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  The Kraken’s Mirror

  Copyright © 2011 by Maureen O. Betita

  ISBN: 978-1-936394-67-8

  Cover art by Dara England

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work, in whole or in part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Decadent Publishing Company, LLC

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  http://www.decadentpublishing.com

  The Kraken’s Mirror

  By

  Maureen O. Betita

  ~DEDICATION~

  To the crew of the RomanceWritersRevenge.com.

  You know why!

  Prologue

  Silvestri could feel Mick at his back, watching. The card game progressed with little attempt at fair play. He kept with it, biding his time as he lost again and again. The curse stepped in when he won his next hand and the next, no matter how they cheated. The dealer glared at him and raised objection to the last hand.

  At the same moment, the fire in the hearth flared from a simple bit of warmth to raging hell. It roared into the room. The smell of burning hair rose to Silvestri’s nostrils, then the charring flesh. Mick’s hand gripped his shoulder to haul him away from the table, already crackling as the fire spread merrily amidst the screaming and shouting.

  He climbed to his feet, showing no panic, leaving Mick to gather the coins. With a sigh, he looked around the small tavern, filling with smoke and death. A great crack sounded above him, and he turned to sweep Mick under his arm. A beam slammed into the space Mick vacated.

  Fucking curse. No discrimination.

  “That was more than good luck,” Mick said, as they hurried away from the burning building. Nothing more was said until they were back on the water. Mick took the oars, stepping casually to the bow. The candle lantern at the stern cast a shadow, hiding his face. So like Mick to keep to the shadows when uncomfortable.

  The stink still lingered in his nose. Burning flesh wasn’t something a man forgot easily. The lingering impressions from the bar were hard to shake.

  “All the idiot did was cheat,” Mick softly murmured.

  Silvestri shifted on the stern bench, trying to see some light shine on Mick’s face. Was he smiling? Or grimacing? Impossible to tell. “I told you it was getting worse. I thought it was just my imagination. I hoped your impression would confirm that,” he said.

  Mick chuckled. “He wasn’t even a good cheat. But why the whole tavern? Because of one card shark? Your curse overreacted. Been doing that for how long?” The oars made barely a ripple as they struck the water. Mick knew how to approach a ship without detection.

  Silvestri stopped his rowing. “I started keeping track ten years ago, when some idiot tried to start a fight with me and ended up with a broken neck. When Glacious first set this curse on me, the fool would have suffered a simple fall in the muck of the streets. I’d have laughed!”

  Mick appeared to be listening, letting the cutter drift. Hard to tell with the younger man. For the last eight years, Mick danced close enough to reap the benefits of Silvestri’s notorious good luck curse, but skated away before it managed to steal his luck. Mick beat the curse with this waltz.

  Too bad Silvestri couldn’t dance away from it.

  Damn. He’d been an idiot when he was fifteen. But that magical bitch was incredibly beautiful. At that age, he hadn’t looked beyond that allure and into her heart. “You know the story, Mick. Most don’t have a clue.”

  “Aye. You told me. How she magicked you off your ship and offered you all the good luck in the world. Set you back aboard, none the wiser. All you need do was come back at your birthday and visit with her. You still do that?” Mick’s tone was low. Voices carried far on the water.

  “Can’t help it. She anchored a deep compulsion in me.”

  “I imagine it’s a cold celebration. Are you going to sail with my father? He needs someone to keep an eye on him.” Mick’s voice lightened his worry. Silvestri snorted, noting he made no mention of the real reason Daniel wanted him along. With the bearer of the good luck curse on board, the ship was guaranteed a safe voyage.

  “What’s keeping you from going with him?” Silvestri raised an eyebrow.

  “I met a new woman, and it’s at that delicate place. Don’t want to just disappear for months,” Mick answered, looking away.

  A woman? Well, about time. That’s why he needed Silvestri. Fine. He’d do it. Daniel was an idiot who needed a bit of a keeper. Must be one hell of a woman. Shaking his head, he banished the fleeting thought of never having a woman to call his. Glacious and this fucking curse would tear apart any woman he looked twice at.

  They bumped up against the Immortal. Mick reached for the net at the side and paused. “What is that?”

  Silvestri followed Mick’s glance to see a small Kraken caught in the net. He reached down carefully. “Help me.”

  “Help you what? I ate already, before your luck saw the inn burn to the ground. What do you want with that?”

  “You want some good luck of your own? Glacious hates the Kraken, all of them. She has a collection of frozen ones at her palace. I figure if she hates them, aiding them helps me.” He cupped the little monster in his hand and lifted it gingerly.

  Mick snorted, but bent and lifted the net, holding it steady as Silvestri carefully unwound the tangle of line that caught the beast. He flinched away as Silvestri carried the squirming bit of slime to the other side of the cutter and lowered it back into the water.

  Silvestri straightened and held Mick from climbing to the nets. “Mick, promise me. If you find Kraken in trouble, you help them out. Tobias, the magic man in Barbados, told me to never eat them. They remember—you do them a good turn, they’ll do you one. You want good luck? This costs less than making a black bargain with that ice-ridden bitch.”

