Race to World's End (Rowan and Ella Book 3) (7 page)

So relieved to
finally alight safely in Casablanca, Ella bolted from the airplane, her valise
clutched to her chest, and began plotting the return trip to Cairo by car. (Halima
had regretfully informed her there was no train service as yet serving North
Africa.) The airport, while small by London or Paris standards in 1925, was
bustling and crowded with Europeans and Muslims.

Ella straightened
the heavy cotton peplum of her summer suit with a sharp tug and focused on
finding a taxi to the Majestic Hotel. The idea was to be near one of the luxury
hotels that had been there in 1825 so that she didn’t cross over only to find
herself waking up in an opium den or someone’s living room. As soon as she
stepped out of the airport and felt the heat of the city street blasting her in
the face, she felt herself wilting. She needed a bath, a fully functioning
ceiling fan and, ideally, a vodka tonic.

She wasn’t ready
to visit 1825 just yet.

The thought came
to her that Rowan probably wasn’t ready for 1825 either. She stiffened her
spine and waved to the first taxi she saw. A black Ford screeched to a stop in
front of her.

“Where to,
Mademoiselle
?” the Arabian driver said
as he climbed out of his seat, clearly intent on grabbing her luggage.

“The Majestic,”
Ella said, hugging her bag in a clear intention to hang onto it herself. The
man shrugged and jerked open the door to the back of the cab. Ella looked
around for the first time since she’d emerged from the Casablanca Airport. In
many ways, it didn’t look that different from 1925 Cairo. She knew the French
were in charge at the moment—part of the main reason she felt comfortable
using Casablanca as a jumping off point—but she also knew there were
problems.

Problems—as
in, an ongoing revolution.

“Things quiet
lately, I trust?” she asked the driver, then cursed the fact she’d forgotten
the English accent she was supposed to affect.

She watched him
glance at her through the rear-view mirror.

“Of course,
Mademoiselle,” he said, his eyes darting to her breasts before returning to a
view of the road ahead.

As she watched
the city streets streak by, Ella tried to will herself to regain her composure.
She had spent much of the flight—when she wasn’t willing herself not to
throw up—trying to convince herself that everything was going to turn out
fine. She would find Rowan. Unhurt. They would return together to their son.

Spit. Spot. No
problem.

The taxi pulled
up to a huge stone building that showed a strong Arabian design. At first, Ella
wasn’t sure it wasn’t a mosque. When the driver didn’t bother getting out to
open her door for her she knew she was in trouble. If the
taxi driver
thought she was a hooker, what was polite 1925
French-Moroccan society going to think?

She paid him and quickly
exited the taxi.

She shrugged it
off. She wouldn’t be in 1925 Casablanca long enough for it to matter. As tired
as she was from her trip, she knew the exhaustion and the emotional upset of
leaving Tater could only serve to help her in the process of her upcoming trip
to 1825. As much she longed to go inside the Majestic Hotel for a hot shower
and a cold drink, she needed to use her discomfort to her advantage.

God willing, there would be a bath and a beer somewhere in
1825.

She walked up the
steps of the hotel, nodding at the doorman. She knew there would be toilets for
the guests that were separate from their room facilities and she prayed they’d
be located in the sumptuous marble lobby. Fortunately, the lobby was busy this
afternoon. A family of Europeans sat drinking tea. From the sequined headbands
on the teen girl, Ella assumed they were English, although probably the Spanish
and the French enjoyed the same fashions in 1925.

She walked
purposefully past the ornately tiled walls and stucco pillars in the lobby as
if she knew where she was going and expected not to be questioned about
it—an old ploy she’d mastered during her time in Heidelberg in
1620—and pushed open the large wooden doors that signaled the entrance to
the
Ladies
room.

Don’t think. Just do it.

She entered the
first stall and sat down on the closed lid of the toilet. God knows where she’d
find herself in 1820, but she could only hope if the area was still used as a
bog of some kind that it was at least covered. She peeled off her mid-calf
skirt, dropping it on the floor, and unbuttoned her blouse. She’d argued with
Olna about keeping her panties and bra and, in the end, had agreed to give up
her bra for the corset contraption that would keep her breasts from flopping
around—but she’d keep her panties.

Hell, if anybody gets close enough to see my underwear, I’m
probably screwed anyway. Most likely literally.

