By Pat Croce and Adam Slutsky

Illustrations by Angela Souza

All rights reserved. Drake’s Quest first published in Canada by Brighter Books Publishing House.

Glow, an Imprint of Brighter Books Publishing House.

No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without

permission from the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents

are products of the authors’ imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Text copyright © 2010 by Adam Slutsky and Pat CroceIllustrations copyright © 2011 by Angela Souza

Special thanks to our editor Amy Bright for working with us on this book.

We use only kid and environmentally-friendly paper. One tree has been planted for this book.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Croce, Pat Drake’s quest / Pat Croce, Adam Slutsky, Angela Souza.

ISBN 978-1-927004-16-6 (pbk.).--ISBN 978-1-927004-19-7 (bound).--ISBN 978-1-927004-17-3 (dust jacket)

I. Slutsky, Adam II. Souza, Angela, 1974- III. Title.

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Contents

Chapter 1 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1Chapter 2 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18Chapter 3 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 38Chapter 4 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 53Chapter 5 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 72Chapter 6 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 86Chapter 7 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 103Chapter 8 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 120Chapter 9 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 132Chapter 10 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 150Chapter 11 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 164Chapter 12 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 176Chapter 13 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 187Chapter 14 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 198Chapter 15 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 1 1Chapter 16 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 223Chapter 17 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 229Chapter 18 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 241Chapter 19 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 249Chapter 20 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 260Chapter 21 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 278Chapter 22 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 289Chapter 23 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 305Glossary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 18

The blazing orange sun ruled a

cloudless sky. After too many days of Bristol’s usual unrelent-

ing rain and gloom, Charlie took this as a favorable omen.

The port bustled with activity. Charlie adjusted the duf-

fel on his shoulder and strode toward the docks. His presence,

he saw, was not going unnoticed. Handsome, tall, and strong

for his age, Charlie was used to commanding attention; but it

was some quality he possessed unrelated to his appearance

1

that made men shoot him furtive glances, even as they hurried

about their business. In his 15 years, Charlie was no stranger

to trouble, some even of his own making, but he seemed to

attract more than he incited. However, this didn’t pose a prob-

lem; in the face of conflict, Charlie never backed down, even

when fear suggested he should.

He continued to walk toward the vessel with purpose-

ful strides. The jeweled hilt of the dagger thrust in his belt glit-

tered in the sun. Maybe someone would be foolish enough to

try to take it from him. A grin tugged at the corner of Charlie’s

mouth at the thought.

There were perhaps a half-dozen ships moored at the

docks. Tame merchant vessels, mostly. These held little ap-

peal for Charlie. He paused, searching.

Ah, there. A privateer ship, heavily armed. Sleek and

dangerous, masts tall. That would suit his purposes well. He

read the lettering on the hull: Churchill. A steady procession of crewmen hauled supplies from

the docks onto the ship by means of a narrow gangplank.

Charlie walked over to the great pile of provisions and inter-

cepted one of the men just as he hoisted a heavy sack of grain

to his shoulder.

“Where’s she headed?” Charlie asked, gesturing with

his chin in the direction of the ship.

The crewman paused and shifted the sack to redistrib-

ute the weight. He was young, no more than sixteen, a full

Croce & Slutsky

2

head shorter than Charlie, with a strong, compact build and

an intelligent face. Despite the accumulated sweat and grime

of honest labor, there was a refinement to him, a pedigree of

sorts, that suggested a background of education and wealth.

Not the kind of man Charlie would expect to find crewing for

a privateer. “Caribbean waters,” the young crewman said.

“A privateer fighting for Queen Anne?” Charlie asked.

The crewman shrugged. “As long as the war continues,

we’ll plunder the French and Spanish for Her Majesty … and

our ninety percent share of the booty.”

With a nod at Charlie the crewman headed down the

dock toward the gangplank. Charlie didn’t want to keep him

from his duties any longer. Besides, he’d learned all he need-

ed. He hoisted up one of the sacks of grain from the provision

heap, slung it over his free shoulder, and fell in step behind his

new acquaintance.

A sturdy gangplank led up to the deck of the Churchill.