  Mick stared at him, cleared his throat, and then answered. His words were measured, slow, and steady. “I give you my word. Savvy? I won’t eat them, won’t catch them…as long as I don’t have to touch one, I’ll be kindness itself to them.” He turned and set a foot in the net, muttering to himself, “Now, if they’ll not eat me, we’ll be fine.”

  Silvestri knew he was being patronized, but he didn’t care, as long as Mick gave his word.

  Silvestri snickered, looked at his slimed hand, and wiped it on Mick’s boot as it rose past him.

  He secured the cutter to the haul line and paused before boarding. Glancing down into the water, he considered the balance he carried. Fifty-five years old. Forty years of reaping the benefits and drawbacks, of her curse. Release—all he wanted was release.

  Revenge wouldn’t be bad either.

  Chapter One

  She handed the old woman a five-dollar bill and reached into the dark, fabric-lined barrel. Her arm went in past her elbow and she fished around, trying to figure out what her fingers touched, what her money would surprise her with. One finger stroked an interesting
texture and with an oof, she pushed her arm in another few inches to snag the prize.

  “Ye find yerself somethin’ sweet, lady?” The old woman grinned at her.

  Emily held up her catch. A mirror? No, it held a photo.

  “That be a nice piece a’ swag! Who be next ta plunge inta the depths a ‘Davy Jones’ bag and see what the sea might release inta their grasp?” The woman hawked her wares to the busy crowd behind Emily.

  Easing away from the pressing throng, Emily moved to an empty table near the food court to examine her find. It was round, like a hand mirror with a handle, but instead of glass, a photo of a man gazing into the distance filled the frame.

  “A Hollywood pirate.” Emily smiled. That seemed appropriate, here at the Northern California Pirate Festival. Older than most buccaneers, she found him interesting. Leaning against a railing with one leg raised, he reminded her of the Captain Morgan rum advertisement. His legs were encased in dark breeches and sported gleaming, black boots with the cuff rolled down at the knee. A good-sized sword fell at his side, and two pistols were tucked securely into a sash across his chest. Typical swashbuckler, though, definitely longer in the tooth than most movie rogues.

  She stroked a finger over the weathered skin and creases at his temple. His hair flew free, fading blond to silver against a blue-tinged sky. There was no clear view of his eyes, but she bet they were sharp and full of experience. A shiver traveled up her spine at the thought. Probably extremely experienced.

  She turned the frame over to examine the intricate pattern she’d felt there. It was fascinating, a bright white, like bleached bone. Carved or molded, she wasn’t sure which, into a nest of tentacles. After a moment, she figured it out. A great ocean monster wrapped about the frame. On the front, suckers lined the circlet. The backside was bumpy, yet it seemed like a real sea creature, slick and smooth. Touching it reminded her of stroking a starfish at the aquarium.

  Long tentacles wound down the handle, ending in a loop where a leather strip would easily attach. She turned the dainty once more to notice that at the top were two shiny, black eyes, with a knob between them she assumed was a forehead of sorts.

  With a grin, she stroked the head. “You’re a Kraken, aren’t you? Caught a pirate in your maw, you clever thing!”

  She dug into her leather sack for a slender strap. Usually, she carried a few—never knew when she might find something to use one on. She secured the frame to her belt, quite pleased at her little five-dollar trinket.

  Wandering the fair, her hand continually dropped to fondle her pet Kraken, as she thought of it. It was so strange to be here by herself. Last year, Tom was here with her. Laughing, holding her hand, examining the wares, trying to figure out how things were made. Since he was an engineer, such things interested him. Her husband squatted and conversed with the tradesmen, asking questions and taking notes, always intending to undertake these projects. He’d planned to carve a chair, assemble a faux cannon, and stitch a leather pouch. Tom figured there were years ahead of him to do it all. Damn, she missed him.

  This weekend she paid tribute to her late husband and how much they’d loved attending events such as this one. She wasn’t sure she’d ever be up for another, now that he was gone. She’d raise a glass to his memory. He’d been gone eleven months. A stupid accident, a drunk driver, and her world turned into a lonely place. It took him, the dog and the cat. He’d made a trip to the kennel after a cruise vacation and been nearly home. She’d heard the crash, the sirens racing down the road....

  The trucking company settled a small fortune on her, since the driver lived long enough to reveal the company knew he was a drunk when they put him on the road.

  She’d received the settlement check a week ago. Not that it made up for anything.

  A man nudged her. “You done looking at the books, ma’am?”

  Ma’am. She was now a ma’am. Growing old was the pits.

  “Yeah, sorry.” She moved back, without buying anything. Brought a ton of money and found nothing she wanted to spend it on. Maybe she’d go look at the long, leather bodices.

