had brought to swig and gargle, he spat the contents into his empty nectar cup. His mouth felt a lot better afterward and he tried to remember the last time he’d practiced good oral hygiene.

“The more flower nectar you drink, the better your teeth will get. When you manifest your full powers you’ll never need to brush them again,” Ebba said. She stood at Denny’s side as Barthelmass lathered up Denny’s head and face. He shaved Denny with a double-edged razor. That was a delight he had previously only ever experienced on the rare times he had visited a barber. His skin stung until Barthelmass dabbed his hands with some kind of tonic from a brown bottle and pressed his palms to Denny’s cheeks. The tonic smelled unusual but felt very good.

“What is that?” Denny took a deep sniff.

“Witch hazel. Very good for the skin.” Barthelmass turned Denny’s chair around and leaned him back, washing his hair and scalp with the cold water and a bar of white soap. He tilted Denny’s head up again and dried his head with a rough cloth.

Ebba kept grilling Denny, who could hardly concentrate on what she was saying.

“Don’t forget to mention your mother leaving you. Oh, and your dad deserting you. There are four women on the jury and they will feel sympathy for you.”

“Okay.”

“And mention your sister. Don’t forget to talk about the workhouse and your years working as a child slave in the factory. Keep your stories of thieving to a minimum. Oh. I will talk about your freeing the slaves. By the time I’m done with you, the women on the jury will be weeping to save you.”

“And the best I can look forward to is life in prison?”

“Maybe not that long. You might get time off for good behavior. But I can almost guarantee I won’t let you be executed.”

“Thanks.” Denny was worried now. She could almost guarantee it?

Barthelmass clipped at Denny’s hair with an expert touch. Denny was drowsy from the sensation of having another man touch him again. And anyone touching his head brought a sense of physical comfort. If he could spend the rest of his life in this cell experiencing moments like this he could die happy.

When he was done, Barthelmass stood back and said, “I think I’ve missed my true calling. You’re very dashing now, Pirate Denny.” He hoisted the mirror from the wall and put it into Denny’s hands.

Denny was thrilled with the way he looked. His hair was cut close to his scalp and wasn’t so unkempt-looking anymore. He had remnants of a three-day growth on his chin and upper lip but no longer looked like a pitiful old man straight out of a Charles Dickens story.

He bantered back and forth with Ebba, whose intense questioning gave Denny an unpleasant taste of what he should expect in the courtroom.

“Is there anything I should know about you? Some big secret that could get you the death sentence and me looking like a buffoon?” Ebba asked, as Denny dressed in the smart-looking clothes she and Barthelmass had brought him.

His entire ensemble was black. Black pants and shirt and soft, moccasin-type shoes in black. They were the most comfortable things Denny had ever worn. If one was to receive a death sentence, at least the locals wanted you to go out with ease. He thought of other pirates he knew who’d faced horrible trials with stocks and gallows. If he were to die this day at least he didn’t wobble in his broken heel. He missed his boots, though. They made him feel sexy and stylish. The moccasins just made him want to curl up and sleep.

“I have many secrets. But there’s one I guess I should tell you. My name isn’t really Denny.”

She frowned. “What is it then?”

Denny hesitated. It was true that Denny had secrets. Plenty of them. The worst was that his first name was really Dunstan Derrick. “My name is Dunstan,” he said.

Ebba and Barthelmass exchanged uncomprehending looks.

“With the British habit of condensing every single name in the book, I became Dunny. And dunnies are toilets. I could not live with their ridicule had they known my real name. Therefore, I could not keep sharing a name with a bloody lavatory. So I became Denny.” Aye, he had secrets. And he had plans. If he could wheedle himself a prison conviction he could cope with that. It would give him hope that he would see his prince again. Not that he could mention that in court. But also, while he waited, he wouldn’t mind indulging in his wild fantasies of being handed around by a bunch of horny men to use. He craved men. Not that he could mention that in court either.

One way or another, he would escape and find his freedom again. He could change his name. Reinvent himself. He’d done it before and he could do it again.

“We’ll mention it under the guise of your coming clean and being honest,” Ebba said.

“I am coming clean and being honest.”

“No other secrets?”