Two hardened sailors stood on either side of it, supervising

the activity on the dock. When Charlie moved to follow the

crewman onto the ship, both men stepped in front of him and

blocked his path.

“Just where do you think you’re going, lad?” one of the

men asked. He had a mess of straw-colored hair and a thick

neck, and he stared at Charlie with a mixture of amusement

and menace.

“To fight for Queen and country,” Charlie replied.

Drake’s Quest

3

The man’s companion stepped forward. Smaller and

wiry, with tiny eyes and a ratlike face, he sneered at Charlie’s

statement. “Not on this ship, you’re not. Now go on, make

yourself scarce. This is a ship for men, not boys.”

Alerted by the commotion, two men strode over from

the other side of the dock. The taller of the two had silver

hair, neatly arranged, and wore a long blue coat over a tidy

gray waistcoat. Everything about him, from his white cravat to

his bronze buttons, was immaculate. Charlie realized he was

staring at the ship’s captain.

“What’s this?” the captain asked.

Ratface thrust his shoulders back. “Sir. This little boy

seems to have lost his way. I was just about to send him home

to mommy.”

Keen eyes fell on Charlie. They had the odd colorless

look that came from years of staring at distant horizons. The

captain raised his eyebrows at Charlie, inviting a response.

“I’d like to join your crew, sir,” Charlie said, voice

strong and unwavering.

The man beside the captain spoke for the first time.

He was squat and barrel-chested, with sapling-like forearms

and ruddy cheeks mostly obscured by a thick, bristly beard.

He held a quill in one hand and a thick ledger in the other.

Charlie glanced down and saw he was checking off supplies

from a long, meticulous list as they were loaded onto the ship.

Croce & Slutsky

4

“Have you any sailing experience?” the man said in a deep,

gravelly voice.

By admitting he had never been to sea, Charlie real-

ized he might just end his journey before it began. But real

men didn’t lie. They didn’t need to.

“No, sir,” he said firmly and without hesitation.

“Son, there’s no guaranteed wages for a privateer

crew. No enemy ships captured, no pay.” The captain smiled

to himself, lost in a private thought. “You either join because

you’re running from something, or because you’ve got salt in

your bones. So which is it?”

Charlie met his stare, his gaze even. “Both, sir.”

The captain chuckled and stroked his chin. He shook

his head. “I don’t know. My crew is well seasoned. Perhaps a

merchant ship would better suit you.”

Ratface leaned in, his face just inches away from Char-

lie’s. “You heard the Captain. Bugger off, pretty boy!” His

breath stank of rotten teeth and sour ale; a fine spray of foul

spittle landed on Charlie’s nose and cheeks.

Charlie paused for just a moment. He shifted the grain

sack on his shoulder, as though the weight was troubling him.

He crouched slightly, feeling the muscles bunch in his thighs

and legs, and hurled the sack into the air with as much force as

he could muster.

Surprised by the action, Ratface looked up at the air-

borne sack. In that moment, Charlie whipped his duffel off his

Drake’s Quest

5

other shoulder and, holding it by the straps, whipped it down

and around in a powerful arc aimed at Ratface’s legs.

Upon impact, Ratface’s legs shot out from under him.

He landed on his rear on the dock with a satisfying thud. The

grain sack reached the natural conclusion of its airborne jour-

ney by falling on Ratface’s head with an equally satisfying thud.

Infuriated by the attack, the straw-haired man lowered

his head and charged at Charlie like an angry bull. Charlie

held his ground and let the man collide into him, falling back

at the exact moment of impact. He dropped downward to the

deck, taking the weight of the fall onto his elbows and fore-

arms. Unable to slow the momentum of his charge, the man

tumbled on top of Charlie. It was a simple thing for Charlie to

catapult him up and off of him. The man sailed off the edge of

the dock and splashed into the dark waters of the harbor.

In a flash, Charlie got to his feet and brushed the dust

off his clothes. He shouldered his duffel again and smiled at

the captain and the quartermaster as if nothing had happened.

“But I do have a little fighting experience,” he said wryly.

The captain evaluated his prospective new crewmem-

ber in silence. “Your call, Mr. Bonz,” he said to his quarter-

master at last.

