The Abyss Surrounds Us (10 page)

17

I always knew the
Minnow
kept its looted treasures locked up somewhere. What I didn't know—at least until today—is that the place doubles as a training ground.

“Welcome,” Swift says in that half-baked tour guide voice, “to the Slew.” She claps me on the back, and a jolt runs up my spine. Recently, she's been trying to make up for the way she treated me in the days after we hit the unescorted bucket. Most of the time, it's by inviting me along whenever the lackeys do something dangerous. It's sort of unnerving, but I can't deny that these little excursions past the trainer deck make me feel … well, at home.

It's weird to say that about a pirate ship, but embracing that sort of weirdness is the only way to keep going around here.

The curve of the ship's hull bows out around us as we descend the steps to the mats, which have been nailed in haphazardly amid stacks of cargo. My gaze fixes on a bright floral suitcase tucked behind a crate, and on the wads of cash stuffed in its pockets. It's child-sized.

The hold is packed with crew. Swift makes for a corner, where the four other lackeys are gathered in a knot. As we approach the wall, I spot a familiar face among the crowd—the girl who was in Swift's lap the night we sunk the bucket. For a moment, I fear that we're headed for her, but then she spots Swift and glares. And Swift glares back.

And something triumphant lifts inside me before I can stop it.

As we reach the lackeys, Code taps Chuck on the shoulder and a feral grin curls its way across her face. “Fists?” she asks.

“Anything for you, princess,” Code simpers.

Varma's lip curls, and Swift jabs him in the ribs as she takes her place next to him. I hang back, a nervous energy humming through me. When Swift invited me to see the best show on the ship, I didn't anticipate anything like this.

As Code and Chuck step onto the mats, they tip salutes upward, and I spot the captain perched on a stack of crates in the ship's prow, her son at her side. Santa Elena bares her teeth and salutes back. The boy sits up straighter.

“Slew fights,” Swift mutters over her shoulder, beckoning me closer. “First rule: if the captain says it's over, it's over. Second rule: if a crew member calls it, the captain has to finalize the call. Third rule: if you break someone bad, you fight the captain. Rest of it's pretty straightforward.”

“You ever fought the captain?” I ask.

Swift snorts. “If I'd fought the captain, I wouldn't be standing here.”

Varma's lips twitch another notch upward, though his eyes never leave the lackeys on the mats. “Captain took this ship single-handedly. You fight her, you come out in pieces.”

I can feel Santa Elena's gaze on me even before my eyes flick up to meet hers. She flashes me a wicked grin and tilts her head toward the mats, a question in the quirk of her brows. A hollow, sinking feeling floods me as I understand exactly what she's challenging me to do.

I pull back into the shadows.

Under the harsh glare of the industrial lamps, Chuck and Code square off. There's no opening bell, no whistle, no countdown. Code simply leaps forward, and Chuck's forearm is there to parry. The crack of knuckles on flesh snaps through the hold, and the fight is on.

But I soon learn that a good fight is mostly about waiting. They dance around each other, Code with quick, elegant steps, Chuck with smoothness and deliberation. When one of them makes a move, the other matches it. Chuck has power, but Code has speed. Chuck has endurance, but Code's reflexes are faster. Her shirt stains with sweat before his does, and on the sidelines, Varma's muscles wind tenser and tenser.

“Don't look so moon-eyed, loverboy,” Swift growls, nudging him with her shoulder. “Your princess still has gas in the tank.”

Because the captain's attention is fixed on the fight, I feel bold enough to speak up. “Is she … is she actually a princess, or are you guys just saying that because she's … ”

Varma raises an eyebrow, but Swift shrugs and says, “Chuck was the only daughter of the man who owns Art-Hawaii 5. Took to mechanics early. Father didn't take too well to that—Islander princesses should be running businesses, not sneaking off to repair engines, you know? So when it got to be too much, Chuck stole down to the docks and begged aboard the first vessel she found with an engine that … what was the phrase she used?”

“Felt like home,” Varma fills in.

“Right. Captain didn't want to take a big spoiled princess onto her crew, but then Chuck got in the engine room. No more doubt after that.”

