REBECCA F. KENNEY

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2022 by Rebecca F. Kenney

All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author's intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at rfkenney@gmail.com. Thank you for your support of the author's rights.

First Edition: January 2022

Kenney, Rebecca F.

Captive of the Pirate King / by Rebecca F. Kenney—First edition.

TRIGGER WARNINGS

Violence, reference to a past abusive relationship,

Murder, threat of rape, forced tattoo,

Brief mention of childhood sexual abuse

DEDICATION

To all the Kindle Vella readers who gobbled up these episodes and made me realize that I’m not the only one with a pirate kink.

You’re the BEST.

PLAYLIST

“Black Sea” Natasha Blume

“My Jolly Sailor Bold” Ashley Serena

“Wellerman” Nathan Evans

“The Storm” TheFatRat, Maisy Kay

“Glitter and Gold” Barns Courtney

“We Shall Sail Together” Sea of Thieves

“Ship in a Bottle” fin

“willow” Taylor Swift

“All for Rum” Captain Hellfire and the Wretched Brethen

“The Captain’s Dance” Marcus Warner

“Pretty Places” Aly & AJ

“Who Are You” RAIGN

“Morning Tide” Poets of the Fall

“Dirty Little Secret” The All-American Rejects

“Savages” MARINA

“Captain Gangplank” League of Legends

“Come At Me” Hidden Citizens, Jung Youth

“Godhunter” Aviators

“Stupid Love” Main-De-Gloire

“You’re Exhausting” Beth Crowley

“What Left of Me” Nick Lachey

“Ooh Child” Raya Yarborough, Bear McCreary

“The Killing Kind” Marianas Trench

“Speechless” Dan + Shay

“The Lie Eternal” Poets of the Fall

“Hurricane” Fleurie

“Master of Tides” Lindsey Stirling

“Pirates Medley” Peter Hollens, Gardiner Sisters

“ocean eyes” Billie Eilish

“Orinoco Flow” Enya

“Witness the Masterpiece” Ganyos

SPOTIFY PLAYLIST

1

The floor skews wildly beneath my feet as I stagger along the narrow corridor belowdecks.

I slam a palm against the rough wood to brace myself. Seawater sloshes around my ankles, and a reek fills my nostrils—dead fish, salt, and the acrid sting of gunpowder and smoke. Somewhere overhead, the cannon cracks again—a futile measure, because the pirates will be boarding us any minute now.

These pirates fly the Crowned Skull-and-Bones, the symbol of the Pirate King. Which means they won’t take any women prisoner. They never do. They’ll slaughter the men or take them as slaves, and leave the women to go down with the ship.

Few women have survived being left adrift with a wreck. Not that many women sail the Shorn Seas anyway. Too dangerous.

I’m one of the few women stupid enough—or desperate enough—to pay for passage on a merchant vessel headed out of the safer coastal waters and into wilder seas.

And now I’m about to be left for chum in the shark-infested deep.

I stumble into my cabin, a tiny square with a short bunk and a miniscule washstand. As I scrabble under the bunk and drag my travel chest out, my fingernail snags on the wood and rips painfully.

I shuck off my dress, my shoes, my stockings, and my underthings. My brother’s old knife, the one he gave me years ago, is strapped inside the lid of the trunk; I disengage it quickly and set to work cutting the bedsheet into strips. When the ship rocks again, I nearly impale myself on the blade by accident, but thankfully the only damage is a bloody scratch down my arm. Not a bad idea to be a little bloodied if I want my ruse to work.

I wind the strips of the sheet around my chest, binding my breasts down as flat as I can. Despite the urgency, I make myself slow down and take the time to do the job right, because those telltale lumps of flesh are my passage to the bottom of the sea.

When I made this plan, I never thought I’d have to implement it. It was always sort of a hazy notion in my mind, a just-in-case thought. If I’d been smart, I’d have had cloth strips cut and waiting. But I didn’t. At least I had the forethought to stuff a loose brown shirt and a pair of coarse trousers in among my things.

I knot some cloth around my hips and crotch to make a very slight bulge at the front of my trousers. Pulling on the trousers and the shirt takes only a moment. And then there’s the matter of my hair.

I unwrap the braid from around my head and shear through it at the root. Then I saw off a few more chunks of hair, but the ship is groaning and canting perilously now, and I don’t dare bring the blade too near my head and face again.

After sheathing the knife, I jam it into my waistband. Next I wrap my head in some of the cloth strips, rubbing my bloodied arm over the ragged mess and streaking some blood along my face.

My features were a drawback at home—too pert and insolent, too thickly spotted with brown freckles. People complimented my pretty mouth and my stunning green eyes, rimmed with thick black lashes, and then they always added, “What a pity about her skin.”

My mother tried everything to lighten my freckles—a myriad concoctions purchased from peddlers and our local apothecary—but nothing worked. My skin was irrevocably plastered with the brown spots.

And now they just might save my life. Because what self-respecting lady of Ivris would have skin like mine?

But a ragged, bloodied cabin boy might have freckles as plentiful as the stars in the sky.

I can’t stay in my cabin much longer. Thumping boots, bellowed threats, and mocking laughter warn me that the pirates are aboard now, fighting hand to hand with the crew.

Wrenching open the porthole window in my cabin, I stuff all my female things through it. One by one the items plop into the undulating sea—everything, down to the last set of smallclothes, the last corset, the last hair comb. My heart shrinks to see all my possessions go—but life is more important.

