Macario's Scepter: Magian Series: Book One: Magian Series

By MJ McGriff

An unlikely Chosen One, her pirate captain ex-lover, and a nun. A prophecy that unleashes a fire-breathing sea serpent pouring its wrath on the isles. A magical scepter with the power to destroy—or save—the world.

 

Samara is a ship wrecked at sea. She can't seem to get anything right, especially her love life. Her former pirate captain, the famous Baz Blackwater, broke her heart and stranded her on an island of religious hypocrites. Samara wants nothing more than to escape to the freedom of the sea, so when her ex-lover shows up offering a chance at a magical treasure—and secret revenge—she jumps at the chance.

 

Seraphina prays every day for her wayward twin sister to stop chasing the pirate life and find the peace she's discovered in her own quiet life at the convent. But Samara has nothing but contempt for her sister's beliefs and religious rituals. Yet when Seraphina uncovers an ancient prophecy revealing the horrifying curse of the treasure Samara and Baz seek, she must leave her convent—risking the wrath of her Order—and search for the truth about Macario's scepter.

 

In a world of friendship and betrayal, monsters and magic, seedy pubs and adventure on the high seas, will Samara's magical powers, Baz's cunning plans, and Seraphina's unshakable faith be enough to slay a cursed sea serpent destroying everything they love?

• Language: English
• Publisher: MJ McGriff
• Release date: Apr 13, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393220299

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Samara

Ablast of sweet and salty sea air filled her lungs and Samara Davalos closed her eyes, savoring it. The deck of The Pursuer rose and fell beneath her boots, defiantly tossing spray onto her olive brown skin. She gripped the sea-soaked railing, her frizzy brown hair caressing her face as the sun’s rays danced on the turquoise sea.

The very best part? The Majestic Isles were nowhere in sight.

Sandra!

She blinked, returning swiftly to the dank interior of the Twisted Serpent. For a moment, Samara had almost believed herself free at sea, instead of trapped in an ale-soaked bar with a stuffed white shark hanging from the roof beams. What a stupid decoration.

Sandra! All four hundred pounds of Lucho, the tavern’s owner, stomped towards her. Wonder he hadn’t cracked the floorboards yet. Didn’t you hear me talking to you?

It’s Samara. She threw down the wash rag in her hand.

Whatever. He leaned on the bar counter, wheezing to catch his breath. Get that trash outta here! It’s stinkin’ up the place.

He pointed to the overflowing sack of half-eaten fish bones and crab shells at the far end of the bar.

Wonderful.

Samara hopped up on the counter, swinging her short legs around to the other side. She jumped off and her sandals slapped hard on the stained oak floorboards. She walked over to the trash barrel, ignoring the stuffed shark giving her a malicious look out of its remaining glassy eye. In the corner booth, an old priest belted out a hymn before throwing back a mug of ale.

I hope the hypocrite chokes on it.

Samara dragged the trash barrel out the swinging door and into the muggy afternoon air. The pale blue water under the short pier that connected the tavern to the mainland rippled in the sea breeze. The island of Stormside rose from the horizon like a dull shadow, the glow of the sun washing over the thick green cluster of palms on the island’s shore.

Samara eyed that damning stretch of water wistfully. So close, yet still out of reach. The jungle was better than anywhere near the Twisted Serpent.

She stretched her legs into a lengthy stride down the pier onto shore and left the sack in the wet sand. She glanced back at the garish lights illuminating the ramshackle tavern, nothing more than the upside-down hull of a trading ship, held up by rickety wooden columns and a shaky pier. Small square rooms had been stacked on top, with tarps and nets for roofs. A lone black flag drooped from the middle mast of the derelict ship.

Dammit, I don’t belong here.

Not in this rat hole of a place. Not on this stupid island with an Order of decrepit men that enslaved people in the name of religion. She belonged out on the sparkling sea, sailing into that beautiful sunset. No more veils. No more prayers. No more judging eyes. This time when she left, she’d leave for good.

And it would happen tonight.

Delicia and her girls were performing, if one would call it that. Who cared? For her, it mean a lot more customers with a lot more coin. With her luck, she’ll have enough Macarians to buy her passage on the next trading ship out of Tradesmen Harbour.

But first things first.

