Rockfleet (The Pirate Queen Book 0) Read online

  Rockfleet

  Jennifer Rose McMahon

  ROCKFLEET, Pirate Queen Series: Book Zero

  © copyright 2017 Jennifer Rose McMahon

  Copyright notice: All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN-13: 978-1977527950

  ISBN-10: 1977527957

  Dubhdara Publishing

  Cover design by Anu Designs, Ireland

  Edited by Naomi Hughes

  Printed in the United States of America

  Contents

  The Pirate Queen Series: Book~0

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Epilogue

  Newsletter

  Acknowledgments

  Jennifer Rose McMahon

  About the Author

  Bohermore

  15. Chapter 1

  16. Chapter 2

  17. Chapter 3

  The Pirate Queen Series

  Newsletter

  The Pirate Queen Series: Book~0

  ROCKFLEET

  Jennifer Rose McMahon

  In memory of Granuaile

  1530 – 1603

  O’Malley Clan Chieftain

  and

  Ireland’s Notorious Pirate Queen

  Chapter 1

  I’d never thought about running away before, even though I’d been running my entire life. Keeping one step ahead of my stalker seemed the best approach, although recently, I’d been losing ground.

  Keeping to the far side of the cannon monument, scooching past the lone, weathered gravestone etched only with ‘Wildman,’ I moved through the town cemetery searching for answers. The old section, filled with tilted slate gravestones, welcomed me with its familiar rolling hills and scattered plots. It was the vacuum-like calm that was different now though — like time standing still, protecting its centuries-old secrets. I walked a little slower, not wanting to break the quiet of the dead.

  Over the hill, past the cannons, the new section of the graveyard blinked away the mystique of the old and covered the landscape with cookie-cutter monuments. I’d measured my growth by the new rows of stones: one row per year, just about.

  Mom's was three rows in, off to the side, under a young maple that shaded it.

  I squished my toes into the cool grass and my shoulders relaxed in relief. I'd left the house barefoot again in hurried frustration, but the pavement had been so hot, I was sure I'd blistered my soles.

  I looked around to be sure I was alone. It really bugged me when someone else was around when I made my visits. This was my private space. My time with Mom.

  I sat cross-legged in front of her stone, ready to complain about Gram’s smothering rules and to vent about how unfair my life was, but then my eyes stared off again in unsettled memory, as my jaw held its tight clamp.

  Fresh chrysanthemums bloomed at my feet, reminding me of impending fall but also proving Gram and Joey’s weekly visits. We never came at the same time. Maybe that was intentional. I guess we each struggled in our own ways. Mom’s “heart condition” just wasn’t enough explanation to any of us for such a devastating loss.

  My grandparents didn't always understand me, as could be expected. They were wonderful, hardworking people. Loved me without question. But their old Irish ways kept them stoic and distant, exacerbating my loneliness to the point of implosion.

  My head fell back and I rolled my eyes as I pondered how to escape the daily, repeating trap I was stuck in. I balled my fists and exhaled through tight lips, tasting my disappointment like bad medicine.

  As I pushed myself up onto my knees, I reached for the top of Mom's stone for balance. My legs had fallen asleep from being crossed for so long and I shook them out as the pins and needles ran behind my knees and down my calves. I shivered at the uncomfortable sensation and squinted my eyes, unsure if it was pain or just weird discomfort.

  The tingling dissipated as I opened my eyes to a new darkness that had fallen around the cemetery. My familiar comfort with my surroundings shifted to cautious uncertainty as my spine straightened.

  The sun was gone, hidden by black swirling clouds, and my hair blasted back from an unexpected gust. The wind howled out of nowhere in all directions as debris lifted and bombarded me.

  My heart rate accelerated in surprise and I turned to get out of there. I bolted back toward the cannons, wondering if a tornado was about to touch down. I flinched as I passed the Wildman stone—I was always careful to never get too close, and this time, it was like it held new meaning and spooked me on purpose. I forced myself to not look at it as I ran past its lonely, desolate spot in the graveyard.

  A surge of anger coursed through my veins, mixing with overwhelming terror, as I resented having my sacred space turned into a place of fear.

  The force of the gusts knocked me off course and I scrambled to get to my secret exit. My hair batted at my eyes, making them water, and I followed my instinct more than my sight to find my way out.

  "Maibh."

  Jesus!

  My name, or an ancient Gaelic form of it anyway, haunted my ears and I swatted at them.

  "Maibh. Teacht ar ais chugam."

  I batted at my ears again as if bees swarmed me.

  The eerie sound from a faraway land beckoned for my attention, like the call of my ancient ancestors. It tugged and pulled me back with its lyrical cadence but I ran from it.

