Warning:

Due to the introduction of a "vile woman" into the story, this chapter is a little more mature. While I won't be graphic, there will be certain implications not suitable for younger readers. Thanks, and enjoy!

Chapter Nine

Ruby was insulted, confused, and exhausted.

She was good at what she did. She'd been doing it since she was fifteen, and now, more than double that age, she had quite the experience under her belt. She knew what she was doing in every situation, knew where every little lick or touch would lead, and she'd never failed to give a man a decent time.

Until now.

This was the most flaccid crew of sailors she'd ever encountered. Eight men in one night, and not a rise out of any of them. They had stood (or laid) there, taking in all her endeavors with smiles on their faces, but all they did was watch. It was almost as if they enjoyed the viewing more than the sensations.

Ruby gritted her teeth angrily. She knew it couldn't (simply couldn't!) reflect her skills. It had to be them. All eight of them. She clenched her purse; they had paid well, and she had no good reason to complain about her treatment. It was just so . . . embarrassing.

She leaned over the rail of the deck. Stars reflected by the water cast a cold glow over the sea, and Ruby wondered why there were no men on deck working or . . . offering her patronage. She swallowed and grimaced. One of her clients had given her a more unusual experience than the others. She had been below deck, where very little moonlight could reach, but as she had been performing on him, a bitter, foreign taste dominated her mouth, almost like that of decay. She had remembered snapping her eyes open at that and seeing the small patch of moonlight slip off the man's body. The taste had immediately lessened, but she could still taste hints of it now and then.

Remembering food that had been amply supplied on the table of the captain's office, Ruby made her way across the deck and slipped into the little room. Picking up a cluster of grapes from a bowl, she popped one in her mouth and looked around. In the darkest corner of the room she spied a large wooden crate. Always on the lookout for more money, she approached it and opened the lid.

The crate was half full of large, golden coins, each bearing the same skull bordered with ancient designs. They seemed to produce their own shimmer of light, and Ruby smiled. She grabbed a handful and shoved it in her purse. She daren't take more--someone might catch her. Satisfied, she closed the crate, finished off her grapes, and slipped from the room.

/\

Something stirred Miranda from her sleep. She sat up, looking around the dark room. Clear, perfect moonlight shone through the window, and abovedeck she heard a commotion.

Had it been a scream that woke her? Thinking hard, Miranda realized she had heard the end of a woman's scream. She swung her legs off the bed and stood. Shooting pain greeted the base of her skull, but she refused to let herself dwell on it; she had to investigate.

Wincing with every step, she ascended the short flight of steps and cautiously opened the door onto the deck. Bathed in moon and starlight, the small crowd of crewmen looked changed, somehow. Slighter, and more ragged. Miranda stepped gingerly out the door and closed it softly behind her. She stayed by the wall, holding it for support and drew nearer to the four men. They sounded furious about something. As she advanced on them, she realized why they looked smaller.

They were skeletons.

To be more accurate, they were rotting. Some were merely bones, some still had pieces of flesh hanging to larger portions of bone, and all their clothes were ragged and shreds.

. . . the records recovered ramble on about a ship of cursed pirates that become rotting corpses in the moonlight . . . He wrote that they turned to skeletal corpses when the moonlight touched them . . .

The voices of Commodore Dunlop and the general bearing the news of Quentin's death echoed in Miranda's mind as she stood frozen in terror. When Barbossa alluded to the idea that he was cursed, she had assumed he was being figurative or exaggerating an unfortunate situation or memory. Now that she knew he'd been one hundred percent literal, she wished she'd been the one in the right.

In the midst of her fear she saw flashes of Erin surrounded by the men. Her mouth was twisted in horror and her eyes were so round even from a distance Miranda could see the whites all around her pale irises.

It took all Miranda's control to not mimic Erin with a scream; she bit her thumb and watched the scene unfold, mesmerized with terror.

"Tryin' ta steal from us, missy?" one pirate accused furiously.

"Didn' think we'd no'ice a few gol' pieces missin'?" another demanded.

"No! I didn't . . . I wouldn't" Erin scrambled for words, her voice screechy and strained with panic.

