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Welcome to the Caribbean, Luv
Chapter Five: Muerte Cuba!
By spikeNdru, April 2004, revised January 2006 Chapter 1 2 3 4 6 7
Pre-series, AU
The story so far:
Drusilla has taken over as Commander of the Aurelius—and has her own minions, now. Spike and Rowan have rescued a fugitive from the mysterious island of Loup-Garou. Spike is defining what it means to be a vampire in a "mystically" chipped state, and finding out things about himself, in the process. Angelus is bored with playing the Lord on Jamaica and wants to go raise some havoc.
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Chapter 5: Muerte Cuba!
After sprinkling sweet-smelling herbs into the large copper tub, Rowan added the last kettle of hot water and stepped in. Sinking gratefully into the warm, fragrant water, she relaxed for the first time in days. She felt like she was being pulled hither and yon and things were getting more complicated on a daily basis. She sighed.
She’d just have to trust that her mother knew what she was doing. But when she had sent Rowan to the Bahamas, telling her she would be needed there, Rowan never expected to become this involved. She smiled. She was on this wild ride now; she may as well enjoy it.
Rowan reached for the bottle which held her own special blend of shampoo, made with coconut oil and aloe vera gel. She sank beneath the water to wet her wild, tangled hair. Surfacing, she felt a presence in the room and smiled without turning.
“Need some help with that, pet?”
Rowan handed Spike the shampoo and closed her eyes, still smiling.
~*~*~*~*~*~
The Victory had left port in Bermuda and was wending her stately way southwest.Regis Bostwick, Lord Allyn, took a pinch of snuff, placed it on the web between fingers and thumb of his left hand, and sniffed. As he waited for the sneeze that would signify the satisfactory conclusion of the ritual involving his left nostril, he played his favorite game of imagining ‘Gruesome and Horrible Deaths Befalling My Elder Brother’.
He sneezed and applied snuff to his right nostril. Perhaps something involving a pitchfork, this time. Charles, Earl Allyn, could be taking the air in the evening, surveying the spacious grounds of Balleythrope, when he trod on the handle of a pitchfork, carelessly left lying on the grounds by a stableboy . . .
He sneezed a second time, and regretfully decided that scenario wouldn’t work. Alright, the pitchfork could be carelessly left in a wagon of hay, and Charles, Earl Allyn, could stumble . . .
Commander Bostwick sighed, and again cursed the accident of birth that had left him a younger son. And now, apparently, a younger son who couldn’t even come up with a creative way of disposing of his elder brother, thus clearing the way for the inheritance he so richly deserved.
And what on earth had made him think the purchase of a commission in the royal Navy would be an appropriate way to fill the time prior to taking his rightful place as Regis, Earl Allyn?
~*~*~*~*~*~
Darla put down her pen and scattered perfumed sand across the final missive. She had written purposely vague notes, sending her regrets to cancel all the invitations they had accepted for the next fortnight. An old friend of her husband was visiting a purposely unidentified island and they simply must pay him a visit while he was in the area. That should do it!Darla smiled as she lifted the paper, pouring the sand back into the jar, then folded it and sealed it with blood red wax. She stamped the wax with the crest of a Griffin clutching the letter A in its talons. Her eyes glittered with excitement. Viva Cuba! Or, more appropriately, Muerte Cuba!
~*~*~*~*~*~
Priscilla was unable to sleep. She supposed it shouldn’t matter, because at the conclusion of the month, she would no longer have a place to sleep. She had thought circumstances conspired to stop her from throwing herself off the Lucinda Jane for a reason—that she would find a purpose, a destiny. It didn’t appear that was to be the case.Wrapping her robe over her nightdress, she slipped out of the small bungalow to walk in the garden. The islands were certainly lovely—and so different from England. The day-blooming flowers were a riot of color, but the ones that bloomed at night were the sweetest smelling. They were like a secret gift for those few who left their beds to seek solace in the night.
Priscilla wandered the garden behind her temporary home and gave herself up to the beauty of the night.
Rough hands grabbed her arms, fingers digging into the soft flesh, and she screamed. Her scream was cut off by a hand clamped over her mouth and she frantically kicked at her attacker, unable to breathe. As she began to lose consciousness, she felt herself lifted into the air and thrown over a shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Priscilla was a child again, being gently rocked by her nanny. No, she sighed as consciousness returned, it wasn’t Nanny Brown, it was the rocking motion of a ship.She opened her eyes and discovered she was sprawled on the deck of a strange ship, her head cradled in the lap of a woman who was humming and stroking her hair.
