Scalpdancers (10 page)

Morgan stepped through the doorway and peered out at the cobblestone thoroughfare winding off toward the waterfront. The air was damp, thick with moisture. A chill mist had descended, diminishing the already feeble glare of the street lanterns and muting the few remaining sounds of an ominously quiet city.

He heard no vendors, no sound of carriage or ricksha, no drunken revelers, no beggars, nothing save the distant angry clamor of a stray dog and the scuffling of a rat along the bamboo awning of an apothecary shop across the narrow street. Morgan retreated into the foyer, frowning, unsettled by the stillness.

“Maybe I do not need to warn you, eh, my little cauliflower?” Madame De Builliard said as she approached the couple. The Frenchwoman inspected Julia. The proprietress of the Jade Willow obviously assumed the couple's liaison had proved more romantic. “The night is young. Stay here. This is a house of love. Be with one another. I am not so old that I cannot see what is meant to be.” She pulled a silk kerchief from the sleeve of her gown, which was a swirling concoction of amber-and-pink silk.

Julia blushed at Madame De Builliard's observation. Morgan coughed and cleared his throat, momentarily at a loss for words. For a brief second he considered the idea of luring Julia back upstairs. But he'd already committed one foolish act. He'd spent a day and half a night with the young woman with nothing to show for it but an ache in his loins and chaos in his heart.

“We'll go,” he said.

Madame De Builliard shrugged. All men were stubborn. Yes, they thought the same of women, but she knew the truth. Leave them to their own devices—that was her creed. Charm them, take their money, and then
au revoir
. And yet, Morgan Penmerry had helped her once and defended her somewhat-tarnished honor against a drunken pair of Portuguese sailors. Their rum-soaked boldness had bought the two scoundrels cracked skulls and a dunking in the Pearl.

The Frenchwoman blocked the doorway and in a low voice said, “A moment more and hear my rhyme.”

Madame De Builliard fancied herself a poet and often recited her verses while accompanying herself on the harp. Morgan had decided that the woman's couplets usually sounded better the more rice wine or rum a man consumed. But he humored Madame this night.

“As you wish, but be brief,” Morgan said. “My lady has her reputation to uphold.”

Julia bit her lower lip as her cheeks reddened. Whatever reputation she had was certainly a shambles after this night. Of course, she was leaving Macao, so what did it matter?

Madame De Builliard cleared her throat and said:

“Do not go forth into road or park

If evil would escape your sight.

Beware the shadows, watch the dark,

For winged dragons fly this night.”

The Frenchwoman finished her recitation, touched a finger to her lips and then to Morgan's. She seemed to be honestly concerned for their welfare, and Julia was forced to reevaluate her opinion of the infamous Madame De Builliard.

Morgan caught the Madame's hand and, bowing, kissed it. He tried to hide his misgivings behind a gallant display. Chiang Lu must have discovered Morgan's deception. Word had somehow traveled up the docks to Chiang Lu's hillside villa and he'd loosed his henchmen with only one purpose in mind, the death of the one man who had played Chiang Lu for a fool.

“Better lock your shutters and keep a musket by the bedside,” Morgan warned the proprietress of the Jade Willow. “Someone' is sure to have seen us arrive.”

“Then they'll see you leave,” Madame replied, hardness in her voice. The Jade Willow was her domain and though she dreaded trouble with the likes of Chiang Lu, she wasn't about to run from him either. “I can take care of myself.”

Morgan led the way into the night-shrouded street. Don Rodrigo's horse and carriage were where the captain had left them, tethered near a water trough alongside the tavern. Julia crossed behind Morgan and started to climb onto the leather-covered bench seat. Morgan appeared at her side to help her take her place. He continued to hold her longer than was necessary, yet she did not pull away.

“I have behaved poorly,” Julia said.

Being with Julia was like running naked through the woods, Morgan mused. You never knew if it was going to blow hot or cold.

“Are you laughing at me?” Julia asked pointedly, noticing the wry smile on his face.

“No, ma'am,” he replied. “I just took a notion, is all.”

“Well then,” Julia said, patting out the wrinkles on her dress. “Perhaps we should start for the Rue de Lorchas before you take another.” She sounded ever so proper again, and struggled to maintain the facade despite the fact that half an hour earlier she had awakened in bed with Morgan Penmerry. She sagged back against the seat and sighed.

