The Merman and the Barbarian Pirate (12 page)

Raef anticipated a nightmarish journey through the night, with Haverford's hands crawling all over him, and so much worse. While Haverford prodded and kicked him, the carriage clattered and lurched up a steep and winding track. The combination of fear and the jerky motion set Raef's stomach pitching again, and he wondered if he might vomit on Haverford's shoes. Nonetheless, Haverford soon tired of tormenting him. Indeed, on daring to glance upward, Raef noticed Haverford yawning. A short distance beyond the peak, they stopped outside a grand house—at least, it looked impressive from the few glimpses Raef grabbed as he was hauled from the carriage by one of the footmen. His feet were untied, and he discerned sweeping columns framing the house's entrance, topped with a majestic portico veiled in the shroud of night. Overall, though, the mansion seemed smaller than Haverford's.

Haverford had not been expected, and the house was shut up for the night. The servants and their master, an elderly gentleman named Sir Edward Humphrey, scurried in their nightgowns to accommodate the lord and his entourage.

Greetings were exchanged amid the Grecian splendor of the entrance hall. "Lord Haverford," croaked Sir Edward, who wore a drooping white cap. "This is a surprise. Excuse an old gent's kerfuffle, and join me for some elderberry wine, eh?"

"With pleasure," said Haverford, "though I have a small problem to contain." He jerked his thumb in the direction of Raef. "I've a prisoner in transit. One of those pirate rogues."

"Oh." Sir Edward raised an eyeglass and peered Raef's way. "How unsavory. Yes, I'd heard about your trouble with the dreaded Pirate Kemp. Surely, this boy isn't him?"

"No, just some shuffler off his ship," said Haverford. "We've got Kemp secure in the Lilhaven lockup. His recent attack on me was simply the last straw. He's stolen over fifty pounds worth of goods and crops from my landholdings over this past month. Fifty pounds! I feared to put my ships to sea because of the wretch."

"Strange," said Sir Edward. "He's not taken a farthing's worth from me and my tenants, but I suppose it would only have been a matter of time."

"Indeed it would have, I'm sure," barked Haverford, seemingly rankled by this revelation. "Now, I'm weary after a long day defending my grateful public, and would like a spot of supper and a decent rest without fearing for my safety. Do you happen to own an old chest, Sir Edward? A thick and strong one, preferably—though not necessarily—with a chink for air. I've a fancy that'll do the trick."

"No, please!" cried Raef, who'd had enough of being stuffed in poky, dark holes.

His plea was echoed by a shudder from Sir Edward, which Haverford's hawk-like gaze did not miss.

"Would you like the blackguard to slash your throat in your sleep?" hissed Haverford in a tenor that suggested he might like to perform the deed himself. Sir Edward didn't dare argue and did have a chest, which his servants promptly retrieved and dragged across the checkered tiles of the floor.

When one of the yeomen who'd accompanied Haverford started to press Raef toward it, he kicked and struggled. Up close, the chest looked like a bloated coffin, the bowed sides braced by iron strips. Haverford stepped forward to press him inside, mauling Raef's hair once more. "Sweet dreams," he said and slammed the lid shut.

After overcoming his initial panic that he'd run out of air—there were, fortunately, a few cracks in the ancient wood—Raef tried to set his mind blank. When that failed, he pretended he was somewhere else. He imagined he was in Kemp's bunk, but the fantasy seemed distant and kept breaking. He couldn't muster the concentration to picture Kemp's face. He was more cramped and uncomfortable than he'd been in the bowels of the ship, and worse, he suspected Haverford had barely started the punishments promised to him. Raef's flesh crawled at the memory of Haverford's pawing, and only the mercy of utter exhaustion pressed him into slumber.

When he awoke, jerking up and bashing his head against the lid, he felt groggy and bilious, and his heart galloped. Nothing was a dream. Everything was real, and the chest's constant movement and the sound of grinding wheels suggested he'd been loaded onto the carriage again. They were most likely traveling back to Haverford's castle.

The journey was broken briefly. One of the yeomen plucked Raef from the chest, and they allowed him to relieve himself, a tricky task with his wrists bound. While the footmen served Haverford claret and cold beef, they bound Raef's ankles again, and presented him with water and a crust of stale bread to gnaw on. Raef rested on his knees and stared down at the crust. He fingered it with his tied and dirty hands.

