The Baskerville Tales (Short Stories) (16 page)

Thunder crashed, loud enough to make Striker jump.

The smaller man had slipped, and was looking around as he got to his feet, eyes wild with panic. Striker had seen that look plenty of times before in his days as Keating’s streetkeeper, and the role of predator slid on with the ease of old, comfortable clothes. The only difference now was that the hunt was his own and not his employer’s. Nick had given him that, too.

Anger vibrated up his spine, humming like rigging in the wind. But for all the hot rage of his intent, Striker’s mind was utterly clear. Hefting the wrench, he closed in, meaning to bring the chase to a quick close—not to kill, perhaps, but to discipline and definitely to slam down a healthy dose of fear. Nick was well liked, but no pirate vessel ran without a clear chain of command, and broken links begged to be fixed.

“Bloody hell, man!” Falkland raised an arm, protecting his face from the heavy wrench as Striker closed the gap between them. But the tool was a distraction only—an object of dread to keep the man from seeing the left hook coming his way. Striker’s fist slammed Falkland’s jaw, knocking him sideways. The brass-studded gloves would leave an unholy bruise, but at least the fool would walk away.

Falkland went down on all fours again, spitting blood and scrambling away with an
inarticulate yell. And then the sky split open and lightning forked down, curling around Striker’s metal-encrusted coat. A sensation like a thousand crawling insects coursed over his skin, then there was a pain in his chest that threatened to split his jaw in two, and then—blackness.

* * *

Striker flailed back to consciousness when a random movement sent pain through his body, radiating from his chest like a hammer blow. With a gasp, he opened his eyes, for a moment thinking he’d been struck blind because everything was dark.

But then he saw the stars. It was night, the storm breaking into pieces overhead. And he was soaked and bitterly cold. Striker took an experimental breath, feeling it like a knife under the ribs. Was he shot? Stabbed? He knew both those injuries well, and this felt different. This was more like a draft horse had kicked him—and then dragged a cart filled with more draft horses over his chest. What had happened? And where was he?

Disorientation sent thoughts scrambling in every direction. An important memory darted just beyond his grasp, slippery and far too quick. Then something wet and foul smelling wriggled close to his skin. Stories of selkies and more gruesome fairy-kind slithered through his imagination even as he writhed away from the hairy, soggy thing. That started up the ache in his chest all over again, robbing him of the strength to fight. Still Striker struggled to one elbow and, with an exclamation of disgust, wrenched back the flap of his coat.

He had expected something deadly, dread, or foul. Instead, a lump of straggling white fur curled against him, shivering. It was too dark to tell one end from the other, but he was pretty sure it was a dog. “Hey.”

The bedraggled lump lifted a head with a pointed snout and half-pricked ears, but only an inch or two. The dog rested its chin on Striker’s knee. Striker had seen the same expression of weary resignation on too many faces not to recognize it even on a dog on a dark night. The mutt had come to the end of its resources.

Bloody hell
. His shirt was soaked and stinking from its wet fur, and the frigid air turned the cloth icy cold. “You’re in a bad way if you think I look like a good bet,” Striker grumbled. “I’m not the dog-owning kind. I’m not even nice.”

There was just enough light to see the ears move, but nothing more. Striker lifted his hand to shift it aside—he wasn’t getting any warmer lying beside a damp dog on the soggy ground—and felt his stomach contract when the mutt shrank into a tight, white ball. Striker gave a soft curse. Someone hadn’t treated it right. He knew what that felt like.

Striker might not have been a soft touch, but he had a sense of what was decent. He slowly stroked the dog, trying to reassure it. The fur was sodden and the body painfully thin. He looked around the dark landscape, listening for an owner whistling, or the creak of a cart, or some indication of where the dog had come from, but there was nothing.

And that reminded Striker that he had no idea how he had got there himself. Memories skittered, eluding capture, and he was too tired to chase them. Solving that puzzle could wait. Right then, he was chilled, hungry, and aching. He struggled to his feet, staggering beneath the weight of his coat, and picked the dog up in one large hand. The animal didn’t struggle, but it whimpered uncertainly.

“Let’s go find a fire and something to eat,” Striker said, and then his foot knocked against something hard.

