Day of the Shadow (3 page)

“W
here is she?” Carolina’s father demanded. He lashed out, striking the soldier who knelt before him. The violent blow knocked the trembling man to the cobblestones. “Where is my daughter?” the Spanish nobleman shouted. “And WHERE IS JACK SPARROW?”

Barbossa snorted in disgust. The fire of battle had faded from his eyes, and his feathered hat was askew on his head. He couldn’t reach up to straighten it; the chains on his arms made it difficult to move at all. He sat back to back with Billy Turner, whose head was resting glumly on his knees.

“I knew this would happen,” Billy muttered. “I knew if I stayed with Jack too long, something terrible would happen to me.”

“Can’t be trusted, can he?” Barbossa murmured, low enough so that only Billy could hear. “When danger threatens, where is he? Scarpered off! Saving his own skin!”

“Typical Jack,” Billy said bitterly. “Now I’ll never get home…never see my beloved family again….”

“Aye, it’s a right shame,” Barbossa said, twisting the knife deeper. “To tear a man away from his bonny lass and bright-eyed boy! What kind of friend would do such a thing? And what kind of
captain
would desert his crew and ship at the peak of battle? Even a pirate should have more honor than that.”

“Not Jack,” Billy said. He shook his head. “Oh, Jack. I want to believe in you…but you make it so difficult.”

Barbossa smiled grimly. Finally he had found a weak link in the group of friends around Jack. But it wouldn’t do him much good if he ended up swinging from a rope tomorrow. He studied the Spaniards who were guarding the trussed-up crew. One of them poked Jean with his toe and then jumped away as Jean tried to bite his leg.

The
Pearl
’s first mate wondered where Carolina and Diego had disappeared to. It made sense that Jack would evade capture—that was the kind of misbegotten luck he always had. But the two Spanish fugitives couldn’t have escaped into Marseille together without being spotted. So where had they gone?

“
Señor
,” one of the soldiers said nervously, drawing their leader’s attention. “We have found another one on the ship,
señor
. But…but he is very odd…I do not know what kind of man he is.”

“Show me, show me,” Carolina’s father said gruffly.

Alex the zombie shuffled forward between two soldiers, and Carolina’s father recoiled at his slack gray flesh and pale, staring eyes. No one had put any chains on the zombie yet, for fear his arms would simply drop off if any additional weight were put on them.

“What is that?” the nobleman barked in Spanish. He jumped back as a piece of Alex’s shoulder fell off with a tiny
splat
. Whisking a white silk handkerchief out of his vest, Carolina’s father pressed it to his nose and blinked several times with a horrified expression. “Whatever it is, we don’t want it.” He waved dismissively. “Let it go. Send it away! Don’t let it near us!”

The soldiers steered Alex away from the other prisoners and gave him a nudge with the butt of their rifles. The zombie paused for a moment and then shambled slowly away into the fog. Barbossa wondered if Alex might try getting a message to Tia Dalma. Then again, why would that creepy mystic help them? All she seemed to care about was Jack…and nobody knew where he was.

N
ot even Jack was exactly sure where Jack was. One moment he had been hopping gleefully from post to barrel to pier, slicing and whirling and parrying and thrusting and generally winning, as he usually did (or at least, as he usually thought he did). Then the next moment he was clinging to a piece of driftwood, soaking wet, with the sounds of battle fading above him in the fog.

Surely he hadn’t fallen off the dock! Someone must have pushed him. That was the only explanation. That blackguard, whoever he was! Jack had a thought and his hand went quickly to the top of his head. He breathed a sigh of relief. His hat was still clapped firmly to his head.

He could hear other men splashing in the harbor around him, many of them yelling for their fellow soldiers to come pull them out. They made enough noise that he could swim quietly around them without being noticed.

A slow current was carrying him away from the dock and the others. But from the sounds that drifted down through the fog, Jack could tell that his pirates had lost. He heard sharp voices rise as the Spanish argued with the Trading Company agents over what to do with them. One of them mentioned the name of a Marseille prison, and Jack winced. He’d been in there once. Not for long, of course. There wasn’t a prison in the world could hold Jack Sparrow! Well, so far, anyway.

That had been a particularly nasty prison, though. Jack stopped swimming for a moment, wondering what would happen if he climbed back to the dock and tried to start up the fight again. Part of him wanted to free his crew…after all, he couldn’t sail the
Pearl
by himself.

