Blood in the Water (10 page)

They didn’t make another step toward the bed. Eric pushed him to the wood floor, slicked himself, and staked his claim. Kyros clawed and scratched him closer, faster, harder. He bit what he could reach and cursed what he couldn’t. He didn’t know how to express the blinding relief flooding his veins with adrenaline.

They came with groans; first Eric, then Kyros, too fast to catch up with themselves, and even that release didn’t bring them close enough together. They devoured each other’s kisses and gasped shared air for several minutes.

When Kyros finally felt his heart calm down and Eric lay on top of him, still kissing the skin under his lips, he formed a full sentence. “We have a top to the jar.”

“You found it?” Eric pushed up off his chest. “You found Lamar?”

“No, we missed him by several days, but the craftsman he came here to meet was quite helpful. He has drawings of it, he can make as many as you’re willing to pay for.”

“You had him make a top?”

“Yeah. It’s back on the Hawk.”

Eric smiled, an open-mouthed, full-of-teeth grin. “Ha,” he said, then laughed and laughed until tears fell down his cheeks. “Oh, my god,” he dropped his head to Kyros’ chest and sighed. “Oh my god, it’s almost over.”

Kyros wiped the tears away. “Come on, the bed’s right there.”

Eric pulled him up by the hand with a yank. Kyros hissed, “Easy, I don’t stretch much anymore.” He rubbed the swirl of discolored scars across his chest.

“Sorry.” Eric followed the veiny edges of the scar where the color had darkened most. “Have you been to a barber-surgeon?”

“No. I’m fine.” Kyros lifted his left arm until the scarring arrested it. “I’ve lost some range here, but that’s all.”

Eric touched the buckle protruding from Kyros’ hip. “And this?”

“Best we can figure, it’s fused to my bone. It doesn’t bother me.”

Eric looped his finger through the iron and used it to pull Kyros close. They both snorted, then kissed again. Kyros tugged them toward the bed so he had something soft to fall back on.

Late that night, Eric told him about the ill-fated battle with Trovita. The sinking of the Sun pained him more than he expected. It wasn’t his ship… but Eric was its captain, and he felt the loss acutely. Eric described being held to the mast, the whipping that released Ghalil, the days he spent unconscious.

By comparison, their casual traverse to Saint Lucia was downright dull.

Eric kissed Kyros’ forehead and breathed another deep breath. “I want to take care of this tonight. The moon’s out, ship is empty.”

“Right now?”

“We can’t do it soon enough.”

****

August

Minutes Later

Eric tugged his belt tight over his hips, checking the contents of each pouch and sling. He missed the familiar weight of his sword. Tomorrow he planned to pick up a new one.

He heard Kyros’ voice on the dock. And someone else. Araceli? Eric pushed a hatch open in the cabin to listen.

“—tting you do this alone.”

“Yes, you are. You’ve been right there for every step of this. Hell, you captained the damn Hawk yourself for months, following me around on this obsession.”

“You need me here.”

“No. I need you to make sure the men on the Hawk have a captain to follow.”

“…what are you saying?”

A pause, a single pair of steps walked closer to the ship. Then Kyros said, clear as day, “You weren’t there, Araceli, you didn’t see that demon… There was no handling it. If this one is anything like it… Go back to the Hawk, girl. And if you see this ship in flames, don’t come looking.”

“I’m not just leaving you to—”

“YES, YOU ARE.”

Eric let the hatch snap shut and ran the length of the boat for the stairs. By the time he reached the top deck, though, Araceli was gone and Kyros stood at the aft rail, looking out to sea. He turned when Eric came up behind him and rubbed his chest in a gesture Eric recognized, himself. “Let’s get this done.” He held the jar in his hands. The top fit. The only hint it wasn’t an original piece was its bright, new color.

Eric shook his head. “You hold onto that. I won’t be much help when it comes out.”

“How do we do this?”

“Carefully.” Eric gestured for Kyros to stand at the starboard side of the helm. He backed up to the port side and heard water slap the edge of the boat. “I’m going to take off my shirt. It’ll pop out. Make sure that jar is open.” He fingered his shirt and felt his gut turn over. He wasn’t in danger, there was no reason to release the thing. This was such a bad idea.

He grit his teeth. Kyros widened his stance and held the open jar at the ready. Eric’s heart thumped. Or maybe Ghalil did.