"Looks like ya did, though!" the first countered, yanking something from her hand and casting it to the ground. The purse spilled its contents and sent gold coins rolling across the deck. Miranda snatched one up and grimly recognized it as one of the medallions stamped with a skull. A death sentence in golden form.

"Put 'er in da brig!"

Miranda watched, petrified, as the men hauled Erin's kicking, protesting form down below.

"So ye've come to know our little secret," a gruff voice started beside her. Miranda whirled around to see Barbossa, swathed in the same shadow in which she hid.

"Wha . . . why . . . ?" Like Miranda, it seemed her words were too frightened to move from her thoughts to her mouth.

Barbossa snarled a smile and stepped out of the shadows. Moonlight ate away parts of his face and limbs, ripped his clothing, and rotted his scraggled and matted beard.

"I told ye we be cursed men, Miss Farthin'," he began bitterly, holding a decayed hand to her face. What skin was left was cold and clammy, and she closed her eyes, turning her face away as his fingers twined though her hair and curled around her jawline. Very abruptly, he forced her face back to look at him.

"Do ye find me repulsive? Is it unpleasant to look at me?"

Miranda looked at the ground and bit back a whimper. She tried lifting her gaze to the captain's face, but she found herself reverting back to the deck.

"Look at me!" he roared, tightening his grip on her neck and hurling her against the rail of the ship. His other hand snaked around her head and clawed at her hair, holding her head back at a painful angle.

Miranda felt her heart beating hard against her ribs, and her short ragged gasps were making her dizzy, but she looked fearfully up at his face pocked with holes that showed muscle or bone beneath. Both eyes were devoid of eyelids, and his hard gaze back at her came from decomposing eyes in deep, dark sockets. Miranda found her horror slipping away like Barbossa's humanity in the moonlight. Her breathing calmed, and she felt her heartbeat slow to normal.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered, bringing up a hand to his face. She gently touched his rotting cheek with the palm of her hand, and with the other hand, she steadied herself against the rail. She felt Barbossa's grip on her hair lessen as his face changed from fury to an unreadable emotion. He did nothing but stand before her, loosely gripping the back of her neck and watching her closely.

"Miss Farthin'," he began softly, dangerously. "I won' be needin' any of yer pity." His grip tightened on her neck and he shoved her roughly to the ground. Without another word he stormed away, but Miranda watched him go and called, "Wait!"

The ragged, rotting figure halted, but did nothing further to acknowledge her.

"What must be done?" she asked, climbing to her feet. Barbossa turned around, still silent.

"What must be done to undo the curse?" Miranda persisted, taking a few hesitant steps towards him. Barbossa stooped and picked up something from the ground. Gold shone in his fingers as he twiddled the coin.

"882 pieces of cursed Aztec gold we must recover. We found it, spent it, and then it spent us. We can' feel. We be thirsty, but no drink will quench; starvin', but no food can fill; weary, but no rest can help; we lust, but no action can sate. Cursed, Miss Farthin'. Each day a nightmare, each night a horror. I can' feel the wind on my skin nor the warmth of a woman's touch."

"How . . . how many coins do you have?" Miranda stammered, steadying herself against the rail again.

"539."

"I want to help," she offered.

"Help?" Barbossa scoffed, stepping towards her in four strides. His hand returned to her hair, and he pulled her head back to look up at him as he towered over her. Miranda felt no fear as she looked into the decaying flesh, but she did not venture any more words.

"Miss Farthin'," he hissed, "if ye knew my plans for ye once the curse is lifted, ye'd not be so eager to help." His free hand cupped her chin as he glared at her, but after a moment he relaxed his hand and trailed one finger from her jaw down her throat until his hand was resting heavily over her heart. Miranda wondered if he could feel how fast it was beating, but if he could, his expression did not change, for he kept his shadowed eyes locked coldly on hers.

"I want to help," she whispered, drawing one hand from her side and resting it on top of the rotting hand on her chest. Barbossa's eyes darted from her face to her hand on his, and the remainder of his lips curled back baring rotten brown teeth. He yanked his hands away from her and stepped back, bringing his eyes back to hers. For several seconds the two stared challengingly at the other. Abruptly, Barbossa turned on his heel and melted into the shadows of the ship, leaving Miranda alone by the rail to piece together what had just occurred.