Blood in the Water (6 page)

“Yes, Captain.” She slammed the door closed behind her.

Kyros turned the jar over in his hands, rotating the interlocked gears and arms around themselves. His reasoning felt hollow even to him, but he couldn’t explain the truth and expect his crew to go along with it. Araceli was his oldest friend, and she knew how to call bullshit when she saw it.

And the truth was, Kyros was afraid one night was all he’d get with Eric if he had stayed. Maybe they would chat over dinner and rut like bunnies through the night, but it was obvious the Sun’s captain wasn’t the asexual stick-in-the-mud Kyros had expected. He was just so obsessed with his treasure hunt that everything else came second. So they would part ways in the morning, and unless Kyros tried to run him over with his ship, Eric wouldn’t give him another thought.

Kyros selected a fabric from the haul of the Spanish ship and wrapped up the jar. He found space in a drawer. It was time for Deumont to do the chasing for a while.

****

Chapter III

April

The Next Morning

Eric stretched as he woke, pleased with both his performance and the depth of his short nap. He rolled up on one side and found his cabin empty. His belt and its riches remained on the table, but Vindex and his clothes were gone. Eric’s buzz of happy pulled out like a low tide, gently leaving disappointment behind. Vindex proved persistent. Eric thought he would at least stick around for dinner.

He found pants and threaded his belt into place. Eric stepped out to the crew deck and frowned. The light was off. One of his men grunted from a hammock. “Mornin’ Cap.”

Morning? Eric’s cheer snapped in half. He lunged into his cabin and threw open the rear hatch. Nassau’s morning breeze spilled into his room. Early sunlight glanced off the bay surface. Eric let the hatch bang closed.

Fuck and run. Not even a good-bye. He should have guessed, but the slight still burned.

Eric grabbed a change of clothes and grumbled up the stairs. The few crewmen aboard gave him space. On deck, he swept the sky for any sign of his jailer. He didn’t spot it. “Morel, you watched overnight?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The moon?”

His crewman pointed one square finger out to sea. “Set early this morning. You’re clear.”

Eric nodded. Small miracles. He dropped his belt and pants. Eric threw a bucket over the side and pulled it back up full of seawater. He dumped it over his head and scrubbed Vindex’ scent and the evidence of their tryst to the deck. He used the old pants to dry himself off, scrubbed the clothes in another bucket of water, and dressed.

He tossed his clothes on a line to dry and squeezed seawater from his dreadlocks. The chilly rinse woke him up. Put the whole thing in perspective. Vindex never said he was going to stay. Even with an invite, he already had what he wanted.

Eric panned his attention across the bay and didn’t see the Hawk. Still, the disappointment wouldn’t wash away so easily and Eric let himself down to the dingy trying to focus on other things.

He spent the morning reviewing sales with his fence at an out-of-the-way encampment on the edge of the jungle. Refined sugar and raw cane still outsold everything else— rum production on Nassau wasn’t matched— but the heavier metal didn’t move. Eric collected his share of the sales and arranged for someone to cart the metal back to the boat. Havana had a much more robust economy for shipbuilding. It would sell there.

Then to the harbormaster where he located a fast ship on its way to Havana, arriving before him, and wrote a letter to the merchant there. Yes, he was interested in the top of that jar and would he kindly hold it for Deumont’s arrival?

He bought rabbit goulash at a tavern for lunch and caught himself watching the door for Vindex. Eric drained his beer and pushed it to the edge for the barmaid. This was getting out of hand—

“Captain Deumont?”

Eric grunted.

“Of the Midnight Sun?”

“Yes. Talk.”

A slim man worrying a flat cap in his hands sat across the table. He wore a merchant’s vest and puffed trousers, playing at landowner. “Sir, I’m here on behalf of Philippe Lamar— you have met?”

Eric sucked a piece of meat from his teeth and wondered what else could go wrong. Lamar was a tick on a nameless plantation island in the South. “I’ve heard of him.”

“It’s come to Philippe’s attention that you’re seeking pieces of a puzzle jar. He kindly requests you cease this project and turn your attentions elsewhere.”

Eric raised a thick eyebrow and took another spoonful of goulash. “Oh? Why?”

The messenger turned his flat cap along the edge. “It’s not known to me, Captain, but I must insist. Philippe was quite clear you’re not to continue.”