Morgan climbed in beside her and handed her the lines, a gesture that caught Julia by surprise. She wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and looked questioningly into his rugged features. Strange, she didn't fear him now, even as he tugged a pistol from his belt and checked the load and added a trickle of black powder to the flash pan. He cradled the weapon and glanced at Julia.

“You know your way?” he asked.

“Yes,” she replied, certain she could manage these narrow, gloomy streets.

“Then hurry. And if anyone blocks our way, run them down,” Morgan grimly told her.

The hairs rose on the back of Julia's neck; tension slithered up her spine. Morgan expected trouble. Julia began to realize the gravity of her situation.

The captain briefly considered leaving Julia and making his way afoot. But Macao was no place for a woman to be riding alone in the wee hours of the night. The port was teeming with riffraff eager for a chance at such an attractive young fair-skinned woman. No, he resolved, Julia was better off with him. At least he could afford her some protection.

Before Morgan had time to reconsider, Julia cracked the carriage whip, and the mare bolted into the street. Morgan steadied himself and searched the shadows skimming past for Chiang Lu's assassins. He suspected the greatest peril lay ahead, where the dark ships rode at silent anchorage waiting for the morn. If there was to be trouble, it would no doubt begin there.

The
Hotspur
lit the night. Flames fed hungrily on the main deck and fo'c'sle and lapped the length of the foremast, leaping to the mainmast and mizzenmast in quick succession, consuming the wood and canvas and the rigging that stretched from the spars to the main deck like a spider's web. Chiang Lu's henchmen, in two johnboats outlined against the glare of the burning ship, cast loose the cables they had used to tow the
Hotspur
out into the estuary away from the dock and the merchant ships riding easy at port. Chiang Lu wasn't about to gut the entire waterfront for vengeance' sake.

Four blocks away a carriage rolled up to the pier where the
Magdalene
was anchored. Men lined its main deck, watching the attack and making no move to involve themselves. As Julia reined in the mare, Morgan, dumbfounded, stared at the floating fireship—once his own sturdy brig, now a funeral pyre for his hopes and dreams.

Chiang Lu hadn't wasted any time. Morgan wondered who had carried word to the warlord. The orange glow illuminated a stretch of the pier and dockside where the
Hotspur
had been anchored. All that remained were three coils of rope, a quantity of timber stacked like a pyramid, and a pair of abandoned freight wagons. A number of hooded figures darted among the shadows, ventured into the lurid light only to disappear once more.

A musket roared; gunfire blossomed in the doorway of Don Rodrigo's warehouse. A fusillade of gunshots echoed from around the docks. Morgan shifted his gaze from the melee to the
Hotspur
, now engulfed in flames.

An unearthly shriek carried across the water from the unfortunate vessel. One of Morgan's crewmen had escaped from below deck only to find himself trapped, his clothes trailing fire. The poor soul's voice rose an octave as his flesh blistered and burned. He blindly staggered to portside and pitched headfirst over the rail and fell like a comet into the estuary. The flames sizzled, winked out, leaving the seaman to bob lifelessly upon the Pearl's mirrored surface.

Morgan's features darkened; his mouth was an almost invisible slash lost in the stubbled set of his jaw. He seemed totally devoid of emotion and had the look of a man who suddenly no longer cared if he lived or died so long as he let his share of blood. Julia shivered and drew back from him as he spoke without facing her, his eyes riveted on Chiang Lu's hooded assassins as they inexorably closed in on Don Rodrigo's warehouse.

“Get out of the carriage,” he ordered.

Julia started to argue with him, then thought better of the idea. Morgan's voice had all the warmth of a drawn cutlass. She couldn't blame him, not with his ship lighting the harbor. She knew what it meant to lose everything. Save for whoever had barricaded themselves in the warehouse, the Rue de Lorchas—for a hundred yards in either direction—was devoid of life, mute testimony to Macao's unwritten law not to become embroiled in another man's troubles.

“Get out,” Morgan repeated, grabbing the reins from the woman. He glanced past her and noticed Emile Emerson, lantern in hand, striding down the gangplank of the
Magdalene
. The reverend was coatless. His rumpled shirt had been hastily tucked inside his pants, and his sleeves were rolled up past his elbows. He headed straight for the carriage. Morgan could sense the man's anger, but he had no time for a confrontation with Emerson.