But I clutch my family ring in my hand. I can’t throw it overboard. It’s the only thing I have to identify me to my brother when I finally find him.

I can't let the pirates see it—they won't believe that a mere cabin boy possesses such a treasure. I tuck it into the binding around my chest and pray it will stay there. If the pirates search me thoroughly, a family ring will be the least of my worries.

The ring is hidden not a moment too soon, because the shouts overhead are growing vehement, triumphant. A sharp order breaks through the din. "Let's get those valuables out of the hold, boys!"

The pirates will be descending the ladder any second, and I must not be found in a private cabin. As the self-appointed cabin boy, I need to be discovered in the galley.

I lurch out of the cabin and reel along the passage, stumbling into the galley.

Lucky for me, our cabin boy was lost to fever a week into the voyage. He was sequestered lest he infect others, and I volunteered to take him his meals and medicines until he passed. I kept a cloth tied over my mouth and doused my hands in liquor after every encounter with him, and somehow I escaped falling ill myself.

The sailors and the captain noted my act of kindness. They barely tolerated me before that, but ever since the boy’s death they have treated me with respect.

No one is in the galley when I stagger inside. The cook, a burly brawling man, is on deck fighting alongside everyone else.

I wedge myself between two barrels and wait, soaked and bloody, clasping my knees and shivering with a nervous panic I don’t have to fake.

There’s another secret I have to protect even more closely than my gender. A power that I hide deep within myself, one that only a handful of people know I have. A magic that neither the merchant sailors nor the pirates can know about.

If this doesn’t work, I’m done.

I won’t find my brother.

Hell, I won’t make it through the day alive.

2

Booted feet tromp along the corridor, and a tall figure shoulders his way into the galley. He’s rangy and long-limbed, with a dirty, ragged shirt that gapes open across his well-cut chest. A stained red kerchief is bound around his head, and he wears a patch over one eye. Two belts hang crooked across his hips, and from them dangle a sword and at least three sheathed knives of different shapes and sizes. A tiny hoop glints along the upper edge of one ear.

He doesn’t even look at me, just heads for the drawers where the ship’s cook kept supplies. Two other men enter behind him, and together the trio collect bags of meal, flour, sugar, and salt. They grab kegs of oil and boxes of biscuit, tins of meat and jars of jam. They leave without saying a word to me.

I stay put, chewing my lower lip. They’ll probably return for the rest of the stores. We had a long voyage ahead, and the captain of this merchant ship likes to eat well. Unlike most captains, he made sure that everyone else aboard ate well also.

Minutes later the same three pirates troop into the galley again, piling their arms with more edible loot—bags of apples, sacks of potatoes, rashers of bacon. As they’re about to leave the galley, the one with the patch fixes his good eye straight on me.

His eye is so pale it’s nearly white. I can’t tell if its true color is very light blue or very light green. I get the strange feeling he noticed me earlier and just hasn’t bothered with me until now.

“Come on, boy,” he says roughly. “Unless you’d rather take your chance with the beasts of the deep when we scuttle this rig.”

Boy. The word burrows into my chest, soothing the worst of my nerves. At least I have this man convinced.

I scramble up and follow the pirates onto the deck.

It’s a bloody mess. Sails have been shredded, railings splintered, barrels knocked askew. Bodies lie slumped here and there on deck. There’s a broad plank connecting the two ships, and across it the goods from the merchant vessel are being carried, chests and casks and bolts of fine cloth wrapped in canvas.

In the center of the deck, by the mainmast, stands what’s left of our ship’s crew. Their hands have been bound in front of them. Some of them have faces so bruised and swollen they’re unrecognizable, but I’m able to pick out Cauley, the first mate, and Jinks, the navigator. Jinks looks up and catches my eye, and a startled flash of recognition passes across his weathered face. Beneath the sandy bristle of his mustache, his mouth moves—a muttered curse, I think.

And here is another test of my disguise. Those who’ve sailed with me know who I really am. I must count on them to keep my gender a secret. They seem to like me well enough—I’ve been an undemanding and helpful passenger. There’s no reason for any of them to reveal me to the pirates.

“Over there, boy, with the others,” growls Eye-Patch.

As I head for the knot of surviving sailors, I jam my bare foot against something. It’s a boot—the captain’s boot—finely tooled leather, with a thick cuff encircling black pants. My eye follows the line of his leg all the way up to the gaping cavity of his chest. Rib bones protrude from the meaty orifice. His eyes stare glassy at the sky.

Bile rises in my throat and I gag.

“Ho there, don’t be sick all over them fine boots,” calls one of the invaders. “Locke, pull ’em dandy duds off the dead captain and bring ’em along.”

“My arms are full,” protects Locke, the eye-patch pirate. “You, boy—take the boots off him.”

He doesn’t pause to confirm my obedience, but clomps across the plank to the pirate ship.

I take a few seconds to ogle the pirate vessel—sleek and trim, with lines that whisper of speed and masts like the spires of a palace. It’s an immense ship, but somehow it manages to avoid the bulkiness of this merchant vessel.

Remembering my task, I grip the captain’s boots and pull them off him. Both the pirates who showed an interest in the boots have gone onto the other ship. I look down at my own feet—bare and tender, with delicate ankles and dainty toes. Why does my body insist on looking so damn feminine?

Gritting my teeth, I pull on the dead captain’s boots. They’re enormous on me, but better than nothing. The captain would have wanted me to have them. He would want to help me survive, to protect myself.