Mr. Bonz’s ruddy cheeks ballooned out in a sudden

grin. “In that case, welcome aboard, Mister…”

“Drake. Charlie Drake,” Charlie said.

Croce & Slutsky

6

He thought his name produced some small, almost

unnoticeable response. The captain lifted his brow a fraction

at his name, but made no comment.

“This here is Captain Overton. On this vessel, his

word is law. I’m the quartermaster. Do you know what that

means?” Bonz asked.

“It means I do as you say, sir.”

“That it does. Good lad. Now put yourself to proper

use and get those supplies on board. We aim to set sail before

the sun gets much higher, and with the way these men have

been dawdling and slacking all morning long, there’s a lot of

work to be done yet.”

Charlie nodded once. He scooped up the grain sack

from where it lay next to Ratface, who sat like a lump on the

dock, his expression dazed and stupid. He narrowed his eyes

in a glower at Charlie. The quartermaster gave him a curt nod.

“Better fetch your sidekick before he drowns his sorry

arse,” Bonz said, gesturing with his head toward the water,

where the straw-haired man splashed and spluttered, trying his

best to keep himself afloat.

Charlie headed up the gangplank and stepped onto the

deck of the Churchill. The deck bobbed and swayed with the

motion of the sea beneath his feet. He paused for a moment

to get his bearings. Once he trusted himself to walk without

stumbling or pitching forward from the odd rocking motion,

Drake’s Quest

7

he carried his sack across the deck and deposited it in a grow-

ing pile of supplies.

The young crewman whom he’d spoken to earlier shot

him a quick grin. “Made yourself right at home, didn’t you?”

He gestured toward the dock. “Better watch your back around

your two new friends. The ratty little one is Schilling; Griffith’s

his crony, and they’re a mean pair. They’ll slip a knife between

your ribs first chance they get … if they can.”

“They can’t,” Charlie said self-assuredly.

The crewman shrugged. “You’d best be right. Other-

wise this will be a mighty short voyage for you.” He nodded.

“Welcome aboard.”

“Thank you,” Charlie said, but his new acquaintance

was already headed back down the gangplank to load up

more supplies.

On the dock, Bonz watched as Schilling lay on his stom-

ach and extended both arms over the side, hauling Griffith up

out of the drink. He shook his head.

“Captain, we’ve got some real scallywags joining us on

this cruise,” he said.

Croce & Slutsky

8

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Captain Overton tugged at the hem of his waistcoat

and made a minute adjustment to his cravat. “I have no doubt

you will keep the crew squarely focused on the enemy.”

Bonz snorted. “Aye, sir. Let’s just hope the French

don’t surrender ‘fore we fill our hold with riches.”

They paused in their conversation to watch Charlie

walk down the gangplank, a slight swagger to his walk. With a

nod at the captain and his quartermaster, Charlie strode down

the dock toward the provision pile. He looked crisp and con-

fident, wholly unaffected by the scuffle that took place mere

moments earlier. “That one’s got trouble written all over him,”

the captain said.

“Aye, Captain,” Bonz replied. His eyes glinted. “A fit-

ting omen for the coming voyage.”

Charlie lay in his hammock, wide awake in the

cramped, dark berth. He couldn’t see anything in the dark-

ness, but he was aware of the ceiling too close above him; if

he reached up, he could touch the boards. The hammocks,

stacked three high, were tied to the support beams of the lower

deck. The room had the stale smell of too many unwashed

men in too small a space. In the hammock just beneath Char-

Drake’s Quest

9

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lie’s, a slumbering crewman snored, the bothersome noise re-

verberating loudly in the cramped room.

The noise and the smell were minor distractions, ones

Charlie could sleep through easily enough. But his mind was

still active, endlessly turning over the day’s events, caught up

in wild thoughts of this new life he’d embarked upon—a life it

seemed he was destined to live.

He sat up, careful to make sure he wouldn’t bonk his

head on the low ceiling, and groped around in the darkness

for his duffel, which hung on the same peg that fastened his

hammock to the beam. He rolled out of the hammock and

dropped the several feet to the deck as quietly as he could.

