Iron Pirate (The Deviant Future Book 5) Read online

  Contents

  Introduction

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

  Copyright © 2019/2020 Eve Langlais

  Yocla Designs © 2019

  Produced in Canada

  Published by Eve Langlais ~ www.EveLanglais.com

  eBook ISBN: 978 177 384 117 5

  Print ISBN: 978 177 384 118 2

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  This is a work of fiction and the characters, events and dialogue found within the story are of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, either living or deceased, is completely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or shared in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including but not limited to digital copying, file sharing, audio recording, email, photocopying, and printing without permission in writing from the author.

  Introduction

  The sea might be his mistress, but Shereen is the queen of his heart.

  Known as the Iron Pirate, Darius has been sailing the treacherous seas for a decade now. It might be time to settle down before the monsters he’s been fending off finally get their tentacles on him.

  But any plans for a quiet retirement walk the plank when he discovers the Princess Shereen has stowed away aboard his ship.

  A pretty princess with a price on her head.

  A woman who has only one dangerous choice if she wants to be free.

  If Shereen can prove she inherited her father’s power, she might just survive.

  Problem is, what’s a pirate to do when she asks him to be her king?

  For more Eve Langlais books visit: EveLanglais.com

  Prologue

  The oceans have always been the most wondrous of places, full of mysteries and monsters. Ruins, too, like the fabled Las Vegas with its flashing lights and gaudy wasteful displays, seen in very old preserved videos from the past.

  The excessive use of energy and the fanciful shapes fascinated and appalled those living on New Earth hundreds of years after the cataclysmic event most commonly known as the Fall. Think lots of meteors shattering the Earth and basically killing it.

  Not quite everything died, but entire species were wiped out. The very soil and rocks, even the waters and air currents, were forever tainted in some places.

  But the Earth was healing. The humans didn’t need to hide underground anymore.

  These days, their reality was an unforgiving land that struggled to give them the bare necessities to survive. The kind of waste seen by humanity’s ancestors was not only unheard of it was maddening. Living was much harder now. Given the difficulty in building machines and other fancy electronic parts, due to a lack of the metal ores needed, practical items took precedence over things considered frivolous like video screens and even cameras. Images could be taken in the cities by professionals with a license from the Enclave and purchased for a premium. Because not just anyone could take pictures.

  Just like not just anyone could make the rules or deliver important news.

  The Enclave controlled it all. But they actually had their own version of sound reasoning behind their tight-fisted regime. The Enclave had risen from the ashes of humanity. During their time underground, the founders had researched the past and studied its nuances. By picking apart the culture and events that led to certain outcomes, they came to a conclusion of how they would not fail as a species again.

  To succeed, they had to control a few things. The main one being restricting the flow of knowledge. It meant few books survived from the ancient times. Few images too. The Enclave wanted its citizens living in the here and now, obeying the rules. And it worked. There was order for a long time. A few generations of peace and a system that worked, especially for those highly placed in the Enclave. Those on the lower end...everyone served a purpose.

  The world marched on, and as humanity began to get more comfortable on the surface, the more the less difficult areas to live in thrived. Citizens far away from the power and influence of the court made their own rules, elected their own leaders.

  As of the last few decades, even the luxuries once limited to the highest ranking became available to everyone. Contraband thrived as the populations grew.

  And grew. It became harder to enforce some of the stricter rules. Some kingdoms doubled down on punishment in an attempt to keep order.

  Others like the Marshlands and Sapphire Kingdom—most famously known for Port City, the biggest trading focal point on the ocean routes—loosened or outright got rid of some laws.

  But the one regulation that always remained, no matter how archaic or actually stupid, was the one deeming that only the strongest Aunimaa could be considered queen or king. Aunimaa being someone with a type of psionic power. Or, as the non-Enclave called it, magic.

  Strength decided who was recognized by the Enclave court. Families constantly vied to get ahead, usually by offering to pair genetics to see if it produced a child worthy of the court. The ruling class was ever conscious of who they bred with. Love wasn’t why someone mixed their genes. They did it in the hope of creating the one that would rule.

  An heir to their empire.

  Because power was everything, and when these rapacious individuals saw weakness …then you had the situation in Port City.

  Chapter 1

  Shereen dropped like a rock into the water. She sank like one, too. For a child born by the sea, Shereen had little affinity with water, and since the nightmares started, she even feared it.

  It pressed around her, trying to force its way past her lips, wanting to fill her mouth and flood her lungs. The water weighed down her clothes and dragged at her limbs. As she continued to sink, her chest got so tight she thought it might burst. Not exactly something she wanted to experience.