“Golden hair. Hair like grandmama. Hair like a dolly. Do you want to be my dolly?”
A slender, dark-haired woman was softly crooning to her. “Do you want to play a game? We could have such luvly games, you and Oi. Oi want a new dolly. Miss Edith was naughty and she ran away. Would you like to be my new dolly?”
Priscilla screamed as the woman’s brow became ridged and deformed and her eyes glowed yellow. She felt a sharp pain in her neck and tried to scream again, but the sound was cut off as her face was pressed to the dark woman’s bosom and she inhaled the metallic taste of blood. She felt a desperate craving for this blood and began lapping it up like a kitten.
As her world went dark, she heard the woman say, “Night, night. Mummy will see you tomorrow, Miss Edith, and we shall have wonderful games.”
~*~*~*~*~*~
Darla and Angelus disembarked when the Marietta put into port to take on its load of Cuban sugar.“Tis almost dawn, we’ll have to find a place to pass the day,” Angelus remarked.
“Not in town,” Darla replied as they hurried through the streets.
“Where then?”
“Up there!” Darla pointed to the rolling hills above the port. “When we get up, we’ll be able to see the whole area.”
“Ah, Darla, ye’always were one for a view.”
Slipping into the livery stable, Angelus broke the tether and led out a large black horse. Vaulting onto its back, he reached down a hand to Darla and pulled her up behind him. Leaning low over the horse’s neck, Angelus raced for the hills.
They came upon a small, windowless, stone building right before the sun cleared the horizon, used by shepherds who found themselves and their flocks too far from home to return until the next day. As there was no current shepherd in residence, Darla and Angelus settled in for the day, to rest for the coming bacchanal.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Marie-Angelique tossed the bones again. Her daughter’s journey was far from over, but it looked like she would be making one of her own. Marie-Angelique served the Powers, and apparently, the Powers wanted her in Haiti.
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Regis was having a wonderful dream. He had been recalled to England on a matter of some urgency, and upon his arrival at Balleythorpe, discovered Charles, Earl Allyn, on his deathbed. Charles was suffering a slow, lingering, horrible death from septicemia. “Regis,” he whispered through rigid jaws, “Thank God you’ve come!” *Charles!* Regis’ dream-self answered, *You know I’ll always be here when you need me. What can I do?* “The pain . . . the pain is terrible. I just want it to be over. Help me!” *What are you asking me, Charles?* “Help me. Put me out of my misery, please, Regis . . .”Regis had picked up a feather pillow and was lowering it over Charles’ face when a firm hand clasped his shoulder. Regis awoke with a start to find a . . . person . . . shaking his shoulder.
“Having a naughty dream, were we? If you didn’t wake soon, I was afraid I’d have to douse you with a bucket of water!”
“Take your hands off me!” Regis bolted upright in bed. “Who in hell are you and what are you doing in my cabin?”
The disreputable looking person swept off a battered leather hat and bowed with a flourish. “I’m Captain Jack Sparrow, Captain of the Black Pearl, and I’m here to rob you.”
“Absolutely not!” Regis was indignant. “I have no intention of allowing a . . . a . . . brigand such as yourself access to any of my personal mementos. So there!” Regis crossed his arms defiantly over his chest.
“I didn’t mean to rob you personally,” Jack said reasonably, “but . . . what kind of mementos are we talking about? Our fingers look to be about the same size, and I wouldn’t say ‘No’ to a nice sapphire or ruby, if you happen to have one lying around.”
“Get out of my cabin this instant!”
“Certainly,” Jack replied. “Just as soon as you provide me with your set of keys to the locked door, behind which is the wages for the Jamaican garrison.”
“You must be insane! Whyever should I give you the keys?”
Captain Jack cocked his pistol. “Because, if you don’t, I’ll just shoot you and look for the keys myself, but I thought it would be more pleasant for everyone involved if you just turned them over voluntarily.”
“You can’t shoot me! I’m Regis Bostwick, Lord Allyn.”
Captain Jack bowed. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lord Allyn, but let me make it perfectly clear that I can shoot you. Whether I will or not is very much up to you.”
“My keys won’t do you any good,” Regis said triumphantly. “There are two sets needed to open—” he broke off as he noticed Captain Jack twirling the other set on his index finger. “Oh.”