“You were there?” I ask as Code ducks into an opening and lands a flurry of punches. Chuck staggers backward, then swings with a vicious uppercut that grazes his chin.

Swift nods. “Chuck was the last of us. Lemon came a year before. Captain picked her up from an Aleutian colony after she heard the local gossip about a girl who could speak the ocean's language.”

Before I can confirm that Lemon speaks
something
, a burst of action on the mats draws every eye in the Slew. Code's made a misstep, Chuck lunges, and a hiss rises from the crowd.

Her fist drives into his temple.

The cheers that echo through the hold swallow the sound he makes when he hits the mat. Varma throws his hands in the air, and up on the crates, Santa Elena leans forward. “That'll do,” she thunders.

Chuck steps back, running her hands through her hair as a grin cracks over her face. My lips curve involuntarily, and pride flushes through my body as Varma rushes to her side. I can't resist it. The celebration sweeps me in, and I find myself trailing in Swift's wake as she hops up on the mats to congratulate Chuck.

But then Code is crawling to his feet, his eyes narrowed, his face flushed, and the first words out of his mouth are “I'm not finished.” He fixes Swift with his pale stare and lifts his chin. “You. Knives this time.”

Swift freezes, her gaze flicking up for the captain's approval.

Santa Elena nods back.

One of the crew members on the sidelines tosses two rubber training daggers to Code, who offers one to Swift blade-first. She takes it with a scowl, flipping it over once and catching it by the hilt. “You sure?” she asks, and no one in the Slew misses the way she hesitates before bringing her knife up.

“I'm just getting started,” he snarls. “Clear the mats.”

I follow Varma and Chuck back to our corner, where Lemon is still lurking. Under the lights, Code and Swift circle each other, the tips of their blades dancing back and forth. He makes the first move.

A good fight is mostly waiting.

This isn't a good fight.

Code comes at her with an animal's voracity, his knife plunging straight for her throat. She catches his wrist and twists, but he flows with the movement, bringing his elbow down hard on her sternum. Swift chokes out a gasp, staggering back, but Code keeps coming even as she raises her blade and slaps it hard across his forearm. He doesn't slow.

Then Varma's voice is in my ear. “All you need to know about those two is they came on this boat on the same day. Him in slavers' chains, and her of her own volition.”

It's a harsh reminder of how far from home I am. Out here, beyond the regulation of any state, people can be bought and sold. And it makes me reconsider everything I know about Code. A boy who started with nothing, and now he's clawing his way to the top of the
Minnow
's food chain. No wonder he fights so viciously.

My nails dig into my palms as Swift hits the mat with a thud that drives the air from her lungs. Code's free hand latches around her neck just as her legs swing up. She punts him over her head, and he collapses in a seething heap.

Swift props herself up on her forearms, her eyes darting to the captain.

Santa Elena ruffles her son's hair and smirks. She won't call it. Not while they're both still fresh.

Murmurs roll through the crowd as Code and Swift stagger to their feet. The fight's hit its first lull at last, leaving them catching their breath and rolling their shoulders. Code adjusts his grip on his knife and raises his eyebrows, daring Swift to make the next move.

She sweeps her hair out of her face, sticks the hilt of her blade in her mouth, and grabs the hem of her T-shirt.

Oh no.

Swift peels her shirt off, and the crowd collapses into whistles and hollers as she balls it up and pitches it to the side. Her back is already slick with sweat, shimmering in the harsh glare of the industrial lamps overhead. Her lips twitch devilishly upward around the knife's butt, and for a moment—a horrible moment—she catches my eye.

I blink and stare at the floor, wishing I could drain the blood from my body just to keep it away from my cheeks.

Swift is hot. It's a fact, simple and scientific and unnoticed until the day you think too hard about it, and then it's everywhere.

She plucks the knife from her mouth, licks her lips, and lunges forward. But even as she twists in midair to dodge Code's swipe, it's clear she's miscalculated. Or he's calculated more. His free hand snaps out, latching onto her hair. He gives it a brutal yank, wrenching her backward as his blade comes down hard on her bare stomach.