"I'd eat it, my lad," said Haverford. "You can expect something a lot meatier in your mouth later, but you'll still need all the strength you can get."

Raef chewed the tasteless husk, keeping his gaze low, but pinned on Haverford, who quaffed the wine. He swallowed with effort and then hissed through his teeth. This creature he'd once adored had ignited something new in him. Not only had Raef realized he didn't love Haverford, he
hated
him. Where he'd once seen beauty, he now discerned a sharp beaky nose, a haughty brow, and a mouth that twisted continually from one unpleasant shape to another. He even loathed Haverford's gait. Haverford shuffled about with his chest puffed, like an overinflated sea slug.

Deep in his gut, a flame kindled and leaped, still small and weak, but burning fiercer by the moment. In his misery, he understood he'd never hated before, much as he'd never really loved. His irritation with Kemp on the night the pirates robbed this demon paled compared to the loathing for Haverford he nurtured now.

Soon, Raef was packed back in the chest, and the coach rumbled onward. He tried to focus on his hatred, to stoke and cultivate it, but fear's stranglehold remained potent, and his head still hurt.

After an interminable amount of time, the coach ground to a halt again. He felt the chest swaying as folk lifted and carried it, and then after a short voyage, they placed it down again. Raef fortified himself. When the chest was opened, he'd take his next opportunity to spit in Haverford's eye.

Haverford's sneering visage was indeed the first thing he saw when the lid was swung up, and Haverford lugged him out. Raef's mouth was so dry he couldn't yet fulfill his ambition to spit. By the time he swayed unsteadily on his feet, his environs dragged a shocked cry from him instead.

He was in a tiled room, about seven paces square. The severed head of a boar stared down at him from a plinth, its pink tongue lolling from its slack mouth. On all four grimy walls hung pheasants and grouse, many still dripping the blood of which the room stank, and encircled with buzzing flies. Some of the meat hooks were empty, their barbed points blackened with dried gore. An array of whips, knives, and cleavers completed this hall of horrors—so he assumed, another of the outhouses at Haverford's castle. How Raef wished for the sharp-smelling hay of the stable or the fresh odors of the laundry.

Haverford whispered in his ear, putrid breaths flaming against his cold sweat. "Like what you see, my pretty dove? What would you like to feel first? The lick of the whip or the bite of the hook?"

Unable to find words, Raef merely shook his head.

"You will feel them all, don't you worry, as you'll feel every inch of me." Haverford stroked the grotesque bulge at his crotch. Raef faintly hoped he might vomit on Haverford's buckskin breeches. "But sadly, I've other duties to tend to first, so I'll leave you to look forward to the entertainments."

Haverford maneuvered him so his back was to the wall, and then stretched his bound wrists upward and hoisted them over one of the hooks. This forced Raef to rise onto tiptoes and pulled his arms agonizingly taut above his head. Angry shouts rattled around Raef's fear-addled brain.

Fight back. Kick him. Bite him. Do whatever it takes.

He wriggled, trying to force life into his traumatized frame. Nothing he did could undermine Haverford, who fiddled with the hemp and attached it firmly to the hook. However hard Raef strained, the rope remained firm and he stayed dangling.

Haverford stepped back, surveying him with a warped grin. "Enjoy your day, Raef." He licked his lips, and Raef shrank back against the wall, wishing the tiles would swallow him. "Oh, look at you. Strung up and displayed for me. I'm going to enjoy plucking you, stuffing you, and making you squirm."

To underline his point, he slapped Raef's cheek before plying a bruising kiss. Then he turned, opened the door, slammed it behind, and was gone.

Raef clenched his jaw and jerked at his bonds. Once again, he wouldn't weep, though hot tears pushed in his eyes. Several times of late, he'd believed his lot couldn't get worse. Yet again, it had.

"Hate," he murmured. A fly crawled up his leg. "I must hate him, fight him."

A large part of him wanted to despair. As he glanced between the whips, the dead fowl, and that drooling boar, an icy horror trickled down his spine. Piled in one corner were clubs, batons, and knives, and propped in another was an iron frame with springs and spikes, which looked very much like a man-size version of the mousetrap he'd seen on Kemp's ship.

Oh, gods, Kemp. Part of him still wanted to believe Kemp would come for him, carry him off to sail into a hurricane of kisses and glory. But he was through with that nonsense. A lot of good falling in so-called love had done him.