“Come now, man! Let’s not make this difficult. Give me the keys, I’ll tie you up, my men and I will appropriate the silver you’re carrying—which, may I remind you, isn’t your personal property, so you will incur no actual loss—and we’ll leave you in peace. The alternative is that I shoot you, you’re dead, so it won’t matter to you who has the silver, and I’ll not only take the keys, but also any of your ‘personal mementos’ I take a fancy to. Now, which will it be?
Deciding that his life and property was of infinitely more value than the Crown’s silver, Regis retrieved the keys from an inner pocket of his naval jacket.
Jack accepted them and said, “Now, sir, if you’ll just turn around, I’ll tie you up and be on my way.”
Using two of Regis’ own cravats, Jack tied his hands behind his back, tied his left ankle to the bedpost, and popped a lace-trimmed handkerchief into his mouth.
Sweeping off his hat and making a low bow, he said, “It was a pleasure doing business with you. Captain Jack Sparrow at your service.”
Jack’s eyes sparkled as he exited the cabin, closing the door behind him. “Charm and finesse . . . more effective than bloodshed every time!”
~*~*~*~*~*~
The last lingering rays of the sun swept below the horizon, turning the sky blood red. Angelus shifted into game face and tossed Darla into the air, catching her around the waist. She laughed with pleasure.Opening the door, Angelus was surprised to discover the horse still there, contentedly munching the verdant grasses in the meadow. Approaching from downwind, he grasped the trailing tether before the horse knew he was there.
“Your chariot awaits you, milady. Where shall we go first?”
“West,” Darla said decisively, indicating the direction away from the port where they had arrived. Darla was infinitely practical and saw no reason to wreak havoc in the port city which would eventually be their way of escape.
Riding west, they came upon a tidy, prosperous-looking farm.
Angelus leapt from the horse and grabbed the farmer coming out of his barn with a pail of milk. Sinking his fangs into the farmer’s neck, he drained him dry in an instant, while Darla controlled the horse, who had scented the blood. Dropping the farmer, Angelus reached up to lift Darla from the horse’s back and then tethered him in the yard.
Sticking out his lower lip in a pretend pout, Angelus complained, “That wasn’t any fun a'tall!”
Rising to her toes, Darla caught his lip between her sharp teeth and bit down hard. Running her tongue over the welling blood, she purred, “That was a necessary kill. Now comes the fun.”
Shifting back to human face, Darla knocked on the farmhouse door. “I wonder if I might trouble you for a cup of water? Our horse cast a shoe and my husband and I. . .”
“Come in, come in,” the farmwife said compassionately.
“Thank you. I will.” Darla smiled sweetly, stepped over the threshold and slipped into game face.
Three small children stared wide-eyed in terror as the beautiful lady turned into a monster and embraced their mother.
Angelus’ eyes lit up and he smiled evilly. “Here, kitty, kitty,” he said, approaching the children. “BOO!” he continued, putting on his game face.
The children screamed. Angelus threw back his head and laughed.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Priscilla awoke. She was disoriented, had no idea where she was, and had a raging thirst. Lifting the pitcher from the ewer with both hands, she poured the water directly down her throat. It didn’t help! The thirst was still there. She clenched her hands and the pitcher was crushed to dust. What was happening to her? Where was she?The cabin door opened and the dark haired woman she remembered from the night before came in, easily carrying a twelve year old boy on her right hip. The boy began to struggle harder and Drusilla nonchalantly slapped him.
“Hallo, dolly. Oi’m your mummy. Oi’ve brought you breakfast. When you’ve eaten, we’ll go out and hunt and play. We’ll have a lovely time. Oi know such good games.”
Drusilla clapped her hands in excitement, and the boy tried to run. Snatching him back in an instant, Drusilla grasped his chin and looked into his eyes.
“We’ll have none of that, my fine lad. My dolly needs her breakfast to build up her strength!”
Thrusting the boy into Priscilla’s arms, Drusilla crooned, “Come now, you must eat.”
Priscilla felt the bones of her face shifting and she gasped. Her brow thickened and became ridged, her eyes receded and glowed yellow, and sharp fangs pushed through her gums. The boy screamed. Priscilla grabbed him and sunk her fangs into his throat. She was ravenous. This—this was what she had needed to quench her thirst. As the blood flowed down her throat, Priscilla felt a sense of euphoria.
Drusilla patted her head and murmured, “That’s right. Miss Edith is a good dolly. We shall have lots and lots of fun together.”