She pulled on the
dated underclothes she’d packed, stopping once to allow a patron use the stall
next to her without all the grunts and panting she knew she was making trying
to pull the corset into place, and then fastened the long cotton dress the best
she could in the back. She was already sweating with the exertion and tried not
to think of how uncomfortable wearing the gown was going to be in 1825 without
ceiling fans to mitigate the swelter.

She stuffed the
clothes she’d shed into the trash receptacle in the stall. Halima had cut her
hair in a rough shag before she left Cairo. She pulled on a snood to make it
look like she had hair, and she had a couple of turbans in her valise that she
would wear once she was
in place
to
hide the fact her hair was shorn. She noticed her hand was shaking as she
repacked her suitcase.

She turned and
sat on the lid of the covered toilet, her small valise wedged tightly in her
arms against her chest, and reached into the top of her dress to touch her
mother’s necklace.

Use the discomfort
,
she reminded herself.
Use your fear!

The chain and
tiny amulet at the end of it instantly felt warm to her fingers and she was
gratified. Something was already happening. Somehow, whatever it was that
enabled her to do this—to travel among the centuries—was already poised
and ready.
 

She closed her
eyes and brought dear Tater’s face to her mind and instantly was stabbed with a
longing and a grief that bowed her shoulders. She gripped the necklace tighter
and felt her arms and neck begin to hum and vibrate and she concentrated on giving
herself up to the feeling. When she did, the vibrations increased and a shrill
buzzing sound penetrated her ear and permeated her from her head to her feet.
It felt like the floor was moving, buckling, dissolving…

I’m coming, Rowan,
was
her last thought before the nausea and the darkness came for her.

 
 
6

In the end it
didn’t take long.

With the island
only a half a mile wide at its longest, it took only two terrifying days and
nights, hiding in the bushes, running when the sound of the pirates’ screams
and taunts got closer. Unless they gave up the hunt—something he knew
wasn’t likely—he knew once they found evidence of him living on the
island, it was always just a matter of time. Exhausted and sleep deprived,
Rowan found a bush in the deepest point in the interior of the island. His
initial intent was just to rest and to wait. When he saw the men—he
always heard them—he would creep away.

But they finally split
up.

And he fell
asleep.

Rowan woke to the
sensation of many harsh hands grasping his arms to pull him free of the brambles.
He didn’t bother fighting them. He’d had two days and nights to consider if
finding him meant his immediate death. Or worse.

The terror and
agony of attempting to evade them, coupled with the fact he was starving, had left
him defeated and weak.

“There ye are, ye
bastard!”

“Oy! Look at the
size of ‘im! Fecking giant!”

“He’s a white
man. Drag ‘im around and let’s get a look at ‘im.”

Rowan waited for
the knife or the bullet that would end this nightmare. It was no use attempting
to escape—he was too weak to do it and there was nowhere to go. He hung
his head as if willing himself to descend into unconsciousness. There was
nothing he could do now.

The rough hands
settled him on his knees in a clearing. Rowan was already bare chested and
barefooted, wearing only jagged pieces of his trousers. Amid the babel of the
pirates’ raucous voices—many of them in a language Rowan didn’t
recognize—he heard one deep, booming voice rise above the others as it approached.

“Check ‘im for
weapons.”

Rowan felt harsh
hands plunge into his pocket, where they found his lighter.

The lighter Ella
had given him.

He shook himself
out of his stupor and made an attempt to stop the man. When he opened his eyes,
he saw the tall pirate that he’d seen on deck was standing before him,
regarding him. Seconds later, he felt an explosion of pain at the back of his
head that flung him seamlessly, mercifully, into blackness.

It wasn’t long
enough.

He jerked
violently into consciousness with the onslaught of freezing salt water that seemed
to consume him, threatening to drown him, coughing and clawing at the water to
break the surface. Within moments, he realized he was not in the ocean, but
lying on a moving wooden deck, the river of seawater that had been thrown in
his face beneath him. He opened his eyes just before the bucket was also thrown
at his head and he attempted, ineffectively, to avoid it.

He felt the
blackness creeping up to take him again.

“Oy! Whydja do
that? We’re to get him on his feet, not knock ‘im out again!”