A shout erupts from the plank where the two ships are joined. One man wobbles as the board tilts, and he’s nearly dumped into the sea along with the cask of ale he carries.

“Sea’s gettin’ rough!” calls a pirate. “Time to go, boys!”

The captive sailors are hustled along the plank to the pirate ship. Before I can cross, the merchant vessel groans, tilting, and one of the prisoners sways and pitches off the board, dropping down into the foam with a shriek and a splash.

Everyone else hurries across, and then the plank is removed. “It’s the ropes for the rest of you!” shouts a pirate.

I’m left on the merchant ship with another member of my former crew and two of the pirates. The pirates cut the sailor loose so he can grip one of the ropes that trail from the rigging.

They’re going to swing across to the other ship.

My stomach drops.

I have a deathly fear of heights, and practically no upper body strength. Swinging across that gap, from deck to deck, trying to grasp a massive ship’s rope in my small hands, while dark water churns two or three stories below—it’s not going to happen. I can’t do it.

If I happen to fall, I’m dead, because I can’t swim.

3

One by one, the others swing across to the pirate ship.

I’m the only one left aboard the merchant vessel. I’m certain the pirates won’t wait for me, and I’m equally certain I won’t be able to swing across that gap on my own.

But if I can’t manage it, I’ll die.

And then who’s going to look for my brother?

Nobody else cares about him. My parents have shut him out of their minds, given him up for dead. But I can’t. I refuse to believe that I won’t ever see him again.

Setting my jaw, I reach for a rope. As I thought, it’s enormously thick, and my slim fingers look weak and pale closed around it.

A voice speaks over my shoulder, startling me. I thought I was the only one left, but Eye-Patch—Locke—stands behind me, his full mouth twisted with disapproval. “I knew you were a cowardly one when I saw you in the galley, boy, but this is beyond the pale. Get on with it!”

I don’t dare answer him. I’ll have to learn to pitch my voice low enough to fool these men without sounding ridiculous, but I don’t trust myself to utter words right now. If I try, I’ll probably end up voicing a very feminine squeak of terror.

“Leap, or be left behind,” says Locke, irritation sharpening his tone.

I grip the rope tighter and step onto the railing. Weakened by cannon fire, it sways outward and I nearly scream—

A brawny arm wraps around my waist, pulling me back to safety. “Fine, then. You hold this—” Locke shoves a bottle of wine at me— “and we’ll nip over there together. But you better make your scrawny ass useful, or I’ll drop you over the side myself.”

I nod vigorously, clutching the wine. It’s from the captain’s cabin, and a fine vintage. No wonder this Locke person went back for it.

Locke grips the rope with a powerful hand and wraps his other arm around me again, pinning me with my back to his chest. I nearly gasp, because part of his forearm is pressed against my bound breasts. They’re a smallish size, but definitely noticeable. I can only hope the binding and the peril of our crossing distract him from any lumpiness he might feel.

As for me, there’s an illicit warmth snaking through my body at the proximity of the muscled male body to mine. A salty, bitter musk emanates from him, sweat and blood mingled with the sting of the sea. He steps onto the rail, holding both his weight and mine with one arm as if it’s nothing. I grip the wine bottle and bite my lip until blood pulses from it, as the deck falls away and I’m suspended, propelled through whistling space.

We crash onto the deck of the pirate ship—well, I crash and he alights much too gracefully for such a tall person. Somehow I manage not to break the wine bottle.

The toe of a boot nudges me, and a new voice asks, “Who’s this, then?”

I look up—way up, into the face of a man with a neatly oiled goatee and a long blue-black braid. He wears a coat of azure leather and a large hat bedecked with peacock plumage. Metal studs travel the arch of one eyebrow, and his angled eyes are black-lined.

The pirate captain.

I get to my feet, leaning into my natural clumsiness, abandoning every bit of grace that’s been hammered into me. Ducking my head, I hold out the bottle of wine.

“Cabin boy, sir,” says Locke. “Seems to be a mute.”

“Is he now?” The pirate captain sweeps a hand beneath my chin and tilts my face up. “I doubt that. By the stars, he has pretty eyes. Give us your name, lad.”

Veronica. But that can’t be my name anymore. “Nick,” I say hoarsely.

“Welcome aboard, Nick.” The pirate captain inspects one side of my face, then the other. He squeezes my upper arm through my shirt. “Not much to you, is there?”

“No, sir.”

“Too bad.” The captain nods to Locke. “Too weak. Toss him.”

“Aye, Captain.” Locke picks me up bodily, and this time one of his hands is over my left breast—but I barely register it as he walks to the railing.

He’s going to dump me over the side. He’s lifting me, ready to heave me overboard—

And then he stops.

Barely breathing, stomach coiling in knots, I look up at him. But he’s not looking at my face; he’s looking at my feet.

“The captain’s boots,” he says slowly. “You put them on.”

“What’s that?” the pirate captain asks.

“I told this boy to take off the merchant captain’s fine boots. And he did. See? He put them on himself.”

The pirate captain stares at me, a waifish scrap of freckles and blood and rags, with my very fine black boots sticking up over Locke’s arm.

The pirate crew and the merchant sailors fall quiet, watching us.

And then the captain throws back his head and laughs. “A young thief with spirit!” he says. “Steal from the rich and give to the poor—which is ourselves, am I right, lads?” The pirates voice a guttural roar.

