Black heart buccaneers face fiery seas, monstrous krakens, and the wrath of the Devil himself!
created by Janet Morris
Genre: Dark Fantasy Pirate Anthology
Avast, ye readers! Here be Pyrates! Feast yer eyes on the cursed treasures before you! Hoist the skull 'n' crossbones! Walk the plank with hell's sorest losers! Join the damnedest buccaneers and privateers ever to sail infernal seas. Here be twelve tales of piracy spun by Janet Morris, Chris Morris, Nancy Asire, Paul Freeman, Larry Atchley Jr, Rob Hinkle, Michael H. Hanson, Joe Bonadonna, Andrew P. Weston, S.E. Lindberg, and Jack William Finley. Corsairs, freebooters and plunderers shiver their timbers and meet their fates as the devil's dupes learn why the deeper in hell you go, the colder it gets.
The depths of hell chill the boldest sinner as damned souls learn why the deeper in hell you go, the colder it gets.
Inside you’ll find:
Bitter Business – Janet Morris and Chris Morris
Pieces of Hate – Andrew P. Weston
Evil Angel – Janet Morris and Chris Morris
Who’s a Pirate Now? – Nancy Asire
Curse of the Pharaohs – S.E. Lindberg
Lir’s Children – Paul Freeman
Unholiest Grail – Larry Atchley, Jr.
The Bitter Taste of Hell’s Injustice – Jack William Finley
Serial Recall and Beautiful Tortures – Michael H. Hanson
Drink and the Devil – Rob Hinkle
The Pirates of Penance – Joe Bonadonna
Muse of Fire – Janet Morris and Chris Morris
Hell Hounds (excerpt) – Andrew P. Weston
**On Sale for Only $2.99 for September Only!**
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Excerpt from Pirates in Hell – Unholiest Grail by Larry Atchley, Jr.
Over the threshold and into the shop strode a man with wavy shoulder-length brown hair and a mustache turned up at the ends with styling wax. He wore a tailored blue frock coat, tan trousers neatly pressed. He waded through ankle-deep standing water in black leather knee-high boots. “Welcome to Hellish Curiosities and Clothiers,” LaVey said. “Can I interest you in anything in particular?”
“Hell-o to you as well, my damned man,” the patron said in an oratorical voice. “My name is Sir Henry Morgan. I have heard it said that your shop is the place where the rarest items of special interest may be found.”
“So true. So true.” Purring, LaVey stroked his black goatee. Finally, a viable customer. “We specialize in unobtanium. What, precisely, are you looking for, dear sir?”
“A product. A very special product,” said Morgan. “I’ve heard rumors that a cup exists, a special cup — a cup which, when filled with alcoholic libations or possibly any liquid, allows the drinker to actually become inebriated. As I’m sure you can imagine, such an item would be very much in demand.”
“Your reputation does precede you, Sir. And your predilection for strong drink is well known.” LaVey said. “Do you know that, after your death topside, an entire rum distillery company was named after you?”
“Heh, oh yes.” Morgan grinned. “But they got my image all wrong on the labels. I’ve never worn anything so gaudy as that outfit they portray.”
“If such a cup were in my possession,” LaVey responded, “its purchase price would be quite dear. Only a select few of the damned would be able to afford such an item.”
“Naturally.” Morgan shrugged. “I have considerable resources at my disposal. What would you charge for such a wondrous unholy relic . . . If you possessed it, that is.”
“If an unholy grail such as you describe actually exists,” LaVey said carefully, “surely His Satanic Majesty would never allow a mere sinner to possess it. His rules forbid the pleasure of drunkenness to the damned, as you surely know. To own such an item would mean risking the wrath of all the lords of the latter-day hells.”
Morgan drew close to LaVey and said archly, “Mister LaVey, let’s end this charade, shall we? Everyone knows you deal in certain items of supposedly mystical, or even reputedly mythical, powers. Scuttlebutt has it that most of what you sell is counterfeit rubbish, that—”
“Rubbish!” LaVey interrupted. “I’ve never been so insulted in all my—”
“Wait! Let me finish,” Morgan ordered. “However, some souls whisper that not everything you sell is a sham. A certain spear comes to mind.”
“Now see here, my good sir! That whole business about a certain spear got me into a great deal of trouble with His Satanic Majesty. I’d really rather not discuss the topic further.”