~*~*~*~*~*~
Marie-Angelique made her preparations. She would be going to Haiti in less than a month and she didn’t know how long she would be required to stay. She needed to make sure the people who depended on her did not suffer in her absence.Her days were spent wandering the island collecting the plants and herbs used in her spells and medicines. She worked far into the night, compounding treatments for her patients and building protective wards to serve while she was gone.
She enjoyed the long, peaceful days. Hard work, done in service to others was satisfying to the soul, and she had a feeling she would need a pure, peaceful soul for the work ahead.
She had faithfully served her gods and they had been good to her, her family and her people. But there was a grander scheme of existence, and things were not always clear at the human level. Sometimes choices had to be made on faith that the greater good would eventually be served. She felt that she was approaching one of those times. Marie-Angelique prayed that she would make the right choice when the time came . . .
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Over the next few nights, Angelus and Darla cut a bloody swath through Cuba. Rumors were beginning to fly about the island like wildfire.Darla stretched languorously. “Perhaps we had better move on, Angelus. There are many more islands we can lay claim to.”
Angelus’ warm brown eyes glittered with hints of gold. The demon lurked close to the surface after being allowed free reign so often during the past week. “Tomorrow night, my heart. I’ve a special treat for us tonight.”
“And what evil treat do you have in mind, my darling boy?”
Angelus pulled her hard against him, and then turned her body so they were both looking out the door of the most recent house they had decimated. Gripping her shoulders tightly, he turned her to face northeast.
“Less than twenty miles in that direction,” he gestured with his left arm before snaking it around her waist and pulling her tighter against him, “is the convent of Santa Teresa—soon to be Santa Teresa Dolorosa.”
“You always were attracted to convents, Angelus.”
“Tis the purity, the innocence, the misguided faith that their god will protect them from such as I . . . It makes the terror and the horror so much sweeter when they realize that he won’t. Blood spiced with that kind of despair is the finest vintage imaginable. It makes me feel strong . . . invincible . . .”
“Insatiable. It makes you a wild stallion, my darling, and that alone is reason enough to go.”
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Rowan had made preparations for the brief trip to Cuba. With luck, their goal could be accomplished in four days, but it would necessitate sailing by day. She had been pondering a way to make Spike’s ‘pup-tent’ more secure, and thought she had found a spell that would suffice. A day’s sail to Cuba, a night spent getting the lay of the land and formulating a plan to release Jeb Horner; the second day waiting out the sun, rescuing the pirate that night . . . an additional day in case anything went wrong, and then the return sail to Acklins. It was a manageable plan.Except . . . the second night of the rescue attempt was also the first night of the full moon.
Sending Spike out to 'commune' with area livestock, Rowan descended the steps to have a talk with Tiberius. He was much improved during the time she had been caring for him. A soft smile formed on her lips at the sight of him. Strong, well-formed, brave—he was a fine figure of a man. He had been through so much, she hated to have to add to his burdens, but it was necessary.
Tiberius’ eyes lit up at the sight of her, and Rowan’s heart skipped a beat. They spoke in French, as he was obviously more comfortable in that language.
“How are you feeling?”
A beautiful smile lit up his face. “Much better, thank you. There is no pain and I am healing well, thanks to the care you and your friend have provided. I don’t know how you did it . . . you must be a witch!” He laughed.
Rowan looked at him soberly. “I am.”
Blood suffused his face, turning his chocolate brown skin cinnamon as he blushed.
“I . . . I . . . I didn’t mean . . .”
Rowan placed her hand over his. “It’s alright. I’m not offended. I am a witch. There are hidden sides to all of us, and that is what we need to discuss. You know of the un-dead?”
“Zombies,” Tiberius shuddered. “Mindless corpses animated by a Zombie Master. I have heard of them, but thankfully, have never seen them.”
Rowan smiled. “As far as I know, zombies play no part in what I am about to tell you. I refer to the living dead—vampires. The undead that need the blood of the living for sustenance.”
Tiberius shuddered. “Vampires would be worse than zombies. Rotting corpses are identifiable on sight, but I understand a vampire can pass as a man until the feeding frenzy is upon them. You could pass one in the street and never know . . .”
“You’re quite right. In fact, you’ve been sharing this sanctuary for the past week with a witch . . . and a vampire.”
Tiberius stared at her in shock.
Rowan continued, “Spike is a vampire, but he will not hurt you at this time. There are forces gathering . . . it may be hundreds of years before the plan is made clear. I do know that Spike has an important part to play, and this time with us is necessary for him. He needs to know in some hidden corner of his mind that his life as a soulless killer is not predestined—that he does have a choice. He will not consciously remember his time with us, but the seeds planted now must have a chance to germinate and grow. He must not be harmed. Do you understand?”