“That’s our way,” the Captain continues. “And you, boy, have got it by heart. We’re a big ship, and we could use an extra cabin boy to help with cooking and serving and cleaning. You could find a place here.”

Hope bubbles inside me, so fervent I nearly throw up right then. Locke sets me down, and I force myself to stand up straight.

“But you’ll not steal from me,” continues the pirate captain, unsheathing a slim, glittering dagger. “Or I’ll take this blade and run it through here—” he places the tip under my chin— “right into your brain. What say you? The deep or my galley?”

“Your galley,” I say in as low and rough a tone as I can manage.

“The galley it is!” he crows, arms lifted, turning to face his men. They cheer raucously, and the pirate captain moves on to the next member of the merchant crew, posing a similar choice to him.

A large hand descends on my shoulder and turns me around. Locke stares into my face with his one pale eye. “I’ll be needing those boots. They look a bit large on you anyway.”

He’s right. My feet are practically swimming in them.

“I have no others,” I tell him.

“We’re a pirate ship, boy. We’ve got clothes and boots to spare. Surely there’s a pair among the loot that’s more suited to your size, and to your place here. Off with those, now.”

But I’m not baring my feminine feet to a shipload of pirates.

“I’ll take them off when I have new ones to put on,” I counter.

Locke’s grip on my shoulder tightens at the insolence. “Watch yourself,” he says. “The Captain’s had men whipped for less. We honor the chain of command aboard ship, and I’m your superior in more ways than one. Move your bony ass. We’ll go below and fetch you some boots.”

Belowdecks, the corridor is crammed with swag that the pirates haven’t had time to stow. There’s a sack of clothes and shoes atop a chest, and Locke shuffles around in it before drawing out a pair of sturdy half-boots.

“These’ll do.” He passes them to me. “Now hand over the others.”

“You go on up.” I sit atop the chest and nod to the ladder. “I’m sure your captain needs you. I’ll deliver the boots to you in a moment.”

His frown deepens. “What’s with you and those boots?”

“What’s with you and these boots?” I retort, before I can stop myself.

His good eye flashes, and he lunges for me, catching one of my feet by the heel. I kick at him reflexively, knocking him in the jaw with my other boot.

“You must have a death wish,” he growls, yanking on my foot until I slip off the chest and my back slams onto the floor. With one hand wrapped around my calf, he yanks the boot off with the other.

My foot is exposed—dainty arch and delicate ankle and all. Locke freezes, staring at it.

4

Locke gazes at my foot a moment, and then he laughs. “No wonder you were embarrassed. You have feet like a woman’s. Don’t let the captain see these.” He tweaks my toe. “He’s not particular, the captain. When it comes to bedmates, anyone will do, long as the hole is tight and the flesh is soft. He’s as like to take a boy to bed as a female.”

I swallow hard, my dry throat aching.

Locke’s warm thick fingers around my ankle are making my stomach flutter strangely. I’ve felt this way before, one too many times. These feelings always end with a flurry of hastily discarded clothes, rhythmic panting, and a burst of incandescent pleasure. They never last beyond that initial heady glee.

I’ve tried to fall in love, truly I have—but every man I’ve bedded has either bored or disgusted me within a day or two of the act. Some of them didn’t even take me beyond that crest of pleasure. They left me aching, wanting, mad with frustration.

It’s just as well that I don’t have the option of bedding this well-toned pirate with the large comfortable hands.

Locke releases my foot. “Hurry up and put those on.” He nods to the half-boots. “And when you’re done, report straight to Cook in the galley. The less Captain Neelan sees of you, the less likely he is to change his mind and have you tossed overboard.”

As he begins to mount the ladder I say, “Please—where are we bound?”

“We’ve got a good haul,” Locke replies over his shoulder. “We’ll be heading for Ravensbeck to unload it.”

“Ravensbeck,” I murmur. “The mysterious pirate haven? The one that none of the seven allied kings have been able to find?”

“The same.”

He disappears up the ladder. Quickly I lace up my new boots and shuffle along the corridor, sniffing my way toward the heavy odor of sizzling fat and herbs.

Galleys are always near the rear of a ship, and great precautions must be taken to avoid a fire spreading throughout the vessel. Like the merchant ship, this pirate vessel is big enough to have a large galley, with an iron stove that hangs by chains from the beams above and is stabilized by more chains bolted to the floor. Even in rough seas, when the ship pitches about, the stove can swing with the motion and never touch the walls.

The floor of the galley is lined with sheets of tin, and there’s a barrel of sand nearby for fire prevention. The sheer size of the space impresses me—it’s bigger than the galley on the merchant vessel. Vegetables and fruit hang on strings or in bags from the ceiling, and they look surprisingly fresh. There’s an enormous wheel of cheese in a square dish on the table, a knife jutting from it.

The merchant sailors told me stories of other ships where the captain and officers ate delectable food and served the men only the cheapest preserved tack. “We’re lucky,” they told me, “lucky that the captain values our health as well as his own. Many a good sailor has turned pirate just for the promise of good liquor and all the fresh food he could eat.”

Looking around at this galley, I can believe that a malnourished sailor might consider turning pirate for such luxury.

The stove is swinging right now, proof of the roughening seas outside. The cook works over a cast-iron pan inset into the heated surface, pushing onions about in grease that hisses and spits.

He must have started cooking right after the battle concluded. No self-respecting sea cook would have the flames going during a fight—unless he was the reckless type. Or very confident that his side would win quickly.

