Lotus Petals - The Books of Blood and Fire 1

Lotus Petals - Prologue

1753
Off the coast of Osaka, Japan

The storm hit half a day before The Century reached port. The night had turned restless and choppy with little warning, and before even the first agitated grumblings of the crewmen could make their way across deck, a blade of bright lightning split the skies ahead. A rifle-crack of thunder shot over them with deafening fury. The men of The Century hardly had the chance to gather their wits before they were besieged by furious rains, the bite of an icy gale snapping at their cheeks as their proud Dutch clipper rolled over the waves.

The captain and his mate were not upon the decks, as they should have been. The second mate took charge without hesitation, shouting orders over the laughing siren of the wind, issuing frenzied directions to the quartermaster and bosun as they scrambled to keep The Century sailing. The deck crew quickly took their stations: they raced to fight the violent flap of sheets and reef in the sails, before the taunting gales could rend and tear them apart. The ship lurched, and a handful of the men were scattered across the deck, a rush of water threatening to sweep their feet out from under them.

The bosun reached out and snagged the first deckhand he could grab: a green sailor fresh from his mother's skirts and still new enough to piss himself at the first sign of trouble. The boy's flushed face wore a terrified gratitude when he turned it to meet the bosun's, but the old sea dog pushed the boy away almost as soon as he'd regained his balance.

"Get to the crew's quarters!" he shouted. "Find the captain! Rouse any men still below decks and have them haul their asses up here!"

The boy tripped, sliding across the slippery deck until he could grab desperate hold of a rigging line to steady himself. Then he practically launched himself toward the door leading below decks and disappeared. The bosun turned to help the crew at the mainmast, throwing himself against the wind to pull the sails down.

The storm howled, angry and hungry, the dark crash of thunder echoing from all directions and flashes of lightning making bright the miles of empty black water on all sides.

The Century and her crew were alone in the cold Pacific, a hundred souls under attack by a tempest unleashed from unforgiving night. They were helpless; they were lost.

The second mate called out an order to the crew at the mizzen-mast, but before the men could comply one of the lines snapped. The deadly lash of heavy rope cut across the knot of sailors fighting it with a deadly whistling snap: two of them were thrown overboard and another crashed against the front of the quarterdeck. He did not get up.

Ahead, at the foremast, one of the sails broke free and flapped in the wind with a roar to rival the booming thunder. The whipsawing cry of flailing rigging sent several men to their knees, hands over their heads, and the second mate swore to himself.

As if in response, he heard an even more terrifying sound: the crack of wood as the foremast snapped and came crashing toward the deck, scattering most of the deckhands below it, pinning others.

The Century pitched and then yawed to one side. The creak of her hull sounded like the lowing cry of a great beast. Lightning crashed again, and the second mate crossed himself, muttering a swift prayer for ship and crew. He dared to heave a sigh of relief when he saw the bosun's men finally reef the sails of the mainmast. Seconds later they secured the mizzen-mast. The sea still raged on, however; he clutched at the gunwale as the ship lurched again, and he felt gravity shift as the prow dipped.

The quartermaster fought the grip of the storm with commendable strength, but The Century kept spinning, batted about on the sea, and insignificant as a brittle leaf.

"Hold tight!" the second mate shouted. A wave rose over the starboard side, and came crashing down over the deck. The cries of the men were like so many helpless gulls—he saw three more swept overboard, and into the black, icy depths.

Lord, have mercy, he prayed. Heavenly Lord, oh, have mercy.

* * *

Below decks, the fresh-faced youth scrambled toward the captain's quarters in a panic. He fought the urge to faint, his heart pounding in his ears. Raising a shout for the officers, the cook, the greasers, the first mate, anyone who for whatever reason remained tangled up in his hammock instead of above decks helping manage the ship, he bellowed an alarm and pounded on the boards for all of them to hear.

To his relief he saw a handful of men already pulling on their breeches and making for the top-decks. Finally, he threw himself against the captain's own door, calling for help.

"Sir! Sir, you must come up straightaway!"

He heard no answer. The boy rattled the knob and found it stuck: something blocked the door from the other side. His thoughts turned immediately to the heavy wooden chairs the captain kept around his navigating table. They must have shifted in the violence of the storm.

"Captain!" he shouted shrilly. "Come out! We need you above decks, sir, the storm will kill us!"

No answer. He rattled the knob again. "Captain!"

Then, from within, the sure sound of boots. Somebody crossed the cabin and pulled away whatever blocked the entry—the sailor heard the scrape of heavy wood against the floor—and the door swung open beneath him, spilling him face-first into the cabin.

Quickly a weight came down upon the back of his neck: someone had pinned him to the floor. They held him there, and his face turned to behold the center of the room, and the mess of destruction there.

He registered the sight of his captain, splayed out across the mahogany table where he often held counsel with the navigator and the first mate. The old man lay collapsed atop a scattering of nautical maps stained red with blood; his eyes were stark and white with horror. His mouth hung open in a silent, twisted cry, and his throat lay ravaged, more blood spattered from the jugular vein across his coat and in his beard.

On the floor beside him lay the first mate, on his back, head thrown skywards with the same desperate scream on still lips, the same animal carnage at the site of his throat and on his bare chest where the clothing had been torn away.

"C—Captain..." he whispered, stunned.

A low, husky voice spoke from overhead. The words were a rumble of harsh consonants and glottal stops in a language he did not recognize. The boy struggled to turn his face toward the sound, and now he saw the heavy pair of boots he had heard clunking across the boards.

Feminine...a woman's voice. There had been no women on board when they left port!

Another, colder voice replied: this one came from the one standing atop him. Somewhere in the chaos of his grisly discovery, his brain found a pattern he recognized: they were speaking German.

German?

He spoke no German. He could find a string of common sounds, could tell the women were arguing. He struggled again to look up, past the blood-covered boots to the face of the murderer above him. He couldn't...the other killer had her heel right below the base of his skull, holding him with impossible, unmovable strength.

The first, younger voice, spoke again. It held a hint of disdain to it—an almost petulant denial. The one holding him down growled—or maybe it was a cruel, heinous laughter, rasping up from a bloodthirsty canine throat—before replying. Whatever this creature said, he couldn't mistake her tone: she'd given an order.

The weight on his neck lifted and he felt himself kicked in the ribs. He rolled over.

He saw the molten gold of feral, hungry eyes, and death swept down to tear into his throat.

***

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