Cast In Dark Waters by Tom Piccirilli, Ed Gorman Page B
Authors: Tom Piccirilli, Ed Gorman
Tags: Horror
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remorse.
Crimson scrambled to her feet and dove forward, slashing with her cutlass. If she'd been hit she didn't feel it yet.
The silver cross was heavy around her neck and she let loose with a groan that broke free from somewhere deep inside her chest. If this was Daemonia Wampyros , she knew she had to slice through the neck with one blow, or so the myths went. She had to believe in something. If it was some other unhappy spirit or shape-shifter, then who the hell knew what to do next.
The aroma of recently cooked meat filled her nostrils. A small fire flared near the back of the spacious hut. Twisting shadows played upon the walls and ceiling, like talons scratching out for her.
Firelight bronzed the face of a young woman cradling a dead man's head.
"Daphna Maycomb?" Crimson asked.
The girl glanced up without expression. She held a smoking pistol pointed directly at Crimson, the finger on the trigger still holding tight. Her dark hair was tangled and dirty, filled with dust and rotted leaves. Her taste in clothing ran in the same vein as her mother's: her dress was a bright blue peignoir made of Merino and trimmed in velvet. She must be wildly uncomfortable in this moist heat. There were bruises about her neck, and her hands were so white they appeared almost transparent.
The corpse, too, was filthy, and from his chest rose the handle of a stake made from bamboo. In the corner were a pile of other sharpened sticks. They'd been prepared for a hunt, it looked like. His once-white shirt bloomed red and the blood glistened in the firelight. He'd not only been handsome but almost pretty. Even though he was dead, she could see the strange marriage of nobility and piracy in his bearing. The harsh rugged lines of his jaw and the seamless skin around his eyes. His clothes were ragged now but once they'd been refined, and his lengthy hair—almost as long as Tyree's—remained tied back in a ponytail with a black silk ribbon.
Replacing his dagger, Welsh said, "It's Villaine she holds." He turned and kept watch from the door in case the cries or sound of the shot aroused anyone in hiding. The prevalent, consuming silence continued.
With her free hand, Daphna Maycomb gently stroked her lover's face as if she were trying to get a child to sleep. His lips were curled back but not far enough that Crimson could see his teeth. The need to know if he had a mouth full of fangs caused her to kneel beside the body and reach out, but Daphna let loose with a soft bitter sound and Crimson drew back.
"Put up your flintlock, Daphna."
"What's that?"
"Your parents sent me here to find you."
"Yes," the young woman said, stunned and staring through Crimson. "So like them to send someone else and not come themselves."
"They're here, off shore, and they paid a good deal in diamonds so that you'd be found."
"Why didn't they come for me before? Why didn't they stop me?"
The girl was caught somewhere between petulance and shock. "Here now, we'll soon have you home again."
Daphna's mouth drew into a ghastly and scornful grin. "Too late, you see, far too late.”
“What happened to Villaine?"
The girl again began to sob, mewling, and her knuckles were white as bone, still unable to release the trigger. "I killed him," she said, "but the misery on this island does not know how to die."
"We've company," Welsh said from the doorway, staring into darkness. "And these here aren't pretty ghosts."
6
A strange calm settled over Crimson as she stepped forward and looked out past Welsh's shoulder. The nimbus of the moon ignited the roiling clouds, and the entire sky glowered down like the fiery scowls of madmen.
Four of them out there at the edge of the jungle, with the torch light barely reaching their forms.
They wore only wet trousers that dripped and left puddles at their feet, and their ashen skin gleamed and glowed with sea water. Jaundiced eyes blazed. The warm night winds swept low and snapped against flesh as hard as bone.
"Who are
Crimson scrambled to her feet and dove forward, slashing with her cutlass. If she'd been hit she didn't feel it yet.
The silver cross was heavy around her neck and she let loose with a groan that broke free from somewhere deep inside her chest. If this was Daemonia Wampyros , she knew she had to slice through the neck with one blow, or so the myths went. She had to believe in something. If it was some other unhappy spirit or shape-shifter, then who the hell knew what to do next.
The aroma of recently cooked meat filled her nostrils. A small fire flared near the back of the spacious hut. Twisting shadows played upon the walls and ceiling, like talons scratching out for her.
Firelight bronzed the face of a young woman cradling a dead man's head.
"Daphna Maycomb?" Crimson asked.
The girl glanced up without expression. She held a smoking pistol pointed directly at Crimson, the finger on the trigger still holding tight. Her dark hair was tangled and dirty, filled with dust and rotted leaves. Her taste in clothing ran in the same vein as her mother's: her dress was a bright blue peignoir made of Merino and trimmed in velvet. She must be wildly uncomfortable in this moist heat. There were bruises about her neck, and her hands were so white they appeared almost transparent.
The corpse, too, was filthy, and from his chest rose the handle of a stake made from bamboo. In the corner were a pile of other sharpened sticks. They'd been prepared for a hunt, it looked like. His once-white shirt bloomed red and the blood glistened in the firelight. He'd not only been handsome but almost pretty. Even though he was dead, she could see the strange marriage of nobility and piracy in his bearing. The harsh rugged lines of his jaw and the seamless skin around his eyes. His clothes were ragged now but once they'd been refined, and his lengthy hair—almost as long as Tyree's—remained tied back in a ponytail with a black silk ribbon.
Replacing his dagger, Welsh said, "It's Villaine she holds." He turned and kept watch from the door in case the cries or sound of the shot aroused anyone in hiding. The prevalent, consuming silence continued.
With her free hand, Daphna Maycomb gently stroked her lover's face as if she were trying to get a child to sleep. His lips were curled back but not far enough that Crimson could see his teeth. The need to know if he had a mouth full of fangs caused her to kneel beside the body and reach out, but Daphna let loose with a soft bitter sound and Crimson drew back.
"Put up your flintlock, Daphna."
"What's that?"
"Your parents sent me here to find you."
"Yes," the young woman said, stunned and staring through Crimson. "So like them to send someone else and not come themselves."
"They're here, off shore, and they paid a good deal in diamonds so that you'd be found."
"Why didn't they come for me before? Why didn't they stop me?"
The girl was caught somewhere between petulance and shock. "Here now, we'll soon have you home again."
Daphna's mouth drew into a ghastly and scornful grin. "Too late, you see, far too late.”
“What happened to Villaine?"
The girl again began to sob, mewling, and her knuckles were white as bone, still unable to release the trigger. "I killed him," she said, "but the misery on this island does not know how to die."
"We've company," Welsh said from the doorway, staring into darkness. "And these here aren't pretty ghosts."
6
A strange calm settled over Crimson as she stepped forward and looked out past Welsh's shoulder. The nimbus of the moon ignited the roiling clouds, and the entire sky glowered down like the fiery scowls of madmen.
Four of them out there at the edge of the jungle, with the torch light barely reaching their forms.
They wore only wet trousers that dripped and left puddles at their feet, and their ashen skin gleamed and glowed with sea water. Jaundiced eyes blazed. The warm night winds swept low and snapped against flesh as hard as bone.
"Who are
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