Blood in the Water (9 page)

The Captain tilted Eric’s head up by a finger under his chin. His hat sat tight on his broad head. Eric saw his own crew filed past behind him, down into the hold at the bottom of the larger vessel. “The feared Captain Deumont, if I’m not mistaken?”

Eric pulled his head away from the man’s hand, but his eyes landed on the Sun, listing heavy, now, in the waves. His ship was sinking. “What were those last two shots?”

“Ah, did you like that? They’re called smashers, we just installed them this season. Heaviest thing we’ve ever tried. A real bitch to load up, but they tend to cut down on the retaliation.”

“Yeah…” Three tons of iron per shot would do that.

The Captain patted his cheek. “Don’t worry. We’ll bring you to land in one piece. You can learn all about them in the meantime.”

****

August

One Week Later

Kyros leaned on the rail of his ship and looked over Saint Lucia’s bay. He needed the support more than he wanted to admit. Scar tissue curled across his chest and arms, distorting what had once been tanned, weather-beaten skin into tough, still-pink, ripples. Proof he’d come through something horrific and survived. He was still weak, walking laps around the deck could wind him in an hour. Kyros tried to remind himself how much worse it could have been— infection, gangrene, he was lucky.

Kyros didn’t see the Sun. He couldn’t imagine they’d beaten Eric here, behind by a week, but he saw no sign of the ship in any of Saint Lucia’s coves, and he didn’t want to waste time scouting the nearby islands. If Eric had been here already, they needed to pick up his trail and catch up.

Araceli stepped next to him. “I still think you should stay aboard.”

“I need to get off the boat. Even if we don’t find anything.” Kyros rolled his shoulders. “So let’s go.”

Araceli skimmed down a rope and landed on the dingy below. Kyros took the slower ladder built into the hull of the ship. She insisted on rowing. Kyros didn’t argue with her. People started staring the second he stepped onto the pier. Knots of them whispered. A few pointed. Some couldn’t let him go by without trying to touch him. The pier only stretched thirty yards and by the time they made land Kyros was ready to turn around and hide on the ship.

His quartermaster put a broad hand on his shoulder and pushed him up the main street. “Come on. Let’s check out this craftsman first. I’ll take care of the resupply, later, while you wait in a tavern.”

“I’m not going to drool at a bar while my woman goes shopping—”

“Tell me that again when we’re done with this guy and you can barely stand up.” She handed him a folded and refolded piece of paper. “Now, where are we headed?”

Kyros flipped the map right side up and oriented himself with a bakery shop. “That way.” He pointed. His paper described a metalworker in the hills of Saint Lucia who Lamar intended to commission puzzle jars from.

A quarter mile wasn’t supposed to wind him but Kyros grossly underestimated the toll rolling hills could take. By the time they located the building, Kyros felt his legs shake with fatigue. Araceli pounded on the door and Kyros tried to make himself stand straight.

A young man answered the door, no more than mid-twenties, rubbing his dirty hands on a rag. “Hullo.”

Kyros checked the map. “We’re looking for Master Gerard?”

“Yes.”

Kyros and Araceli traded a look, and she lifted an eyebrow. “You’re his apprentice?”

The young man tossed his rag to the side somewhere beyond the doorway. “No, ma’am, I’m him. What can I do for you?”

Araceli made a face at the honorific but didn’t correct him. “Have you had any dealings with a Frenchman by the name of Phillipe Lamar, recently?”

His friendly face became less inviting. “So what if I have?”

Kyros leaned his shoulder on the wall and tried to make it look casual. “What about Eric Deumont?”

“Not that I recall, what is it that you want?”

Kyros traded another look with Araceli. “You haven’t spoken with Eric? Captain of the Midnight Sun?”

Master Gerard crossed his arms. “I’m not answering any more questions until you tell me what it is you want.”

Araceli produced the puzzle jar from a pouch around her waist and held it up. The craftsman uncrossed his arms and reached for it.

“Oh my god, is this the jar?” He turned it over in his hands, spinning interlocking pieces and making the device click. “It is. Lamar gave me drawings for this. He asked me to make one. And here you are with it…” He looked up. “What do you want for this?”

“Not for sale,” Kyros said. “But if you can make a top for it, we’ll commission you.”

“Of course I can.” He frowned at them. “What kind of question is that?”

Araceli plucked the jar from his grip. “Don’t get cocky.”