“As you wish.” Morgan licked his lips. “I shall merely point out that if someone in New Hell knows where to find this unholy grail, you are that someone. You claim to run the only place where such items can be found. ‘Unobtanium’ you call it. It would be in your best interest to actually have this item, the fabled ‘real deal’. You’d be discreet about it, of course, so as not to rouse the suspicions of the Devil’s Children. So naturally you couldn’t advertise that you possess such a cup. Thus my question to you remains: Do you in fact have it? And, if you do, what would it cost me to buy it? Alternatively, if you don’t now have it, could you get it upon for a qualified buyer? Name your price, and I will gladly pay it.”
LaVey pensively rubbed his Mephistophelian goatee, thinking what riches might be his, could he find so important a relic for this inveterate privateer, once lieutenant governor of Jamaica, whence he’d raided settlements far and wide with such single-minded rapacity that he secured a license to attack and seize Spanish vessels for the English Crown. “If I’m going to risk His Satanic Majesty’s ire, my price will be substantial.”
“A soul could name his own price for an item that can make this hellish existence less vexing.” Morgan grimaced. “Only from great risk comes great reward.”
“Yes, great indeed,” LaVey said. But where in hell could it be, this grail which Morgan so desired that he’d buy it rather than steal it? Returning from the storeroom to the selling floor with a crystal sphere in her fingers, Madam Blavatsky caught LaVey’s attention, casting furtive glances toward the back room. “Excuse me, Captain Morgan,” said LaVey and followed her into the back, which smelled disconcertingly of mildew.
Once out of Morgan’s sight, Blavatsky sucked on the corners of her toothless mouth and whispered, “For ‘great reward’, we may be able to assist him. This grail has shown itself to me.”
LaVey lit up like a cannon fuse. “You know where it is? Why haven’t you mentioned anything about this before,” LaVey demanded of the infuriating, self-proclaimed mystagogue and leading proponent of Theosophy.
“Because no one has asked about it until now,” she replied. “Why must I have as my assistant the greatest idiot savant of the modern age?”
“I’ve only now seen a vision of it while you and the customer were bantering about its price,” Blavatsky said, giving him a nasty sidelong glare.
La Vey took Madam Blavatsky’s arm, and the two nonchalantly made their way to where Morgan stood, staring through the storefront window, holding a pair of brass Carl Zeiss Jena binoculars close to squinting eyes. “I don’t have it right now, but we know where the cup may be found,” LaVey said to Morgan. “One million diablos is my finder’s fee,” LaVey said.
“Whoa ho!” Morgan exclaimed. “You’ve the soul of a buccaneer. A princely sum indeed. Very well, Mister LaVey, you shall have your price—if and when you produce the cup. The real grail, the goblet of my desire, of course, and not some simulacrum.”
“Of course, Sir Henry.” LaVey rubbed his hands together, sensually anticipating the feel of all those diablos under his sweating palms. “To deliver, I must mount an expedition. Would you like to join us?”
“Join you? On an expedition? I’ll lead any expedition my diablos fund. First I must needs muster a crew—reavers who’ll take my orders, not yours. Even in hell, he who has the gold makes the rules.” Morgan chuckled at his own levity.
Over the threshold and into the shop strode a man with wavy shoulder-length brown hair and a mustache turned up at the ends with styling wax. He wore a tailored blue frock coat, tan trousers neatly pressed. He waded through ankle-deep standing water in black leather knee-high boots. “Welcome to Hellish Curiosities and Clothiers,” LaVey said. “Can I interest you in anything in particular?”
“Hell-o to you as well, my damned man,” the patron said in an oratorical voice. “My name is Sir Henry Morgan. I have heard it said that your shop is the place where the rarest items of special interest may be found.”
“So true. So true.” Purring, LaVey stroked his black goatee. Finally, a viable customer. “We specialize in unobtanium. What, precisely, are you looking for, dear sir?”
“A product. A very special product,” said Morgan. “I’ve heard rumors that a cup exists, a special cup — a cup which, when filled with alcoholic libations or possibly any liquid, allows the drinker to actually become inebriated. As I’m sure you can imagine, such an item would be very much in demand.”
“Your reputation does precede you, Sir. And your predilection for strong drink is well known.” LaVey said. “Do you know that, after your death topside, an entire rum distillery company was named after you?”
“Heh, oh yes.” Morgan grinned. “But they got my image all wrong on the labels. I’ve never worn anything so gaudy as that outfit they portray.”
“If such a cup were in my possession,” LaVey responded, “its purchase price would be quite dear. Only a select few of the damned would be able to afford such an item.”
“Naturally.” Morgan shrugged. “I have considerable resources at my disposal. What would you charge for such a wondrous unholy relic . . . If you possessed it, that is.”
