Chapter Text
The Puritan colonists said the lands of the New World were pure—purged of the heathen superstitions that contaminated their homeland. No matter how many crosses were brandished, no matter how many witches were burned, the righteous could never temper the fervor of the remaining pagans. Not while they hosted their black Sabbaths at every river, every hill, and every tree. In the New World, there were no such placed dedicated to devilry.
The sailors knew better. While the Puritan passengers clasped their crosses, the men of the sea kept handfuls of earth in their pockets and horseshoes in their boots. Even the rivermen who ferried on the Mississippi, the Connecticut, and the Merrimack had glimpsed the sea serpents lurking in the rocks and heard the howls of maddened marsh people and hungry rougarou. They attended church and listened to the fire and brimstone as the landlubbers demanded, but every sailor knew an ancient prayer from the Old World and every fishwife kept a saucer of milk on her porch not just for the cats. They were blind, but not willfully ignorant.
This story is not about sailors but concerns one of their fears: a ghost ship and its spectral fleet.
Massachusetts Bay has always been cluttered with ghost ships. Even in the age of lifeboats and nuclear propulsion, the crowd of galleons and clippers are interrupted with sunken yachts and shattered submarines that trail ectoplasmic debris in the water. For humans, destruction of a ship is the end and their eyes will see nothing but outcroppings of wet rocks and shapes in the thick fog. For fae, destruction is the transition from one life into the next. Those unlucky souls with enough regret and anger hold onto their lives and ride the unearthly winds.
Other ships do not shuttle the dead but merely exist in the midst of the fae’s realm of magic—glimpsed by human eyes and gone in the next second. This middle realm is where the Grand Courser and its fleet exist. The fleet is a conglomerate of ships from different eras and aesthetics, but the sight does not detract from the allure of the Grand Courser. It is a clipper ship of massive size and proportion, with painted sails displaying whimsical scenery: piles of golden coins, tempting food, and seductive women. The mainmast flies its captain’s flag: a skull with two turkey feathers underneath instead of crossbones. The foremast sail shines a neon sign bright enough to pierce through the fog: The Grand Courser Casino.
On a typical night, the wind would carry the music and lure in potential customers, but this night is not like the others. The sky is dark and rumbling, threatening thunder as rain harshly beats against every surface. Passengers have withdrawn from the decorative deck to the gambling tables, buffet, and brothel within the clipper ship. The few souls bracing the weather are sailors with rough hands for hauling ropes and supplies up and down the stairs. They watch the height of the waves and redirect wayward passengers from the hazardous deck.
Like the passengers, the captain has retired to her cozy room. The air is perfumed with vanilla oil, citrus, and sweat. The curtain has been pulled away from the enormous bed and the blankets tossed to the floor, showing the tangle of limbs on the mattress. The large bed is bolted to the floor and the posts chained to the wall so even the most turbulent storm can’t interrupt the bedchamber games.
Captain Annie Christmas’s thoughts are not on the passengers, the money she’s raking in, or the brewing storm but pussy. Her mouth is planted in the best example of it, lapping at the dew outside of—Golly’s? Kaylee’s?—fine line of ladyhood. Claws and fingers rake down her back, growing the burgeoning flame inside of Annie. Between her legs, a mouth bumps against the lips of her quim. A tongue curiously reaches out, making rhythmic circles near her clit.
Bang.
Just as Annie is riding the height of arousal, the door slams open. The light and noise of the hallway floods into the dark room. The stale beer and reheated food scent wafts from the buffet. Annie curses and rolls away from the bodies wrapped around her.
“Fuck’s sake!” Annie growls, “Can’t a lady get laid in peace?”
The intruder half closes the door but remains inside. In the limited light, Annie makes out the intruder to be a young man in his late twenties. His hair is shaven on the sides with the top’s black curls brushed back, making his forehead appear large. His face would be perfect if it wasn’t for the large scar on the right corner of his lip.
“You can’t brush me off that quickly, Mother.” the intruder growls.
The word Mother falls from his lips and turns to ice water, dousing the flame inside Annie. Annie grumbles and slides off the bed, grabbing a blanket from the floor. She covers up and turns her attention to the other three bodies on the bed.
“Sam. Get light.” Annie orders.
One of the participants—a young man who is all red hair and muscles with bright gold eyes, rosy lipstick, and mascara—leaves the bed and approaches the oak chifforobe. He lights the vanilla candles that went out an hour ago and grins at Annie.
“Missy Annie, I got light,” Sam says.