She relaxed her shoulders, glancing back at the sandy path that led further into the island. Not a sin-searching man in sight. She took long strides toward the line of palm trees, getting lost in the shadows cast by the shabby tavern. A sliver of orange sunlight made it through the tavern’s cracked center mast, shining on the low cliff that blocked her path.

Samara dug her sandals in the rugged surface of the rock face. Planting her hands on top of the warm stones, she hoisted herself up. She wedged her hand into a crevice, steadying herself on the sheer rock face.

Damned rocks, she groaned, scraping her knuckles.

Withdrawing her hand and shaking off the blood, Samara braced herself with her elbow.

Five stones across. Three stones down.

She smiled, pulling the fourth stone out to reveal a dark hole. Setting the rock on the ledge, she reached inside and pulled out the velvet bag that held her entire future.

She slid the coins stashed inside through her fingers.

Seventy Macarians.

Only fifty more for safe passage to freedom.

I can handle that.

Rapid drumbeats destroyed the stillness of the night, so loud she swore it changed her heartbeat. They settled into the typical island rhythm, the beat laced with high-pitched flutes and hollow rattles of shakers. The sun melted below the line of the sea, stars coming out to pepper the night sky.

The place must be filling up. Lucho would explode like a cannon if she didn’t get her backside behind that bar. Samara stuffed the bag into the pocket of her caftan and slipped down the cliff face, dropping onto the soft beach sand.

Just one more night of this ear-bleeding music.

By the time she made it back to the Twisted Serpent, Samara had to elbow through the crowd to get inside. Sailors. Merchants. Masons. Guardsmen. Surely the temples in town would notice so many missing souls during evening service.

She sucked her teeth. They were the epitome of hypocrisy. But that was the Isle way.

No matter. If she kept their mugs full of the ale that wasn’t allowed within city limits, she would get paid. What did she care if the coin of hypocrites paid her way out of this hellhole?

Even Lucho was too busy to yell at her for taking so long outside, wasting his hot breath on Ramon the cook for putting too many crab legs on a patron’s plate. She slipped past him, hopping over the bar. Time to make some money. And get the hell out of here.

Well, aren’t you a cute one!

A scraggly man with dark beady eyes, greasy black hair, and tattoos all over his sun-worn skin smiled at her, showing all of his rotting teeth.

Three for a mug and seven for a pint. Samara dried a beer mug with a rag, lifting her eyebrows.

They tryin’ to rob us blind! He elbowed his short, bald friend. You would think this was Siren’s Cove.

In Siren’s Cove you wouldn’t get a cup of water for less than five. Samara replaced the mug on the rickety shelf.

And what would a young girl like you know about Siren’s Cove? The man’s cackled laugh touched every nerve in her body. Only pirates worth their salt could show their face in Siren’s Cove.

Little one wouldn’t last a day there. His friend winked at her.

Idiot. Samara turned away to hide her rolling eyes, stabbing a knife into a block of cheese with unnecessary force. You know nothing.

She used to walk the alleys of Siren’s Cover without fear. Not a wannabe, like that man, but as a valued member of one of the most notorious pirate crews on the Magian seas. She’d seen more gold and done more raiding than this hunk of flesh had done in a lifetime.

I’m a pirate—and a pretty damn good one. Samara flung a scornful glance at the man as she took his coins, served his drinks, and walked to another section of the bar so she didn’t have to suffer through any more of his pirate stories. The money of fools spends as well as anyone else’s coin.

The sooner she could escape this rat hole, the better.

Keep busy. Make money. Don’t think about the Pursuer—or its captain.

The bar certainly wasn’t short on people looking to drown their problems in a cup of ale or a bottle of backyard rum. Coins practically overflowed her pockets. It wouldn’t take long for Lucho to hunt her down for his cut.

Regardless of his greedy policy, it was a damn good night. She might just have enough coins to get the hell out of this place for good.

The crowd erupted into hoots and hollers when Delicia’s girls appeared at the top of the stairs. They started down, one by one, each in a tight caftan that left nothing to the imagination.

Samara jumped up onto the bar, knocking aside two half-drooling men on the way down. The room overflowed with lewd men, their eyes wide and foreheads sweaty with alcohol.

This wouldn’t be pretty. Time for a strategic exit.

She shoved through the mass of bodies to the door, tripping over an empty chair. She gripped the coin bag in her pocket, eyes fixed on the door—and fresh sea air—only a couple of feet away.

