Chapter Three
“Here’s your shrimp po’boy from Bob’s with extra sauce just the way you like it.” Her assistant and only friend, Louise, dropped the bag on her desk.
Charlotte tore her eyes from the scans of yellowed handwritten letters, her brain slowly transitioning from old English to the southern drawl of her silver-haired assistant. “Oh. Thanks, Louise.”
Louise took the chair across from Charlotte. “What’s cookin’? Your desk looks like you’ve been runnin’ all over Hell’s half acre.”
Charlotte chuckled, unwrapping her sandwich. “Just checking up on some leads about the Sea Dog wreckage.”
“Some diver find somethin’ new down there?”
“Not exactly.” Normally she’d spill to Louise in a heartbeat, but, as bizarre as it sounded, this was a matter of national security. When did her life take this strange turn?
Louise leaned in a little closer, lowering her voice. “You gonna tell me about last night? Did you say yes for once?”
An image of shirtless Keegan filled her head, and heat crept up her neck. “I had too many rum and Cokes for sure.”
Louise rolled her eyes. “You tellin’ me no men asked you to dance?”
“Dance?” Charlotte eyed her food. “No. Not that I recall.”
Louise tsked, crossing her arms. “Don’t hold out on me.”
Charlotte chuckled. “I might’ve gone backstage and kissed the lead singer of The Scallywags.”
“Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about.” Louise grinned. “Sounds like the night of yes was a success.”
“One night. That was all I agreed to. I’m staunchly back in the ‘no, I’ve got to work’ camp again.” Charlotte took a bite of her lunch and groaned. “Oh my God. This is amazing.”
Since she woke up this morning, she’d been so focused on the project that she forgot to eat breakfast, and it was almost three o’clock now. No wonder she was tempted to swallow her sandwich whole.
She glanced over at Louise. “If I’m not out of here when you leave, drag me out kicking and screaming.”
Louise chuckled and stood. “All right, but remember it was your idea.”
Once Louise was gone, Charlotte turned back to face her screen. She hadn’t found any evidence that another pirate crew had discovered the Grail before the Sea Dog, but she did find something interesting on the manifest for the Santa Maria.
In the late 1700s, Spain’s armada thrived in spite of the rise of privateers. The Spaniards started planting false manifests on ships, hoping the bait and switch would keep pirates chasing the wrong vessel. And judging by the Santa Maria’s, they’d tried the same tactic to bring the holy relic home safely.
She skimmed the Spanish galleon’s manifest, jotting down notes. According to the documents, the Santa Maria was carrying a hull full of cornmeal, wheat, and rice. No mention of gold or treasure of any kind. She frowned, rubbing her forehead.
How did Captain Flynn convince his crew to chase the Santa Maria?
She flipped through more printouts on her desk. The Gallardo landed on Spain’s shores carrying the actual grain cargo. She rested back in her chair, her mind spinning. She was veering off course. Maybe she missed something on the Santa Maria.
With a frustrated sigh, she reached for her mouse again, pulling up the only letter she could find about the ghost ship Santa Maria. The unmanned ship ran aground near Jamestown in Virginia a few weeks after the Sea Dog sank outside of Savannah.
She scanned her notes again, but this time something caught her eye. The body count included guards who probably doubled as crew and a single monk. Winged scavengers had consumed the bodies. They were identified by their clothing and the ship’s log. The inspector noted that the monk still wore a gold ring in the shape of a serpent with ruby eyes.
Didn’t monks take a vow of poverty?
Her fingernails clicked on the back of her mouse while she read the report again. If the Sea Dog crew really was still alive, maybe Captain Flynn could shed some light on where he got his intel to attack the Santa Maria? If someone loaded up the holy cargo, they might’ve talked at port. The walls had ears.
This was getting her no closer to finding that Grail.
She pulled up the spreadsheets of title owners in Savannah from 1795 to 1850, searching for the captain of the Sea Dog crew. A jolt of excitement zipped through her veins. There were a few familiar names on some of the land deeds.
Agent Bale was telling her the truth. The crew did survive the sinking of their ship, but they hadn’t tried to cover their tracks. The deeds were all dated after the crew of the Sea Dog had been presumed dead.
There weren’t any databases or death certificates in the 1700s, and no photos of the crew existed. The land purchases probably didn’t raise any eyebrows at the time.
