Seven years after the battle of the Maelstrom...

CHAPTER ONE

None of the crew even knew their names.

The pair--brother and sister--had paid a handsome fee for passage from Edinburgh to Cuba, with the stipulation that the Albatross travel as quickly as possible. The farther they sailed into Caribbean waters, the more agitated they became, standing for hours at the rails or pacing incessantly. Any queries as to the source of their discomfort would be met with a dismissive rebuttal and a swift change of subject. They spoke to no one, kept to their cabin at night, and shunned the attentions of the crew.

They were an enigma.

- - - - -

"Xavier."

The young man glanced up at the flat tone of his sister , worry etching creases in his brow. "Problem, Ev?"

"I just heard the crew talking," the woman replied, moving to stand by her sibling. The late-afternoon breeze ruffled the tips of her scarlet curls. "They spoke of Davy Jones."

"Hoo, boy."

"The rumors are true, Xavier. Jones is back."

He wrung his hands. "Do...they have proof?"

"They say the Dutchman has been tailing us."

"Mother Mary's britches," Xavier muttered. "He can't know we exist, Evelyn."

"Are you certain?" she asked darkly, eyes fixated on the gently rolling waves. Xavier sighed.

If you were to take quick stock of the pair, you would conclude that they were nothing alike. Xavier was tall; Evelyn was short. He had dark brown hair, secured with a black ribbon; she was a curly Scottish redhead, hair barely contained under a fantastically feathered hat. His eyes were a greenish hazel; hers were a wild, glimmering black.

But observe them longer, and similarities would surface. Both had a certain air of freeness about them, a sense that here were two souls that knew no boundaries. Both were marked by a strong jawline, high forehead, and slightly slanted eyes, suggesting an exotic heritage. Both, too, shared similar styles of dress: he wore an ostentatious, silver-embroidered black frock coat over a red vest and white linen shirt, and had a silver ring in one ear; she wore a no-nonsense skirt with sturdy boots and a tight-fitting leather vest over a red linen shirt, complete with the black felt hat that dwarfed her petite frame. Pirates, obviously, but no one said it to their face.

The pair stood at the rail, watching the sun be smothered by the horizon. "We should get some sleep," Xavier suggested, stealing a sidelong glance at his moody companion. "We may make port tomorrow, and--Ev, are you listening to me?"

"He's here."

"What?"

Evelyn shut her eyes tightly and swayed where she stood, face contorted as though in pain. "You heard me," she growled through gritted teeth.

At that moment, with a deafening whoosh, every lamp and source of light on deck blew out.

Xavier drew his broadsword--of Scottish make, with a basket hilt--and held it at the ready, listening intently. Evelyn rubbed her eyes and looked blearily around, somewhat belatedly snapping her scimitars out of their sheaths. Fragile coils of smoke drifted upward from spent wicks, borne on the brisk breeze, visible only by the dead moonlight.

Then there was no wind at all.

"No heroics this time," Evelyn whispered as she inched closer, booted feet soundless on the rolling deck. "We can't have it."

He grinned. "Not even if it'll make me look good?"

"Oh, shut i--" Mouth half-open, she stopped.

"What is it?"

"Shush! Don't you hear that?"

"Hear...what?" There was no movement, no sound anywhere, save for the lap of waves against the hull and the flap of empty canvas.

Evelyn cocked her head. "There's nothing. That's the problem." Her black eyes caught the moonlight, gleaming. "Why isn't there an alarm?"

A dull thud was all that warned her of the attack.