Already fully clothed, dagger still at his belt, he slid on his

boots. Shouldering his duffel, he navigated his way out of the

dark room.

He entered the communal area, below deck, where

four crewmen sat around a wooden table playing a game of

whist, a pile of coins in front of each player. Charlie nodded at

them in greeting, but didn’t interrupt their game. A flickering

oil lamp rested on an overturned barrel used as a makeshift

table; Charlie picked it up and mounted the creaky wooden

stairs to the deck.

Having never been to sea before, Charlie had fully ex-

pected to be seasick. Prior to setting sail he had worried what

might happen if other crewmen saw him throwing up over the

side of the ship or, worse, below deck. Strangely, the only sen-

Croce & Slutsky

10

sation he experienced was excitement. Perhaps this type of

lifestyle was in his blood after all.

A blast of crisp wind and salt air and the constant low

roar of the sea assailed his senses. The Churchill’s masts were

silhouetted against the moon, which was white and round and

full. The deck was bathed in its pale light.

A solitary figure on the night watch stood at the railing

of the raised gun deck. Charlie raised a hand to acknowledge

him; the man raised a hand in silent reply. His duty was a cold

and lonely one, Charlie imagined, staying awake and alert for

a four-hour shift in the middle of the night in the damp and

chilly air.

He found a secluded area of the main deck, sheltered

from the wind by the raised forecastle, and crouched down.

After glancing around to make sure he was alone and unob-

served, he rummaged around inside the contents of his duffel.

He pulled out a wooden box, made with meticulous crafts-

manship, with clamshelled edges protected by scalloped sliv-

ers of metal and carved dragons throughout. On the front of

the box was an unusual triple keyhole lock.

He slid his jeweled dagger out of its sheath and stuck

the tip into the keyhole. He twisted it experimentally, testing to

see if he could somehow jimmy the lock.

“Wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Charlie stood upright and whipped his head around at

the sound of the voice behind him. He gripped the dagger by

Drake’s Quest

11

the jeweled hilt and raised it to his side, ready and willing to

introduce it to flesh if need be.

The young crewman he’d first spoken to on the docks

moved out of the darkness and into the circle of light cast by

Charlie’s oil lamp. He smiled easily at Charlie, and motioned

to the dagger.

“Relax. I mean you no harm. Just curious about that

trinket,” he said, eyes indicating the ornate box.

“It’s none of your affair,” Charlie replied.

The young crewman shrugged. “Suit yourself, but

three-lock boxes like that are often booby-trapped with acid

or black powder. If the locks aren’t opened with the proper

keys, anything inside is destroyed—along with the unlucky fool

opening it.”

Charlie stared at him for a moment, trying to deter-

mine if he was pulling his leg. Deciding it was best to err on

the side of caution, he stuffed the box back into his duffel. The

young crewman seemed to be no threat, so he resheathed his

dagger in his belt.

“Charlie,” he said, sticking out his hand.

The crewman shook it, his manner open and friendly.

“Michael Arthur Cross. The Third, if you want to be precise.

But all my friends call me Mac.”

“Are we friends?” Charlie asked.

Mac smirked, taking no offense. “We’re crewmates.

That puts us more than friends and just shy of blood.”

Croce & Slutsky

12

For the first time, Charlie noticed Mac was carrying a

bound leather volume. He gestured toward it. “What’s that?”

Mac held it up. “Couldn’t sleep. I thought I’d find a

quiet place for this,” he said. “Do you read?”

“Yes,” Charlie replied.

Shrewd eyes examined him. “Schooling?”

“Enough.”

“Enough for what?” Mac asked.

“Enough to know there are better ways to spend my

time than in a schoolroom,” Charlie said.

“Fair enough. See what you can do with this,” he said

and passed the book over to Charlie.

Charlie flipped it open. Sketchy, delicate line draw-

ings of contraptions filled the pages, the purposes of which he

couldn’t begin to guess at. There were words too, written in

a small, cramped handwriting. He squinted at the page, then

shook his head.

“It isn’t in English,” he said. “And it’s …”

“Backwards. Yes. And the language is Italian. This

man, Leonardo da Vinci, wrote all of his journals that way.”

“What for?” Charlie asked.