  She thrashed and kicked, turning her head from side to side to find the surface, but everywhere she looked there was only murky fluid. She had no idea what direction was up or down. When she slammed into something hard, she pounded on it, but the strangely smooth surface didn’t crack, and in it she could see a cheering crowd. People roaring and clapping and jeering as she drowned.

  Her lungs spasmed. She couldn’t hold it anymore. Her lips parted—

  Boom! The thunder hit hard. Just once. It proved to be enough.

  The jolt from sleep to awake, not drowning in water. She wasn’t even wet. She remained safe and snug under the duvet on her bed, in her room. The filmy toile of the canopy overhead glowed softly as the lights from the city, filtered through the window, caught the silvery thread weaved through it.

  I’m not dead. Maybe if she kept repeating it while lying still, her heart would calm. Knowing she was caught in a nightmare didn’t stop her pulse from racing each time. So many times now she’d drowned. The dream kept happening over and over. Yet it wasn’t the reason she couldn’t fall back asleep.

  There existed an agitation to the night. The quivering calm before violence. She’d only ever experienced it a few times in her life, like the night her oldest brother died and father took it poorly. The taste of it
stuck with a person.

  People would die this night.

  It occurred to Shereen to check on her father. Her poor father, sick in his bed for weeks now. They both knew he was being poisoned. They just couldn’t seem to stop it, and not for lack of trying. She had brought him food that she tasted first and had him drinking only from sealed containers. In spite of all the precautions, he got sicker. The doctors tried all kinds of remedies from liquid medicines to the more esoteric rituals that involved chanting. It all failed. They declared themselves baffled, but Shereen wasn’t about to give up.

  She slid out of bed, feet automatically slipping into the slippers by it, and wrapped a robe around herself. Her hair lay long and loose down her back. She took a shuffling step before whirling to reach under her pillow for the dagger she’d taken to keeping there. Not that she’d had much practice with it. A princess had guards to defend her, but what if those guards turned against her?

  With her father dying, she’d heard whispers. People eyed her and talked about her fitness to rule. Mostly her lack of it.

  The power over water that ran through her father’s bloodline refused to ignite in her, just like she couldn’t even conjure a tiny breeze despite the storms her mother used to wield. If her father died, she’d be cast down, considered unfit to rule for the simple crime of being ordinary. Which might not be a bad thing. Most days, she didn’t really have any interest in wearing a crown.

  There were others, however, obsessed with the idea of being king, and there was nothing that would make their reign harder than having a reminder of the past ruler hanging around. Would the other lords vying to rule leave her alone or come after her?

  The Enclave didn’t suffer the weak—or those that might challenge their position. Her father had protected her as long as he could. If he died, everything would change.

  The knife felt heavy against her as it swung in her pocket. She felt kind of foolish now that she’d left her room. The modern palace boasted a soft carpet underfoot, and it absorbed the sound of her steps as she made her way to her father’s quarters. He resided in a different corner suite with windows looking out over the city. An impressive city, the biggest in the world, or so she’d heard. It definitely was the largest on the continent. Although she’d heard the Marshland king was growing his at a rapid pace.

  It occurred to her that the castle appeared awfully quiet even for this time of night. She didn’t encounter a single guard. Not even outside her father’s door.

  A frown pinched her lips. Had something called them away? Or had someone removed them?

  A soft tap received a surprisingly firm and strong, “Come in.”

  Shereen entered to see her father pacing, looking more energetic than she recalled him being in a while. “Father? Are you all right? Where are your guards?”

  He slashed a hand. “I sent them away. I don’t trust them. I don’t trust any of them.” His once benevolent features were creased in suspicion. Understandable given his situation.

  “You seem to be feeling better.”

  “I am.” He thumped his chest. “The medicine I had smuggled into the palace did the trick.”

  “Smuggled? What have you done?”

  “I foiled my enemies is what I’ve done,” he boasted. “I think the remedy cured the poison in me.”

  Her expression brightened. “Really?”

  “Yes, and I have the Marsh king to thank. Man’s got a bloody brilliant healer working for him. A woman called Sofia, former Ruby court citizen, or so I’ve heard. Makes the most remarkable potions.”

  “This is wonderful news.” The best she’d had in a while.

  “It is, and yet that’s not why you’ve come to visit me at this time of the night. Does something bother you, my child?” His piercing gaze fixed her.

  Almost twenty-five years of age and he still treated her like she was a little girl. “I woke and was worried for you.”

  “My dearest daughter.” He clasped her hands. “I was truly blessed when you were born.”

  His only living daughter, she’d barely known the mother who died birthing a fourth child who didn’t survive. At times, Shereen found it hard to recall the brothers that all perished in freak accidents when they were still young.

  “I am so glad you’re better.” Her voice thickened. With her father whole again, she could stop worrying.