“I have some, but nothing I wish to declare,” Denny said.

The cell door rattled and the green-winged man entered. “Ah,” he said. “You look much better. How’s our wing project progressing?”

“We’ve got it sorted.” Denny showed the green-winged man that he could make his wings open up and flap, and he even rose a little from the ground.

“Have you mastered flying yet?”

“I’ve been locked in this cell. Not much room to fly.”

“Oh, yeah. Of course. Right.” He scribbled something in his book, and Denny had a hunch it wasn’t flattering.

“Are we ready?” the green-winged man asked.

“We are.” Ebba sounded a lot more confident than Denny felt.

Being executed had never been on his to-do list. Ever. He knew one day he would die but he’d become excited when he’d learned that being a fairy had given him immortal powers. He had to explore them and enjoy them, didn’t he?

They all left the cell and walked down the corridor. Denny realized everyone in his little party was wearing black and white clothing. He soon became distracted by a heavenly scent on the air. A spicy stew of some sort. I hope they give me a last supper if I’m condemned to die. And maybe one last shag. Food and sex. His favorite things in the world. Denny and the others passed from the jail to a bridge that hovered over a moat. He thought he saw a dead man’s body floating beneath him but didn’t look too hard. The bridge was flimsy and made of rope and wood. He grasped the rope handles, remembering his hard work picking oakum. He’d been a marked man since day one.

The others also clutched the bridge’s handles.

“Everyone all right?” Ebba asked.

“Yes, thanks,” the others reported back to her with varying degrees of enthusiasm.

Denny was scared now. This wasn’t too far from walking the plank. For the first time in his adult life, he knew mind-numbing, stark-staring fear. It didn’t taste too good. He said nothing, though, and followed the others into another section of the building. Lit sconces held by invisible hands lined the corridor. Denny couldn’t see the people holding them but heard their whispery voices.

“Let me see them,” Denny murmured to his fairy wings. The wings twitched and vibrated, and Denny gasped, holding his breath as the beings materialized. They all looked like black fairies with spider webs for wings and red eyes.

“He can see us,” one of them said to the others. All eyes trained on him, and Denny gave them a wave. They were quite beautiful actually, even though they projected a naughtiness he hadn’t expected from fairies. They smacked and spat at each other and at others walking past them.

“That’s the Unseelie Court,” Ebba said, turning around to Denny. She came back and walked beside him. “I’m glad you can see them. It bolsters your case.”

“How so?”

“You’re tapping into your magic and leaving your human side behind you.”

“And that’s a good thing?”

“Of course it is. The Unseelie Court members are the naughty ones. Those that are here are doing community service for small crimes.”

“What’s a small crime?”

“Frightening cattle, starting thunderstorms, hiding old ladies’ wigs, putting boils on people’s bottoms, having sex with humans. Oh, here we are.” She stopped speaking and led Denny into the most gorgeous room he had ever seen. The place was teeming with winged creatures of every kind imaginable. A winged horse stood at the front of the court on the left side. A centaur stood on the right.

“We’re case number three,” Ebba told Denny as a see-through pink fairy flew over to her and tossed Ebba a black and white envelope marked with the number three.

Ebba and Barthelmass flanked Denny as they took their seats. For the first time, Denny wasn’t troubled by his wings. They seemed to know what to do and hugged his back like soft pillows.

“Nice,” Ebba said to him. “Your wings are working with you. The only ones allowed to fly in the court house are the Seelie fairies, the goody-two shoes who work for the judge.”

“What’s he like?” Denny asked.

“He doesn’t say much but when he does, he’s brutal.” Ebba pored over the contents of the envelope and lapsed into silence. Denny had never sat in anything as comfortable as the chair in which he reclined. He was afraid he’d fall asleep so he focused instead on the long, black and white bench at the front of the room. It looked like it was made of marble. Its harlequin pattern mirrored the designs on the wall. This motif continued across the ceiling with black and white glass showing images of fairy wings, treetops and the occasional bird breaking into song. The court seats were luxurious, plush white velvet. Many people had removed their shoes. There was much scrunching of toes in the thick black carpeting. Denny wished he could do it too, but decided that since he was on trial defending his life, he should act with a little decorum.