“Who knows? Privacy, maybe. Maybe he didn’t want

anyone stealing his inventions.” Mac scratched his chin, his ex-

pression somewhat wistful. “He’s been dead almost two hun-

dred years, and everyone still knows his name on the streets of

Rome. There’s immortality for you.”

Drake’s Quest

13

Charlie felt a brief surge in his chest at Mac’s

words. Immortality … “Have you ever seen Italy?” Mac asked.

Charlie shook his head. “This is the furthest I’ve been

out of England,” he said.

“Rome might suit you. Dark-eyed women and plenty

of good wine.”

“How do you know so much for someone so –”

“Young?” Mac said, finishing Charlie’s sentence. “I

started as a cabin boy, what seems like ages ago. And while

I’ve seen my fair share of the world, there’s still so much more

to lay eyes on.”

Charlie was impressed, and more than a bit jealous.

But he was skeptical, too. He cocked an eyebrow. “How is it

that you were able to prove yourself among the crew?”

“I’d be lying if I said it was easy,” Mac admitted. “And

it took some doing. But what I lack in size and stature, I more

than make up for with this.” He tapped a finger against his

temple. “Muscles and brawn are great for showing off, but a

keen mind is the real key to keeping your blood within your

skin. But enough about me. Tell me, Charlie, is this your

first voyage?”

“First on a privateer heading for action,” Char-

lie replied.

Mac grinned. Despite Charlie’s rough-and-tumble,

ready-for-anything approach to life, it was quite obvious this

Croce & Slutsky

14

was his first time on a ship, let alone a ship destined for armed

conflict. But there was no reason to call the obvious bluff. As

Mac had learned early on, pride was often far more valuable

than even the greatest of treasures.

“In that case, stick with me. I’ll show you the ropes and

our roles, some of which aren’t too damn pleasant.”

“I think I already met two of the unpleasant on the

dock,” Charlie said.

Mac chuckled. “Indeed. You seemed to handle your-

self well with them.”

“Growing up in Bristol, you learn to handle yourself

well with anyone.”

By Mac’s expression, it would seem he understood

Charlie’s statement completely but had no experience with

that sort of harsh upbringing.

Mac gestured toward Charlie’s duffel. “So tell me,

where’d you get that fancy box of yours?”

“None of your concern,” Charlie replied.

“Fair enough,” Mac said, unoffended. “But a word of

advice: keep it well hidden from prying eyes. It’s a pretty trin-

ket, and men on this ship have spilled life’s blood for less.”

“What about ‘more than friends and just shy of

blood’?” Charlie asked.

“Blood doesn’t mean much to some. Some of these

scoundrels would kill their own mothers to gain a single

shiny bauble.”

Drake’s Quest

15

Charlie considered this. Mac looked at him, his expres-

sion sharp. He glanced over at the dark horizon and smiled to

himself. “Do you know the most marvelous thing about a life

at sea, Charlie?”

Charlie looked at him, confused. Mac continued,

“Once you step aboard a ship, it’s as though your life on land

never existed.” He turned back to Charlie. “A clean start.

That’s what many of the men here are looking for.”

“Is that what you’re looking for?” Charlie queried.

It was Mac’s turn to be coy. “That’s none of

your concern.”

Charlie smiled. “Fair enough.”

“Well. I’ll leave you to your affairs.” Mac patted Char-

lie on the shoulder once in a friendly manner and disappeared

into the shadows of the deck.

Charlie leaned against the railing and stared out across

the sea, into the dark void. It was impossible to tell where the

sea merged with the horizon, but he knew that, even if the sun

had been high in the sky, he wouldn’t be able to see land in

any direction. He looked forward to finding out how fast the

ship could travel and how much ocean it could cross in a single

day. There was much about life at sea that was unknown to

him, and he couldn’t wait to discover it all.

He rested his elbows on the rail and looked straight

down. The sea was black as ink, unfathomable and deep. He

thought about Mac’s words. Back in Bristol, Charlie would be

Croce & Slutsky

16

a wanted man, a common criminal, but aboard this ship, he

had a destiny.