Then something moved beside him, leaping out of the water to nip at his ear and then vanish again into the dark waves. He gave the water a wide-eyed, alarmed look and spotted tiny shadows swirling ominously below the surface. The last time he’d been in the ocean, the creatures of his shadow-sickness had nearly drowned him.

No, he couldn’t rescue his crew now, even if he wanted to. He needed the next vial, and quickly. He needed his full strength, and he needed to make sure he reached the vial before the Shadow Lord went looking for it.

Jack ducked lower in the water and started to kick his feet, moving further away from his enemies…and further away from his captured friends.

A
bright ray of sunlight slanted through the porthole into Diego’s face, waking him up. He blinked and rubbed his eyes. Carolina was asleep with her head on his shoulder. A day had passed since their escape, but they hadn’t dared to leave this room yet. They were still hidden in the dark storage room, leaning up against the big coil of rope. Diego could hear the
scritch
scritch
ing of tiny claws among the sacks and barrels around them. Mice and rats didn’t bother him anymore. He’d spent enough time with them on his other trips as a stowaway, including a short spell in the hold of the
Black Pearl
before Jack had found him there.

Diego’s legs felt cramped and prickly. He stretched them gingerly, careful not to knock anything over that might make a noise and draw attention to this room. As he moved, Carolina shifted and woke up as well.

“Shhh,” he reminded her, putting one finger to his lips.

She nodded, got to her knees, and peered out the porthole. Outside, the fog had finally lifted. The sun sparkled on the blue-green sea and dolphins splashed cheerfully around the ship. Far in the distance, Carolina could see a dark green border of land lying on the horizon. From the position of the sun, she guessed they were sailing through the Mediterranean, heading east, and that land was the north coast of Africa.

Seagulls drifted in an impossibly blue sky, and the merchant ship skipped lightly over the white-tipped waves. Everything was beautiful and calm. It was as if the battle in Marseille had never happened…as if there were no Shadow Lord planning his terrible revenge, no Day of the Shadow creeping up on them.

“It’s late in the day,” Diego whispered. “The sun will be setting soon.”

Carolina felt a pang of worry. What had happened to their friends back on the dock?

As if he’d read her mind, Diego added, “Don’t worry. Jack will take care of them. He can get out of any scrape.”

“I hope so,” Carolina said. “I hope he wouldn’t just leave them while he goes looking for the Shadow Gold.”

Rrrrroorrrrwl
, her stomach growled, and they both couldn’t help smiling.

“I’m hungry, too,” Diego admitted.

“This feels awfully familiar,” said Carolina. “Two stowaways escaping my father, hiding on a ship…
starving
…” Their escape from
San Augustin
had been a lot like this. They’d fled to the first ship they could find, and then spent days huddled in the hold, scrounging morsels of food while they waited for a chance to sneak out at the next port.

Diego crept over to the nearest barrel and peeked inside. Dry beans—that wouldn’t help them. He had to open three more barrels before he found one filled with the hardtack that nearly every ship sailed with. They lasted so long, they were a good backup for emergencies. Diego handed one to Carolina and took one for himself. To their relief, these weren’t quite as hard on their teeth as the ones on the
Pearl
.

“This isn’t so bad, right?” he said, perching on a barrel. “Just the two of us again? Now we can go ahead with the original plan: find an island, change our names, get jobs, and blend in with the—why are you shaking your head?”

“We can’t just forget everything we know now,” Carolina said. She tucked a long strand of dark hair behind her ear. “We know the Shadow Lord is out there, and we have to stand up and fight him when the Day of the Shadow comes. We’ve told almost all the Pirate Lords. The Brethren Court will be ready. I’m not going to be hiding under the bed while all our pirate friends risk their lives to save the world.”

“Maybe you should,” Diego said seriously. “Wait, don’t argue. I know you’re a great fighter and very brave and all that—but Carolina, remember what Jean said? When he ate the prophetic berries?”

Carolina fell silent for a moment as they both remembered the scene in the jungle of Madagascar. She could clearly see the berry juice staining Jean’s pale face. His eyes had rolled back in his head so only the whites were showing, and his words were hoarse and panicked:

“She’ll die! If you take the last vial—I see it—she dies—I see her hair, long and dark—and the blood—so much blood—she dies trying to save you, Jack! On the Day of the Shadow!”