“Meant the light switch Sammy.” Annie sighs but can’t complain. At least Sam understood the concept enough. With the added illumination Annie locates her silk robe and throws it on, further smudging the lipstick smears on her thighs and breasts. “Any particular reason ya dragging an old lady from her fun?”
“You’re late for the meeting.” June stares into the middle distance, unfocused on his mother and her bed companions.
“How late?” Annie asks.
“Five.”
Annie rolls her eyes. “Five minutes isn’t that--”
“Five days.”
“Shit, seriously?” Annie knows she loses track of time but it’s not typically that bad. June’s mouth is in a hard line, implying he would rather speak in the captain’s cabin. Annie turns to her companions. “Kaylee, get shirt. No, not socks. Shirt. What’s Cantonese for ‘shirt’ June?”
“I wouldn’t know. I’m not the one who went to Hong Kong,” June grumbles, “and you’re dressed enough as is.”
“It’s cold out there!” Annie protests. One of the companions—Golly—walks over with a scarf. Annie wraps it around her throat and kisses the girl for trying to understand the command. “Xiexie, Golly.”
Golly giggles, showing off her sharp teeth before returning to the bed.
“Missy Annie, do I still fuck ass?” Sam asks.
“No, hun. No fuck ass.” Annie pauses. “At least not right now.”
“Mother,” June growls.
Annie points to her son. “Maybe fuck his ass? It might relax him for a change.”
“Okay!” Sam cheers.
“No!” June waves away the eager fae and opens the door. “We’re leaving. Now. The less I have to smell this room, the better.”
“No need to be a spoilsport, June,” Annie grumbles but follows her son out the door.
June marches down the hallway toward the captain’s cabin with the single-mindedness of a bird heading off to the south for winter. Mother and son are certainly a jarring sight as they continue on their way: June in his designer suit and Annie in her stained silk robe and old scarf. She would laugh if the mood wasn’t so serious. Still, she’s not worried—she is the captain after all.
“You are not the captain,” June announces.
Annie flops into the armchair behind her desk. Being nearly seven feet tall and muscular made fighting a breeze but mundane tasks like furniture shopping a chore. Lucky for Annie, she has the funds to get specifically made furniture so she can sit in a chair without the fear of getting wedged in or breaking it from her weight alone.
“Odd. Pretty sure the boats are all in my name.” Annie searches through the desk’s drawers for the key to her liquor cabinet.
“The property may be yours but not the businesses within them.” June paces, moving over the small trench he’s worn in the carpet over the years. “Mother, what happened to the route I planned? We were to be in Canadian waters by now, leading into a tour of the Arctic and its majesty before they’re ruined by that damned hole the humans put in the ozone layer. Instead, we’re sailing steadily closer to New York! What are we still doing in New England, mother?”
“New York isn’t New England. I thought I raised ya on maps, boy?” The key isn’t in the drawers, which perplexes Annie. Could it have fallen on the floor? She gets on her knees, scouring the floor.
“I don’t care! The point is that we’re off course due to your meddling and—Mother, are you listening?”
“Ya have my undivided attention, Junebug,” Annie says from under the desk.
“Don’t call me that.” Another sigh. “Mother, look at me.”
Annie surfaces and sees her third oldest son holding a small silver key in his manicured fingers. The woman quickly rises only to knock her knee on the desk’s edge. She curses, sitting back in the chair.
“Ya should know better than to keep an old pirate from her booze, boy,” Annie growls.
June places the key in his pocket. “And I know better to speak to a souse when they have their sauce. I need you sober for what I’m about to say.” The young man inhales slowly and exhales before stating, “Mother…I care about you.”
Annie crosses her legs and pretends to play the part of the perfect mother. “I care about me too.”
“I’m being serious. Ever since”—Annie’s warm smile falters before the young man coughs—“well, you know, you’ve been lingering here. We could be dining with qualupalik aristocrats but instead, we’re stuck on the East Coast! Even our regulars are sick of the scenery. Profits are starting to decrease. If we keep this up, we’ll turn the Grand Courser into a ghost ship.”
Annie cocks her head. “It is a ghost ship.”
“The literal kind of ghost ship!” June wags his finger at her, “The kind of ghost ship with no customers, which means no money for your whores.”
“Hey!” Annie slams her fist on the table. “Don’t call my girls ‘whores’! They’re incredibly skilled an’ lovely concubines that were a gift from a dear friend.”
“Yes, your ‘dear friend’ Madame Ching, who indulged you during your Hong Kong hijinks.” June snorts, “Mother, do you know why it is such a problem for us to linger on the East Coast for this long?”