I’ll take this one! A pair of large hands grabbed her butt and squeezed. Samara swung around, planting a well-aimed fist squarely on his jaw.

Hands off, pervert!

She ducked another man’s punch and came up with a right cross to his jaw and a swift kick to his balls. He toppled onto the table, flipping it into a crowd of cursing sailors.

Damn. Samara grimaced.

The room erupted.

Chairs flew.

Men traded fists and blows.

Women shrieked, running up the stairs.

Samara checked the coins in her pocket and slipped under a table as bodies hit the floor around her. Couldn’t just let me walk past. Mind your own business and keep your hands to yourself. She growled under her breath. No, you just had to cause trouble.

Glass shattered.

Men swore.

The table shook again. Lucho’s sweaty face, twisted in disgust, peered down under it. His eyes pierced hers. Uh-oh.

You bitch!

His bloody hand grabbed the collar of her dress and dragged her out from under the table, clawing like a one-eyed alley cat. Lucho dug in her pockets, withdrawing a meaty fist with the velvet bag that held the key to her new life away from the Isles.

Thief! Samara jabbed a well-placed elbow into his bulging stomach. He howled, jowls flushing, and dragged her through the melee to the door.

Imbecile! Samara gasped as he yanked her hair. Land-lubber!

Lucho kicked a brawling pair of men out of the doorway, then tossed her out on the tobacco-covered doorstep. The door swung shut, striking her across the cheek.

Bastard. Samara smacked the planks with her fist, wincing as splinters embedded in her calloused hand.

This can’t be happening. Not again.

CHAPTER 2

Baz

Who the hell do these bastards think they are ?

Baz Blackwater threw open the rickety cabin door to the Broken Dragon, the reek of piss and beer hitting him like a punch to the gut. It reminded him of the lower deck of his pirate ship—low ceilings, dull wood columns in awkward places, and dim lighting.

The men seated at the slanted bar on the left side of the room didn’t even turn around when he walked in. The low lives seated at tables made of barrels had their hands full of whores and ale. He stormed toward the faded blue stairs at the far end of the tavern.

I wouldn’t go up there if I were you. A slender, blonde girl slid in front of him.

He kept his slanted black eyes on hers, and not the amazing view of her medium-sized breasts.

You must not know who I am, he said.

She laid one hand on his chest, twirling his long, dark hair with the other.

"I know exactly who you are, Captain Blackwater." She moved in closer, pushing her chest up against him.

Let me guess, he said. They sent you here to distract me. He nodded to the door at the top of the stairs.

You’re a smart one. She flashed him a seductive smile.

He took her hand and gave her a playful twirl before sitting her down on a nearby chair.

It was worth a try. He winked at her and ran up the steps. He took a deep breath, pushing the door open.

All four members of the infamous Pirate Council of Siren’s Cove slouched around a wood dining table, the polish so perfect it reflected the light from the crystal chandelier above them. A swift sea breeze came through the wide window on the other side of the room, its red satin curtains fluttering in the wind.

You lost, boy? Gunner Smith leaned back in his chair, scratching the stubble on his tanned face. His thigh-high wooden leg was propped up on an adjoining red-velvet chair.

It’s Captain to you, half-man, Baz spat.

Wylie Marley, a brown-skinned Griffin Valeman, leaned into the table. No need for such hostility. We get enough of it out there. His voice cracked with age.

Maybe I’d feel more amiable if I heard about this meeting from one of you, instead of a drunk sailor at the pier.

He kept his narrowed eyes on Lady Kanti, a disgruntled widow who miraculously kept their pirate haven afloat. While her stringy black hair was always in a neat crown of curls and she only wore gowns made from the lushest fabrics, no amount of face powder could hide the scar that sliced her left cheek.

If you were a member of the Pirate Council, you would’ve received a formal invitation, she said in a thick Godswood accent.

And yet you promised to grant me an audience for a chance to earn my father’s seat at this table. Baz jerked his chin at the empty chair.

You don’t deserve a seat. Gunner Smith belched.

You fat bastard. I’m Captain’s Elwin Blackwater’s only surviving son.

You’re not his son, Gunner said. Just his stowaway. The sooner you realize that, the better.