Diego shivered. If he had anything to say about it, Carolina would stay far, far away from Jack, the Pirate Lords, any other pirates, and shadows of any sort until the Day of the Shadow was long past. Of course, telling Carolina to do something didn’t usually go over very well.

“It doesn’t matter,” Carolina said. “Jean might be wrong anyway. I have to—”

BOOM!

The ship they were on surged perilously to the side as something smashed through the wall only a few inches from Diego’s head. Carolina and Diego were thrown over the coil of rope and crashed into the stacks of boxes near the door. Splinters of wood flew around the room, and they both covered their heads to protect their eyes. A burning smell filled the air.

Dazed, Carolina climbed to her feet, caught her balance on the ferociously rocking floor, and pulled Diego up beside her. Smoke and dust filled the room, and they both started coughing. Diego groaned softly and staggered against her, his head drooping.

“Are you all right?” she cried. “Oh, no—Diego, you’re bleeding!”

Some of the wreckage from the exploding wall had hit Diego: his shoulder was bleeding badly from a deep cut, and a shard of wood was embedded in his calf. Dark blood was seeping through his breeches and dripping onto the floor.

Frantically, Carolina pulled off her cloak and began tearing it into strips to bind Diego’s wounds. She had to get him out of this room.

What if they were hit again?

And what had hit them in the first place?

She whirled around and stared at the smoking cannonball lying on the floor. Its path of destruction led back to a giant hole now gaping in the side of the ship. Diego and Carolina’s little porthole was still intact, but almost the entire wall beside it was missing. And through the giant hole, she could clearly see a long galley ship racing toward them. It was bristling with cannons, all of them pointing at the merchant ship on which Carolina and Diego were hiding.

Fluttering from the top of the mainmast was a bright green Jolly Roger, emblazoned with four white crescent moons and a double-bladed sword.

Only one pirate flew a Jolly Roger like that.

They were under attack…by the Pirate Lord of the Black Sea!

C
apitaine Chevalle had been Pirate Lord of the Mediterranean for a very long time. Jack could remember the snobbish Frenchman visiting with Captain Teague when Jack was younger. Jack would be sent to bed early while the two of them sipped champagne, laughed over stories of their crews, and inevitably ended the night trying to kill each other in a drunken duel—although neither of them could see straight enough at that point to actually inflict any harm.

The next morning, Chevalle would be gone, and Teague would spend the day in bed with a splitting headache, grumbling about how much he hated Frenchmen. That was, until Chevalle showed up again…and out came the smiles and champagne once more.

On one of these visits, when Jack was nine years old, Chevalle’s gold-topped walking stick had mysteriously vanished while the two old pirates were feasting on wine and duck and sweetmeats. Oh, the fury when the theft was discovered! The roaring! The accusations! The swashbuckling battle that ensued! Jack had watched it all from the rafters, grinning and twirling the stick between his hands. At the height of the battle, when the two men had their swords at each other’s throats, Jack leaned out and dropped the stick precisely so it struck both their heads at once, knocking them out instantly.

Then he’d eaten all the sweetmeats himself and scampered off to bed.

But if he’d hoped that would be the end of Chevalle’s visits, he was sorely mistaken. Both pirates assumed they had hallucinated the theft under the influence of the wine, which was also no doubt to blame for their headaches the next day.

Much to Jack’s dismay, Chevalle’s snooty voice and overpowering lavender scent continued to plague him. He could remember sitting up in the crow’s nest on Teague’s ship and spotting the
Fancy
sailing into the harbor. Which was a ridiculous name for a pirate ship, if you asked Jack. All frippery and ostentation and not at all intimidating, much like Chevalle himself.

And yet, despite Chevalle’s many visits to Teague, Jack could only remember Teague returning the favor once. Several years ago, Jack and Teague had traveled together to Chevalle’s ancient family mansion just outside Marseille. The journey involved a winding path through a thick forest, to keep the mansion hidden from Chevalle’s enemies, but Jack’s unusual mind still remembered the way.

He also remembered the dilapidated mansion visible beyond the tall wrought-iron fence. Thick vines of ivy covered the walls, and a good portion of the roof in the east wing had fallen in, leaving rooms open to the sky like the gaping holes in a pirate’s smile.