But he doesn't stop there. The rubber knife tumbles from Code's hand as he hauls Swift upright. His fist drives into her jaw, and the Slew erupts with shouts from the crowd.

The captain doesn't call it.

Swift's too busy trying to pry his hand from her scalp to block the next punch. It splits her lip. His knee smashes into her stomach, and she lets out a bloody gasp as Code shoves her backward, sending her sprawling on her back.

His leg is halfway into the kick when Santa Elena snaps, “Enough!”

Code's toes stop just short of Swift's ribs. He scoffs, rolls his shoulders, and turns his back on her, trotting over to rejoin us. At the edge of the mats, he pauses. “Hey Swift,” he calls.

She groans, still flat on her back.

“How about you try something a little more your speed.”

And before I can pull back, Code lunges forward, grabs me by the wrist, and yanks me onto the mats. A murmur of surprise rises from the crowd. He steps around behind me and shoves me in the back, sending me stumbling toward Swift.

The brightness of the lights is paralyzing. Up above, the shadowy figure of Santa Elena has risen to her feet. When she speaks, it feels like her words surround me. “Do you have any combat training, Cassandra?”

The mutters in the crowd complete her sentence.
Or do you let your monsters do all your fighting for you?

I tell her exactly what she wants to hear. “None whatsoever.”

Swift crawls to her feet. She swipes at her busted lip, drawing a thick red line across the back of her forearm. Her hair is a ruffled mess, half of it flipped the wrong way over, the other half hanging in her eyes. “Boss—” she starts, still a little winded.

Santa Elena cuts her off with a wave and says to me, “Land a hit on her and I'll call the fight.”

It might be the most generous thing the captain has ever offered me. There's still a part of me that balks, that wants to jump off the mats and retreat to the safety of the trainer deck. But after almost three months of making myself as small as possible on this ship, I can't pass up a chance to be a little big again.

And I've landed a hit on Swift before.

I bring my fists up and square off, and immediately the Slew echoes with shouts of glee. I meet Swift's eyes.

But she's laughing at me as she sweeps back her hair.
“You hit me like that and you'll break a thumb for sure,” she snorts. “Fists with thumbs on the outside.”

I frown, adjusting my hands.

“And keep your weight back. That's where your power comes from.”

“You sound like you want me to hit you.”

“You look like you need all the help you can get.” She brings her own hands up, palms open, and takes a step forward.

My first swing is downright embarrassing. I aim for her shoulder, but she sidesteps me easily and swats my hand to the side. I expect her to counter, but the hit doesn't come. Instead, she circles around and squares off again, waiting for my next move.

When I catch her gaze again, her smile is utterly teasing. There's heat rushing through me now, and it's not just the industrial lights above. My whole body is coming alive, and as I raise my fists again, I let my own grin curl across my lips.

I can play at being part of this.

I can have
fun
with this.

At my back, the noise of the crew has grown louder. And it's not just cheers for Swift. Cries of “Get 'er, shoregirl” rise from the shadows, and when my eyes once again turn upward, Santa Elena passes me an encouraging nod.

I take another swing. And another. Swift slaps them away, but I keep a rhythm going. She favors her right hand, and so I try coming from the left. Her reaction is slower—I almost make it through. Our eyes meet.

She winks.

Swift steps around me, and I nearly trip over my own feet trying to reorient myself. Chuck cackles from somewhere in the crowd, but I let it blend with the rest of the noise. Everything else falls away until it's just me and Swift and the steady, predictable rhythm of trying to break her defenses. Every time I swing, she's there to meet me, catching or deflecting each punch I throw.

I catch the shift in her smile before the shift in her strategy, but it's too late. She aims a kick at my knee that takes my feet out from under me, and I crumple onto the mat. A flush of humiliation rushes through me. I shouldn't have fooled myself into thinking she'd stick to pure defense, not with the captain and most of the crew watching.

Swift grins out at the crowd as if sharing a joke with them. Grins for a moment too long.

I push off the mat with every ounce of energy left in me and lash out at the leg she's leaning on. My heel strikes true, and Swift collapses on all fours.