Grave Phantoms (Roaring Twenties #3)(78)

“Cord’s cut,” Max said, nodding to the dangling wire that wasn’t connected to the transmitter. “So don’t get any Mayday ideas. Just get us moving. The lines have been cast.”

“I want to see Astrid.”

Max tapped the map. “You pilot us here, I just might let you do that.”

Bo checked the gauges, turned on the fog lights, and pulled past a line of buoys, away from the dock. The yacht was big and moved like a slow beast as it cut through the Bay. It would take a half hour or more to get to where they were going. And once they got there, then what?

“How old are you?” Bo asked.

Max coughed into his hand. “I was born in 1491 in Cornwall,” he said, his accent changing—sounding awfully close to Mad Hammett’s. “I see that doesn’t shock you. I’m not sure how you found out about us, but it doesn’t really matter. Once I get my vigor back, you and Goldilocks will no longer be my problem.”

“How are you going to get it back?” Bo asked.

“The Sibyl will pull it out of her.”

“Sibyl?”

“Our priestess.”

“Mrs. Cushing,” Bo said.

Max didn’t confirm or deny it. He just peered out across the water, where the fog lights shone over the surface as they headed away from the northern coast of the city. Bo could navigate this route in his sleep. His eyes flicked around the pilothouse, still looking for something—anything—to use to his advantage, and settled on the radio headset and its dangling cord.

He continued talking to Max, less out of curiosity, and more to keep the man’s attention occupied. “If your turquoise idol is Aztec,” Bo mused, thinking back to the Wicked Wenches’ story, “and you were a Cornish pirate, then I’m guessing you were under the French pirate’s command—Jean Fleury?”

“Very good,” Max said, sounding genuinely impressed. “Attacking those galleons changed my life. I could’ve died that day. Instead, I had the fortune to raid the hold where they were keeping the Sibyl. Freeing her turned Max Nance’s destiny around.”

“How did you end up here in San Francisco?”

Max shrugged. “We settled in France until the Revolution. Things became too dangerous. Fleury was nearly killed by a mob.”

“The closest you all ever came to dying, wasn’t it, Grandfer?” Mad Hammett spoke up for the first time, his voice floating over Bo’s head.

Grandfer? “Are you related?” Bo asked, not seeing the resemblance.

Max’s gaze connected with Bo’s. A wariness behind his eyes softened to apathy. “You won’t be around to tell anyone,” he said, more to the view outside the Bay than to Bo. “And who would believe you anyway? No, this is the closest we all came to dying. Because if I go, we all go. Stand or fall together. So thanks to you and your girl snooping around in matters that didn’t concern you, we’re all here tonight.”

“If you touch her—” Bo started.

The muzzle of the gun dug into his scalp.

“I just want my vigor back,” Max said. “And if you want to speak with her again, you’ll keep us on course and do it with your mouth shut. Because—”

A muffled scream sounded from somewhere on the deck below. Astrid! Bo’s pulse doubled. He pushed out of the chair without thinking, only to be pistol-whipped on the back of his head. Lights blurred in his vision as pain lanceted through his skull. He fell against the dash and was hauled back into the seat.

“Try it again, and I’ll pilot the yacht myself,” Hammett warned.

“Please do,” Bo said, touching the back of his head and wincing. The pain was almost unbearable. But further shouting from below sharpened his will.

Max cursed under his breath and flicked an uneasy glance out the windows. “Make sure he keeps his hands on the wheel and drops anchor at the coordinates,” he told Hammett. “I’m going to check on them. If I’m not back when we get to our destination, bring him down. Shoot him in the leg if he doesn’t obey,” he added with a wry smile as he exited the pilothouse.

Bo felt the gun pull away from his head. Hammett took up Max’s place near the map while keeping the weapon pointed at Bo, and smiled at him beneath his heavy mustache. “You heard the man. Stay on course.”

He’d heard, but didn’t much care. All he was thinking about right now was that Hammett was holding Bo’s own gun against him. This made him furious. It also made him wonder where Hammett’s two flintlock-wielding thugs were. Down in the main cabin? Or had they left them behind on shore? How many guns were on board?

“You don’t look young like the others,” Bo said, mentally measuring the distance between them. “So I assume you aren’t one of them. Been working with them for long?”

“What’s that? Oh sure. Twenty-one years now. Nance came to Cornwall and tracked me down. Eight generations back, he had a son before he went on the voyage and met the Sibyl.” Hammett smiled to himself. “Imagine finding out your ancestor is still alive. I didn’t believe him at first, but he showed me the family tree.”

“I suppose the fact that he didn’t age was convincing,” Bo said.

“Not at first. The time difference to travel between the planes takes a year, you know.” Travel between planes? He supposed the man was referring to the yearlong stretch of time during which the yacht had disappeared. “And when they come back in their new bodies, they’re confused. So the first time he switched bodies, I didn’t believe it was really him. Of course, that body had been female. You try looking into a strange woman’s eyes and believing the man you spoke to a year ago is beneath the skin.”