He sniffed and tried to wipe his face with his shoulder. If he was going to survive this, he'd have to fight his way out by himself. For the first time in his life, he'd act without pinning his hopes and dreams on the approval and affection of others. To hell with Haverford, with Galyna and the elders, and with all he'd gleaned from his poor mother's tales. To hell even with Kemp. Nobody was going to help him, so he'd have to save himself.

The first important task was to get his hands free. Scrambling with his toes to get the best tenure on the floor he could, he tugged at the ropes. The effort scraped his already-grazed wrists, but this was his only hope. Despite his headache and other injuries, he didn't feel as weak as he had on the
Alice O'Shanty
. The more often he shifted into human form, the greater his stamina in that shape became. Though he couldn't and didn't want to be human forever, this was cheering progress in itself.

Eventually, he untangled the ropes from the meat hook and collapsed to the floor, gasping and trying to sit up. Every sinew ached for respite, but he couldn't rest. He dragged himself to the pile of gruesome torture instruments, pressed the ropes that bound his arms to a rusty blade, and started to saw.

He worked swiftly, treating each fraying thread as a triumph. Once he got his wrists loose, he found a sharper knife to release his ankles, then went to the door, which was locked. He shoved it with his shoulder, but the oak felt solid as granite. The room's high windows were too narrow to wriggle through.

He ruffled his hair. So be it. He'd have to do this the hard way—pick a weapon, and pray that when Haverford entered again, he would be alone, and Raef could strike hard enough to incapacitate him.

Could I kill him?

Raef picked up a serrated knife, its handle wrapped with string. He imagined stabbing it into Haverford's side. Would the flank be hard or yielding? Would the ribs resist? The notion of cleaving flesh—even Haverford's hated flesh—chilled him to the marrow of his bones. He didn't think he'd have the nerve to execute the plan. So he picked up a wooden baton instead, and huddled beside the door.

Around midafternoon, he heard the clop of many hooves, and then pattered footfalls on the gravel. Conversations rumbled beyond his hearing, followed by the now-familiar grind of carriage wheels. Silence followed this outburst of activity. Raef couldn't help fearing the worst. Perhaps Haverford had sent all the servants away so he could torment Raef without worry of interference.

He tried to reassure himself this might all be for the best. He'd have a stronger chance of escape after a one-on-one battle. Still, he quivered with fear as well as hunger, and the baton slipped several times from his unsteady hand. Each time, he snatched the weapon up and pricked his ears.

Any… moment… now…

When finally he heard the lock clicking, he jumped. He'd not discerned Haverford's heavy footsteps approaching, which seemed odd. He rose, gripping the club, and flattened his back to the wall behind the door. He'd but one chance at this, a single opportunity to survive.

The door opened a crack, then a little farther. Raef raised the baton, readying to strike. He spied the toe of a boot, rounded and scuffed.

Not a smartly shined buckled shoe, as Haverford wore.

He swung the baton back, but doubt stayed his hand long enough to take in the boldly handsome face of his would-be victim. "Kemp!"

Kemp stooped forward to catch him as Raef dropped the baton and crumpled to his knees. Kemp sunk down with him, enfolding Raef in his arms. He held Raef so tightly that Raef couldn't tell if the thudding pulse against his chest was his, Kemp's, or a mingling of both. Raef buried his face in Kemp's shoulder and balled his fists in Kemp's jacket. Though he'd vowed to get through this without help, and that he loved nobody, he'd never been so pleased to see anyone in his life.

After a few moments of savoring Kemp's embrace, he lifted his cheek from his shoulder and savored the sight of him. Kemp was as real as he was gorgeous, his plush lips pressed tight with concern.

"Are you all right?" asked Kemp, touching Raef's forehead, which was smeared with dried blood. "The gardener told me Haverford had hung you in the game larder, and I feared the worst. Did he hurt you badly?"

Raef shook his head, suppressing a wince when it throbbed. "No, I'm fine, but… How did you get here?"

"Ssssh. No time to explain everything now." Kemp pressed grimy fingers to Raef's lips. "You owe me a few explanations too, mad boy. But to be brief—Haverford has been called away, presumably because I escaped from the village lockup." Kemp winked. "I told you my men could open any door. We arrived back at the
Alice O'Shanty
before first light and sailed upon the tide. We've got to get moving fast now, though, because with those lobsters flooding the coast, nowhere is safe."