Morgan's own private war lay ahead, with the men who had destroyed his ship, Chiang Lu's own Blue Wing Dragons.

“Where are you going?” Julia whispered.

“To hell, looks like.”

“Be careful,” she said and climbed out of the carriage.

“Sure,” Morgan replied and taking the whip, brought its wicked length snapping down across the mare's rump. The animal bolted forward. Morgan lay the whip aside and transferring the lines to his left hand, dragged a pistol from his belt. The carriage careened along the uneven surface of the Rue de Lorchas. It pitched to and fro like a shallow-draft schooner in a squall.

He guided the charging mare right toward a cluster of hooded figures advancing across the street toward the warehouse. So intent were these assassins on the men within, the rapidly approaching carriage went unnoticed. Ninety yards became seventy then fifty then thirty.

“C'mon!” Morgan said through clenched teeth. “C'mon!” Thirty yards—twenty—ten—suddenly the ground shook. The wharf was bathed in brilliant light. Out in the estuary, the
Hotspur
exploded as the flames reached the powder magazine below deck. A blinding flash preceded a deepthroated roar; a ball of fire shot upward and became a column of fire and blasted timbers. The debris trailed a shower of embers like a swarm of fireflies caught in a billowing mass of black smoke.

The blast startled Chiang Lu's henchmen and they turned their backs on the warehouse to gape in awe at the
Hotspur's
death throes. Then, sensing danger, eight men whirled as one—too late—for suddenly the driverless carriage plunged into their midst. Scattering, the Blue Wing Dragons loosed a volley of pistol fire and riddled the leather sides and back of the carriage. One man shrieked and fell beneath the mare's flashing hooves. The iron-rimmed wheels clipped another assassin, fracturing his collarbone, cracking a couple of ribs, and causing him to drop the wavy-bladed kris and the pistol he'd so boldly brandished. The man staggered back and shouted to his cohorts that the carriage was empty. However, Morgan Penmerry appeared in its wake. His greatcoat flared like the wings of an enormous black bat as he charged the hooded killers who had fired his ship.

An assassin closed in on the left. The big-bore pistol bucked in Morgan's left fist, spewed fire and powder smoke. The lead slug caved-in the hooded henchman's face and slammed the man to earth. Morgan parried a sword thrust, spied another flash of steel out of the corner of his eye, and spun and caught another short sword's vicious jab on the hilt of his cutlass. Morgan lunged forward, feinted, then swung the cutlass in an overhanded hack that mortally wounded a black-clad figure sneaking up behind him, kris in hand. Chiang Lu's henchman, caught by surprise, sank to his knees, his throat spurting blood.

Morgan allowed momentum to spin him full circle so that he faced the opponent he had knocked off balance with the feint. Chiang Lu's guard wasn't alone. Another three of his sinister companions had joined him. They were dressed alike, all in black with only their cold, passionless eyes visible beneath their masked features.

One of the new arrivals leveled a pistol at Morgan. The other three closed in to finish what was left after the first man had emptied his gun.

“Stop!” a woman gasped.

Morgan recognized the voice. With sheer horror he saw Julia Emerson stumble breathlessly forward. The assassin with the gun panicked and turned toward this latest intruder. His finger tightened on the trigger.

“No!” Morgan shouted and threw his cutlass like a spear. The blade entered just below the hooded man's rib cage, sank deep into his vitals. The assassin gasped, fired his weapon, and blew a hole in the street, spattering Julia with shell and mud. The henchman somehow found the strength to stagger off among the shadows—to live or die, Morgan never knew.

The captain placed himself between Julia Emerson and the shadowy figures positioning themselves for one final attack. The Blue Wing Dragons had regrouped from the carnage. The uninjured assassins, Morgan counted seven, soundlessly advanced, short swords and kris or keenedged hatchets reflecting firelight.

“Are you unharmed?” Julia asked in a hoarse voice.

“Yeah, but not for long.” Morgan grabbed her lantern. It certainly wasn't his weapon of choice, but it would have to suffice. “What the devil are you doing here?”