The cook is a thin, leathery man with tattoos winding up both arms. He wears baggy pants, a thick apron, and a shirt with torn-off sleeves. He glances my way, rubbing his nose with a lean wrist. His eyebrows bristle wild over sharp gray eyes.

“Who are you?” he says.

“New cabin boy,” I mutter. “I’m Nick.”

“From the Wending Willow?” he asks, referring to the merchant ship.

I nod, trying to look downcast and grateful and angry all at the same time. Which isn’t difficult, because I’m feeling every one of those emotions, and a few more besides.

“Welcome to the Ardent. We’ve got a cabin boy,” says the cook. “But he’s goddam useless. You a good worker?”

Am I a good worker? I honestly don’t know. Growing up in a wealthy family afforded me a certain amount of privilege—and a certain amount of disadvantage, too, because I know very little of manual labor. Or cooking. Or anything, really.

A sudden pang shoots through my heart, the desperate wish that I had stayed where I was—safe and wealthy. Betrothed to a dull duke who was so nearsighted he didn’t mind my splotched face—someone who would provide for me throughout the rest of my life. I would have been welcome at Court for years to come, issued invitations to every important gathering, eagerly befriended by women of lower rank who wanted to raise themselves by clinging to me.

I could have concealed my magic easily for the rest of my life, and never been tempted to use it at all.

Instead I stand bloody and dejected, disguised as a boy, staring into the galley of a pirate ship.

“I’m new to the work,” I say. “But I learn fast. And I want to survive here.”

Something akin to respect sparks in the cook’s gray eyes. “Honesty. I like it. Well, boy, you can begin by peeling those potatoes.” He nods at a nearby basket. “Grab that knife and get to work.”

Peeling the skins from the potatoes takes more finesse than I expected, but I soon get the hang of it. I’m glad for the solidity of the vegetables, for the smooth wood of the knife handle against my palm.

Soon I make a game of it, to see if I can get the skins off in one long curl with as little waste of the starchy flesh as possible. It’s a distraction from the other images that keep flashing into my mind—my possessions, plopping into the sea. The merchant captain’s chest, gaping bloody and broken.

When I’m about halfway through the basket, a boy shuffles into the galley. He’s fourteen or so, if I had to guess—round-faced and narrow-eyed. He peers at me, frowning. “Who’s that?”

“That’s Nick,” says Cook. “He’ll be helping in the kitchen. That doesn’t mean you can slack off, you lug. Just because you’re the captain’s cousin doesn’t mean I’ll allow you to play the layabout.”

“But he’ll do the serving, right?” The other boy looks pleased. “He’ll be the one trotting back and forth with the food. I rank higher than him, because he’s new. How old are you, boy?”

The abrupt question drives every logical thought from my head. I’m twenty as a woman, but as a beardless boy—I should probably be about—“Sixteen,” I say.

“Right. I’m Dez. Cousin to Captain Neelan. I outrank you.”

“Whatever you say,” I mutter, focusing on my potato peels.

For the next hour or so—as nearly as I can guess by the light of the narrow galley windows—I peel and chop potatoes, cut up carrots, and stir the stew pot. At last Cook gives me a wide rectangular basket with a broad strap that fits over my shoulder. He wedges stew bowls into the basket, their rims bracing each other.

“Take that up to the men,” he says. “They’ll be hungry after the day’s work.”

Right. The day’s work of slaughtering the crew of the Wending Willow. Of stealing all the goods bound for other lands, goods that won’t ever reach their intended destination.

This pirate captain may think himself justified in taking from the rich. He may view himself as some bold buccaneer, a hero of the high seas. I see him for what he is—a common thief.

But I can’t let my opinion show. I have to conceal it, along with everything else about myself.

It’s a more difficult chore than I expect, because when I emerge on deck and start handing out the food, the Captain heads straight for me.

5

“I want to speak with you, cabin boy,” says the captain in a low voice. “Finish handing out those bowls to the men, and then bring my share to my cabin.”

My stomach twists, but the only acceptable answer is, “Yes, Captain.”

He nods and strides off.

After a few more trips to the galley and back, nearly all the bowls have been delivered. Last of all, I deliver a share to the captives from the Wending Willow. They’ve all agreed to serve aboard the pirate vessel. I don’t blame them for wanting to live—few have the courage to take a stand against piracy when it means a dip in a shark-infested ocean.

Cauley, the first mate on the merchant ship, accepts the bowl without looking at me, as do the other sailors—except for Jinks, the navigator. He looks up at me, mouthing the ends of his sandy mustache. The calculation in his eyes unnerves me. His fingertips trail slowly over my wrist when he takes his bowl, and I move on from him as quickly as I can, my heart pounding.

When I return to the galley, I approach Cook. “The captain wants me to take his share to his cabin.”

Cook nods, dishing up a more generous portion of stew and garnishing it with herbs. He adds a large chunk of bread, a slice of cheese, and a tankard of something that smells sharply alcoholic.

The other cabin boy, Dez, shoulders me aside. “I’ll take this to the captain.”

“He said that I was to go,” I venture. “He wants to speak to me.”

Dez frowns, dark as a thundercloud, but he moves aside.

“You’ll fetch the empty bowls, Dez,” orders Cook. “Hurry. There’s foul weather on the way.”