He thought about how much his life had changed in

only a day …

Drake’s Quest

17

24 hours earlier …

Night had already fallen by the

time Charlie returned home. The skies over Bristol had been

filled with ominous dark clouds all day, and now they’d bro-

……………………………………………………………

18

ken open, pouring a deluge of cold, miserable rain down on

his head. Fitting. Why should today be any different? Even

though it was his birthday, it wasn’t as if he were special; far

from it. Just another impoverished sot trying to survive the life

he was born into. Weary from the day’s labor, Charlie felt his

spirits sink. Not even the thought of his mother fussing about

in their shambles of a kitchen to prepare him a special meal,

or baking him a cake to commemorate the occasion, could

brighten his mood.

As his father had no occupation to speak of, or cer-

tainly not one that Charlie would be proud to inherit, he’d

accepted an apprenticeship with the local tanner. The foul-

smelling work held little interest for him, and the hours were

long and tiresome, but at least he was learning a trade, as well

as earning a few coins to buy food for his mother and himself.

But that wasn’t the only thing that kept Charlie coming back

each day. The tanner was an old fighter—a man who’d seen

action all around the globe, including some countries Charlie

couldn’t pronounce properly—and he found in Charlie a will-

ing ear to listen to his many stories of action. He’d even taught

Charlie some unusual fighting maneuvers, skills that Charlie

considered far more valuable than learning how to work with

a freshly-skinned hide. And Charlie’s innumerable flesh-and-

bone escapades with the local riff-raff, all of which saw him

emerging victorious, were proof enough that he was consider-

Drake’s Quest

19

ably more competent with his hands and feet than with the

tools of his trade.

His father hadn’t been seen since late winter. He was

prone to periodic disappearances, but this was the longest

stretch he’d been away. Privately, Charlie hoped he’d drunk

himself to sleep and frozen to death in an alleyway somewhere.

Suddenly, Charlie’s instincts took over. Something

was wrong. As Charlie approached the small, shabby wood-

en home, he could hear a raised, angry voice. The sound of

something breaking, followed by a woman’s cry of terror or

pain. His mother. That meant …

He burst through the front door. A broken oil lamp

blazed and sputtered on the rickety wooden table, casting flick-

ering shadows onto the wall. The single room of the house was

in shambles: one wooden chair in pieces, another overturned.

An earthenware mug lay shattered on the floor. His mother

crouched against the wall, her hands up to protect her face.

Charlie saw raised welts on her arm where she’d been struck.

When she glanced at him, Charlie saw her eye was purple and

swollen. A fresh welt lay across her cheek and her lip oozed

red blood.

Caught up in his rage, his father didn’t notice Char-

lie’s arrival. Charlie stared at the man’s broad back and saw

his matted and unwashed hair. In one hand, he clutched a

bottle of something—cheap rum, judging by the smell in the

Croce & Slutsky

20

air—while in the other he held his wide leather belt, stained red

with droplets of fresh blood. His mother’s blood.

“Not so pretty now, are you?” his father laughed.

His mother cowered beneath the feeble protection of

her raised arms. “Please, stop!”

“Stop?” His father raised the belt into the air and cack-

led. “I’m just getting started.”

For years, Charlie had been unable to do anything to

stop his father, whatever he did to his mother or to Charlie

himself. His father had seemed an enormous brute, almost

ogre-like, and Charlie had only been a boy. But as of today,

he was fifteen, not fully a man but well on his way, and there

were some things a man just couldn’t permit. Charlie strode

forward and seized his father’s wrist before he could bring his

arm down to strike his mother again.

His father turned his head, absolute shock in his eyes.

“No, you’re finished,” Charlie said, his voice little more than a

snarl. “Now it’s my turn.”

And with that Charlie snapped his head forward, hear-

ing a satisfying crunch when his forehead connected with his

father’s nose and mouth. The blow had enough force to knock

the larger man off balance and send him toppling to the floor.

His father looked up at him, his lip cut open, mouth

smeared with fresh blood. As soon as the initial shock wore

off, he grinned. His teeth were pink with spit and blood.

Drake’s Quest

21

“You were always a mama’s boy,” he said. He spat a

gooey wad of phlegm and pink spittle on the floor.