The chattering and the swoop of birdsong ended as a judge in black robes entered the courtroom and sat in the middle of the long table up front.

“Pegasus, please alert the jury that we’re ready,” he said, sounding feeble and weak.

“Who said that?” the judge shouted, his gaze sweeping the courtroom.

Everyone froze.

“Who said I’m old and past it?”

A quiet panic seemed to descend on all those present.

Pegasus, the winged horse, whinnied and stamped his foot. Doors on either side of the room opened, and four men and four women entered, taking their seats beside the judge. Finally a blue-winged male fairy raised his hand.

“It was I, Your Honor. I humbly apologize.”

“Well, since you spoke up, I’ll forgive you. Next time you lose a wing.”

The man’s face turned red. “Yes, your honor. Thank you, your honor.” He took a seat, his face bright red.

Denny watched him and saw the poor man’s hand was shaking as he ran it over his face. Oh, boy, this judge is gonna be a barrel of laughs. Denny slumped in his seat, wondering how quickly into his trial the judge would have Denny killed.

“First case,” the judge bawled. “Come on. I want to go home. I’m missing the dragon-slaying semi-finals for this!”

The courtroom broke into an ethereal titter. The judge banged his gavel. “Where’s the defendant?”

Every head turned as a man rose and walked down the stairs. He wore similar prison-issue clothes to Denny, who recognized the guy with the eagle head and one wing.

“What’s with everything being black and white?” Denny whispered to Ebba.

“The judge sees the world that way. Everything is black and white.”

That wasn’t a good thing when Denny knew there were many shades between the two. This judge was going to be tough and probably merciless.

The man picking his way across the crowded courtroom seemed frail and shaky and finally reached the witness box, a wooden affair that rose from the ground. Once the man stepped inside, the box sprouted wrought-iron bars and hovered high above the courtroom participants.

Denny was petrified, but also fascinated. He glanced at the jury members but realized he could get a better look at them once he took the witness stand. He tried not to fret as he took in the fortress-like cage.

“Why are you here?” the judge asked the eagle man.

“Because I was arrested, your honor.”

“I know that, funny man.”

The crowd tittered but the judge spoke over the ripple of laughter, “What are your charges?”

“Ah. Piracy.” The eagle man looked pleased with himself.

The judge folded his hands and leaned on the bench, studying the accused. “Do you dispute the charges?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t heard them yet.”

The judge glanced up and down the row of jurors, who kept leaning into one another, whispering. Denny had never seen women on a jury before, but he’d also never seen jurors gossiping and giggling during a trial either.

“You are charged with capital crimes. You are a menace to the high seas. Do you deny it?” the judge asked.

The eagle man said, “Your honor, there is a French proverb that states, ‘One meets his destiny often in the road he takes to avoid it.’”

“And what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“I tried to make an honest living, but being a pirate is a lot more fun.”

The courtroom erupted with appreciative laughter. Denny hid a smirk, frightened that any display of support of a man on trial might harm his own case. He stared at the eagle man who continued to banter with the judge. It was only when the eagle man said, “Your honor, I was cursed by the princess of this island,” that Denny saw the anger behind the careless quips.

He didn’t know how it was possible, but Denny recognized him in that moment as the Pirate Howard deGacy. He had been caught and tried and was supposed to hang in the United States several years ago. Somehow he’d escaped but his longtime pirating buddy ‘Don’ Pedro Gilbert, with whom he’d pillaged and plundered up and down the Florida Straits had been hanged for piracy in Boston, Massachusetts six years ago.

“For the record, what is your name?” the judge asked him.

“Percy Humbridge, your honor.”

Howard deGacy was famous for offering up phony names, and this time was no exception.

Denny leaned in to Ebba and said, “He’s lying. I know his real name. If I offer it up to the court, will it help my own case?”

“We could try,” she said. She got to her feet, raising a hand. “Your honor, if it pleases the court, my client has information about this prisoner. He can testify to the fact that this man is lying about his name.”

“Who says so?” Howard deGacy shot to his feet and stared down at Denny with pure hatred in his eyes. “You,” he snarled. “I should have killed you when I had the chance.”

“That’s what they all say,” Denny responded, giving deGacy his best, most disarming smile.