Carefully I balance the captain’s dinner tray on my hip, climbing the ladder one-handed until I reach the deck. The sky roils with thick, dark clouds, and the ship rises and dips on the choppy sea. A blast of sea spray and rain speckles my face, and I squint against it, trying to shield the captain’s meal with my hand.

There’s a brittle energy on deck, a tight-mouthed purpose to each pirate’s movements. They ignore me completely, intent on whatever preparations they’re making—tying things down, adjusting sail, fiddling with ropes whose purpose I haven’t learned.

I’ve been lucky so far—I haven’t had to endure any storms at sea. The Wending Willow had smooth sailing from our port city. But if Cook is right, I may soon be in for my first experience of violent sea weather.

When I reach the captain’s cabin, I rap tentatively at the door. Then I think better of the anemic tap and knock harder.

“Enter,” calls a voice.

I open the door halfway and sidle through into the warm glow of the cabin.

Captain Neelan sits at a glossy desk, his booted feet propped up. He’s re-plaiting his long black braid.

“Set it there, boy.” He nods to a recessed area of the desk, designed to keep items from sliding off when the ship pitches and rolls. “Nick, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I need some information, Nick. About your crew.”

“Whatever you need, sir.”

“See, one of my men reported seeing some women’s odds and bobs floating about in the ocean near the Wending Willow, right before we scuttled her. The rest of your crew claim there was no woman aboard, but you see, I’ve got a nose for the truth, and I’m not certain they’re telling it. So I’m asking you, lad—did your ship have women aboard?”

My lungs seize up for a second, but my brain doesn’t, thankfully. I slump my shoulders and retreat a couple steps from the circle of lantern light. “Well sir, we did have a woman aboard. My older sister. When we saw your ship’s flag, we put her in a skiff and sent her away.”

“And why would you do that?”

“We figured her chances would be better that way. Everyone knows that the Pirate King’s ships don’t take women alive.”

Another voice speaks from a shadowy corner of the cabin. “And why do you think that is?”

The figure leans forward a little, and I catch the gleam of Locke’s pale eye, the scarlet of his headwrap.

“I suppose the Pirate King thinks it’s bad luck to have women aboard,” I say as gruffly as I can. “An antiquated notion in my opinion.”

“Antiquated notion,” murmurs Captain Neelan. “You seem well-educated, lad. Come closer.”

I shuffle nearer.

“Give me your hand.”

Swallowing hard, I stretch one hand out to the captain. My hands are small, with slim tapered fingers. But they’re also dirty and bruised, with ragged nails.

Captain Neelan takes my hand and massages it with his fingers. “Soft, weak hands. The hands of a runaway from a rich family, perhaps? Were you and your sister fleeing something?”

I scuff my soles against the floor, slumping my shoulders even further.

“Answer the captain,” Locke warns.

“Yes, sir, we were runaways,” I reply. The best lies stick close to the truth, after all.

“Well, you’ve fallen in with a rough lot, boy.” Neelan chuckles, spearing the piece of cheese with his knife and taking a bite from it. “But we were all scrappy young runaways once. Work hard, learn all you can, and you might make your fortune yet. As for your sister, she’s not likely to survive the coming storm. My condolences. Now go and help Locke with the ropes. Best to start toughening you up now. No pirate worth his salt has hands like these.”

When Locke shoulders past me, I follow him meekly out on deck. The rain has begun, a light mist that beads on my lashes.

“Grab that rope and pull when I tell you to.” Locke points to a massive rope hanging from the rigging.

I wrap my fingers around it gingerly.

“You’ll need a better hold than that. Here. Like this.” He comes up behind me, reaching around me to grip the rope just above my hands. His fingers are comically huge compared to mine, and the contrast makes my breath catch.

His chest is at my back, and his arms are rain-slicked bars of sinew on either side of me. Heat from his body seeps through my ragged shirt, right into my skin.

His voice is low by my ear. “You haven’t ever handled anything that long and thick, have you?”

“What?” I gasp, blinking through the rain. “I—I don’t—oh, you mean the rope.”

“What else would I mean?”

I shrug, my face burning. I’m glad for the cooling effect of the rain.

“You can learn to handle it,” he says. “With practice. You have to be willing to stretch yourself, to expand. To try new things.”

Stretch myself, expand—oh gods.

Is it my imagination, or is there a smile in his voice? I twist around, but his face looks impassive. This close I can tell that under the grime and the eye-patch and the dark scruff along his jaw, his features are handsome.

Locke lets go of the rope and takes a step back.

“Slide your hands down a bit,” he says quietly. “And pull.”

I’m melting inside, throbbing and tingling, but somehow I manage to do what he asks. I’m not strong enough, of course, and he has to step in to help me. Which means his arms are folded around me again, and as we pull the rope together my rear bumps his crotch lightly. He emits a low huff.

“Move,” he orders, and I duck under his arm and skitter away, frantic and fluttering. He’s a beautiful sight, his forearms flexing and gleaming in the rain, his long legs braced and his lean body tightened with effort as he hauls on the rope.

He ties it off and turns to me, looking me up and down. “You’re wet.”

Yes. Yes I am.

I have no excuse, except that I’ve never been around a man like this—a man unencumbered with social expectations and the niceties of proper behavior. Locke is raw masculine power, more handsome and less smelly than most of the seamen I’ve encountered.

Gods, my bar is set very low.

“You need to go take care of that?” Locke points to my pants, and I nearly sink into the deck, certain that somehow he can smell or sense that I want him. But when I look down, I see that the cloth I knotted around my hips has gone crooked, and is now poking out way farther than it should. It looks as if I’m—aroused. In a very male way. Also it looks like I have a very crooked penis.

