The hold of the Barracuda was one of the darkest, dreariest jails that Morgan Skully had ever been in – and she had been in her share of jails, since she had had a career of piracy her entire life. But not much was registering, not after all of the weird junk Toombs had done to her. Things that oughtn't to have been moving were, things glowed, things made sounds they shouldn't. She sat in the very back of the cell, knees drawn up to her chest with her arms draped around them; cuts and bruises were draped artfully along her arms, only hinting at what might lay under her clothes. Her face, however, was untouched. Her vivid amethyst eyes studied the door to her cell, still unable to open it as the first day she had been thrown in it – and that was almost over two years ago. She had tried everything she knew, from picks to door jams to just plain banging and yelling. She had finally given in and sat back, quietly sitting and waiting for Toombs to come and visit, and always looking for a way off of the ship – even if that meant swimming until she drowned. Death would be better than what the crazed voodoo priest had done to her.
Soon enough, Morgan heard the sound of Toombs' boots on the stairs – she had heard them often enough that she could tell them apart from the other crew members'. She didn't shrink back – instead, she stood to greet her captor, swaying with the rocking of the boat to the cell bars and leaning on them, amethyst eyes waiting to meet Toombs' own sea-blue ones. The man raised a rolled bit of tobacco to his lips, the stub smoldering a sultry red in the curve of his lips, surrounded by his neatly trimmed goatee. He smiled lightly, walking over to the table that served as an altar for what Morgan had come to consider his "hideous voodoo practices." It was littered with incense, herbs, stones, and jars of things that didn't look like they should be on the outside of a human. Some of them looked like they hadn't belonged to a human to begin with. Even though Morgan wasn't usually squeamish, she found Toombs' habits and 'performances' disgusting and gut-wrenching.
"Not a smart idea, Toombs, burning somethin' on a ship. Never know what might catch. Be a shame to lose such a fine ship in the middle of the sea, with the crew 'n all." Toombs looked up from his altar to where Morgan stood, imprisoned, and purposefully took a long drag. He held the breath for a moment and walked toward the cell. He leaned in and blew the smoke in Morgan's face, replying in his deep, slow drawl.
"Don't you worry your pretty little head about my ship. 'Tis your ship you should've been worried about – but look, it's been about twelve years too late." His cold, blue eyes bore into hers as she coughed but struggled to not lose ground as she tried to swat the smoke away. Toombs remained near the door to the cell, as if musing over whether or not to let her out for another experiment. Morgan finally moved away to catch her breath – she'd long since gotten used to the smell, but something clutched at her throat, blocking the air passage and choking her. She dropped to her knees, scraping at her throat and the ghostly hands that stopped her from breathing. Toombs chuckled under his breath and moved back over to his altar.
"No, don't you worry, darling. After all, you'll be reunited with a ship of ye own very, very soon. Provided you behave, no more of those nasty little fights that you've been 'avin' with the crew. It's not polite for a lady to kick a gentleman in the nether regions." Morgan was set with a witty reply, but the choking sensation refused to quit. Toombs didn't bat an eye as he gathered up specific amounts of herbs and bone, a lodestone and several minerals that had been ground into powders, placing them all into an earthenware bowl in the middle of his altar. Soon enough, there were wafts of smoke and a strange scent permeated throughout the hold. Toombs turned and with a wave, opened the locked door of the cell. Grabbing Morgan by the flesh of her upper arm, he dragged her out while she was still choking. Her attention diverted by her spurt of coughs and the choking sensation at her throat, she had no chance to fight back and break away, or try to run. He sat her down in a chair, effectively anchoring her arms and legs to the chair and to the floor with a series of chains and iron-made cuffs.
Suddenly the coughing subsided and, as always before one of these little episodes, Morgan futilely tried her bonds. The chains snapped and snarled in response to her motions, but refused to budge or release her. Holding her bonds taut, her spirit yet unbroken even after two years of being held prisoner aboard the ship that was captained by the man who had killed her father, and had taken her life away. The man who had sunk her every thought into a pit of revenge, of greed and hatred, making her every waking moment think only of him and one other man – the two who had ruined her life when she was still so young. Watching as Toombs mixed more into the bowl, making the smell stronger and more pungent, she tried to remember what he had done last time. A sad attempt at preparing herself was useless – the memories, as always, were faded and blurred. Knives, roots, stones, everything that was here this time reverberated in her mind's eye over and over. Toombs lifted the bowl and held it before her face, causing her to look into the mixture, bringing the source of the smell closer to her so she had no way of driving it off.
"So as it once was, so as it shall be, so as it once was, so as it is." He muttered the words under his breath, along with some in another language, something foreign and deep, something that spoke of a dark continent that still held to old traditions and old ways of life. The smell permeated into her skull, into her essence, and suddenly Morgan felt like retching. The coughing didn't return, but she could feel her conciousness slipping, then feel the edge of a blade against her arm, feel the wet blood licking over the skin, the blood against her lips, but it wasn't her wrist, wasn't her blood. And then, she was gone.
