Volcrian's Hunt (The Cat's Eye Chronicles) (10 page)

But before he could negotiate, he needed some leverage.

“Here,” he said, handing the bags of sand to the priestess. “Turn these to gold.”

“What?” the woman asked. She raised an eyebrow, which was a strange expression, since her brows had almost completely fallen out. He glanced over her blue-tinted face. It was half-obscured by a wide hood.

“Turn. Them. To. Gold,” he repeated.

The priestess took the bags and stared at them with her milky, blue-filmed eyes. “And how am I supposed to do that?”

Volcrian sighed. Who would have thought that the dead needed to be trained? “You're a ghost,” he said.

“A corpse,” she corrected.

“Either way, you are one of the dead, and the dead have a certain...power of illusion. I have placed a drop of my blood in each of these bags. You're not physically changing the sand. You're just making it look different.”

The priestess let out the mimicry of a sigh, parting her lips, shrugging her shoulders. But no air passed through her lungs. “I don't know how,” she said.

“You don't need to know how,” Volcrian replied, his voice strained. “It is in your nature. Just do as I say.” The bloodmage turned back to the sailors. More men had joined the crew, all sitting in front of the ship. Today was their scheduled departure date. If Malcolm had been in charge, they would be setting sail into the gray waters, on the hunt for tuna or mackerel. But Malcolm had yet to join them at the boat—he never would, Volcrian had ensured that—and so the crew waited, propped up on barrels, throwing dice and stuffing their faces.

“Are you finished?” he asked.

The priestess hesitated. “I think so.”

Volcrian opened one of the pouches and glanced inside. Satisfied, he started across the docks, weaving through a group of women haggling over clams. He passed by large coils of rope, some thicker than his forearm. Past a stray dog, an old man and two young children, dressed in rags.

The sailors glanced up as he approached them. He reached into his pocket and withdrew the title of the ship, then paused a few feet away from the group; sailors were notoriously superstitious. At times, they showed surprisingly keen intuition. He could tell that they were unnerved. They paused from their games, turning to look at him.

“Hello,” he said, a forced smile at his lips. “I am the new owner of this boat—and, I would hope, your new captain.”

The sailors stared for a long moment, taking in his blue cloak, his expensive—if weathered—boots. A few glanced at his long silver hair, suspicion in their eyes.

“Where's Malcolm?” one asked, a large man in a red tunic, a bandana wrapped around his shaggy brown hair.

“He's left town,” Volcrian said coldly. “I bought his store and his boat. And I would like to hire his crew.”

“You got coin?” a second man asked, a blond man with a cob pipe in his mouth.

“Better than coin,” Volcrian replied. He lifted up the two heavy purses He opened one of them, letting the men catch a glimpse of the gold dust inside. “Each is worth five-hundred gold, to be split evenly amongst you.”

The sailors' eyes widened. They glanced back and forth, raising eyebrows, curling lips. “Hell,” the blond man said. “That's quite a bit of coin.”

“To be paid upon our return,” Volcrian replied, and tucked the bags of sand back into his belt. The wind blew, pushing his cloak around him, brushing his hair across his face. He swept it back with a fine-boned hand. “ We will travel into deep waters for the fish I seek—further than you're used to, I expect. But you will be rich men upon your return.”

“What kind o' fish?” one of the sailors spat. “Marlin?”

“Yes. Among others,” Volcrian murmured.

A few of the sailors frowned. One of them stood up, an older man, perhaps in his forties. He shook his head. “Doesn't sit right with me,” he said. “I'll try my luck elsewhere.”

Volcrian watched him depart, his eyes narrow, calculating. Two other sailors stood up to leave. The rest stayed in place.

The one with the bandana called out to him. “How do we know you're going to pay us?”

Volcrian grinned slowly. “I'll pay you once we begin our return voyage. If I don't, you can throw me off the ship.”

The blond one grinned, showing blackened teeth around the corncob pipe. He leaned over to his mate, speaking softly. “Aye,” he whispered, “why not slit his throat now and be done with it?”

