Kris shook his head and guided my gaze to the water-front. There, crammed into the small harbor so tight they were double-and triple-parked, were a dozen or more boats. Not just boats, but spectacular wooden galleons, each with a dozen or more sails, and decks that were a veritable jungle of ropes. High atop the masts, flags fluttered in the breeze. From here, they looked like little more than brightly colored scraps of fabric. When I sharpened my sight, I could make out markings and designs—an arm bearing a scabbard, a skeleton raising a toast, several national flags, and on more than half, the ubiquitous skull and crossbones of the Jolly Roger.

Pirates.

Chapter 21

21

THIS EXPLAINED LUTHER ROSS’S RELOCATION TO Roatan: the only route to the island was guarded by a pirate town. We now knew why that half-demon surfer had advised us to change our outfits before visiting La Ceiba. No part of the ghost world is off-limits, but just because you’re allowed in doesn’t mean you’ll be encouraged to stay. Waltz into a themed afterlife town wearing your civvies, and you’ll find yourself as welcome as a Mormon at Mardi Gras.

Themed afterlife towns were indeed a ghost-world Mardi Gras, a nonstop costumed paean to some romanticized bygone era. If you come to visit, you’d damned well better get yourself into the spirit of things…fast.

We slipped behind an abandoned hut on the outskirts of town and changed into more appropriate outfits. Kristof tried his damnedest to convince me to let him dress me, but I made him wait around the corner while I fashioned my own outfit.

“Still working on it?” Kristof called after a few minutes. “If you need help…”

I stepped around the corner. A slow grin swept over Kris’s face. I’d dressed myself in hip-hugging calfskin breeches, knee-high boots, and a tight white laced bodice cinched at my waist with a jaunty black sash. Add oversize gold hoop earrings and a red bandanna, leaving my hair falling down my back, and I probably looked no more like the real Anne Bonney than Elizabeth Taylor looked like Cleopatra, but historical inaccuracy wasn’t an issue—not in a place like this.

I surveyed Kristof’s ensemble: a white linen shirt, black trousers tucked into low black boots, and a black naval jacket with brass buttons.

“Looks good,” I said. “Now—Whoops. Forgot something.”

I closed my eyes and conjured up two cutlasses.

“Hardware,” I said, handing Kris one. I raised mine and sliced it through the air. “Think we’ll get a chance to use them?”

“Only if we’re lucky. But just in case we do, I’d better switch to this…” He closed his eyes and transformed the cutlass into a straight sword. He hefted it, spun it in his hand, then smiled, and lunged. “En garde.”

“Uh, pirates, Kris, not the three musketeers.”