Two deeds were paid for by Ian Flynn, the captain, one for Drake Cole, the ship’s carpenter, and another for John Smyth, the boatswain. She ran her finger along her screen over the final signature. Samuel Keegan.
His deed was signed twenty years later than the others. He would’ve been an old man for the time period. Most didn’t live past fifty, not to mention the yellow-fever outbreak in Savannah that killed almost half the population of the city at the time.
She jotted down the address and opened another window. Did he still own it?
The address came up. The St. Mary’s Home. It belonged to the Catholic diocese now. Her nails rapped on the mouse again while she took in the new information. Why would he donate his property to an orphanage?
It wasn’t named after him. Maybe he’d sold the property, and someone else donated it long after Keegan had taken up a new identity. She stared through her open office door. Had something happened to compel Samuel Keegan to offer a sanctuary for the children of Savannah who lost their parents to yellow fever in the 1800s? It didn’t seem to fit with the seductive rock star she’d nearly undressed backstage.
She flopped back in her chair and tugged her reading glasses free. Historical mysteries left her breathless. She’d found her passion as a teen when she volunteered as a docent at the Davenport House Museum. The part-time job had awakened an unquenchable thirst for knowledge about people and places long forgotten by most.
Through history, she could time travel and imagine the evolution of the world around her. Governments, wars, plagues, they all made an impact on Savannah, and by studying the past, being sure it was preserved and protected, she could help form the future.
The phone on her desk buzzed, snapping her out of her history afterglow. “Dr. Sinclair? There’s an Agent Bale here to see you.”
“Send him in.” She rewrapped the remains of her sandwich and stacked her papers. As he walked through the door, she stood, coming around her desk to greet him.
Unlike last night’s midnight meeting, today, she was dressed for success. Her hair was out of her eyes and contained in a bun, and she was wearing her favorite steel-gray linen skirt and sports coat with gray suede pumps to match.
Academia casual.
“Agent Bale…” Her voice trailed off as another man followed him inside. A tanned, muscled man in jeans and a black T-shirt.
If she’d been chewing gum, she would’ve swallowed it.
Agent Bale closed her office door and turned around. “Dr. Sinclair, this is Keegan.”
Keegan arched a brow, offering his hand. “Well, Char. Good to see you again.”
“It’s Dr. Sinclair.” She shook his hand, refusing to acknowledge the warmth creeping up her arm from his touch. “Have a seat.”
She retreated behind her desk, forcing her stupid heart to stop racing. When they were all seated, she focused on Agent Bale. “How do you know the lead singer of The Scallywags?”
Agent Bale’s gaze shifted between them. He frowned, his words clipped. “You insisted on meeting one of the crew. This is the ship’s pilot. Keegan volunteered to greet the historian assisting us in the search for the Grail.”
She lifted her chin a notch. “I believe his real name is Samuel.”
For a split second, Keegan’s rock-star facade faltered, but he recovered quickly. “Hasn’t been my name in centuries, lass.”
“Dr. Sinclair.” She picked up her glasses and stared at her computer screen. “I haven’t found any mentions yet of another ship commandeering the Grail before the Sea Dog, but I did locate some title deeds in a few of their names long after the ship sank.”
“The good ol’ days when we didn’t have to keep changing our names.”
She slid her glasses off, meeting his green eyes. “Is that how you do it? You fake your deaths?”
He looked at Agent Bale and back to her. “I didn’t come to the museum to talk about me.”
Agent Bale leaned forward. “I expect results, Dr. Sinclair. I fulfilled my part of the bargain. I hope you understand the importance and urgency of this mission.”
Her back straightened at his veiled disapproval. “The pirate crew is real, immortal.” She nodded, part of her still wary about admitting to such an impossible reality. “Mission accomplished.” She cleared her throat, anxious to end the awkward meeting. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I still have more scans to filter through.” She pushed her glasses up and focused on her computer screen.
“Alert me the moment you have something.” Agent Bale stood.
“Hope to see you at my concert tonight, Char,” Keegan said in a smooth baritone that made her toes curl.
“I’m very busy here.” She looked up, surprised to find Keegan at the edge of her desk.
He glanced over his shoulder at Agent Bale. “I’ll catch you later, mate.”