“If an unholy grail such as you describe actually exists,” LaVey said carefully, “surely His Satanic Majesty would never allow a mere sinner to possess it. His rules forbid the pleasure of drunkenness to the damned, as you surely know. To own such an item would mean risking the wrath of all the lords of the latter-day hells.”
Morgan drew close to LaVey and said archly, “Mister LaVey, let’s end this charade, shall we? Everyone knows you deal in certain items of supposedly mystical, or even reputedly mythical, powers. Scuttlebutt has it that most of what you sell is counterfeit rubbish, that—”
“Rubbish!” LaVey interrupted. “I’ve never been so insulted in all my—”
“Wait! Let me finish,” Morgan ordered. “However, some souls whisper that not everything you sell is a sham. A certain spear comes to mind.”
“Now see here, my good sir! That whole business about a certain spear got me into a great deal of trouble with His Satanic Majesty. I’d really rather not discuss the topic further.”
“As you wish.” Morgan licked his lips. “I shall merely point out that if someone in New Hell knows where to find this unholy grail, you are that someone. You claim to run the only place where such items can be found. ‘Unobtanium’ you call it. It would be in your best interest to actually have this item, the fabled ‘real deal’. You’d be discreet about it, of course, so as not to rouse the suspicions of the Devil’s Children. So naturally you couldn’t advertise that you possess such a cup. Thus my question to you remains: Do you in fact have it? And, if you do, what would it cost me to buy it? Alternatively, if you don’t now have it, could you get it upon for a qualified buyer? Name your price, and I will gladly pay it.”
LaVey pensively rubbed his Mephistophelian goatee, thinking what riches might be his, could he find so important a relic for this inveterate privateer, once lieutenant governor of Jamaica, whence he’d raided settlements far and wide with such single-minded rapacity that he secured a license to attack and seize Spanish vessels for the English Crown. “If I’m going to risk His Satanic Majesty’s ire, my price will be substantial.”
“A soul could name his own price for an item that can make this hellish existence less vexing.” Morgan grimaced. “Only from great risk comes great reward.”
“Yes, great indeed,” LaVey said. But where in hell could it be, this grail which Morgan so desired that he’d buy it rather than steal it? Returning from the storeroom to the selling floor with a crystal sphere in her fingers, Madam Blavatsky caught LaVey’s attention, casting furtive glances toward the back room. “Excuse me, Captain Morgan,” said LaVey and followed her into the back, which smelled disconcertingly of mildew.
Once out of Morgan’s sight, Blavatsky sucked on the corners of her toothless mouth and whispered, “For ‘great reward’, we may be able to assist him. This grail has shown itself to me.”
LaVey lit up like a cannon fuse. “You know where it is? Why haven’t you mentioned anything about this before,” LaVey demanded of the infuriating, self-proclaimed mystagogue and leading proponent of Theosophy.
“Because no one has asked about it until now,” she replied. “Why must I have as my assistant the greatest idiot savant of the modern age?”
“I’ve only now seen a vision of it while you and the customer were bantering about its price,” Blavatsky said, giving him a nasty sidelong glare.
La Vey took Madam Blavatsky’s arm, and the two nonchalantly made their way to where Morgan stood, staring through the storefront window, holding a pair of brass Carl Zeiss Jena binoculars close to squinting eyes. “I don’t have it right now, but we know where the cup may be found,” LaVey said to Morgan. “One million diablos is my finder’s fee,” LaVey said.
“Whoa ho!” Morgan exclaimed. “You’ve the soul of a buccaneer. A princely sum indeed. Very well, Mister LaVey, you shall have your price—if and when you produce the cup. The real grail, the goblet of my desire, of course, and not some simulacrum.”
“Of course, Sir Henry.” LaVey rubbed his hands together, sensually anticipating the feel of all those diablos under his sweating palms. “To deliver, I must mount an expedition. Would you like to join us?”
“Join you? On an expedition? I’ll lead any expedition my diablos fund. First I must needs muster a crew—reavers who’ll take my orders, not yours. Even in hell, he who has the gold makes the rules.” Morgan chuckled at his own levity.
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Larry Atchley Jr. is a writer of primarily science fiction, fantasy, horror, and poetry. His other interests include Qi-Gong Kung Fu, British Humour, hiking, mountain biking, everything about tea, sword fencing, traditional archery, reading and collecting books, and playing harmonica and guitar. He is a crewmember of the piratical poetry and musical performance group The Seadog Slam and is frequently a guest author at various literary conventions and other events. He is a contributing author to Janet Morris’s Heroes in Hell series. You can read his blog, The Short Pale Writer in the Long Black Coat, at www.larryatchleyjr.wordpress.com.
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I would enjoy reading this anthology. Sounds really good.
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