Chapter Twenty-Two

Greed keeps men forever poor, even the abundance of this world will not make them rich. Even their tombs are too small.

Nathaniel sat back; his eyes fixed on nothing.

On his desk was a small pile of coins, polished to perfection and gleaming in the soft candlelight.

He reached out unconsciously, touching the glimmering gold and feeling the familiar sensation, an electric tingle, flow through him at the coldness.

Cold. Hard. And divinely beautiful. More alluring than the fabled Sirens that cursed the ears of many a seafarer.

Every time his eyes sight of them, the draw grew. The bargain he'd made fell further into the abyss of his mind.

He clicked his tongue, picking up the map thoughtfully. The faded images were still clear, albeit smeared, and far more useful than any writing.

"Ain't goin' to hurt," he muttered. "Using what I bargained for to find what I sought, even if the damned thing ain't goin' to be happy by the end of it." He tossed the map aside and reached for the rum.