Pleasure of a Dark Prince

Chapter 45

“Cromites,” Lucia sneered. That was why the Contessa hadn’t left them. These bastards had been lying in wait with hostages.

All three had eyes glazed with fanaticism and bloodstained robes. Though they brandished guns, their customary weapons were holstered at their hips—swords with Cruach’s horned symbol on the hilts, and more blood smeared on the blades.

“You’re the ones who killed the Barão’s passengers,” Lucia said. Not Damiãno.

The eldest Cromite, clearly the leader of the trio, answered, “All were sacrificed in his name.”

The shifter had merely picked up the machete that Izabel had dropped. Of course, then he’d been quick to shove it against Lucia’s neck.

“And you brought guns?” MacRieve scoffed. “Did you come here to tickle me?”

“Give us the dieumort,” the leader said. “Or we’ll kill these two.”

MacRieve shrugged. “So be it.”

Schecter gave a cry, seeming to go weak in the knees, grasping Izabel’s arm. The girl flung him away.

“Are you crazy?” Schecter said. “Just give them whatever they came for.”

“You canna comprehend the shite day I’ve had.” MacRieve’s expression was thunderous. “I will no’ be giving anything to anybody!”

The leader said, “I’ll shoot you.”

“At your bluidy leisure.” MacRieve’s beast was already stirring. “Let’s do this—”

“We don’t actually care about retrieving the dieumort. We only want it destroyed.” The leader motioned to the youngest-looking one, and the man opened his robe, displaying a belt laden with explosives. He raised his shaking fist, his thumb just above a red button on a detonator.

MacRieve muttered, “You’ve got my attention.”

“Don’t give it to them!” Lucia said. “They’re going to try to kill us all anyway. They’d love to sacrifice themselves.”

MacRieve shook his head. In a low tone, he told her, “This could actually kill you.” His eyes flickered pale blue as he gazed at her face. “I canna risk it—”

Suddenly, a deafening boom sounded. The bomb man’s head burst, blood splattering the wall map behind him.

Lucia jerked around. Travis sagged against the wall just outside the salon doorway, with his shotgun smoking and his head bandaged. “Run, Izabel!” he yelled. “Go!” She and Schecter were already darting through the doorway.

The remaining two Cromites turned to their dead comrade. And aimed their pistols.

“MacRieve!” Lucia screamed. “They’ll shoot the bomb!”

He was already diving in front of the fallen man, intercepting the bullets, his pale blue eyes locked on the ones shooting.

Knowing the carnage to come, Lucia shoved the door shut in Travis’s ashen face, slamming the bar lock in place.

Under a hail of fire but still shielding the bombs, MacRieve lunged for the two Cromites, slashing out at their throats with his claws. The two crumpled to the floor, one nearly decapitated, the other futilely clamping his hands over his severed jugular.

Dashing to MacRieve’s side, she cried, “Ah, gods, look at your chest!” It was riddled with bullets.

“Reminds me… of our first date.”

“You crazy Lykae.” She pressed her lips to his forehead.

“He wants you, Lucia,” the last living Cromite gurgled, making her entire body tense.

She leapt up, reaching the mortal, then gripped his bloody head. Broken neck day, paying it forward.

“Wants Lucia av—”

She twisted, gazing at the ceiling as satisfaction rushed through her. Every time she slew one of these followers, she imagined the Broken Bloody One felt the pain.

And that was just a hint, husband. I’m about to teach you what misery is….

With effort, MacRieve turned to her. “We could’ve used him for information.”

“My temper got the best of me. Sorry,” she said, returning to his side. She hated lying to MacRieve, but she was so close to keeping her secret buried forever. And somehow her motives for secrecy had shifted from concealing her shame to protecting her Scot.

“Lousha… think one o’ these bullets is inching to my heart. Might pass out for a bit. You stay out o’ trou—” He went unconscious.

Banging sounded on the door, and Travis yelled, “I’m about to blow this fucker down!”

“You’ll hit us,” Lucia called. “Just give us a second. We’re fine.”

Yes, fine, yet with gored bodies to get rid of. Can’t get discovered now! She was already in enough trouble. How to get rid… how to get rid…?

Her gaze fell to one of the busted windows. Rain forest garbage disposal. She hastened to the lead Cromite’s body, maneuvering it to the opening. Then she tossed it over the side.

Floating, floating.

Travis began assailing the barricaded door with what sounded like the butt of his shotgun. He’d break through soon.

Come on, fish!

She exhaled in relief when the piranhas boiled up in a feeding frenzy to consume the man. Two more Cromites to go. She made fast work of them, carefully extracting the bomb belt from the last one before dumping him to the fish.

“Clever girl,” MacRieve rasped, opening one eye.

She whispered, “So what do I do with the bomb?”

“Sink it… weigh it down.”

She peered around for something heavy to tie it to, coming up with nothing… Then she narrowed her eyes on the second busted window, on the air-conditioning unit drooping from it.

Lucia hauled it back into the salon, then punched the center out. Digging out the guts of the machine, she cautiously buried the bomb inside. Then she lobbed the whole contraption into the river, watching it sink with satisfaction.

By the time Travis broke down the door shortly after, Lucia was kneeling beside a semi-conscious MacRieve, having just tied the embroidered coffee-station tablecloth around his chest to conceal the worst of his wounds.