Rowan felt a hard
kick to his side and he instinctively folded up to protect himself. He felt
himself plunged into a stomach-buckling nausea as he was jerked to his feet.

“Look alive,
mkubwa.
Captain wants to see you.”

Rowan opened his
eyes and saw that he was indeed on the pirate ship. Each side of the narrow
ship featured six small cannons jutting out of the gunwales. There was a small
staircase of eight steps that led to the quarterdeck with the pilot
wheel—and the tall pirate Rowan had briefly seen on the island.

He allowed
himself to be half dragged up the steps. At the top, he turned his head to see
if the island was visible. It wasn’t an option for him, he knew, but it might
tell him how long he’d been out.

They were
surrounded only by ocean.

“So our guest has
awakened, I see,” the captain said. He stood before Rowan wearing a long black
coat over a white blouse and dark, loden-colored trousers. His high boots were
black and looked new.

In his hand, he
tossed and caught Rowan’s lighter.

“Interesting
device you have here, giant,” the captain said. “I wonder if you know what it
is?”

Rowan glanced at
his lighter and forced himself not to grab for it. He gave his captor a baleful
look and didn’t respond.

“Let me put it
another way. Where did you get it?”

When Rowan still
didn’t speak, the captain looked at one of the men holding Rowan. “Ask our
friend what language he speaks.”

The man, a slim
black man who had called him
mkubwa,
stepped
in front of Rowan and slammed his fist into his stomach. Rowan groaned and
began to collapse but the other man holding him was now joined by a second who
held him up and his arms back.

“I speak English,
you bastard,” Rowan growled.

The captain
stopped throwing the lighter in the air and looked closely at Rowan. Without
another word, he tucked the lighter in his pocket and dismissed the men with a
wave of his hand. He turned to face the large oaken helm.

When two men
dragged Rowan back to the lower level, a small thin man with long greasy hair
directed them to position him in front of the main mast. Rowan could tell this
was another man-in-charge, although nowhere on the level of the captain.

The man stood in
front of Rowan with his hands on his skinny hips. He was short, his chest concave
and weak. He wore a green headscarf over dreadlocks that hung to his shoulders
and were coated in whale oil. He peered into Rowan’s face and nodded. “White.
Big as a bullock. English. Got people looking for ye, arsehole?”

When Rowan didn’t
answer, the man shrugged. “Me name’s Mr. Toad,” he said. “I’m Quartermaster on
the
Die Hard
and I will own ye body
and soul for the rest of yer stay with us. Savvy?”

Rowan nodded, his
face set in a scowl.

“That’s fine.
Now. What work do ye do?”

Rowan looked over
the little bastard’s shoulder to the endless waves and white caps of the
Atlantic Ocean.

Somewhere over
there, beyond there, had to be North Africa and Egypt. But nowhere, anywhere,
would he find Ella and Tater. No matter how hard he looked.

“I am talking to ye,
ye motherless bastard. What is it ye do? Can ye navigate? Cook?”

Rowan felt his
eyes glazing over and he dragged them back to the little man in front of him.
He could see sadism nearly radiating off him in waves. He was an evil little
man looking to make the world a little more miserable for everyone in it.

 
“It’s a long way where we’re going, so it
is,” Toad said, “and we won’t have any what won’t work. So I’ll ask ye again
and I know ye understand me. What work do ye do?”

Rowan looked at
the man and spoke flatly. “None I’d be willing to do for you.”

Toad smiled
immediately and Rowan saw the delight reach his eyes as well as his mouth. “Oh,
wrong answer,
mkubwa
. Wrong fecking
answer.”

With a gesture to
the men holding Rowan that was imperceptible to him, Toad took a step back and,
without looking, reached for the coiled horsewhip that was hung by the ratlines.
Rowan was spun around and his face was smashed into the side of the main mast.
The men wrenched his arms over this head and lashed them to the mast.

When the first
lash hit—a white-hot trail of agony that ignited all his senses and awoke
every nascent hint of dread in him—Rowan jerked violently in an attempt
to escape it. The next and the next and the next lash followed quickly,
brutally, crisscrossing his back in a demonic network of pain.

As Rowan closed
his eyes to the torture, he tilted his head upward and looked at his hands tied
to the pole. Just before he passed out, he saw that his wedding ring was gone.