***
Toombs watched as Morgan, the shell of the girl who he'd cast into the sea twelve years ago, sucked the blood from the cut vein in his arm. Only he knew it wasn't Morgan, she was hidden deep in her own mind, somewhere in the spaces that no one could touch. No, this was a new entity, someone Toombs had summoned to help him with his plans, someone he thought could do more damage and give him greater power. Suddenly the seductive sucking sensations stopped and he opened his mouth in slight surprise, agitation and hesitation alighting in his slightly open mouth. Her eyes stared at him like a cat's, emotionless and yet ever the hunter's – looking straight at her prey, looking at that which she had deemed hers and that which she would consume.
"Marele." He spoke the name reverently, yet also as if the spirit were a lover. And all in all, Marele was his lover – long since dead fifteen years. Resurrecting her in what he considered Morgan's beautiful form was a passing whim of his, but then again, there were certain pluses that came with the packaging – such as a majority of the powers of the undead at his disposal. Besides that, her appearance was much improved. Marele had been a sickly thin girl, and he had bedded her while learning from the master in her town. All of his hoodoo abilities stemmed from the chance encounter with her, and he felt as though he owed her something. Well, not really, but he had been itching to try out this particular spell for years. He undid her bonds, and stepped back. Marele paused before blinking and looking about her. It wasn't the first time he had summoned her – rather, he had trapped her in Morgan's body, sealed in the space where Morgan's true personage now rested. She stood, slowly, as she still hadn't gotten used to being alive again. She looked at Toombs again and raised one of those gorgeously shaped brows, sliding her hands to her hips and standing in the same pose in which she had often regarded him.
"S'been longer tan I 'spected fer you ta bring me outta dere." Her rich Haitian accent stung into him and he remembered those years he had spent on the island, learning his trade. He was never especially fond of the girl, but the long time at sea was often uncomfortable, and to have someone there to warm his bed was a pleasant luxury. Of course, he was still waiting for a good time for him to test the supernatural powers that he knew came with Marele's revival. Of course, Marele herself could not complain at a second chance at life – her own had been cut short in a sudden rebellion by the natives against the Spanish. Though she couldn't really care for the form – the body was far too pale.
"Mah dear, I do what I can, and ye shouldn't 'spect more than that." He came forward and embraced the girl in Morgan's form, and pulled her to him. "Soon enough, though, you won't 'ave to wait to be summoned. Soon enough, that will be yer own body, sure enough." Marele smiled into that thought, and leaned forward to kiss her voodoo priest. They met in a passion of life, not of lovers – for Toombs, it was pride of his work, and his attraction to Morgan, not Marele, and for her it was simply being alive again and thinking she was in love with this pale man who could work the wonders of her homeland. Her hands slid up on his head, threading Morgan's tapering fingers through his mass of black hair, while his own hands pressed against the thin and disgustingly dirty white shirt that Morgan hadn't been allowed to change out of in two years, seeking the smooth flesh underneath. She pressed into him, pulling harder in his hair, but Toombs knew that if he gave her what she wanted every time he summoned her, he'd be the servant soon enough rather than the master. And he didn't like giving up control.
Roughly he pushed her back, those gorgeous amethyst eyes going wide with surprise. He uttered the counter-curse that released Morgan, sealing Marele back into unconsciousness. During the process, he moved Morgan's body back into the cell that had held her for the past two years, dropped her there, and locked the door before she came to. Though he could obviously physically overpower her, or just overpower her with magic, he preferred a less violent route – if he didn't have to do it, he wouldn't. He stood by the locked cell door for a moment as Morgan moaned and sat up on her elbows. She shook her head and looked around, obviously confused. How disorienting it must be, Toombs thought to himself, laughing silently. She sat up, eyes focusing in on him, narrowing into slits of hatred as she realized that he had, once again, performed some kind of ritual on her.
"Damn you, Toombs, damn you, you mother-twisting son of a bilge rat!" She growled, flipping herself woozily onto her stomach as she attempted to get up. Slowly she made her way to the bars, gripping them for stability. She glared at him, railing off more insults that meant nothing to the hoodoo priest. He simply smiled in return as she laid her forehead against the cool bars, struggling to recall what had passed but failing entirely. Her amethyst eyes flickered open again, pointing glaring retribution against him.
"I will kill you for this, James. I will. I swear it on my dead father's grave."
"Dead is only as dead is, darling. And in these realms, death has a very…very different meaning." He lifted the roll of tobacco to his lips once more, taking a long draw only to finally snuff it out in a bowl already filled with tens of the same rolled papers and ashes. As Morgan watched, he turned his back on her to go up the steps; after all, as captain of the ship, he had duties to fulfill, obligations to see to. Not all of them were hoodoo in nature, but the call of the sea was something that applied to each and every sailor.