“Nothing to be ashamed of.” Locke looks perfectly serious, but his one eye sparkles. “Nerves, excitement—and you’re young. I remember when I was your age I would yank my piece every few hours if I got the chance.”

“Oh, um—yes. I love—I love yanking it and—and squeezing it—”

He arches an eyebrow. “Squeezing?”

“I mean, no—um—Excuse me.” I start to walk away. Then I turn back. “Where’s the head?”

“At the bow of the ship. But it’s probably occupied—Binton gets the runs whenever a storm’s brewing. Just do it over the side.”

This is possibly the most humiliating moment of my life. Because I do have to pee, and I need to adjust my makeshift underclothes so it won’t look like I’m sporting the world’s weirdest erection. But I need to do all of that without completely undressing, and without being caught.

Stiffly I walk to the side of the ship. Then I move along the railing until a collection of tied-down crates shield me somewhat from Locke’s view.

Partly hidden by the darkness, the crates, and the misting rain, I manage to crouch and do my business with more or less accurate aim. Then I fix the cloth wrapping and stand up, refastening my pants.

As I round the pile of boxes, I come face to face with Jinks, the mustached navigator of the Wending Willow.

He puts a hand to my chest and shoves me back behind the crates.

6

“Clever little wench, aren’t you?” says Jinks. “Tricky. I like my women tricky. Usually means they’re wilder in the sack.”

“Hush!” I say desperately. “You can’t tell anyone I’m not a boy. They’ll throw me overboard if you do.”

His hand snakes around my waist, pressing my lower back, and he rolls his hips against mine. “The way I figure, you and I should be able to come to a little arrangement,” he says. “I keep your secret, and you—” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.

“No.”

His small eyes harden. “You don’t have a choice, love. You can’t scream, or as you said, they’ll toss you over the side. So be quiet and take your lovin’ like a good girl.”

“Look, just—wait. We can work something else out. I have access to the galley—I can get you the best food and drink—”

But he’s shaking his head, crowding me against the boxes.

If I fight him, the noise could draw unwanted attention.

I could use my magic. It would be quiet, and deadly. But I’d rather not go that far if I have any other choice. I hate what my power does to me—what it turns me into. It’s the very last resort.

“Give us a kiss, love.” Jinks’ hot foul breath sears my lips, and his bristly mustache scrapes my nose. His hands circle my hips.

Last resort it is, then.

I part my lips and accept his kiss, and the slither of his tongue.

Then I bite. I pinch the slippery muscle between my teeth until blood pulses hot and bitter in my mouth.

Jinks yelps and tries to pull back, but I have him by the tongue, and I hold him tight for another second, until his blood has coated my inner cheeks and my teeth. I try not to think about the diseases he might be carrying.

When I release him, he sways backward, whimpering. “What was that for?” Then rage sparks in his eye. “You bitch. Now you’ll pay.”

“No,” I say softly. “You will. Jump overboard.”

Immediately he turns, grips the railing, and vaults over it into the sea. He doesn’t scream. The rushing waves and hissing rain drown any splash he made.

I sag against the crates, my soul hollowing out. I can practically feel it growing a shade darker.

When I was five my brother scraped his knee down to the bone. I tried to kiss it better, and some of his blood got into my mouth. When I begged him to stop crying, he did, with a suddenness that startled me. Curious, I tried a few more commands, all of which he obeyed.

That’s when I discovered I can control people through their blood. With the taste of it on my tongue, I can make them do anything I want. The control only lasts for a minute, so it’s impractical as a long-term solution. I couldn’t have made Jinks keep my secret indefinitely. Which meant that a quick and quiet murder was my only option.

He was a creep and a would-be rapist. The world is better off without him.

So why do I feel so horribly dirty and wretched?

I’ve wondered if I could extend the control by drinking a greater quantity of someone’s blood. But I haven’t had the opportunity to test that theory, nor do I want to. The very idea of a person’s blood sloshing around in my stomach, fueling my perverse power, makes me sick.

Tears rise along with my nausea, and I grip the railing as the ship bucks over an especially large wave.

I have to get the taste of Jinks out of my mouth. I need a very strong drink.

But as I stagger out from behind the boxes, the rain increases in intensity, each drop stinging my flesh. I careen across the shiny wet deck, heading for the door that leads belowdecks.

Another violent heave of the sea, and the ship rolls sideways. I slide terrifyingly fast across the deck, clenching my teeth to keep my scream inside. I’m heading for the railing—I’m going to be pitched right over it—

A large hand clamps around my arm, yanking my shoulder painfully. “What are you still doing up here?” Locke shouts. “Get below, or tie yourself to something!”

I scrape wet clumps of my hair out of my eyes and nod.

He lets me go, and this time I make it to the door just as a mighty crack of thunder splits the sky. I nearly jump out of my skin and scamper below like a wet rat.

The storm lasts for hours. I help Cook secure things in the kitchen, and then he dismisses me to the sleeping quarters—two long rooms outfitted with bunks and hammocks. One of the sailors points me to a hammock and I climb into it, wet and miserable, my bones aching and my teeth chattering. I’m soul-sick, terrified, and exhausted.

Though I don’t expect to sleep, somehow I manage to doze off and on, half-woken every few minutes by another bellow of thunder. I suppose when you’re tired enough, you can sleep anywhere.