Eric sucked on a small leg bone and dropped it back into his bowl. “Philippe is an over-large beached whale, and his opinion means little to me. We did meet once, I stole something from him. Does he want it back?”

“No, Captain.”

“No, I imagine not.” Eric rubbed his chest and lost the appetite for his meal. “There’s no message to bring back to Mister Lamar, I’m afraid.” He left several coins on the table and stood.

“But, Captain. Will you stop?”

“No.” Eric walked out of the tavern. The messenger didn’t follow him.

Disturbed, Eric returned to the Sun in a pensive, sour mood. He locked his cabin door and grabbed the keys to his chest off the table. Ghalil twisted when he crouched beside it; only the ring through Eric’s nipple kept the spirit from swimming around to his back or down one leg. An uncomfortable tug.

Eric swept his hand over the wood. An innocent looking box that used to hold a vengeful creature hidden in the depths of Philippe Lamar’s plantation hideaway. More than once, Eric cursed the day he had ever set foot there.

He jammed the key into the lock and popped the lid. Even Ghalil stilled under Eric’s shock.

His chest was empty. The jar: gone. The letter from Havana with it. Small wonder Vindex didn’t stay for dinner. With his hands full of Lamar’s bidding, it was too risky to form any attachments.

Eric felt his skin cool with the force of his anger. He pressed his lips into a thin line. He latched the chest and strode out to the crew deck. Two sailors and his quartermaster fell silent before the oppression of his still gaze. “Mister Muller, recall all hands to the mast immediately.”

Sven stood straighter in acknowledgement. “Problem, sir?”

“I’ve been robbed.” He turned to the stairs, hand spasming around the handle of his sword. “I’ve been betrayed.”

****

April

Two Weeks Later

Kyros stepped onto the long dock in Havana and smiled. He had a week before Eric showed up on his heels demanding retribution, and the thought of a healthy fight followed by a healthy fuck had him tightening in all the right places. Maybe he could even tear that damn shirt off and get to know him from head to toe.

But that meant he had a few days to kill. Kyros spent the afternoon with Araceli, visiting their local fence to offload all the Spanish goods. The fabrics would sell well over time. The thousand-plus trinkets were even better. Small and exotic, he could sell them in bulk for a hefty profit. The statue, he didn’t want to try and move. Kyros settled for keeping it in the cabin until they passed through another town.

In the evening, she left him to his own devices. Kyros checked the letter he’d stolen from Eric and browsed around the merchants. He picked up a book to replace the blank one in his library. The merchant shook his hand over the transaction, a marked difference from the debauchery of Nassau. He shoved the binding into a pouch on his belt and unfolded Eric’s letter. “Do you know where I can find a merchant by the name of Martin?”

“Weber or Lang?” The man asked, chewing on a thumb of tobacco.

“I’m not sure. I’m after a jar, do either sell containers?”

“Lang does.” He pointed. “Down there, left at the red banner, right at the one that used to be white, has a black serpent symbol on it. Third or fourth one down. You can’t miss it, big blue drapes.”

“Thank you.” The directions proved accurate. Merchant stalls evolved from temporary structures to wooden ones as he went along. Then wooden to stone further down the street as it wandered closer to the heart of the city. Martin Lang occupied a wooden one-room building overflowing with pottery and the like.

“Good day, sir! I have a new shipment direct from Africa. Best glazes you’ve ever seen.”

“No doubt.” Kyros smiled. “But I’m here for something rather specific.” He handed Eric’s note to the man. “You’re Martin?” He walked farther into the building, squeezing around stacks of pottery. He picked up a pitcher and turned it over in his hands.

“Yes, Mister Deumont but…” The man pursed his lips. “Well, I’m afraid I’ve changed my mind about the part in question. I don’t intend to sell it.”

“I’m sorry, Martin. I don’t think that’s going to work out. See, I’ve come all the way out here from Nassau. Think I could at least take a look at it?”

Martin folded the letter and tried to hand it back, but Kyros ignored him, pressing deeper into the shop. He opened lids and poked his nose around a nested row of bowls.

“I’m not going to part with it.”

Kyros hummed. “I can make it worth your time. Let me see it.”

Martin wavered

“It might not even be the piece I need.” Kyros shrugged.