“And you were always a poor excuse for a man,” Char-

lie said. The belt lay on the floor, forgotten in the sudden

chaos. Charlie snatched it up. Almost before he knew what he

planned to do, he slipped it in a loop around his father’s neck

and cinched it tight.

His father’s eyes widened in shock and terror. Some

of the drink-induced confidence drained away from his face as

he realized his predicament. His hands came up to the belt at

his neck; his fingers pried at the leather. He kicked his legs out

at Charlie and struggled to take a full breath.

Charlie kept up the pressure. Such a small, simple

thing, to squeeze the life from this man, this monster who had

caused his mother and he so many years of pain …

“No!” his mother screamed. She rose from the floor

at last and flung herself at Charlie’s back. “No, Charlie, don’t

kill him!” She pulled at his arms, trying to pry him away from

her husband.

Charlie paused, uncertain, before eventually letting go

of the belt. He straightened up, his mother standing just be-

hind him, and stared at the man on the floor. The fierce tide

of murderous rage ebbed a bit. He took a deep breath.

“The blood we share is the only reason you still

breathe,” he said. His voice sounded cold and distant, like he

Croce & Slutsky

22

was speaking from somewhere far away. “But it won’t save you

the next time you touch me or my mother.”

His father stared up at him, eyes wide. Charlie couldn’t

tell how much he even understood through the fog of pain and

delirium of rum, but at least he knew enough not to press the

point. He got to his feet, unsteadily, and looked around. His

rum bottle had broken against the floor, its contents saturating

the floorboards. He looked at Charlie once, then turned and

stomped out of the house. The door slammed in his wake.

His mother sank into a chair and began to weep. She

bent her head and covered her battered face with the apron of

her tattered housedress, sobbing openly.

Charlie crouched in front of her and gently pulled her

hands away from her face. “It’s okay, Mother. He’ll never hurt

you again.”

She shook her head and wiped her eyes with the back

of her hand. Her hands were wrinkled and worn, aged before

their time by a lifetime of hard labor. “That’s not why I’m cry-

ing,” she said.

She rose to her feet and tried to compose herself. She

smoothed out the skirt of her apron and tucked a disheveled

shock of hair back into her untidy bun. She stared at Charlie,

and Charlie glimpsed a new resolve in her face. She extended

a hand.

“Come,” she said. “I have something to show you.

Something I wish I could have shown you long ago.”

Drake’s Quest

23

Confused, Charlie took her hand. She picked up the

cracked oil lamp and led the way up the narrow wooden stair-

case to the tiny, cramped attic. The roof of the small house

rose to a sharp point directly overhead, much too low to allow

them to stand upright. The air was stale and thick with dust.

His mother moved aside a stack of dirty blankets and

some rotting burlap sacks. Wedged into a dark corner, mostly

obscured by the beams of the roof, was a large sea chest. Char-

lie’s brow furrowed. He had never seen this before; he had

never even known it was up here.

She knelt down and, with some effort, managed to pull

the chest forward. It was covered with a thick layer of dust, but

Charlie could see it was of good quality. Made of iron, it had

a large, ornate keyhole lock on the front. One that, upon first

glance, seemed more about finery than function.

His mother set down the lamp and turned to him.

“I’ve lied to you all of these years, Charlie,” she said.

Her tone was matter-of-fact, betraying none of the eve-

ning’s drama. “James is not your father.”

Charlie stared at her, unable to make sense of her

words for a moment.

He stared at the chest, then back at her. “I don’t un-

derstand. Then who—?”

She placed a hand lightly to his lips, silencing him,

then pressed a massive iron key into his hand and gestured to

the chest. “Look and see for yourself.”

Croce & Slutsky

24

With a small smile at her son, she rose up. She paused.

“Jeffrey would have been proud to see you grow up to become

a fine man like himself.”

She nodded at him once and withdrew from the attic,

leaving Charlie alone with the chest.

Charlie’s hand shook with nerves and excitement as

he started to fit the key into the lock. Despite appearing to be

of the proper size, the key would not enter. Thinking this was

due to his unsteadiness, he forced himself to inhale deeply

and get control of himself before trying again. Only then did

he realize the problem.