The sailors chuckled together. Volcrian's keen ears picked up every word, but he didn't flinch. If he had to, he could kill every single one of these men and raise them back from the dead, as obedient as his dear priestess. He didn't want to waste the energy or the time, but the thought made his blood pound, his fingers twitch eagerly. A deep, unknown hunger burned inside him, fueled by rage. Nothing would stand between him and his prey.

“I'll take the deal,” the sailor in the bandana said. He turned to glance at his fellows. “With any luck, the rest of this crew will quit. More gold for me.”

At his words, there were murmurs of agreement. A few more men rose to join him. Volcrian watched them count amongst each other, calculating their payment on their fingers. Four more stood. The remaining few took to the docks, walking quickly away.

Volcrian hooked the pouches of sand back to his belt. He nodded to the man in the red tunic and bandana. “I shall return at midnight with supplies. Be ready to cast off.” Then he turned away from the ship toward the docks. He casually linked arms with the priestess, nestling her hand in the nook of his elbow, almost chivalrous.

“Right, lads!” the man in the bandana called. He stood up, tucking a deck of cards into his belt. “Ready the boat! Pretty her up! We set sail tonight!”

Volcrian waited until they were out of earshot, then glanced to the priestess at his side. “Well done, my dear.”

“What are you going to do with them?” she asked, her voice a quiet rasp.

His eyes glinted. “Nothing...for now.”

* * *

Sora was tied to a tree. Her shoulder ached from the abuse. She flexed her fingers, checking the bonds. Plant fibers didn't make the strongest ropes. She thought that maybe, if she wiggled enough, she could slip one hand through. But she couldn't make her move yet. The men were still in plain sight.

They stood around a small fire nestled deep in the jungle. Full night had fallen. They were preparing their beds and chewing on the last strips of catfish from the smoke hut.

“I saw her first and I carried her all the way here. She's mine,” Benny was saying, waving his ax around. He had been muttering much the same for the past hour. She didn't like the fanatical gleam in his eye. He stood protectively in front of her, glaring at his fellows.

John Witherman looked displeased. He tucked his thumbs into his pants, his saber swinging at his side. “As the captain of our crew, I get the first pick of our bounty. I'll have her first, then you can take her.”

“I don't like going second,” Benny growled. “Besides, we ain't your crew anymore, not for the last seven years. Time for a new leader.”

John Witherman's eyes narrowed. “Are you challenging me?”

“Aye,” Benny replied seriously.

“Hold on,” the older cripple said. He stood slightly to the side of the campsite, out of the way. “You can't fight each other. We've already lost so many! Stand down, Benny. Mayhap we can toss a coin.”

“What coin?” Witherman snapped. He looked Benny solidly in the eye and drew his saber. “If he wants his neck slit over a woman, so be it.”

They discussed her rape casually, as though she were just a bit of stolen treasure. Sora glared at the three men, disgusted and infuriated. Benny had carried her the entire way through the jungle, groping and fondling at every opportunity. She felt violated and enraged. Too much rage, more anger than she had ever known.
Patience.
With any luck, the two would be at each other's throats. Soon she would make her move.

And do what?
her inner voice asked again. Her gut churned at the thought. But she couldn't leave these men alive to hunt her down. She had to survive no matter what. Everything had changed since the shipwreck. No one would come to rescue her. Burn was dead. Laina was dead. Crash....

She cringed at the thought of her lost companions. She was alone now, stranded on this island. She had to help herself.

“If you want her first, then try to stop me,” Benny said stubbornly. Then he whirled to face her.

Sora met his eyes and curled her lip in disgust.

Benny leered and started untying his pants. His hands shook with anticipation, and Sora could see a large bulge growing beneath his belt. She curled her legs up to her chest instinctively.

“Cut her bonds, will you, Fonsworth?” Benny said gruffly to the cripple. “Y'might have to hold her down at first. I'm a bit out of practice.” He winked at his companion.