  “As am I,” he said with a wry chuckle. “But now I must move quickly before my enemies find out.”

  “You mean the duke,” she spat. A man who had no limits when it came to his quest for power.

  “That is who I suspect. He’s been eyeing my throne for years. But I’ll say it right now, he won’t take my crown.” The king lifted a finger in exclamation; however, it was the dagger suddenly punching into his chest that had her gasping.

  “Father!” She couldn’t believe her eyes. There was something so inherently wrong about seeing a knife jutting from his torso.

  Her father gazed down at the injury, not in rage or even disbelief but resignation. Then resolve. He raised his glance and barked, “Run.”

  Run? How could she run when her limbs were like ice? “I am not leaving you. Let me help.” She reached for him, unsure of what she could do yet needing to do something. To not feel so useless.

  Even injured, her father proved quicker thinking. “The assassin is still here!” he shouted as he shoved her away from him.

  She fell, the jolt drawing her attention for but a moment. The clatter as another knife hit the floor made her realize it was meant for her.

  Someone was trying to kill her. Her father did not take kindly to it.

  The burst of power drew her attention. Her father’s expression was set in grim determination as he held out his hand. A stream of water rose from the tiny waterfall that trickled endlessly in his wall. When she was but a child, he’d entertained Shereen by pulling from the fluid and forming animal shapes that swam and walked.

  No cute floppy-eared creatures tonight. The water droplets elongated and sharpened into bullets. They slammed into the assassin just as he drew his arm back to throw another dagger. The knife thrower half rose from his crouch on the balcony railing, making him a target for every watery bullet that struck him. For a moment, despite all the bloody holes, the assassin stood statue-like, the dagger seemingly forgotten in his grip. Then, his eyes wide and disbelieving, he teetered backwards and plummeted.

  Shereen ran for the security pad by the balcony door. The force field was obviously not activated, and no amount of smashing of the buttons would turn it on.

  “It’s broken,” she cried, fear coursing through her limbs. What if another assassin tried to come in through the balcony?

  “Don’t worry about the door. You need to leave right now, Shereen.”

  “You’re right. I should fetch you a doctor.” She tried not to sob at the sight of the blood bubbling at her father’s lips.

  “Leave the castle. Don’t let them catch you.”

  “But where would I go?” Her heart hammered in her chest. This was her home. She’d never gone much further. Her illness when on large bodies of water was legendary, meaning she stayed home.

  “Anywhere. Get on a ship. Sail to the Islands.” Her father coughed, the red spittle hitting his fist. “You remember Uncle Petrov? He’s come to visit a few times. He’ll watch over you.”

  A boisterous man who used to exclaim, “The spitting image of her mother.”

  “I don’t want to leave you. Come with me.” She reached for her father and clutched his trembling hands.

  He shook his head, the injury and his recent illness drawing attention to his age. Life had taken its toll. “The dagger was tipped in poison. I can feel it burning through my system. I’m going to die, and I won’t have you joining me. Go to your uncle’s island.”

  “What about the offer from—” She never even got to finish her sentence.

  “No!” he barked. “Do not even think of doing it. Promise me.”

  She
reen pressed her lips. “But if it worked…it would solve everything.” Why did her father keep refusing a possible cure for her problem?

  “It’s evil. And dangerous. I won’t have you trying it.” Her father shook his head and slashed a hand through the air, the motion enough to have him coughing and gasping.

  Blood coated her as she tried to hold him up. There was shouting in the hall. The pounding of boots. Finally, some help. The door opened, and guards poured in.

  “Call for a physician, quickly,” Shereen exclaimed. “My father has been attacked.”

  “Take the princess into custody,” shouted Captain Infiero instead, his fiery red hair rising in tight curled locks. His broken nose went with the set look of his square jaw. Handsome fellow, shame about his personality.

  She blinked. “Arrest me? For what?”

  The captain, whose overtures had been rebuffed over the past year, looked right at her and said, a hint of smugness in the tone, “The murder of the king.”

  “Liar. You know she did no such thing,” her father sputtered.

  The captain didn’t change expressions as he said, “But no one will know that once you’re dead.” He turned to the other soldiers. “Grab her while I finish him off.”

  Disbelief had her rooted to the floor. This couldn’t be happening. This was blatant mutiny. A coup that was already bloody.

  “You won’t have my daughter.” Father stood tall as he said it, a king who’d managed to rule kindly for more than forty years. A seemingly benign monarch. They’d forgotten how he came to power.

  Father drew all the water in the room to himself—from the pitcher by his bed, the cup, and most especially the ever-spewing fountain in the wall. The liquid formed a shield, blocking the soldiers.