“I’m gonna need that if you want a matching top.”

Kyros levered himself up off the wall. “I thought you had drawings.”

Gerard turned into his shop and called over his shoulder, “Come look.” He spread several papers out over a drafting desk by the wall and weighted the ends so they stayed flat. “These are okay but there’s a lot of information missing. I told Lamar I might be able to put something together in a few months but without all these dimensions…” he pointed out several spots, “…I’ll be guessing until I get it right.” Gerard gestured to the jar in Araceli’s hands. “If I had the jar, itself, I could copy more precise drawings. It’ll cut my production time by two-thirds.”

“How long for you to make a top?”

He shrugged, “Two weeks?”

Kyros leaned his hip on the desk and addressed Araceli, “I think we beat Deumont here. No way he’d let these sit around.”

“Agreed.”

“Okay,” Kyros said. “We give you the jar for drawings and a top, and you keep your mouth shut if Lamar comes by. If he never knows, you can charge him through the nose for all the work we’re saving you.”

Gerard accepted the jar and set it on the drafting desk. “You cover my materials for your top.”

“Deal.” They shook hands.

“What’s your problem with Lamar?”

Kyros put a hand on his chest to draw attention to the twisted, pink scarring. “He tried to kill me over the jar. We’re not fond of each other.”

Gerard winced.

Araceli suggested, “Best keep that out of sight.”

They left Gerard a little wide-eyed at the mess they’d handed over to him. Kyros used Araceli’s shoulder for support during the last leg of their trip back into town. She steered them both toward a tavern and Kyros didn’t complain. “What if he turns around and sells the jar to Lamar?”

Kyros shook his head, “Did you see the way he lit up when you showed it to him? He’s a craftsman. He wants to make them himself.”

“He could still sell it.”

Kyros slid to a bench and put his head down, just breathing for a while. “I don’t think he will,” he said. “If he’s not in it for making things, he’s in it for profit and scamming Lamar out of his money is much more profitable.”

Araceli hummed. “I’m going to check in with the dockmaster.”

Kyros waved her away. “Tell the guys they have shore leave for at least two weeks. Keep an eye and ear out for Lamar. He may still be in the area.”

“Got it. Anything else?”

“Yeah…” Kyros pulled several coins from a pouch. “Get me a shirt, would you? I’m tired of the staring.”

****

Chapter VI

August

Days Later

A week tied to the mast. Sun, wind, salt exposure. Eric didn’t try to lift his head anymore. Someone fed him a gruel-like paste every few hours. He pissed where he stood. Jeers, rotten food in his hair and face, spit, vomit— he was a target for anything. Every now and then someone threw a bucket of seawater over his head.

His sword and knives were long gone. His belt still hung slack around his waist, held up more by the lines around the mainmast than tied. His shirt sported several new holes but still clung to his torso.

Kyros filled his fever-dreams with laughter. He remembered the night they’d spent together, relived it over and over because even the man’s stubborn betrayal was better than this. It made waking up to hell so much worse.

Eric screamed at the first touch of a whip against his skin. The sound broke. His voice went out after four days and only occasionally worked. The bullwhip brought it back with every strike. Leather bit his chest, wrapped in his shirt, shredded the fabric and exposed him to the wind of high noon.

Ghalil ripped itself free, tearing through muscle and skin, leaving a demon-shaped hole in Eric’s chest. He passed out to the sound of a man being skinned alive.

When he came to, everything was different. He lay horizontally, for one, and Orthos lay on his chest (whole, unscarred, tattooed) purring away. He entertained the idea that it was all a wretched dream. Kyros hadn’t sent the puzzle jar to a craftsman beyond his reach. A merchant ship hadn’t owned him in twenty minutes or less.

But the beams overhead crossed in the wrong pattern, the smell of the cabin wasn’t his own, and the ship rocked… differently.

Someone opened the door. “Stephano,” Eric croaked. “Oh, thank god.”

“You’ve been asleep for two days, Captain. I scrubbed you up best I could.” The blacksmith took a stool beside the bed. “What do you remember?”

“How long was I tied to the mast?”

“Almost a week.”

“I remember the whipping.” He saw Stephano nod and closed his eyes, trying to remember. “My shirt tore. Ghalil got out and… screaming… I don’t remember anything after that. How did I get here? Where is here?”

