Captain Garreth scowled at his crew and sneered at their cowering. They were clustered close together on the dock, their eyes darting between him and his ship, the Merry Devil. At this late hour, they ought to be on that ship. Each and every one looked ready to soil themselves or flee. Garreth’s reddening face and rising voice made some flinch and others cringe away from him. “What d’you mean the spirit o’ John Silver is on board and demandin’ I return his journal?”

“It’s jus’ like we said Cap’n.” Matilda spoke up, her voice tight with restraint. At barely five feet tall, she was the smallest bosun Garreth had ever sailed with, but more than once the Reaver captain had watched her hurl men three times her weight across a tavern, street, or deck. Now, however, she stood before him sweating as if feverish, except her brown face had a distinct pallor untouched by flush. “We heard a noise down in the hold, went to investigate, and there was a flash—”

Riley cut her off. “Fires From Hell itself! From Davey Jones’ Locker!” The lad was young, new to the crew, and very excitable, but for once no one was silencing him. Some nodded in agreement.

Garreth dragged a palm down his face and took a deep breath. “Riley.” His voice started as a low guttural growl and rose in volume with each word. “There are no flames in Davey! Jones’! LOCKER! Damned fool. Alla ya! Buncher lily livered fools! Thar ain’t no such thing as spirits without a body. Undead, aye, plenty o’ those on the Sea of Dreams, but I’ve sailed these waters nigh on thirty years, and I ain’t yet heard of a ghost outside a drunken fool’s story. Never mind seen one.”

“But Captain. . .” Matilda’s protest died on her lips, though she didn’t drop her gaze as he glowered at her.

“Enough. I heard yer fool’s tales once already.” Garreth’s coarse low voice took on a mocking falsetto. “‘It’s the spirit o’ Long John Silver Cap’n. ‘E wants his journal Cap’n!’” He dropped the falsetto. “Great roaring green flames shrieking throughout the hold and extinguishing every lantern, ya said! Does that ship look like it’s on fire?!” Garreth jabbed a finger at the Merry Devil bobbing peacefully beside the moonlit dock. Only the lanterns above deck remained alight. “Are you lot cold-blooded Reavers or rot-brained Bilge Rats!?”

The crew squirmed under this verbal assault. Even Matilda was unable to meet his fierce gaze at that moment. “Pathetic. The whole lotta ya! Outta my way. I’ll deal with this ‘spirit’ meself.”

Leaving his half-panicked crew behind, Garreth strode up the gangplank to the Merry Devil’s deck, muttering to himself as he went. “Never a bead o’ sweat facin’ a skele galleon. No limp spines fightin’ off a full crew of the cursed undead. No, not then, but one hint of a ghost, and they all go yellow on me. Bah. Bunch o’ fools.” Feigning more confidence than he felt, he bellowed to bolster his nerve. “Ain’t no such thing as ghosts!”

Reaching the main mast’s base, Garreth paused, his dark eyes sweeping up and down the silent deck. A cool breeze swept through the salty night air. Above fluttered a flag with a laughing horned skull. Timbers creaked quietly at his heavy slow stride. Bright light from a full moon gleamed off dark gently lapping waves.

“Well? Where’s the spirit that’s got you all actin’ as spineless as a buncher jellyfish eh? You hear me spirit!? Show yourself!” Garreth stalked toward the prow with its rattling figurehead of a caged skeleton. He had captured the creature years ago by luck more than intent. Pace steady, Garreth circled back toward the stern taunting the spirit as he went. “Shy now spirit? You were bold enough to spook those fools I call a crew!”

“Goooo . . .” a voice moaned hauntingly from below. Instincts honed by years of pirating had Garreth’s clockwork pistol out and searching for a target before he could stop himself.

“There’s no such thing as a damned ghost, and I’m not going anywhere,” Garreth growled as he eyed the stairs leading down into the dark hold. The ‘spirit’ had extinguished every lantern with its strange green flames, according to his trembling crew. “This is my ship damn you, and the Red Blade of the Reavers runs from no one and nothing! D’ya hear me spirit?!? Nothing and no one!”

As he railed, Garreth took up a bright deck lantern in one hand, holstered his pistol, then drew Mercy’s Kiss from her sheath. Even in moonlight, there was no mistaking the hellish crimson hue of that legendary blade. Shoving his whispering fears away, Garreth marched down into the pitch-black belly of the ship.

“Know what I think ‘spirit’?” He spat the word as his lantern’s flame offered a paltry illumination of the large, well-stocked hold. “I think yer some landlubber with a fancy trick or two and a knack fer throwin’ yer voice. I think,” Garreth savored his next growling words, “I’m goin’ teh kill you slow for spoilin’ my first evenin’ at port in three months.”

Garreth’s threats were more than an expression of his anger. They were a calculated attack on his trespasser’s nerves, as were the heavy thudding steps with which he moved to begin his search. Green fires blossomed through the air, enveloping Garreth and his lantern, then vanished just as quickly. “Anu’s Mercy!” He cursed at the spectral flames, then cursed again at his now dark lantern.

