Grave Phantoms
Page 80

She can’t be killed, Astrid thought in horror.
Perhaps the conquistador realized this, too, because before Cushing made it to him, he shot another bolt in a different direction. It sailed across the water and struck one of the men on the raft in the chest.
Mrs. Cushing screamed. The man fell off the raft into the water. She dove into the lake and swam madly toward the raft as the conquistador loaded a third bolt in his crossbow. But as she was swimming, the man who’d been shot bobbed to the surface, unmoving. White light shot out of his chest . . . and out of the chests of the remaining five men on the raft.
A few moments later, all six bodies shriveled up, cracked into pieces, and blew away. And in the moonlight reflecting off the lake, Astrid spied Cushing’s hair change from gold to silver.
“Is she dying?” a voice said from a distance as the vision scattered and disintegrated. “What’s the matter with her?”
“I don’t know,” Cushing answered.
“The six are weak,” Astrid mumbled. That’s why Cushing recruited the pirates—because she had to find new men. That’s how she stayed young. Immortal.
“Did she say something?” Fleury asked.
“Her mouth moved,” someone else confirmed.
“I don’t give a damn, just do something!” Max shouted. “She’s got my vigor. I feel my soul drying up. Do the ritual. Now!”
TWENTY-EIGHT
Bo slowed the yacht as they approached the map coordinates. Mad Hammett had only stopped talking long enough to scratch his ass, but he’d slowly relaxed his stance as the yacht cut through the water. Unfortunately, he hadn’t relaxed enough, and had kept the gun trained on Bo the entire time. But now he perked up and straightened.
“We’re here?” Hammett said, squinting out the windows in snatches.
Bo couldn’t wait any longer. If the man wouldn’t give him an opportunity, he’d have to invent one himself. “I think so,” he said, trying to sound unsure as he stopped the boat.
“You think so? Not good enough. It has to be exact before we anchor.”
“I’m almost positive. Is that a four or a nine?” Bo asked, nodding at the map.
Hammett frowned at him and leaned closer. “Where?”
“Here,” Bo said, tapping one finger on the map while he reached behind him for the radio headset.
“The last number? That’s a three, you—”
Rising out of his seat, Bo wrapped the radio cord around the man’s neck.
And he pulled.
Hammett made a horrible gargling sound as Bo swung around his back and tightened the cord.
Hammett was big. Beefy. Heavier than Bo. But Bo had learned long ago that speed and daring went a long way. And as the big man rotated wildly, trying to point the gun at Bo while grasping the cord around his neck, Bo lodged a knee in the man’s back and doubled his efforts.
The cord cut into his hands, but that was good, because it was cutting into Hammett’s windpipe, too. The gun fell from Hammett’s hand and thunked against the floor as Hammett reached over his shoulder, scrabbling to pull Bo off of him, stumbling backward. The man was filled with wild fury.
But Bo was filled with vengeance.
Bo’s back hit the wall of the pilothouse. Hard. The impact shattered the dangling headset on one side of the cord and nearly knocked the wind out of Bo. He didn’t let go. He dodged Hammett’s flailing fist, only to be elbowed in the side. Pain knifed through his ribs, but he was too far hell-bent to care. He choked Hammett as if his own life depended on it. He choked Hammett for Astrid. And as his hands went numb and the big man slammed into him again and again, he hung on.
And on . . .
Whether seconds or minutes passed, he wasn’t sure, but he felt the moment Hammett stopped crushing him. The man tried to wedge his fingers between the cord and his throat. In vain. His muscles slackened, and his weight shifted.
Dead.
Dead or passed out. Bo didn’t really care which. He shoved the man’s limp body aside with a loud grunt, crawled to the gun, and snagged it off the floor. After checking the pistol’s magazine for bullets, he left Hammett and the pilothouse behind and raced down the outer deck stairs, coat blowing open as wind ripped across the ocean, only slowing when he approached the door to the main cabin.
He flattened himself against the cabin’s wall and peered inside the framed glass doors. The lights were on. No one guarded the door. Hard to tell, but it looked as though everyone was crowded in front of the piano. How many? Five? Six? The survivors, a voice inside his head said. They were all here together. For a moment, he thought Mrs. Cushing’s blond head belonged to Astrid, until his brain rejected the body. Not Astrid.
Where was she? His heart slammed against his aching ribs. He pushed hair out of his eyes and said a small prayer, and then he opened the door.
The wind betrayed him, howling into the cabin. Heads lifted. He registered the alarm on their faces, but his eyes were scanning for weapons. And for Astrid.
“Sibyl!” someone cried out as the crowd parted.
Bo was aware of the doors at his back and the wind gusting through them. He didn’t want Hammett coming downstairs and surprising him, so he quickly sidled toward the bar to get a better angle, and that’s when he finally spotted Max leaning against the piano—as if he could barely stand on his own. And in the center of the crowd, Mrs. Cushing was bent over the piano stool.
Over Astrid’s limp body.
“What have you done to her?” Bo shouted.