Prologue

The fog obscuring her memory slowly cleared.

Emma had no idea how long she had been unconscious, but one thing was certain: her head throbbed and she wasn't in her berth aboard the ship.

As she started to come around, images flashed through her head. Putting them in any particular order, however, was proving to be a challenge. She recalled days aboard a rather spartan schooner, a much larger ship in pursuit, a wild tempest, the bone-chilling water closing in over her head, and then a beach. Rain-torrential rain. And running. She remembered running. And then nothing.

Emma opened her eyes and instinctively reached for the leather satchel that should have been by her side - a move she immediately regretted. Her arms and legs protested with what was at first a creaking weariness, and then a sharp, real pain. The jarring discomfort began to clear her mind a bit, as she saw - and felt - her wrists and ankles bound by a thick, coarse rope. Any movement whatsoever caused the bindings to tighten and dig deeper into her skin. She took a quick survey of her surroundings and began to rearrange the images of the past days into a linear sequence. She lay on a straw mat on the floor of what appeared to be a small hut. Her arms and legs trussed up tightly, preventing her from moving or even standing. A singular thought cut through the confusion: "I'm tied up, but not in the good way."

Time to consider an exit scenario.

The hut wasn't lit well, but the glow coming in through the flap covering the entrance cast shadows created by a flickering fire just outside. Her clothes and the belongings she grabbed before fleeing the ship – including the valuable package she was hired to deliver - lay in a pile just a few feet away.

It was all coming back to her now.

Emma didn't really want the job in the first place, but she knew that one more day sitting at the window staring out to sea would drive her mad. So when she stumbled across an offer for work as a glorified courier, she agreed. She never felt comfortable in this rundown section of Blackmoore anyway.

Most people just avoided the port unless they had a specific reason to be there, but dwindling employment and no real way out of town necessitated setting up shop – however temporarily – in the Cannery District. Besides, the nasty bit of business that brought her to town had blown over, and it was time to reassess her living situation.

Her rented room was drafty, and the woman who owned the crooked old house refused to speak to her – other than the occasional gripe about being late with the rent. It had been a solitary existence during her short time there, and the offer to make a little coin seemed like a good enough opportunity to put a few miles between herself and the grim, gray village. If the fates dictated she would be a delivery girl for a while, then that would be fine. She had been given a satchel with some simple instructions and a few not-so simple warnings. And so began her career as smuggler.

Making her way down to the docks, the package in a leather bag slung over her shoulder, Emma was reminded that she wouldn't miss this place. She put the ramshackle rooming house at her back and walked past the dingy shops that lined what passed for the main street. If you were in need of some cheap food or an overpriced bottle of MacCutcheon whiskey, you'd have to patronize this cheater's row. Of course, the chances of having your pocket picked after dark were fairly high, so you really had to need that bottle.

The Cannery's only saving grace was a nameless pub where anonymity was valued as much as whatever money you happened to be willing to spend. It was the first thing to greet anyone who came ashore, and it was the last thing they'd see before they left.

As she walked past it, Emma stopped to look in through the darkened windows at the now-empty room. It would come to life in a few hours when the clientele awoke to cough up last night's smoke and find themselves in need of some temporary anesthesia. For now though, she looked past the empty tables to a booth set away from the windows. It was there just the night before she first saw the man she swore was watching her.

She liked to find an empty table along the back wall and watch the night play out from that detached perch. It was a solitary existence, but it didn't necessarily have to be lonely. She'd watch from there, pick out a broad-shouldered patron who didn't seem particularly soused and sometimes let him do his best to woo her. She had a pretty good eye for talent and on the odd occasion, the draft in her room didn't seem quite so cold.

Only last night she had the distinct feeling she was the one being watched. The stranger, clad entirely in black, seemed to be doing his best to disappear into the shadows. She'd caught him looking her way a few times, but never really had a chance to see him clearly. There was just a mess of dark hair, watchful eyes, and a glimpse of a deep red vest. His evasive manner was betrayed only by the glances he continued to steal in her direction. The rest remained hidden. This was clearly not the judging eye of a potential suitor. She felt instead as if she was being stalked, and she'd felt cornered. Emma wasn't familiar with feeling like she was on the defense. She knew very few people in town – and almost none by name – but she could always hold her own with even the saltiest of them. She was intimidated for the first time in a long time. She had stared past the half-empty glass sitting in front of her. She didn't even like beer, but it gave her something to hold while assessing the intent of the man in the corner. Feeling off-balance didn't suit her.

Weary of the uncomfortable feeling, there was only one way to figure out what was happening. She'd stood to confront the stranger, cutting her way through the throng of liquored-up locals, bumping into one squat patron, spinning around to catch herself and then digging an elbow into another until she stood where the man had been eyeing her.

The booth was vacant – only an empty tumbler leaving a clue that someone had been there just seconds before. She looked around the room just in time to see the door leading to the street outside close. Whoever it was didn't want to be identified.

But that was a good 12 hours ago. Another lifetime. No use in dwelling on last night's strange encounter, especially since she had a job to do.

It was this job that seems to have landed her tied up and trying to piece together how she got here in the first place. She inhaled deeply and tried to figure out where she had gone wrong...