A croaking shrill voice followed Garreth’s retreat back to the moonlit stairs. “I don’t want you, Reaver.” It sounded as if it was right in front of him, and he hurled the lantern in that direction. Metal rattled against wood as it rolled noisily to a stop. Again that rasping voice rose from shadow, this time from behind him, beyond the stairs. “I want my journal.” Garreth spun, searching for a source as he took a single reflexive step away from the deck stairs. From behind again, closer than before, it spoke in a harsh whisper. “My journal or your soul, pirate.”

Again Garreth whirled around, putting his back to the stairs once more as he slashed at empty air and black shadows. In his retreat toward the moonlight, his boot’s heel caught the edge of the first step, and he fell hard. A mad cackle filled the hold, stoking his anger as his cheeks burned with wounded pride. When the thing spoke again, it sounded as if it were whispering right into his ear. “Choose.” Heat and color drained from his face in a heartbeat as his blood ran cold.

Garreth cursed as he swung his blade again. Again Mercy’s Kiss struck nothing, but he saw something out of the corner of his eye. Swift as a bullet, the trespasser’s figure was little more than a flicker of movement, a shadow among shadows. It vanished amid the crates and barrels of supplies retreating further into the darkness, but that little hint was all Garreth needed to finally dismiss his nagging fear that maybe it really was a ghost.

“Quick thing aren’t you. And stealthy. I’ll give you that, but yer no spirit. A spirit wouldn’t need to hide from me in the shadows. A spirit wouldn’t need to retreat from Mercy’s Kiss.” Garreth got back to his feet as he spoke. John Silver’s journal had been in his possession over a month now. This was no vengeful spirit of a pirate legend. “Crew! Get down here, and help me search the hold! It’s no damn spirit! It’s a thief!”

The thief let out a blood-curdling keen and wailed. “I am no mortal thief Red Blade of the Reavers! I will have my journal back or have my revenge on you and any soul who sets foot on this ship!”

Garreth shuddered at that shriek. It elicited a primitive urge to run, and he growled as he shoved the feeling away. “Quit yer keenin’ thief. You’re clever. I’ll grant that for scarin’ them into stayin’ put wit’ a threat like that. Begs the question though, don’t it. Why’s someone so clever doin’ somethin’ as stupid as tryin’ to steal from the likes o’ me.”

“I am—” The haunting protest was cut short.

“Belay that spirit nonsense! There’s no doubt in my mind now that you’re flesh and blood, same as me. So talk! It’s your best chance of walking off this ship alive.” It was no chance at all, not really, but luring this trespasser out was a more efficient means of ending this confrontation than trying to hunt through the shadowy hold alone for someone so stealthy and quick.

“Alive. Really?” Sarcasm dripped from a voice no longer shrill and rasping, but low and feminine. The first word sounded almost directly in front of him, but the second came from far behind.

“Fine little trick, throwin’ yer voice around like that, and I don’t blame ya fer doubtin’ me, but do ya really have any other options? Sure, you might open a gunport hatch. Might seem a good idea, jumpin’ out that way, but those latches are tough to open. And noisy. Heh. I’ll wager ya can’t throw the sound of them around as easy as you do that voice o’ yers.”

“A wager you’d win. Captain.” There was almost a reverential tone in that title.

“So talk. Let’s start with your name.” Though he created the appearance of relaxing his posture at the foot of the stairs, Garreth remained alert, blade ready.

“. . . It’s Elisa.”

“Elisa. Pretty name. I knew an Elisa once. Fiery woman.” For a moment, his thoughts drifted back to the young lass and her stubborn refusals of his advances.

“It was my mother’s name.” Elisa’s voice pulled him back from bright memories to the shadowy present.

“Was it now?” Squint as he might against the shadows cloaking every cannon, crate, and barrel, the darkness remained as stubbornly impenetrable to Garreth as the woman in his memory.

“She told me stories about you and my father, and your crew. Your adventures.” Again that hint of reverence, of hero-worship, this time unmistakable.

Garreth grinned in genuine pleasure even as he considered how to turn such feelings to his advantage. “Then ya know me well. Well enough, I’d imagine, teh know yer not leavin’ this ship alive wit’out my blessin’.” After a moment’s consideration, he relaxed his posture further, leaning against a floor-to-deck support beam that was part of the stairs. With an air of idleness, he studied the moonlight gleaming off the flat of Mercy’s Kiss and angled the blade slowly to sweep the faint little ruddy beam about the hold. It revealed nothing except a confirmation his eyes were nearly adjusted to the gloom.

“I know you.” Cold anger clung to each word. “I know you cheat at cards. I know you claimed to love my mother.” Garreth bristled at her implication, but he held his tongue. It was a bitter reminder of his failure and of the man whom Elly had chosen over him, his former first mate Gideon. “I know it was you who gave my father his moniker, Gutrot Gideon. I know you don’t keep your word unless there’s something in it for you.” Her voice had settled in front of him, as if they were standing face to face in the little patch of moonlight though she remained well hidden. “And, I know my father died because of you.”


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