As the captain’s weary gaze took in the scene, Lucia glanced around, trying to see it from his eyes. His late wife’s embroidery now served as a bandage. Air conditioner parts littered the floor. Copious amounts of blood had spurted from the Cromites’ jugulars when MacRieve had attacked. Yet there were no robed men to be found.

“I think I need a drink,” Travis drawled, sinking down on his stool. “Every damned trip gets weirder than the last.”

Oh, if he only knew half the weirdness aboard his ship.

“Where the hell did those men go?”

“They escaped,” she lied baldly. “Darn them!”

Nodding slowly, he said, “The one without his head—did he make tracks too?”

“They took him with them. Madcap fanatics!”

“What did they want?”

“An artifact we own. It had a religious meaning to them. End of the world, doomsday type of stuff.”

“I saw MacRieve catch at least two bullets before you shoved me out,” Travis said, “but he looks like he’s just taking a nap.”

“Scottish men are… hardy?”

The captain rubbed his hand over his face. “See, what I think happened is this—”

“Travis,” she interrupted in a steely tone. “You’ve got a head wound, you’re a drinker, and if no one ever hears about what you think happened, then I’ll pay for all the repairs to the boat. A lump sum.”

After a hesitation, he narrowed his eyes, “Quadruple it, and you’ll see my memory go real fast.”

“Done.”

“One question though. Damiãno wasn’t with you?”

She shook her head, giving him the story she and MacRieve had agreed on, amending the identity of the Barão’s killers to the robed fanatics.

When he heard the fate of those passengers, Travis’s pale visage grew leached of even more color. “Are you sure it was those three that did it? It could’ve been Malaquí.”

“Malaquí was killed, too.” She thought she detected disappointment in him. Which couldn’t be right.

Izabel ran in then, her eyes going wide at the sight of MacRieve. “Deus do céu! Is he going to be all right?”

Lucia said, “It’s just a flesh wound.”

She nodded dumbly. “And where’d those creepy men go?”

“Escaped,” Travis answered. “Long gone.”

When MacRieve roused once more, Lucia said, “Here, help me get him back to the cabin.”

With Travis and Lucia’s help, MacRieve was able to make it to his feet. But when he lurched, Travis ducked under his arm, laying it over his shoulders to help him walk. “Big bastard,” he said with a grunt.

Once they’d navigated MacRieve back to cabin seven and heaved him into the bed, Travis said, “We’ve gotta get underway right now, get him to a hospital.”

Lucia gazed at the fresh blood seeping from the captain’s head wound. MacRieve’s not the one who needs to get to a hospital.

The captain raised his face and called, “Chuck!” He frowned when no reply came, then asked Izabel, “You’ve seen him since last night, right?” Travis seemed genuinely worried.

Izabel said, “He’s fine.”

Travis’s concern shifted to ire. “Then where the hell is he?”

“Charlie’s… he’s…” Izabel trailed off, looking at Lucia with pleading eyes.

I can’t believe I’m doing this. “Charlie was patching a hole when we came in. Looked pretty bad.”

Izabel quickly added, “Capitão, your head’s bleeding again. I’ll put you back in bed, then go help Charlie. We’ll get the Contessa under way in no time.”

Lucia waited for Travis to bark that no one could improve anything. Instead, he gazed down at Izabel and muttered, “What would I do without you two?”

Izabel, in turn, looked crestfallen. And now Lucia understood why. Okay, perhaps they do have a decent-sized barrier between them.

Just then, Schecter came running into the cabin. One of the lenses in his glasses was cracked, and his cowlick had finally deflated. “Uh, there’s a beam wedged against the engine room hatch.”

“So?” Travis snapped, looking like he wanted to murder the professor.

“So… I think Rossiter’s in there.”

At once, the captain and Izabel charged out. When MacRieve cracked open an eye and muttered to Lucia, “Go. Like that mortal,” she ran after them, hurrying to the engine room.

She found the captain straining to move the beam, his head bandage already saturated with red. Schecter was worthless. Izabel was gone, no doubt “looking” for Charlie.

“Here, let me help!” Lucia said. Acting as if she struggled, she wrenched the beam away, then dashed forward to open the hatch. When steaming fumes gusted out from within, she coughed, waving her hand in front of her face.

Once the miasma cleared, she saw Rossiter on his hands and knees clawing his way up the steps. He was shirtless, covered in grease and sweat, and up to his waist in water. He also looked drunk from fumes, his eyes bloodshot.

As Lucia rushed down to help him up, she spied a line of oil residue high on the wall from where the water had risen. “The water got that high?” If so, then the ship had been sinking.

Rossiter rasped, “I was singularly motivated… to keep the pumps running.”

She couldn’t imagine how terrifying that would have been for him—a mortal trapped with little light, the water rising, knowing he was about to drown.

Travis said, “If not for you, we’d have gone down.” Over his shoulder, he added, “All because of the giant fucking caimans!”

Everyone on board hated Schecter, but Rossiter had the most reason to. Aside from his harrowing night, the doctor’s mission was now finished—with no hope for finding his orchid. Schecter might just have killed him.

Once they got Rossiter back on the deck, his wild-eyed gaze landed on Schecter. With a maddened bellow, the doctor attacked.