Page 7 of Of Magic and Rum
Charles sneers before loosening his grip on my arm and rising. “Hope to see you in port again.”
Not if my ethereal life depends on it.
Grinding my teeth together to keep from saying something stupid, I grin at him, glaring daggers into his soul. Charles turns to leave, shoving the bartender as he passes him.
“Thank—” I start to say, but my attention is drawn to the man who just walked in. Several other men surround him on each side like a pirate entourage.
He’s handsome. Beyond handsome. Beyond anything I’ve seen on the island. Tall and tanned with long chestnut hair, a slight wave from the salt water and sun. It hangs just below his collarbone, and a light, well-kept beard courses his chin and surrounds his lips. His smile is a brightened beacon calling for every woman in the bar, not one failing to snap their attention to him—much like me. And how are his teethsowhite? Several patrons raise their mugs to him, calling out the name “Jack.” After he waves, he slips the black frock coat off his form, folding it over the back of a chair. Not only does it reveal a burgundy tunic shirt only half-buttoned, but a toned muscular chest scattered with dark hair and a horizontal slanted scar that disappears into his shirt.
And suddenly, I’m thirsty all over again.
Charles passes him and spits on the floor at Jack’s feet. “Best part about Nassau? Peace of mind. The worst? Having to see your sorry ass every few months and not being able to do a damn thing about it.”
Jack, unperturbed, runs a hand over the orange sash tied around his waist. “I’ve missed you too, Vane. How is the—what ship is it now? The—Katherine or The Ranger?”
Charles grumbles something under his breath before turning for the exit. “Go to hell, Rackham.”
“I’ll meet you there. Perhaps we can plan for tea, hm?” The charm oozing from this particular pirate is enough to send a jubilant zing throughout the room.
No one pays any mind to Charles as he storms out of the tavern, and the music picks up livelier once he’s gone.
Jack’s gaze turns in my direction for a fraction of a second, causing me to slouch in my seat and pull the hat as far over my face as it’ll go. How long his eyes linger on me is anyone’s guess because, more importantly, how, in the Seven Seas, can I be drawn to a man like this—amortalman?
Risking a peek, I watch Jack and his crew sit at a circular table. Jack motions for the bartender, and several moments later, the tender returns with two handfuls of mugs, plopping them onto the table.
“Drink up, gents,” Jack says, raising his cup. “We’ve got a voyage to plan.”
His words pique my curiosity, and I hide my face with the mug, turning my chair to a better angle to hear their ongoing conversation. They exchange stories about their past hauls—the time Jack got caught behind an island by a Spanish coast guard and they stole a twin prized sloop during the night, how Jack was a privateer for a spell to throw the British off their scent, and countless tales of gold and negotiations at every turn. For every three mugs his crew drinks, Jack only consumes one. And by the fifth, Jack slams his mug down, demanding attention.
“Alright, jolterheads, listen up. I’ve been researching a jewel in the Mediterranean. A jewel that, if we find it, will make us not only rich but bloody famous to boot.” Jack reveals a folded map after reaching into a pocket of his jacket.
My focus is intense now. I’m slanting so far in Jack’s direction that the table eats into my ribs.
A man with a dirtied white wig squints a single eye at him. He burps before saying, “This isn’t another of your harebrained mythical claptraps, is it, Captain?”
I lean further untilcreak—the table shifts across the floor, making all eyes at Jack’s table, including Jack, pop in my direction. The mug shields me again, and I turn to face the wall.
“It is not. This one exists, gents. It’s recorded as a massive sapphire with bits of aquamarine surrounded on either side with gold overlay. Supposed to be the size of your fist.” Jack makes a fist and shakes it between them.
Is he talking about—no.
Murmuring ensues between them, sloshing sounds of more drinking and guzzling, and then one man asks, “Does it have a name?”
No other jewel appears as he described.
Jack pauses for effect, and I peek around my mug, seeing his palms fly up. “Befittingly—the Sailor’s Jewel.”
Either he lied to them or has yet to learn the jewel’s purpose. The gold pieces are bullhorns, and the jewel—the Tavros Jewel—serves as the guiding light for all supernatural beings who wish to find Atlantis.
Reality hits me like a tidal wave, and I find myself downing the rest of my drink to quench the sand scraping my throat. This crew is going to Atlantis. They’re going whereIneed to go.
“This is a chance of a lifetime, boys,” a burly older man with a long, peppered beard adds.
The crew goes quiet, Jack’s impatience plain from how his knee bounces under the table.
“Shall we vote on it?” The man with the wig asks.
“Aye,” the older man instantly answers.