Eric whipped his shirt over his head. The moon reflected on his skin so everything glowed silver. Ghalil rent itself free, tearing skin and muscle, bleeding him dry like it knew this was its last chance to work destruction.

It stood on the deck and Eric thought maybe the sparse offering of just one man surprised it. Eric collapsed to his knees. Blood ran down his chest and hips, dripped in lines to the deck. He thought he saw the wood warp beneath him but when he put his hand down to steady himself it snapped back into place.

He heard Kyros yell. An angry, aggressive thing. He looked up and saw Ghalil surge first to one side, then the other. Kyros kept the jar between them, teeth bared and eyes wide. Ghalil lunged. The spirit’s clawed hand slipped into the jar and then it seemed like it couldn’t pull back out. Kyros surged forward, pressing the jar close.

For the first time in his life, Eric heard Ghalil scream, a sound like nails scratching bone. The spirit slipped into the jar, and Kyros slammed the lid on top.

Eric fell forward, gasping for air and at a complete loss to stop the bleeding. He felt a hand on his shoulder, pushing him to the side. Onto his back. Kyros stood over him, hysterical and high on adrenaline. Eric reached up to touch his face. He was free of the monster. At last.

He turned his head down to see the jar. It sat innocuously on the deck, moonlight shining off the new cap. A new jail for the beast. He heard Kyros screaming at him like a distant crash of waves but there were more important things to handle first. Like this almost empty pouch of red dust.

Eric pulled his last small handful of cinnamon from the leather pocket on his belt. Bloodstained. He saw dust run through his fingers and thought it would be fitting to throw this final handful out to sea. An end to an era of terror. Just as he considered trying to get up again, the jar clicked.

He rolled his head back in that direction and felt himself go cold inside. Pieces of the jar lifted off the surface and rotated by themselves. They clicked and clacked like the gearing in a pocket watch. They spun into an interlocking knot. All at once the pieces snapped back to the surface of the jar.

Ghalil exploded from the top with an infuriated roar. Red and violent, it swiped at Kyros. Eric screamed. He shoved Kyros to the side and took four claws to the neck and face, himself. He slammed his final fistful of cinnamon to his chest and gasped the incantation. Ghalil slurped back into his chest like a rose vine, all sharp thorns and crooked angles. Eric felt his flesh knot back together, his blood flush full again, his body heal to perfection.

He felt Ghalil rail against the cage of his ribs. He vomited blood.

Eric wept.

Kyros held onto this edge of panic. “Oh, my god. Oh, my holy fucking shit. Eric. Eric, please look at me? Eric? DEUMONT!” Kyros shook him and wouldn’t go away.

He needed to go away. Eric opened his eyes and saw a finger stripe of blood on Kyros’ cheek. A stripe he’d put there. “Go away,” he croaked.

“Like hell. We got it in the jar. It went in. Did you see that? We just need to figure out how to keep it there.”

Eric ripped himself away from Kyros and rolled onto his hands and knees. He felt Ghalil beat against his chest and knew he had to leave. There was nothing that could hold a monster like this. He swiped his hand and grabbed the jar. Kyros scrambled to get the top. They still fit together.

Kyros knelt beside him. “We can make this work. I know a witch we can talk to.”

And all of a sudden the answer was obvious. Eric pressed the jar into Kyros’ hands. “Go,” he said. “Talk to your witch.”

“You can come with me.”

“No!” Eric winced, his desperation too raw. He clenched his fists. He needed a reason to keep Kyros away, something obvious. He saw red dust on his hand and rubbed his fingers together. “I need more cinnamon.” He latched onto that explanation, praying the man would buy it. “There’s an African trade merchant sailing by in three months. I’m going to take it.”

“The man-o’-war?” Kyros pushed his shoulder but Eric refused to look up.

“Trovita has the firepower to mow one down. Them and the escorts. I need the cinnamon if we’re going to try this again.”

Kyros turned the jar in his hand. “Okay… okay, I’ll talk to the witch, and you have a chat with the merchant captain. We’ll get together and try again in a few months.”

Eric nodded. He sat back on his heels. Kyros bent and kissed him, bloodstained and all. Eric closed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to watch him walk away.