Her jaw dropped as Agent Bale stepped out and closed the door behind him. She took off her glasses and stood, eyes narrowing at the way-too-hot-for-his-own-good rock star, or apparently pirate.
Although the door was closed, she still lowered her voice. “You need to go, too.”
He shook his head slowly, his gaze wandering over her from head to toe. “I’m guessing the others around this mausoleum have never seen you let your hair down the way I have.”
The deep purr in his voice made her hot all over in spite of the frigid air-conditioning in the historic building.
“Because I don’t.” She swallowed the lump in her throat. “I’m sorry about leaving you hanging last night. I shouldn’t have said yes. Too much rum. I don’t know what I was thinking going to your dressing room.”
He came closer and slid a finger under her chin. Her breath caught.
Keegan’s gaze locked on hers. “Don’t apologize for the woman I met last night.” He glanced up at the stick keeping her hair in a bun, then back to her eyes. “You’re entrancing, Dr. Sinclair.”
He took a step back, and she realized she’d been holding her breath. Her pulse thrummed as she straightened her skirt. “That coat you wear for the curtain call, it really is period.”
Keegan crossed his arms. “It’s been with me more years than I care to count.” He placed his hands on the edge of her desk, leaning a little closer. “I only came with the government boy because I needed a historian. It was an unforeseen bonus that she is you.”
Charlotte raised a brow, her gaze wandering to the door and back to him. “You wanted to talk to a historian, but you didn’t want Agent Bale to know about it?”
He shrugged. “We’re not sure how much we can trust him.”
“I see.” She chuckled. “Just because we made out in your dressing room last night doesn’t mean you can trust me, either.”
A crooked smile brightened his face and left her knees weak. “True. I could be givin’ ye rope to hang me.”
Dear God, real pirate speak. Not the cartoonish barking of orders from movie screens but straight from the lips that uttered the words more than two hundred years before. Good thing she was at work, or she really might’ve taken off his shirt and pants this time.
She swallowed the lump in her throat. “You’ll be at my mercy.”
He stepped into her personal space, but she didn’t retreat, his breath teasing her skin. “Come to my concert tonight, Char. I have more secrets to share.”
“Dr. Sinclair,” she corrected, struggling to keep her head. He kindled a wildness in her soul that frightened and intoxicated her all at once. Part of her squeaked to stay away from this man, while another voice whispered to give in.
Maybe her mother’s prediction that she was working too hard was finally coming true. Now she needed psychiatric help.
He leaned in closer, his lips almost brushing hers. “Say yes, Dr. Sinclair.”
Her head screamed no, but her lips countered with a “Yes.”
“Good.” Keegan smiled, straightening to his full height. “We’re playing the Wormhole at ten o’clock.”
He headed for the door but glanced back as he opened it. “I’ll be enjoying a beer at the bar before the show if you’d like to join me.”
Before she could muster a reply, he was gone. Charlotte sank into her chair behind her desk and massaged her temples. The crew of the Sea Dog. They were still alive, walking the streets of Savannah.
And if that much was true, it also meant the Holy Grail was real. What other myths and legends actually weren’t fiction at all?
Did she really want to know?
She sighed. Yes. She ached to know. Things would be so much simpler if she weren’t constantly yearning to solve the mysteries left behind in history. Sometimes she wondered what her life might be like if she worked a regular eight-hour-a-day job.
Maybe she could punch a time clock and walk away, leaving it all behind her. Maybe she’d be married with children.
Or not.
Motherhood had never really been on her radar. She didn’t think there was anything wrong with kids. She loved leading them on tours through the maritime museum, but raising a child would mean limiting her travel and study of the past. She wouldn’t have the time to give a voice to civilizations that might otherwise be lost.
Bruce popped his head inside her office. “I’ve got a meeting off-site. Will you lock up and set the alarm when you leave?”
“Sure. No problem.” Charlotte nodded, surprised by her ability to speak. So often, Bruce left her tongue-tied. He was tall with a head full of dark curls and a mind that fascinated her, but in spite of her attempts over the years, he never seemed to notice her.
He smiled, making rare eye contact. “Thanks, Charlotte.”
And in that one moment, he saw her. His gaze locked on hers, and his smile wasn’t in passing. It was for her.