Annie considers it but her mind can’t focus on the issue June alludes to. She’s never been one for the ins and outs of business that June loves to yammer about. She wonders what her girls are up to now that the fun is on hold. Every moment Annie is away from that world of thighs, breasts, and cock, everything is a little duller. Could they be fucking each other while she’s gone? Or playing mahjong? Maybe they’re doing both? Shit, Annie wishes she could be watching that. Or even taking part in a round of strip mahjong (even though she’s not clear on the rules of regular mahjong).
“Mother.” June presses.
Annie’s thoughts snap back to her son, whose glare has not eased. “Um…”
“Taxes, Mother. Or ‘tribute’ as the Courts say.” June massages away a budding migraine on his temples. “Moving about kept us from their attention but as we have lingered here for more than a month, we have Seelie collectors knocking at our door and wondering why we haven’t paid them even a madstone penny despite being in their territory for so long.”
Annie scowls at the word Seelie. “I shouldn’t have to pay dick. I did my time for that gold bitch.”
“You think soldiers don’t have to pay taxes?” Annie wavers and June sighs, “Skip it. I’ve already spoken with the Seelie collectors and with some string pulling--”
Annie’s heart sinks. “Oh no.”
June nods. “Oh yes.”
“No, Junebug. Noooo.”Annie groans, “Don’t tell me ya invited those stuck up bastards on my ship!”
“The tales of your exploits have gained in popularity among the Seelie. Several young nobles are curious about you.” June continues, speaking over Annie’s whining, “They would love a tour of the Grand Courser and all its entertainments, along with the ability to speak with the real Annie Christmas. With their blessing, we may be able to convince the collectors to waive the debts for a year. You should be thankful this is the only thing we have to do.”
“But I haaaaate them!” Annie groans, “Can’t we just send our best whores to the Seelie and call it even? I’ll even go down on Sheba’s gold bush rather than deal with a bunch of spoiled, old money brats for an entire night!”
June grimaces at the imagery but counters with, “Do that and you’ll have to be in the same room as Sheba. Gods forbid if she decides to keep you.”
Annie does consider that grim, alternate universe where she partakes in one of King Sheba’s hedonistic birthday parties. Having to be in the same gaudy, perfumed to all hell room as Sheba wouldn’t be terrible but having to remain there would be nightmarish. Sheba’s harem is infamously crowded, taking up two wings of her ancestral estate’s manor (or so the rumors went). Annie regards herself to be an open-minded gal, but she couldn’t tolerate dormitory-style living with yesterday’s ‘models’ and hearing Seelie politics every single day.
“I s’pose ya right: it ain’t that bad,” Annie grumbles, “but I’m still opposed. Those nobles don’t care about the real me. They just want a Coney Island show.”
June nods. “True, but a show is still to our advantage. Highbred nobles have deeper pockets than our regular tourists. We can increase our prices, bring out our better whores, and gate off the boat from the riffraff for the evening.” The young man grins and his eyes light up as visions of the entire affair fill his head. “This could be a stepping stone to acquiring a higher rank of customer. Think of it, Mother! We could be…a cruise line.”
June’s coal dark eyes shimmer, dreaming of when the Grand Courser is not a repurposed vessel but a franchise of ships. It’s the look he gets while he’s crunching numbers behind a desk and sitting in long meetings concerning advertising and showrunners. When he dreams, June looks just like his father.
Thinking on her children and their fathers makes Annie’s heartache. It’s an ache Annie had thought she drowned months ago in Kowloon Bay.
“You know,” Annie says, “letting you read The Great Gatsby was a mistake.”
The statement evaporates June’s enthusiasm, returning him to his annoyance. “Just make an appearance and show these nobles that not all human-descended fae are backwater idiots and criminals. Who knows? Maybe you’ll…hook up. I’m sure you haven’t…banged…a Seelie…chick…as of yet.” He shudders to say the last part.
“Your heart’s in the right place but that drum’s been slammed, dear.” Annie snickers, “I’ll show up for my little Junebug though.”
“That’s the least I could ask for. And ease up on the drinking.” Annie starts but he adds, “At least until this is over. You know how you get when you’ve had too much. Please, Mother?”
“Fine, fine.” Annie stands and walks over to her son. “Now give your dear old Mom a hug!”
Annie embraces her son in a bear hug before he leaves the room.
June walks three feet from the captain’s cabin before he feels something is…off. He checks his pocket and finds the liquor cabinet key is missing. He should have known better. Its impossible to put a barrier between Annie Christmas and her two loves: the water and alcohol.
“Son of a bitch.” June sighs but continues his trip to the brothel.