He bent to investigate, and picked up the wrench. The weight of it in his hand was the
trigger he needed—in one gulp of air he remembered Falkland, the fight, and the lightning. A cold that had nothing to do with the weather settled into his gut and made his shoulders hunch. Falkland had left him there to catch his death in the rain, or maybe he thought he was already dead. And he should have been. He’d been struck with enough power to splinter a giant oak.
So why did I live?

A creeping unease slid through him—not quite superstitious dread, but damned close. He’d felt the same way when he’d made it back to solid ground after the
Red Jack
went down. He was running through lives faster than an alley cat, and there was always a reckoning to be paid for that kind of luck.

He must have stood there awhile, because the dog started to shiver again. Forcing his mind to the here and now, Striker dropped the wrench into his pocket and started across the rocky turf toward Killincairn, the hamlet where the crew was staying. Every muscle and joint ached, and his bad knee most of all, but at least he was drawing breath after painful breath. He supposed that if Falkland hadn’t thought him dead, things might have ended a different way.
Like with a knife to my throat
.

Falkland—there was a problem Striker still had to solve.

More clouds were rolling in, stripping the stars from the sky. Thankfully, Striker could make out the wink of lights in the distance. Killincairn was little more than a tavern and a cluster of cottages that housed a handful of fishermen and their families. The local mines were played out, leaving nothing of importance to outsiders. Not even the smugglers bothered with that bit of coastline. It was about as remote a place as could be found in the southwest, which was why Nick had chosen it. There was little danger of any authorities stumbling across the steamspinner’s hangar, but that meant walking cross-country with nothing but the sound of the
waves as a compass. It was a strange, strange land for someone who had never set foot outside the East End of London. There, it was hard to be alone. Here, Striker was weirdly glad of the company of the soggy little dog, its quick heartbeat against his chest a lifeline in the vast, empty dark. He fished in the pocket of his coat until he found a small chemical lantern and pulled the slide. The two tubes of liquid mixed, generating a greenish glow just bright enough to light his steps.

When he finally limped up to the tavern door, his injured knee burning, he was even more thankful for the pool of light spilling out from the tavern. The buildings here were all whitewashed and squat, like a flock of broody chickens settled down for the night, and the public house was the largest and the most lively. Familiar voices filled the chill air, floating out the window on a haze of tobacco smoke. He’d just about reached the heavy wood door when it squeaked open and Digby ducked through.

“Where’ve you been?” asked the tall, red-haired airman. “I’ve been wondering where you got to this last hour.”

“Thanks, Mum.” Striker stopped, clenching his teeth so that they wouldn’t chatter. The sea winds had stuck their clammy fingers into places no doxy would consider decent, and the only thing he wanted right then was to be inside the door. “I forgot to tell you I’d be out past dark.”

“Just call me Mother Digby.” The tall man grinned, showing crooked teeth, but there was something in his face that said he truly had been worried. The memory of the three crewmen they’d lost had barely scabbed over. “Another ten minutes, and I’d have come looking for you with a birch rod in hand.”

“I’d like to see you try it. Where’s Falkland?”

“Haven’t seen him since this morning. Why?”

“He’s talking mutiny.”

Digby’s eyebrows rose. “Are you sure about that?”

“I am. Fancies himself persuasive, he does.”

Digby snorted. He didn’t look worried, but that was never his way. Striker had heard him whistling through a cannonade. “I’ll keep my eyes open, but the Black boys are here.”

Striker grunted. They were the others who had come with Falkland. If they were in the warm, drinking, there was little chance of immediate trouble—though that didn’t mean Striker was going to let the matter lie.

“What’ve you got there?”

Striker glanced down. The mutt had burrowed its nose under his coat. “I found a dog.” Digby’s rubbery face split into a smile. “So say all boys down through the ages.”

“I’m not going to keep it.” Self-conscious, Striker set the creature down, taking his first look at it in good light. It was some sort of wirehaired breed, white with a few tan splotches, and one back leg was lame. The dog looked up at him with a forlorn gaze, obviously unhappy to be back on the wet ground.