That seemed to be enough. Martin left the letter on a plate and worked his way into the back of the store. He returned with a box and held it out for Kyros to open. “I’m not giving it to you, even if it is the one you’re looking for.”

“Why is that, I wonder?” Kyros flipped the box’s latch and opened the top.

A beast roared out of the box, two dozen horns around his head and red-red eyes, bigger than the box. Bigger than the room. Kyros stumbled back, knocking pottery and plates to the ground. The beast crushed what he stepped on and roared again, “GHALIL!”

Kyros backed into billowing blue drapes. He tore them away and collapsed into the street.

The beast spun in the store and a long spiked tail obliterated the bowls. Fragments of clay spun about like confetti. “You promised me Ghalil!” It roared at the merchant. “Where is it?”

Martin cowered and pointed at Kyros. The beast roared and bit Martin’s hand off. “Where is Ghalil?” Martin just screamed.

Kyros watched in stunned disbelief. People peered into the building. Some shrieked and ran, others couldn’t turn away from the wreck. The beast swung at Martin, slicing him in three, then slicing again. It destroyed the entire booth, wrecking like a bull and screaming for something named Ghalil. Wood splintered under the force of its tail, and when the stall collapsed inward, it threw a beam into the street.

Kyros rolled to the side. Something caught the drapes. The beast stepped on them and arched over him, sharp teeth and red eyes dripping fire. “Ghalil,” it snarled. Kyros fought an arm free and pointed, he didn’t know where, he didn’t give a damn as long as it wasn’t here.

The beast hacked, a sound in its throat like something got caught. Then it vomited tacky fire onto Kyros’ chest and stomped away. Kyros screamed, rolling in the dust and tearing himself free of molten cotton. His arms and hands burned. His chest burned. His metal buckles melted into his hip. He stumbled away from the heat and immediately crashed into unconsciousness.

****

May

One Week Later

Eric directed the Midnight Sun imperiously into Havana’s main bay, steaming at the thought of Kyros beating him here. He didn’t see the Hawk on approach or in the bay proper and it cooled his temper a bit. He pushed his crew hard to cut time on this trip, maybe the effort paid off. He was tired, the men were tired. He didn’t have time to indulge it.

Eric led the first boat to shore and relied on his sketchy memory of the merchants. He needed the jar guy— he couldn’t remember the name on the letter. Confused inquiries with a potter and tanner had him jogging circles around the main street until he realized a stretch of the road showed signs of recent fire damage. He ducked into the closest merchant stall, a baker, and pointed down the way. “What happened here?”

“Ohh,” The man said, shaking his head. “Saw the whole thing. A demon came out of that shop and tore it to the ground. Set fire to the whole row and then ran down to the docks.”

Eric put a hand on his chest and rubbed it. “A demon?”

“Oh, yes. Seven foot. Eight, maybe. Horns all around. Tail like a lizard and teeth like a cat. It spat fire like… liquid fire.”

“What stall did it destroy?” Eric asked with a sinking gut.

“Martin’s, three buildings down. Tore him to shreds and broke every pot in the place. People are scavenging but there isn’t much to rescue.”

It couldn’t be a coincidence. Kyros had already been here. Though what he thought he was doing with spirits and demons, Eric couldn’t begin to guess. He thanked the baker and jogged to the epicenter of the fire scars. The street itself was clear of litter, but the former building hunched wood over clay, a mess on top of a wreck. People crawled over the leftovers, hauling wood away for other purposes.

A big black woman grunted as she toppled a beam too large for most men to shift. Eric pointed at her. “Oi! You!” He scrambled up a cascading hill of fired clay, suddenly hot with anger now that he had somewhere to point it. “Woman! Quartermaster. You’re Vindex’ quartermaster, aren’t you?” He stooped and picked up a shard of pottery. “Answer me!” He chucked it at her when she sneered.

She dodged the piece and put her foot on a fallen beam. She shoved it forward into Eric’s knee. He crashed to the pile, hands first and cursed. Eric rolled to one side. The quartermaster sat on his stomach, stepped on one of his hands, and held a knife up to his throat. He wheezed, “Fuck, woman, you are not light.”

“I knew you’d come after us.”

“Tell me where Vindex is.”

“Why?”

“TELL ME WHERE THAT SON OF A BITCH IS HIDIN—” He choked off the words when the knife dug in.

The quartermaster leaned closer, voice calm. “I asked why?”