  Stumbling over the low stone wall of the cemetery, I slid on my heels down the gravel hill and out onto the road with a heavy splat. My bare heels burned from the rough, scratching rocks.

  Brightness of day had returned and I glanced all around while straightening my hair, pulling twigs out of it. I prayed no one saw me running out of the cemetery like a crazy person.

  My breathing slowed some and I took a long inhale in hopes of steadying my pounding heart. But just as I let out the first bit of air from my exhale, the wind hit me again.

  Adrenalin surged through me in an instant, causing me to leap into a full sprint. As if being chased by a ghost, I careened down the winding road like a wild woman, looking back over my shoulder the entire way.

  Something in the wind was after me. And it wasn’t the first time, either.

  Filled with swirls of ancient Irish language, trills of tin whistles, and vast expanses of green, it had been hunting me all my life. Chasing me with visions of my ancient ancestry. I had hoped, and even prayed, I’d grown out of it’s haunting shadow by now.

  It tracked Mom too. Years ago. She had the same visions. And they kept getting worse and worse. Until she was gone.

  The visions took her from me.

  The haunting wind was responsible for Mom’s death. I was sure. They said it was her heart condition, but I knew better. It was the wind. The visions. And now, if it was coming back again, it was surely planning to take me next.

  Home was just around the bend an
d I sailed into my backyard and ran all the way down to the garden. I threw myself into the safety of the flowers and zucchini vines and imagined myself vanishing into the magical realm of my grandparent’s garden.

  Looking up, I caught the gaze of St. Brendan the Navigator. He was the Irish iconic statue that kept watch over the garden.

  And over me.

  All my life.

  He’d watched me grow up, never blinking, always judging with half shut eyes. It was like he was my conscience or something. He pointed out my flaws and any devious thoughts before I even knew they existed.

  I peeked over my shoulder like a skittish animal. The wind was gone, lost in the twists and turns of my street.

  Though the haunting wind was relentless and pursued me without tiring, I felt a sting of disappointment that it was gone. In a sick way, it helped me feel connected to my mother. It gave me purpose.

  She called the violent visions ‘awake dreams’ and the gentle name, mixed with the lull of her voice, made them slightly more bearable.

  My eyes fell shut as I pursed my lips. I was sick of running. Sick of feeling out of control all the time. My head fell back as I fought the stinging tears.

  I needed to know what it wanted.

  Why was it after me?

  "Maeve Grace..." Gram's sing-song voice called to me from the porch.

  I waved with whatever energy I had left, which involved a slight flick of my wrist and a half-smile. Then I looked back at St. Brendan. "You know something. You always seem to know."

  His head tipped slightly. It always did. But I took it, this time, as a reply. Like a nod of encouragement.

  "Come on, loov. Whatcha doin?" Gram swatted at me out of nowhere with her dishtowel, causing me to jump off the ground like a skittish cat.

  "Jeez, Gram! You gave me a heart attack! Don't sneak up on me like that." I panted in recovery.

  "In fer dinner, now. Sure, I'd swear you were happier lost in this garden than you are walking around in your own real life." She cracked her tea towel at me again to get me to follow her.

  I stared at her back with my jaw in the weeds as she walked away from me toward the house. She meant no harm by her words but the truth of their ring was deafening. They froze me to my spot.

  “Happier in the garden than my own real life?”

  Her words rolled through my head, searching for a place to settle.

  Because she was right.

  I was stumbling through my life without direction. Without feeling. Just… existing. Sitting in the garden, day after day. No place to go. Nothing to do.

  I was just a shell of a person. The part of my soul that made me who I am hid behind a wall far within me. But I could hear her. And she was screaming.

  I watched Gram walk away from me. The majority of her life, she moved through the same routines, rarely leaving the shelter of her house.

  The scream in me grew louder.

  The piercing shrieks raced my heart.

  It was time for me to make a change.

  Time to take the power back and be who I was meant to be.

  Chapter 2

  “Maeve.” My teacher’s voice slapped me in the face. “To guidance”

  Somehow, one day later, my epic plans for changing my life came to an abrupt halt.

  My head fell back as I dragged myself out of my seat and stepped away from my desk as the other students stared at me.

  "Ooooh. You're in trouble..." Annoying Daniel mocked me.

  I hated when I got called to the guidance office. If it wasn't for boring course scheduling or career exploration classes, it was to ask me how I was doing, if I was "okay."

  Totally annoying.

  But honestly, I really wasn’t okay. I’d barely slept the night before. Was late to school as a result. And my hair, well, neglect was an understatement. No wonder I’d been called to the counselor’s office.

  I pulled my backpack behind me like it was full of bricks and left Ms. McGuire's classroom without looking back. Twenty sets of eyeballs bored into my back, leaving their unanswered questions and sympathetic scarring.

  Everyone knew.