Tiberius searched her eyes and nodded slowly. He smiled.
“Well, if I had no fear of sharing a room with him yesterday or the day before, it would be silly to fear for tomorrow. He would not have changed in any way, only my perception of him.”
Rowan squeezed his hand. “Good. Now, I have much to tell you. Spike and I must go to Cuba for a few days.”
She looked at him with concern in her eyes. “You must stay here. Don’t fear discovery. The house will be warded, but you must remain here in the root cellar. I will leave you food, and there is plenty of water in the cistern . . .”
“Can’t I come?” he broke in. “I’m feeling much better, and there may be something I can do to help.”
Rowan laid a gentle hand on his cheek.
“I’m sorry,” she said regretfully. “Not this time. It won’t be possible. But I give you my word I will return. You won’t be abandoned here. There are reasons why you cannot go. Now, before Spike returns, we must talk about the island of Loup-Garou . . .”
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Angelus threw back his head and roared in triumph. The crumpled bodies of nuns and novices lay everywhere. The Mother Superior clasped her bound hands and wept, as tears and blood streaked her horrified face. Angelus, with a delicacy belied by his large hands, had cut away her eyelids, careful to not damage her eyes, so she was forced to bear witness to the rape and slaughter of the women and girls under her care.A lesser woman would have broken, but Mother Teresa-Innocenta never lost her faith in God. There was evil in this world—unmitigated, ungovernable evil. God had no part of that evil. One endured the trials and tribulations of this world, striving to do good, to bring some of God’s light to the darkness here. When one’s task was completed, when the time here was over, then came the chance to look upon His Blessed Countenance, and to dwell with Him in Paradise. Nothing these soulless monsters did could change that!
She wept for the pain and suffering her Sisters had endured, but she knew with all her soul that they were now in a better place; a place forever denied to these evil beings, and in that instant of knowledge, she pitied them.
Angelus snarled at the look of compassion on her face. He grabbed her by the throat and growled, “Why do you look at me like that? As if you pity me? Save your pity for yourself!”
She fought to draw air into her lungs to answer. “I pity you because you will never know the blessing of God’s love. Someday, you may regret all the evil you have done. You may want to make amends for the pain and suffering you have caused, but you will never be whole . . . you will never know God’s unconditional love, and for that, I pity you.”
Lifting her by the throat, he flung her across the room. She struck her head on a corner of the altar, and the abattoir that had been her quiet, peaceful convent began to fade from her view. God was merciful.
“Hail, Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with you,” she murmured. “Blessed art thou among women, and blessed . . .”
~*~*~*~*~*~
Rowan and Spike guided the sloop into a small cove and dropped anchor. There was something happening—they could both sense it. There was an energy encompassing the island. The feelings of fear, hate and terror were palpable in the very air.“What the bloody hell is goin’ on?”
“I don’t know, but we need to discover what has happened!”
Slipping through the shadows, they approached the town that had grown outside the prison/fortress, to provide necessities to the soldiers garrisoned there.
Rowan and Spike easily slipped through the milling throng. Eavesdropping, they heard whispers of devils and monsters, and people were praying and crossing themselves.
The gates of the prison opened and a contingent of soldiers rode out. The townspeople cheered as the soldiers rode for the hills.
Rowan stooped to gently touch the shoulder of a weeping woman who had collapsed onto the packed dirt of the street.
“Mi hija! Margarita! Mi'ja!” she sobbed.
Rowan put her arms around the woman. “Tell me,” she said compassionately.
“My daughter! My child! How could God let this happen?”
Rowan sent calming thoughts to the woman, and touched the turmoil in her mind, smoothing it out, attempting to lessen the pain.
“Rest, now,” Rowan spoke softly. “Go to your home and rest. It will strengthen you to face the morrow.”
Grabbing Spike’s hand, Rowan pulled him out of the confusion into a shadowy corner.
“There was a savage attack on the convent of Santa Teresa. All of the Sisters are dead. There is nothing we can do to help them, but the guards are going out to search for those responsible—the prison is in disarray.”
“So we take advantage of the confusion and rescue the pirate, now?”
Rowan nodded.
As the soldiers, guards, and all available men spread out over the island searching for the monsters that had massacred the Sisters of Santa Teresa, a ship sailed out of the harbor, bound for Haiti, unaware that the contents of the hold had been increased by the addition of two extremely satiated vampires.
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