No witch in the seas would deal with Ghalil, he’d already tried that. And if a puzzle jar couldn’t hold him, nothing could. Eric stood on his feet and fetched a bucket of seawater from the bay. He dumped it over his head and shook with cold. Nothing could hold Ghalil but his own ribcage. So he would track down the trade caravan and send that cage to the bottom of the sea.

He needed a crew.

****

Chapter VII

September

One Month Later

Kyros turned the jar over and over in his hands. He didn’t understand how the creature had gotten out. But then, he didn’t understand much about spirits and ghosts. They traveled a realm humanity wasn’t supposed to touch. And Eric made himself a bridge between those two.

He slid the jar into a pouch and stood. Araceli licked her fingers, polishing a fruit they found during the hike. They continued their trek upward. On the top of a mountain half-eaten by the sea, on an island unmarked on any map Kyros had ever seen, in a corner of the ocean no one bothered to visit… lived two unaging witch twins with dark skin and white eyes. Kyros led the way up a used trail with a stick in one hand to help with the climb.

Their ascent led them out of the jungle, and he spotted a sturdy shack at the peak. Crows circled the building. A few soared down to check them out and call back to the group.

Kyros picked up the pace. Ever since leaving Eric to his new ship, a sense of foreboding settled around Kyros’ shoulders. He didn’t like the idea of separating again. Hell, he was almost willing to hand direction of the Hawk over to Araceli and take up the mast under Eric just so they wouldn’t have to sail different paths.

But Eric was right. If they were going to do this again, he needed the spice if something went wrong. Divide and conquer. Still, Kyros didn’t want to delay any more than necessary.

He grunted as he crested the last pile of rocks to the top of the cliffs. A crone of a woman eased the cabin door open and invited them in.

She stooped lower than Kyros’ chest. Her head was bald of hair but painted or tattooed with feathers. Her clothing fluttered with feathers as well, black and grey from the flock of birds that called this mountaintop home. She walked without a cane.

Another woman sat inside the cabin, her fingernails, pointed like bird claws, tap-tap-tapped on the arm of her chair. She rivaled her sister in age, but neither seemed gray with it. Their dark skin almost shone in the sparse candlelight.

The first woman snuffed a candle between two fingers as she walked by and gestured for Kyros to sit on the tree stump there. He didn’t ask if she knew he now feared fire. He didn’t want to know if the answer was yes.

Araceli was not offered a seat. She stood beside Kyros in silence.

The woman who guided them in sat at a long wooden table littered with small white bones, little dice, and a scattered collection of pictorial cards. He didn’t need his fortune told. He didn’t want to know the future. Kyros pulled the jar out of his pouch and birds screamed outside. The flock took wing in a noise like wind.

Kyros didn’t know how to read omens but even he knew this couldn’t be good. He set the jar on the table. Both witches leaned toward it, murmuring. They didn’t touch it. Araceli shifted beside him. Kyros felt the same— a pressure in the air, like static or an incoming storm.

Then the witches leaned away and it was gone. The twin with pointed nails spoke in raspy sentences, “A horror has been inside this jar. Why do you bring it here?”

“We trapped a spirit of violence inside. It broke out.”

“What spirit?”

“Ghalil—”

Birds screamed again and thunder crashed against the mountain. Araceli ducked. Kyros just stood from his tree stump and growled, “Enough theatrics, both of you!”

“Ooh, the little chick is impatient!” They cackled like the crows and their feathers fluttered. “We enjoy our theatrics; we don’t get many visitors.” But the bird flock settled down.

Kyros twitched his lip, irritated but needing their expertise. “Ghalil—” he spoke over the thunder crack and their laughter, “was locked inside for a moment. We want to know how to keep it there.”

The twin with the painted feathers on her head just hummed a negative. “Why are you playing with such a strong spirit?”

“It is using a friend of mine. It lives in his chest— we need it out.”

“It comes out for the moon.” Fingernails tapped her chin.

“We want it out so it will never come back. Can we trap it in the jar?”

“Of course you can.”

“Do you know where he is now?”

“Sailing to intercept a man-o’-war caravan from Africa.”

Painted feathers spread several cards over her table, and Kyros looked away from the pictures. “You don’t want to know his fate?”

“No.”

“He means this much to you?”

“Yes.” He heard the clatter of bones across wood and kept his head turned away.