Her brain didn’t fizzle out, and her pulse remained steady. “Have a great night, Bruce.”
He paused like he might say something else, but then shook his head. “You too.”
And he was gone.
Leaning back in her chair, she checked the time on her phone. Her meeting with a real immortal pirate made the prospect of talking to Dr. Bruce Trumain seem like child’s play. And apparently that confidence must’ve shown.
She sighed and turned to her computer screen again. There were bigger mysteries than Bruce for her to figure out. The Holy Grail was real, and if she played her cards right and helped them recover the artifact, she might get the chance to touch a priceless piece of history.
…
David checked his watch. His informant was late. Damn it. He couldn’t just hover in a dark alley all night. Nothing screamed “law enforcement” like a man in a black suit lurking around the shadows.
He walked deeper into the alley, toward the opening to the tunnel. Savannah’s underground network was left over from the yellow-fever outbreaks in the 1800s. Most people didn’t realize they still existed.
But Agent Bale didn’t work with “most people.” As the lead investigator for his top secret branch of the federal government, he wore many hats. Besides containing paranormal threats and keeping the unknown from infecting the mainstream population, he also groomed and trained agents for his department.
Funding was tight, of course, but once an agent caught sight of what really existed in the world, they were usually willing to take a pay cut to be a part of it, to be a true warrior for the greater good.
Something moved to his right. He spun, gun already in his hand and his charmed talisman in the other.
“Bale?” someone whispered.
David checked both directions, scanning for any sign of danger before he followed the call.
“Pokey?” David hissed.
“Hurry,” the voice panted.
Still gripping his gun, Agent Bale took out his flashlight. His informant was on the ground, surrounded by a pool of blood.
“Shit.” David holstered his weapon and knelt down. “Who did this to you?”
“They musta saw me.” He winced. “They met at the fountain in Forsyth Park.”
“Who?”
“The ones tryin’ to buy the Grail. They were meetin’…” He sucked in a pained breath. “I tried to hear ’em. They followed me down the alley.”
Shit. There was too much blood, and Pokey was more than an informant. He’d grown into a rare friend. Agent Bale wasn’t ready to lose him. He plucked a satchel of herbs from his inner coat pocket and opened the drawstrings. “Stay with me, okay? This is going to sting.”
Pokey grabbed his wrist. “No more magic.” His dark eyes locked on David’s. “I’m not afraid.”
Agent Bale clenched his jaw. He’d met Pokey more than forty years before. Neither of them had aged a day. It had nothing to do with the Lord’s cup and everything to do with magic the rest of the scientific world would never understand.
“You’ll die here.”
Pokey nodded. “I’m ready for the next adventure.” He closed his eyes, a weak smile on his lips. “Have Heather find me on the other side. I can still help you…”
Heather was a medium in Savannah. Agent Bale had worked with her on cases a handful of times. The woman definitely had skills.
This situation was precisely why David kept his distance from people. His gut twisted, grief tightening in his chest as Pokey panted through the pain. He had to try one more time. “Please. Let me heal you.”
“No.” Pokey gave his hand a weak squeeze. “You’re a good man, David Bale.”
David leaned in closer. “Tell me who they were, and I’ll nail the bastards.”
Pokey didn’t open his eyes, but he sucked in one more breath. “They wore robes, like monks, but they had those damn serpent rings.”
A cold chill wandered down Agent Bale’s spine. Carefully he lifted his fallen friend’s shirt, his gut twisting in a knot.
Carved in Pokey’s flesh was a snake, or, to be more specific, the symbol of the Serpent Society.
Pokey grabbed his wrist and whispered, “And David killed the Philistine.” He opened his eyes, his gaze locked on Agent Bale’s. “Stop them, David.”
Pokey’s hand dropped, limp at his side. Agent Bale tipped his head back, staring up at the stars, cold rage bubbling in his chest. The Serpent Society had nearly ended David when he first joined his department right after the Kennedy assassination.
And now he’d get another shot at them. He stared at his friend’s lifeless body as he pulled the strings, closing the satchel of healing herbs. “They’re not going to sip from that cup. I’ll make sure of it.”
He straightened and yanked out his cell. After making an anonymous 911 call about a body in the alley, he turned and walked into the shadows.
He’d find those bastards.
One way or another.