He’d become Elwin’s son the day he’d found Baz as young boy abandoned on a lonely pier in the Godswood. Baz went for the hilt of his sword.

Maybe you’d feel differently if I took another limb from you.

Before you start shedding blood and ruining this nice table, spit out what you came here to say so we can get back to business. Captain Sanchez didn’t even look up from the prized compass in his sunburnt hands. His trifold hat always hid his eyes, his streaked gray hair tumbling over his shoulders.

Go on, then, Lady Kanti said. What do you want?

Baz’s hand relaxed and he reached for his back pocket, pulling out the taped and folded map he’d spent the last two years putting together. He spread the crackly parchment out onto the table in front of them.

The Misty Isle was written in cursive in the top left-hand corner. The island took up the entire piece of parchment, jagged lines forming an almost perfect circle. A dotted-line path started at the southeastern shore, curved around a thick drawing of trees, past a rudimentary waterfall, and straight off the torn edge of the map.

He just needed the last piece. Captain Sanchez put down his compass and looked up.

Where did you get this? he said slowly.

It doesn’t matter, Baz said. I know the location of the last piece of the map.

Where? Wylie asked.

In the Majestic Isles. Not that I’d tell you.

When I retrieve it, I will find Macario’s Scepter, the most notorious treasure on this side of the Magia, and claim my rightful seat on the council.

And why would we give it to you? Lady Kanti snorted.

Your trade houses haven’t turned over a decent profit in the last eight months. Baz lifted his eyebrows. Since Captain Ralvin and his crew were captured in the Godswood, you no longer have their hauls of brass and copper tools. He glanced at Captain Sanchez.

And we’re well aware that the Majestic Isles have armed their trading ships to the teeth. There’s more women than Isle wine in this place.

Lady Kanti shifted in her seat. This is a fool's errand. No one has been able to get the scepter.

But he has the map. Sanchez grunted.

Only a part of it, Gunner Smith added. Who’s to say he can even get past those zealots and their navy. He snorted. Even Elwin, rest his soul, wouldn’t be foolish enough to even try.

He knew nothing. If it wasn’t for the journals his father left behind, Baz would never have been able to piece the map back together. Each one had been scattered to the four corners of Magia—now the last one was just a day’s sail away.

Baz smiled and leaned on the table next to Lady Kanti, the most desperate of them all.

That scepter will bring this cove the notoriety it lacks and the coin you need to keep this place afloat.

None of them could say a word. Admitting his plan was sound would injure their egos. And they are such fragile things.

I can take your silence as an accord, then? Baz straightened and crossed his arms.

Lady Kanti raised a brow, while Gunner looked away.

Should you survive this foolish quest, we may consider, she said.

No. Not good enough. Consideration will just send me North to Slater’s Bay. Hanti wouldn’t mind adding more money to his overflowing coffers.

Wylie shot a look at the Lady. Give the boy what he wants. He probably won’t make it back alive anyway. And if he does, we’ll be all the better.

Lady Kanti’s stare didn’t waver.

I need a firm answer, Baz said. Do we have an accord?

She swallowed hard. Fine. We have an accord.

He snatched the map off the table and left the room. Finally. We’re getting somewhere.

Derklan waited for him at the bottom of the stairs. The man stood over six feet tall, with coal-colored skin and red-tinted dreads pouring out from beneath his black tricorn hat. His chiseled features and stone-cold stare intimidated many a man—except for Baz, of course.

I see you finally caught up. Baz walked past his first mate. The man’s long strides kept them both in lockstep.

I would have accompanied you, captain, he said in his husky voice.

There was no need.

Derklan opened up the tavern door and Baz stepped out into the morning heat. The sand-strewn streets were crowded now and Baz had to side-step scrawny sailors and ragged peasant women. The Trader’s Market—the only place these refugees could get what they needed to live—backed up to the brothel. Rafti, his cook, would be there, getting the last of the supplies needed for their journey to the Majestic Isles.

What did the council say, Captain? Derklan strode up beside him.

What I knew they would say. There was no way they could refuse my offer.

They both stopped to let a wagon carrying gunpowder safely pass.

That’s good news, Captain, Derklan said. Your father would’ve been proud.

Would he?

True, Baz ran his ship, his business, and his raids exactly how his father taught him. But he had had yet to make a name for himself in the pirate community—hence today’s errand.