  The merry chatter of the crowd surrounded her as she wandered. The squawk of three parrots riding the perches fastened to a handcart made her smile. She’d seen that show—they were amazing birds. And the old salt who trained them did a great job at engaging the audience. Even now a trail of youngsters followed along, eyes on the bright plumage. She bet they thought to snag a feather.

  That would be a tricky thing to accomplish, seeing those bills and the sharp eyes of the birds. As if they knew what was going on around them.

  Maybe they did. She was a believing sort of woman, well aware there was more to the world than she would ever understand.

  She dodged the Scottish pirate on stilts, his furred legs going all the way to the teeny, tiny shoes he balanced on. This time she kept her head down, not wanting to stir the stiltwalker’s ire. She’d giggled at his legs the first time she’d passed him, and he’d stalked after her, asking her, “What was so funny?” A good bit of show, but she wasn’t one for drawing that sort of attention to herself. He did an excellent job, staying in fierce character on his ridiculous stilts, wearing his kilt and all.

  When she reached the booth she sought, none of the fancy bodices appealed to her. Maybe she was getting too old to imagine herself wearing copious amounts of leather? She didn’t even try one of them on. It was hard to get one of the young salesclerks to meet her eyes, let alone answer questions about size. She wasn’t young, tall or slender—hence she didn’t count. The festival was proving a depressing situation. True, the young and perfectly thin salesclerks always ignored her, but today it compounded her blues.

  She promised herself to stay for the concert, due to start in several hours. Shifting her small, black backpack to one shoulder, she wandered over to the bone pin stand. At least no one thought it odd if she covered her bag with witty sayings. Oh, she liked this one. Don’t Worry, It’s Not My Blood.

  Good one.

  What the hell—she liked her plain leather bodice, and it went well with the dark blue, checked shirt, black breeches and Teva sandals. At fifty-three years of age, she was invisible to most of the young people working the booths. Someone ought to clue them in on whose wallets were fat and whose were thin.

  Sigh.

  It was time to eat and drink. She reached down to touch her new frame and held it up to once more admire the pirate’s picture. There was something compelling about….

  “Fuck!”

  A mother with two kids in tow glared at her for cursing.

  She ignored the outrage. The photo was gone! She’d been right initially; a mirror reflected her face back at her. She saw no signs of glue. She’d assumed it was secured, but it wasn’t. She scanned the ground at her feet. Her heart beating with disappointment, she retraced her steps from the last few hours, scanning the ground as she went, but finding nothing.

  By the time she gave up, she was thoroughly hungry. And angry. The photo was gone. She knew it was stupid to be disappointed about losing a picture. Now she owned a lovely mirror. Still, a sense of loss ate at her. She needed chocolate. And liquor. Maybe something salty and greasy.

  She bought a passable rum punch—not great, but acceptable. Years spent as a bartender developed her drink palate to a particular degree. She purchased a plate that included a corndog and a handful of fries. Ice cream would be next…and maybe another punch.

  Sitting at a table, she ate, one eye on the mirror set in front of her. It upset her to lose the image. Losing it shouldn’t bother her so much. It was just a picture. A nice souvenir should be enough.

  This trip wasn’t working out at all as she’d hoped. Coming to the pirate fair alone probably hadn’t been a good idea. But it was the first stop on the way to her new life. House sold, possessions stored, new mini RV parked in the overnight lot, waiting for her next adventure. Once the event was over, she’d head for the open road.

  She pulled out her cell phone t
o check the time and looked at the posted schedule for the concert stage. Two more hours, and she’d already seen everything that interested her: the merchants, the small shows, the food booths. But she wanted to hear the Sea Dogs. She and Tom once joined in a small pirate cruise out of Sausalito, and the same group entertained them for several hours. It was a good memory. Resigned to amusing herself, since her appetite for shopping never materialized, she pulled out her new book.

  The romance novel she’d begun the night before simply didn’t hold her attention—another young, thin virgin trying to escape her fate. She was tired of the same plot and wanted something different. Closing the book, she left the table and stood in line for another snack.

  She strolled over to the harbor walk and settled down behind a wall of hay bales to enjoy her ice cream and punch, finding some protection from the breeze blowing off the water. San Francisco wasn’t the tropics, no matter how the festival liked to portray itself.

  The ice cream tasted good, a rich mix of chocolate and peanut butter. The butterfat coated her tongue. Next, she pulled out a small bottle of rum she’d smuggled into the fair and spiced up the beverage. She crossed her legs, dug into her backpack, found a small booklet she’d picked up on women pirates and settled down to read, sipping her improved drink.

  Falling asleep wasn’t part of the plan. Between the rum and the long drive to San Francisco the day before, exhaustion overcame her. The few drops left from her cup spilled onto her new mirror, still secured to her belt. She’d clean it up later, she sleepily thought. Was that a bit of fog creeping in? Pulling her breeches down to cover her lower legs, she let the drowsiness win.

  She crossed over between one breath and the next.

  ***

  One last thrust brought him some satisfaction. He collapsed, gasping, on the soft, white breasts of the working girl.