Rowan opened one
eye when he heard the scurrying of rodent feet near his face. The movement
startled the rat but it didn’t run. For a moment, Rowan and the vermin just
regarded each other. Finally, jerking away from the beast, Rowan succeeded in
sending it scampering and he watched it disappear into the wall of the wooden
jail.

He was sorry now
he did that. He was sorry he moved. He was extremely sorry he was awake. His
back was a latticework of undulating agony. Now that he thought about it, it
was the pain that wakened him, not the sound of the rat. He positioned himself
on his side, careful not to touch his back to the wall. The brig was dark, the
wooden slats of the floor wet and slimy, the odor of the place a combination of
death meets diarrhea and rotting food.

“How are you,
sir?”

The voice seemed
to come out of Rowan’s head and at first he ignored it. But it did make him
open his eyes again. When the gloom parted, he saw a figure seated on the floor
across from him, his feet crossed at the ankles. Rowan cleared his throat.

“If it had been a
real beating, you would still be unconscious,” the voice said. Rowan picked up
an accent. Dutch or German. “They are only trying to get your attention.”

“Who are you?”
Rowan raised himself up slowly on one elbow to look at the fellow. His back
screamed with every movement.

“My name is Jan
Aldegonda. You are the one they call the giant.
Mkubwa
. They didn’t lie by much. You are very big.”

Rowan clutched at
the floor with one hand as he felt the ship ride out a long swell, picking up
the vessel and easing it up and then suddenly down like one of the kiddie rides
at Six Flags.
Only when you’ve just had
an inch of your skin flayed off and you haven’t eaten in two days, it ratchets
up in a hurry to one of the most nauseating mother fuckin’ rides in history.

Jan crept to his
knees and crawled over to Rowan. “I have some experience in medical matters. If
you will allow me?”

Rowan glanced at
the man’s hands—they were filthy, with dirt encrusted deep under his
nails. He nodded and even that hurt.

The man touched
Rowan’s shoulder and gently positioned his arm so that he could view the
damaged back. Rowan heard him suck in a hard breath.

“Bad?”

“Not too bad.”
Jan shifted back on his heels. “I only have a bucket of mostly salt water in
this place. It would only serve to hurt you. I can’t imagine it would help.”

“I think I’ll
pass,” Rowan said, collapsing back onto his side. He propped his head up on his
forearm. “My name is Rowan Pierce,” he said. “I’m American. I fell off a passenger
liner to London.”

“Tragic story,
meneer
. I am very sorry. I was taking
passage on the
Eendracht
heading to
South Africa when this ship of devils set upon it. My ship was scuttled and all
aboard murdered with the sole exception of myself.”

“Why?” It was all
Rowan had the energy for.

“Why was I not
killed too? Because I recognized the captain as Captain Erik Sully. And I knew
he would value treasure above the pleasure of killing me.”

“Why didn’t he
just take it from you?”

“It is not
currently in my possession. We are going to Casablanca, where my compatriot
keeps it safe for me. There I will trade it for my life.”

“Must be some
amazing treasure.”

“Its worth is
beyond the understanding of most mortal men.”

“And this Sully
bastard can be trusted to keep his end of the bargain?”

The Dutchman
shrugged. “It is my only hope.”

“Yeah. I see
that. Can I ask you something, Jan?”

“Of course,
meneer
.”

“What year is
this?”

The man blinked
as if he misunderstood Rowan’s accent. “It is the year eighteen hundred and
twenty-five.”

“Of course it
is.” Rowan groaned and pulled himself to a sitting position.

Son. Of. A. Bitch.
Although
he’d already gotten most of the way there on his own.

“How did you
provoke them?” Jan asked.

“They wanted to
know what skills I had they could use.”

“Ah. And you were
not willing to help them.”

“Sounds kind of
stupid when you put it like that.”

“Captain Sully is
one of the most feared pirates along these parts. No one even knows where he
came from. Before five years ago, he was unknown. A privateer, perhaps. Some
believe he came from the depths of hell. Others from Australia.”

“When will we
arrive in Casablanca?”

“Four days.”

“I’m going to
need to ask you for a favor.”

“Anything,
meneer
.”

“When they let
you go, I’m going to need you to take a message from me and deliver it to three
different law offices in Casablanca. Can you do that for me?”

“It sounds
extremely strange, but of course I can.”