Jack pushed his hat back on his head and surveyed the mansion warily. It had fallen into even worse disrepair since he had last been there. Night was spreading across the wide green lawn, but there was still enough light for him to see the advancing decay. A broken shutter banged back and forth on an upper story. Wind whistled through most of the windows where the glass had been shattered, possibly during some violent pirate battle. In fact, if Jack remembered correctly, at least two of those had been broken courtesy of Teague’s own pistol.

Chevalle’s family had once been terribly wealthy French aristocrats. No one was quite sure whether Chevalle had turned to piracy because they lost all their money…or whether they’d lost their money after the monarchy punished them for Chevalle’s piracy.

Either way, Chevalle did not seem troubled by his poverty. He often referred to himself flippantly as “the penniless Frenchman.” The loot he acquired on his piratical excursions was always invested back into his ship instead of his ancestral home. Jack sometimes wondered if Chevalle was expecting the government to take his mansion at any moment, and if that was why he spent no money on it.

Jack hooked his fingers in the iron gate and started climbing nimbly up the scrollwork. His sword nearly got caught in the decorative black iron skull and crossbones that glared out through the bars, but he disentangled it swiftly, swung himself over the sharp spikes at the top, and jumped lightly down to the ground.

“Very subtle,” Jack muttered at the skull and crossbones, rolling his eyes.

Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
…

Jack froze. What was that? A growl in the darkness…his eyes darted around the wild garden that stood between him and the mansion’s front door. Weeds and dandelions and ivy choked the grass that had once been smooth and manicured. The hedges had once been trimmed into fanciful shapes—unicorns and devils and sailing ships—but now they were overgrown tangles of brambles and thorns. Was something hiding behind one of them?

Was it one of the shadow creatures? Or something worse…something more tangible, with big, unfriendly teeth?

Jack took a long, cautious step sideways toward the house. Nothing happened. He took another. He tried to look harmless and not in the least noteworthy. “Not going to the mansion,” he said. “No sir, not I. Just happen to be passing through these lovely…er, charming…er, picturesque gardens. Yes indeed…”

RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR
.

Jack swallowed hard and turned around slowly.

And then he started to laugh.

Poised in the semidarkness below one of the hedges was the fluffiest, whitest, tiniest, silliest-looking dog that Jack had ever seen. It was no taller than his knee, and its fur was coiffed into ridiculous puffballs around its head, paws, and rear end. It blinked tiny black eyes at him and growled again.

“Oh,
pardonnez moi, mademoiselle
,” Jack teased, sweeping his hat off his head. “I am so sorry for intruding on your elegant soiree. I had no idea it was a who’s-got-the-most-absurdhaircut party, or I would have brought my first mate, Barbossa.”

Laughing at his own excellent joke, Jack clapped his hat back on his head and turned to saunter on.

Suddenly the little dog lunged forward and sank its teeth into Jack’s boot.

“OOOOOWWWWW!” Jack howled, equal parts outrage and pain. He jumped and shook his foot until the little dog let go and bounced back a step. “Look what you did!” Jack yelled. “Teeth marks! In my boot! How dare you!”

RUFF! RUFF! RUFF! RUFF! RUFF!
The dog let out a volley of angry barks and then lunged at Jack again. But this time he was prepared.

This time, he ran.

He sprinted through the gardens, his arms flailing and his legs pumping madly. The dog nipped at his heels all the way to the front door. Jack didn’t even have time to slam the door in its face. He kept running right into the house and straight down one of the long marble halls. As he reached the end of the hall, he glanced back and saw the dog’s delicate furry paws skidding on the slippery marble. He was just far enough ahead to leap through the nearest door, slam it behind him, and vault onto the giant wooden table that filled the room.

To Jack’s horror, when he looked down, he realized that someone had used an axe (or a sword) to carve a hole in the bottom of the door—a hole just big enough for a small dog to leap through, which is precisely what happened.

YAP! YAP! YAP!
the dog hollered, bouncing and leaping around the table as if he were shouting: “Come down from there, you coward! Come down and face me like a dog!”

“No, thank you,” Jack said politely. “I’d much rather stay up here. This is exactly where I intended to be.”

Suddenly his nose twitched. He clutched his face, and then sneezed three times in rapid succession. That overpowering scent of dying lavender flowers…that could only mean one thing.

“Ah,
Jacques
,” purred an insufferable French voice behind him. The accent—and the weight of the arrogance and egotism buried in it—made Jack’s skin crawl. “
Bienvenue
to
le chateau Chevalle.
I hope you will not be staying long.”