“You’re in the captain’s cabin of the merchant vessel. Her name’s Trovita. When the creature got out it caused chaos. Several people ran down to us, locked up in the brig. They wanted to know how to stop it. We convinced them to lock themselves in with us, that it couldn’t pass iron bars. When they did, we killed them and waited it out.”

“It didn’t come down?”

“It was satisfied by the time it cleared the second gun deck. We were never in any danger. When we started hearing word it was gone again, we let ourselves out and took over the ship. I washed you off and brought you in here.”

Eric struggled to sit up. Orthos complained about the move but settled in, again, on Eric’s lap. “How many of us survived?”

“A majority. Sven is directing us toward Saint Lucia. Otto keeps us in line. We lost Claude.”

Eric pinched his nose. “Who has been voted to replace him?”

“We haven’t, yet. Rutger’s taken on the role for now, until we have a chance to figure it out.”

“Okay.” Eric took a deep breath. “Okay,” he said again. “Get me up.”

The blacksmith kicked his stool back to the table and gave Eric a hand to his feet. “I’ll let the others know you’re up.”

“I need something to eat. Real food.”

“I’ll look into it.” Stephano let himself out.

Eric rolled his head around, stretched, and otherwise checked himself out. Other than the sorry state of his pants, Ghalil’s return left him in remarkably good health. He gave Orthos a pat on the head, found ill-fitting clothing in one of the drawers, and let himself out into the sunlight.

He checked on every single one of his crew. Ninety-six men in total. He shook their hands, checked their spirits, and was surprised to find morale higher than a hijacking and mutiny warranted. Rutger provided a hearty meal that Eric devoured.

His check-in with Sven at the helm assured him the crew was not in bad shape. “What do you remember?”

“Enough to know we’re lucky.”

“We lost the Sun.” Sven never did pull his punches.

Eric looked at open ocean off the port railing and remembered the black wood of his ship sinking there. “I know.” He shook his head. “How does Trovita sail?”

“A little heavy on the port rear from the hole we punched in her. Otherwise smooth.”

“I think I’ll keep her.”

“Fifty gun plus the carronade, you’ll need a bigger crew.”

The crow shouted, “LAND! Land to forward port!”

Men abandoned their posts for the port side of the ship. She tilted in the water. Sven scanned the horizon with a spyglass that didn’t belong to him. “Finally.” He handed the device to Eric who waved it off.

“I heard you’re taking us in to Saint Lucia.”

“That’s right. Figure this won’t be over until you get that thing out of your chest.”

Eric squeezed Sven’s shoulder, unable to articulate the relief he felt. He owed the crew and the damn demon in his skin his life.

****

August

Hours Later

“The reinforcement is looking good,” Bram said, pushing his glasses up. “I still recommend plating along the ribs we have exposed. It’s a good opportunity.”

Kyros grunted. “Should we plate inside or outside?” He stirred his goulash.

“If we’re attacked, the damage is the same. I’d do it inside. Gives us some surprising resilience.”

Kyros nodded to Araceli and she made a note in her book. “I’ll speak with the dockmaster this after—”

“Captain!” A runner slammed the tavern door open, breathless. “Captain, Deumont just made land at the pier.”

Kyros dropped his spoon and ran out the door, shoving a barmaid to the side in his haste. He hurdled a low wall and cut through someone’s side yard. The ship in the bay was not the Sun. He ran down to the dock anyway, searching the faces streaming off the big merchant vessel.

He gasped for air where he was, not quite ready for such a rush on his lungs. “Deumont!” People turned to look at him. “Where’s Eric Deumont?”

Someone pointed back to the ship. A familiar knot of dark hair looked in his direction.

“Oh, thank god.” Kyros pushed himself against the tide of sailors. He ran up the gangplank. Eric shoved someone aside with one hand. Kyros crashed into him, all biting, crushed lips and out of breath. “Where the fuck have you been?”

Eric squeezed the life out of him, lifting him up off his feet with no effort at all. They kissed again, and Kyros felt himself drowning. He sank his hands into tangles of dreadlocks, balanced on a desperate edge.

“I need you,” Eric snarled between their teeth, equally raw.

They moved, half-running, down into the ship. Kyros squeezed Eric’s hand, unwilling to let him go now that he’d come back. The second gun deck was wrong. The cabin was wrong. Hell, the whole ship was wrong. But the way Eric pinned him to the wall and devoured him, the way their hands pulled clothing into piles and dropped leather to the side felt right.