Noble Blood
The orders had been vague, but with enough clarity that James could adequately perform his task. Commodore Norrington did not ask questions when the East India Trading Company made demands.
A man of status—Count Orlok—was to be given safe passage aboard the Dauntless, along with a handful of belongings, including several large, iron-bound crates. No details had been provided beyond that. No explanation as to why a nobleman required a naval escort rather than a private vessel, nor why the orders had been delivered with such urgency.
Norrington stood at the gangplank, watching as his men strained to load the final crate. The night air was thick with the scent of salt and damp wood, but something else clung to it—something stale, almost like earth turned over in a crypt. He dismissed the thought as foolishness. The hour was late, and exhaustion had a way of making shadows seem deeper than they were.
“Steady,” he called out as one of the sailors nearly lost his grip. The crate thudded against the deck, its weight unnatural. A few of the men exchanged wary glances, muttering under their breath.
Norrington took a slow breath, adjusting his coat. He would allow no superstition aboard his ship. Whatever cargo this Count Orlok carried, it was none of his concern. His duty was to see the man to his destination and nothing more.
And yet, as the last crate was secured, the air itself seemed to still.
The guest of honor had yet to appear.
Norrington squared his shoulders, glancing toward the dock. Any moment now, their passenger would board. Until then, the unease coiling in his chest remained unspoken, shared only in the nervous glances of his men. None of them wanted to be out here this late in this fog.