Digby hunkered down for a better look, extending a hand for a sniff. “He’s just a lad, he is. He’d be a good size with a little feeding up. I think he’s got some ratter in him somewhere.”

“The rat won,” Striker said dryly. “The least I can do is give him a decent meal. He woke me up. I’d still be sleeping in the rain but for him.”

“Asleep?” Digby furrowed his brow. “In this weather? What the bleeding hell have you been doing?”

Striker’s mind was back on the mutiny. He had to make a plan, and of the rest of the
crew, Digby was the closest to a friend and would watch Striker’s back if he asked. But Striker wanted food and warmth before he did any serious thinking.

The red-haired man looked up, still waiting for an answer. Striker realized his tired brain had stalled like a faulty motor. “It’s a long tale, and I need something to eat.”

As if sensing food on the horizon, the dog hopped closer to Striker until it was leaning against Striker’s leg, then looked up as if he were all the archangels rolled into one.

“He’s got you marked as a soft touch,” said Digby.

“That would be a first. Come on, you useless scrap of meat,” Striker hoisted the dog up. The dog looked hopeful at the sound of “meat.”

“What’s his name?” Digby asked.

“Doesn’t have one.” Striker knew how life worked. Name a thing, and it was yours.

“You can’t keep calling him dog.”

“Watch me.”

Digby laughed, but Striker had already pushed past him, his nose detecting the savory aroma of lamb. The dog started to whine and drool, and Striker knew exactly how it felt. In two minutes, he was at a table near the hot fire, with two pies and a mug of nut brown ale before him. Since he hadn’t actually died, it was the closest thing to heaven he was going to get that night—and to be honest, he’d take a tavern over a seat on a cloud any old time. When Digby picked up the landlord’s fiddle and started playing something slow and sweet, everything was damned near perfect.

Striker broke the crust of the first pie, letting out a cloud of steam and the scent of savory herbs. The dog let out a plaintive whine and scrabbled at the floor near his feet. Striker took the knife out of his belt and skewered a morsel, blew on it to cool it a bit, then gave it to the dog. It
fell on the meat with the kind of greediness than only comes from true hunger. The sight of it clouded Striker’s moment of languorous contentment, and he got down to the business of filling their bellies. With the application of food and warmth, he could feel his strength coming back like a rising tide. He was still exhausted, but he no longer felt like the shambling dead.

The barmaid sauntered over with a second pint. She was a fisherman’s widow, but still pretty enough to catch his eye. “Looks like you could do with this.”

Striker gave her a glance that brought color to her round cheeks. “There are a lot of things I could do with.”

Her mouth quirked, the bow of her mouth curving into a pout. “Something tells me you could use a good warming up. Maybe you could finish telling me how your steam engines worked.”

Gods, he had to admit there were good things about Killincairn. Images of pressure gauges and pistons scrambled in his memory with petticoats and the laces of her serviceable stays. She was not a tiny woman, but he liked that feeling of plenty under his hands.

“Later,” he said, putting a world of promise into the single word, although he wasn’t sure whether it was a promise he could keep. Not with Falkland running free.

She gave him a wink and swayed back to the bar. Striker started on that second pint, but slowly. The ale was good but strong, and he needed his wits sharp. He looked over his shoulder, catching a glimpse of Digby dancing a jig as he played.

The Blacks—brothers Tom and Alfred—were at Digby’s table, laughing at the fiddler’s antics. Both were big, dark-haired, hale young men who were close friends with Falkland. Striker calculated the odds if they did try to take the ship and the result wasn’t comforting. Beadle, the first mate, had left to visit family in the area. That meant right now there were three new crew
against three old—and their bosun barely counted.

On cue, the lad wandered over, tankard in hand and curiosity wreathing a downy-cheeked face flushed with ale. Striker didn’t know Poole’s story outside the fact that he’d been a clergyman’s son. The lad wasn’t the biggest or brawniest of the men, but he was book-smart, with an innocence Striker had never possessed and a polish he could never aspire to. Still, Striker liked him well enough—even though he was fairly sure he frightened the lad a little.

Poole sat down, watching the dog lick eagerly at every last bit of gravy. “He’s hungry,” the young man observed.