Sora wanted to think better of the cripple, but Fonsworth's eyes grew bright with excitement. He hurried to her tree, limping across the campsite. “Don't hate me, little miss,” he said as he crouched behind the trunk. “It's been years since any of us have seen a woman...I'm sure you understand.”

The situation was quickly slipping out of control. A few more minutes and she might find herself underneath this scum. Sora made eye contact with Captain Witherman, who was fingering the hilt of his blade. She looked at him desperately, widening her eyes, simpering her lips.
At least, I hope this is how one simpers
. “Please,” she said, looking directly at him. “Please, I prefer you!”

Witherman frowned at her, then at Benny's back. In the blink of an eye, he drew his blade. “Never double-cross a pirate,” he growled, and lunged at Benny without further warning.

Benny dropped the strings of his pants. He turned on Witherman and swiped his ax to one side, deflecting the saber's blow. The two faced each other, faces red with rising passion. “I've had enough, Witherman!” Benny roared. “She's mine!”

Benny threw himself on Witherman. The two men stumbled backward, into the fire. They started yelling and screaming at each other, scattering the flames. Small embers caught light and the fire spread around their camp. The two men wrestled back and forth in a shoulder-lock, each trying to throw the other to the ground.

Perfect.
Sora took full advantage of the situation. Her ropes were loosened by Fonsworth and she slipped her hands free easily. She quickly jumped to her feet before the crippled man could respond. His walking stick rested at the base of the tree. She grabbed it and swung it firmly down on his head.
Crack!

The man crumpled to the ground, blood oozing down the back of his neck.

“Aye!” Benny called. “The wench is untied!”

Sora responded immediately. She leapt into the camp and gripped the walking stick with both hands. With a strangled battle cry, she brought it swinging down on Benny's head.

Benny twisted away from Witherman and threw up his arm.
Snap!
He caught the blow on his forearm. The wood shattered, splintering around the campsite. Benny roared in pain. Sora was certain that she had cracked his bone.

Benny fell to his knees, gripping his arm. He dropped his ax to the ground. Sora threw herself at the ax and scooped it out of the leaves, rolling back to her feet. Then she swung it at Benny's face.

Thunk.

The dull blade wedged into his cheek. Blood spattered. Chips of teeth flew through the air. Benny's scream increased in volume, reaching bloodcurdling intensity, but the man did not fall down. He reached out and grabbed Sora's legs, trying to drag her to the ground with him.

Sora felt cold and distant, removed from the fight; she was lost to her adrenaline, desperate to survive. She fell with Benny to the ground, coming out on top of him, and wrenched the ax from his face. Then, with a two-handed swing, she brought it down again—hacking at his hands, his chest, his neck, any piece of flesh that was exposed. Blood sprayed the air. Benny's screams saturated the night.

Then, finally, he fell silent.

Sora paused, sitting astride the body. She wiped the droplets of blood from her face. Her hands were shaking, her breath heaving. She stared down at the man beneath her and shuddered. Her heart raced. She couldn't look away from his ruined, tattered face. With a twinge of horror, she noted that Benny was still breathing—barely. Considering the amount of blood-loss, he would die soon.

She was shocked at herself. She had fought before...but never like this.

Suddenly, someone grabbed the back of her head.

John Witherman dragged her head up. He briefly looked into her face, snarled, then slammed her forward, shoving her off Benny's body and into the dirt. He landed on her back. Sora struggled to throw him off, but the captain was unexpectedly strong, fueled by rage. He pressed her face into the ground, suffocating her.

“You bitch,” he seethed. “You killed my best mate!” He tightened his grip, uprooting a lock of hair. Sora cried out in pain, dirt filling her mouth. “Seven years on this island—these men were my family! You nasty wench! Now I'm going to make you suffer!”

He grabbed her left arm and dragged it behind her, back and up. Pain shot threw her from the unnatural position. She tried to turn, to break free—but he was too strong. With an audible
pop
, the bone slid out of place.