  They knew I didn't fit in any more.

  I used to. But now, I'd fallen off the map. Off everyone's radar. I didn't go to parties. I was awkward around boys. My social media got bi-annual updates.

  None of it really mattered anymore. It was all pointless. I just wanted to find a place where I could be happy. And be needed. It was all I could think about.

  I crept past the nasty guidance secretary and avoided eye contact at all cost. There was absolutely no sympathy there. Ironic really. You'd think they'd fill the position with someone who was approachable or even partially cared about the students.

  Ms. Wilder's door was open. It always was. I lingered at the opening.

  "Hi'ya Maeve." She flashed a bright smile at me and my shoulders relaxed. I couldn't help but like her.

  "Hi."

  I waited for her to speak again. I was in no hurry to engage in conversations with her about seeing my old misguided psychologist again or some other self-help strategies. My goal was to convince her all was well and then get the hell out of there.

  "Come on in. I just want to have a quick chat. See how you're doing. Grab a seat."

  She gestured to the three chairs scattered about her office, allowing me to choose. I sat in the one at the edge of her desk, near the candy dish.

  "Oh." My voice sounded too flat. "I'm good."

  I reached for the rake in her mini Zen garden and moved the sand around into straight rows. Then cross rows.

  "Well it looks like all is well with your classes and your college list. You've worked hard and I'm proud of you." She smiled at me, trying to hide the part where she used to let me cry in her office for hours. All day. For weeks. Or months. I couldn't remember.

  "Thanks."

  "So, Maeve." She hesitated.

  Here it comes.

  "Some of your teachers have mentioned to me that you're, well, distracted in class. Like you're not quite present. Are you having trouble focusing? Are you sleeping alright these days?"

  My back straightened.

  "Actually, I'm fine with all that." My lips turned down in a frown. "I haven't noticed being distracted, really."

  Shit. How embarrassing. My meddling teachers contacted my damn guidance counselor.

  My face reddened.

  "Really. Hmmm." She pressed her lips to the side. "I figured you were stressed about college or graduation. I want you to know I'll help you with all of that. We'll take care of each thing, step by step. Okay?"

  "Yeah, that sounds good. But seriously, I'm okay." I grinned to show her I had things under control. Keeping on top of my studies and ahead of my college apps and SAT's was easy for me. That stuff was the fluff.

  "Well, Maeve. What concerns me is, it could be something more. Have you considered starting up meeting with your counselor again? You know, for someone to talk to outside of school." She tilted her head and raised her eyebrows.

  Shit! I knew it!

  "Um, no. I'm okay. Really."

  I scratched my ear. The burning from the heat of my flushing made it itch. I knew she meant well but my blood was beginning to boil. Last thing I needed was for someone to tell me I needed help.

  "I've heard some concerning reports from your teachers. I feel I need to reach out to your grandmother to share the concerns."

  "What!" I dropped the Zen rake and sand scattered onto her desk. "Please don't do that. My grandmother worries too much. There's no big deal. Really." I stared at her as my breath accelerated. "What are my teachers saying, anyway?" I braced myself.

  "It's the staring off... for long periods of time. They try to get you back on task without drawing too much attention from your peers, but they seem to not be able to snap you out of it. Almost like you're sleeping. But you're awake." She bared her teeth slightly, as if worried she was hitting a sensitive nerve.

  My eyes widened as my hands fle
w to my mouth. I pressed my fingers against my lips.

  The visions! My awake dream! Oh my god. They were happening when I didn't even know they were happening.

  She was right. I would blink and then wonder how I'd missed details about an upcoming assignment or find myself ten slides behind the class when I looked at my study guide.

  "Ms. Wilder. Let me tell my grandmother. Okay? Please don't call her. If I do it, she won't get all upset and smother me and stuff. Okay? She’s really overprotective."

  "So, you know what I'm talking about then?" She raised her eyebrows at me but left enough distance between us so I knew she wouldn't pry any further.

  "Yes. And I'm okay, really. I just have a lot on my mind." I wiped up the scattered sand, scooped it into my open palm and clapped it back into the Zen garden. "Sorry about the mess."

  Her smile widened and genuine concern shone out of it. A twang of guilt hit my gut as I avoided any true connection with her, determined to remain alone in my misery.

  I pulled my backpack onto my lap to let her know I was ready to leave, and her gentle nod assured me she would let me go.

  My mind raced, though, with the idea of my visions making silent visits to me. Frequently.

  What was happening?

  It was like I was being followed. Or lured. In a place I couldn’t hide: my own mind.

  I stared out Ms. Wilder's window at the flickering leaves on the maple outside. My curiosity about my silent visions made my heart race.

  Maybe the dreams held the answers for me. Like a portal. Maybe they could connect me to my mother again, since she had the same thing.