The keyhole was a ruse, nothing more than a small in-

dentation in an otherwise solid wall. While it certainly looked

the part—as it was designed to—this was clearly not the way the

chest was breached.

Charlie began a thorough examination of the chest,

searching out every seam and crevice with the tips of his fin-

gers, hoping touch would reveal more than sight. Nearly ten

minutes into his investigation, he found the answer. Atop the

lid, in the very center, one of the many square panels was

raised a mere fraction above the others.

Charlie hooked a fingernail under the panel and twist-

ed. To his amazement, the panel rotated to the side, revealing

another keyhole. By the darkness within, Charlie knew this

keyhole was no con.

Drake’s Quest

25

He found it curious that his mother would not tell him

about the false lock—perhaps she did not know, herself—but

soon surmised that her silence was, in fact, a test. A test to see

if he was truly worthy of whatever it contained.

Tremors of excitement overtook him once again as he

thrust the large key into the lock. The hole swallowed half

the key’s length, stopping with a metal-on-metal thunk. Charlie

sucked in another deep breath and turned the key. His efforts

were rewarded with a satisfying click.

Rusted hinges creaked as he raised the lid. His moth-

er’s words were a swirl in his brain. His father wasn’t his real

father. That meant he was a bastard, and that meant that the

owner of this chest …

On the underside of the lid was an elaborate engrav-

ing. Charlie raised the oil lamp close to it to see it in full detail.

It was a coat of arms, intricate and glorious, with some words

in a strange language—Latin, he guessed—written below a mag-

nificent dragon.

Inside the chest was a pile of clothing. Charlie lifted

them out. Breeches, yellowed with age, and a dark blue frock

coat, plain but of good quality. After a hearty sniff he was cer-

tain he smelled traces of the sea.

Beneath the clothes were a few books—journals, actu-

ally—wrapped in layers of protective vellum, which had pre-

vented them from deteriorating during their long storage.

Charlie held one in his hand, tempted to begin reading, but

Croce & Slutsky

26

put it aside for the moment to explore the remainder of the

chest’s contents.

He extracted a small leather pouch containing a heavy

medallion. Formed from a perfect meld of silver and ebony,

it was shaped like a dragon and hung on a slim leather cord.

When Charlie lifted up a second pouch, it jangled with the

sound of coins. He looked inside. Gold and silver glinted in

the light of the oil lamp. The pouch was filled with coins, of

various sizes and shapes, the currencies of countries Charlie

had never seen.

He sat back on his heels. This fortune had been in the

attic for all these years, his mother’s long-kept secret. Who

had been the owner of this chest? What was the source of all

this wealth? Who was his real father?

But his questions would have to wait, for there were

more treasures still to discover inside the chest.

A bejeweled dagger wrapped in a silk handkerchief.

When Charlie drew it from the ornate scabbard, he saw the

same coat of arms from the trunk lid engraved on the sharp

silver blade.

The blade was short, but finely honed, the kind of tool

that would wreak havoc on fruit or flesh. Charlie touched a

cautious finger to the point. He knew who would be feeling its

sting soon enough.

He sheathed the dagger and tucked it into his belt.

There was a small wooden box in the chest, elaborately

Drake’s Quest

27

carved—more dragons—with an odd triple lock mechanism on

the front. There seemed to be no key to it, so Charlie set it

aside for the moment and turned his attention to the final item

in the chest.

A flintlock pistol. Ebony and gleaming, fine and lethal.

The head of a magnificent dragon was expertly carved into

the rounded butt, inlaid with silver filigree. Jaws open, fangs

bared, split tongue flickering, the carved dragon’s head was

undoubtedly a symbol of danger and power and death—much

like the pistol itself—not to mention a warning to all who would

oppose the weapon’s wielder. But he believed there was also a

deeper meaning, one that he hadn’t quite figured out yet.

Charlie hefted the pistol experimentally, feeling its

weight in his palm. It was the first time he’d ever held a pistol,

and this one fit his hand as though it had been designed and

crafted specifically for him.

He looked around at all the treasures, lost in thought.

Who was his father? And, more importantly, who was he?

Croce & Slutsky

28

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Drake's Quest available

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