His father outran fleets, laid waste to port towns that refused to let him trade, and even sailed as far as The Winter Tide to bring back the hide of an Ice Whale. He even died in true pirate fashion, losing his life raiding a jeweler ship in the middle of the Magian sea.

Derklan was just a deckhand when his father died, but had been charged with making sure Baz lived up to his family name. Now his first mate was just a sore reminder of his shortcomings.

Head to the market and find Rafti, Baz said, crossing the street behind the wagon loaded with gunpowder. Make sure he isn’t overspending. It’s imperative we travel as light as possible.

Gunner Smith was right about one thing — Majestic Isle ships were heavily-armed and very fast. Derklan nodded and took off in the opposite direction.

The crowds began to thin once Baz reached the pier. The string of empty rowboats tied to it stretched at least a mile long. A school of pirate ships bobbed at anchor in the cove of royal blue water, including his own—The Pursuer.

He didn’t need an eyeglass to spot it. The deep wood siding he took great pains to maintain gleamed in the sunlight, its three masts reaching high into the gorgeous blue sky. It also bore no figurehead, making it easier to disguise as a trading ship.

Once I’m on the Council, I can show these pirates a better way to do business.

He just had to do what he did best. Steal some treasure.

CHAPTER 3

Seraphina

A nd Macario released the full fury of his magic over the land and sea to banish the sea creature and save the Majestic Isles from death and destruction. Praise be to Macario.

Seraphina glanced over at Priest Lorenzo and Mother Madiera sitting to her left. The holy man smiled, and her esteemed teacher gave a nod of approval before joining the seminary sisters seated below her in one resounding, Praise be to Macario.

Their voices reached the vaulted ceilings of Santa Dolas Seminary Temple. Seraphina swore she could see the lily-white angels painted up there smile at her oratory.

For the first time, a seminary sister had been allowed to pick the reading for Night Service. And, judging from the smiling faces in the crowd, it had touched their hearts. She had been fascinated by the story of Macario and the serpent since she was a child, imagining she was fighting the wretched beast with magical fingers.

Her twin sister, Samara, had been right there with her, kicking up sand and tossing water for extra effect.

Oh, Samara.

She wished her twin was there, smiling up at her from the pews with the same aura of peace Seraphina had felt since devoting her life to the Order and their teachings. It was a much better alternative than galavanting all over Magia with heathens and thieves. No wonder Samara’s life had been an utter mess since she returned home.

But this wasn’t the time to let her wayward sister sour her moment. Seraphina strengthened her smile and rejoined her sisters in the pews, who offered her nods of congratulations.

The organist played a chord in E minor and they all sang the closing prayer together before forming a single line down the main aisle. Their sandals whispered on the cool stone floor as they walked to the heavy double doors and out into the muggy night air, reflecting on His word in silence.

No matter how many times she walked the grounds of this seminary, she never failed to be in awe of the sacred grounds. The main temple served as the epicenter of the seminary, with castle-like towers guarding it on either side. White-stone statues watched over the faithful from the handful of turrets on either side.

Like a sea bird stretching its feathers, each stone-bricked wing spread out across a front lawn covered in purple sea lilies and pink hydrangeas. The seminary was the next best place to Macario’s kingdom in the heavens.

Her peers veered off toward the dormitories in the west wing, but Seraphina lingered. She had spent so much time preparing her oratory that she had neglected her other studies.

The night is still young. I have time before the final bells.

She detoured along the white stone path on her right, the gleaming white statues of Macario keeping her silent company.

Phina!

Seraphina stopped mid-step at the loud whisper from a Macario statue deep in thought. Her heart throbbed in her ears. Had she imagined it?

But Samara stepped out from behind the statue, the moonlight shining on her frizzy brown hair. Her veil sat askew and her dingy beige caftan hung off her petite frame, the torn right sleeve revealing the jagged circle birthmark they shared. A smudge of dirt marred the golden-brown skin of her cheek.

What a mess. Seraphina crossed her arms. Unacceptable.

Are you not allowed to hug heathens anymore? Samara forced her lips into a thin smile.

Only heathens I’ve shared a womb with. She returned her sister’s smile and pulled her into a hug. Seraphina could smell the rough travels on her sister, which meant she was coinless—again.

What did you do now?