Sometime later I rouse halfway—I’m just conscious enough to realize that someone threw a blanket over me. The ship isn’t rocking as hard, and there’s no more thunder.

We made it through the storm. Thank the gods.

It feels like I’ve barely fallen asleep again when Cook pinches me awake. “Get up, Nick, you worthless lug. There’s work to be done.”

Grimy, damp, and blurry-eyed, I tumble out of the hammock and follow him.

The next several days pass in a haze of quiet, desperate survival. Beyond what my serving duties require, I keep away from the sailors, and I avoid looking directly at the captain or Locke. No one seems to miss Jinks. They all assume he was washed overboard during the storm.

I move through a cycle of scanty sleep, hastily-gobbled portions of food, and bone-wearing, finger-callusing work. I snatch what privacy I can to relieve myself, and crash into my hammock wearing the same increasingly filthy clothes every night. Thank the gods my bleeding time ended not two days before the pirates attacked the Wending Willow. If I had to deal with those womanly needs on top of everything else, I'd go mad.

I've never been one to sweat much or smell malodorous. Maybe because back home I bathed regularly with fine soaps, spritzed myself with perfume each day, and didn't do any more difficult labor than the occasional promenade or horseback ride.

Now I can barely sleep because I smell so disgusting. My own stench keeps me awake.

I lie in my hammock, listening to the chorus of snores around me, and I think back over the past week. I've done well to survive this long. I've kept busy so no one wondered why I didn't go shirtless on the hottest days like the other men did, or why I didn’t join the noisy washing-up sessions on deck. I was always moving too quickly from one task to the next—no time for anyone to stop me or question me. But it's gotten to the point where I need to bathe. Desperately.

It's late, and the sea is calm. Except for the watch on deck, the ship is quieter than usual. There's always the susurration of the sea, and the slap of waves, the soft whistle of wind through cracks, and the groaning of the ship's timbers.

Not to mention the choir of snorts and growls coming from the sleeping crew members.

There couldn't be a better time for a good washing-up. I know for a fact that the galley is usually empty at a time like this—Cook locks up the best of the stores and leaves a few bits and bobs out for any sailors who might be feeling peckish—usually the things that are about to go bad or have a few tiny spots of mold.

I could slip into the galley and give myself a thorough sponge bath. I can't risk an actual bath, and I can't strip completely—but if I don't do something about my own stink, I won't be able to sleep.

7

On quiet feet I pad down the corridor and push open the door to the galley. It doesn’t squeak, thanks to my earlier ministrations to its hinges with an oil rub I devised myself. It was a task I concocted to escape the incessant questions of the other cabin boy, Dez. He seems to like me, probably because I take on most of the work and let him have the easiest jobs. I’m glad to have a friend of sorts, but unfortunately friendship also comes with interest in my past, and questions I don’t want to answer.

I step into the galley—and then I freeze.

There’s a naked man in the room, standing in a wooden washtub with his back to me. He swipes a sponge across one shoulder, and glistening suds slide along the slabs of back muscle, trailing down to the crevice between the globes of his ass.

Across his tanned skin, spanning both shoulder blades, is a massive tattoo of a moth, so exquisitely detailed that I want to stroke its feathery wings. There’s a tiny crown above the moth’s antennae, at the base of the man’s neck. Three small knives radiate from the lower end of its body.

Many sailors and pirates have tattoos, but I’ve never seen one quite so elegant and well-crafted.

But I don’t have time to admire it, because the man turns at that very moment.

It’s Locke. Although I almost don’t recognize him because I’ve never seen him without the bandana covering his hair. His locks are jaw-length, black and wavy, with a white streak arching from his hairline, sweeping down past his right temple.

I know I startled him—I can see the jolt of shock in his eyes—but he doesn’t jump, or give any physical sign of the surprise. He’s completely in control of his body’s reactions.

Two thoughts collide in my brain.

He’s not wearing an eyepatch, and both his eyes look perfectly healthy and functional.

Also, his dick is on full display. It lies soft and lax, a strange contrast to the hard, well-muscled planes of his abdomen.

“Nick,” he says quietly. “What are you doing in here? I thought I locked the door.”

“The inner lock mechanism is broken,” I murmur. “I tried to fix it, but it’s beyond my skill. I did fix the squeak though. See?” I move the galley door back and forth.

“Wonderful,” he purrs. “Now anyone can sneak up on me when I crave a little privacy.”

I frown, momentarily distracted from his nether regions. He’s speaking differently than he usually does. In fact, he seems like an entirely different person right now, without his headwrap, eye-patch, clothes—all the usual pieces of his—his costume—

Shock blazes along my nerves as I realize that I’ve never seen Locke without his shirt, either. He’s definitely not hiding any feminine parts, like I am, but perhaps he’s been concealing this unique tattoo?

He’s in disguise, just like me. Hiding who he really is with the bandana concealing his distinctive hair, and the eye-patch concealing a perfectly healthy eye, and the ragged shirt covering the identifying mark on his back.

“Are you going to stand there ogling me?” Locke says. “Or are you going to toddle back to your hammock like a good boy?”

I should go back to bed. But I’m peeved that he upended my plans for a private bathing session.

“I was going to bathe in here,” I mutter.

“Oh really?” His thick dark eyebrows lift. He circles the sponge across one pectoral, and my eyes fix on the dark hair lightly furring his chest. Damp swirls of that hair trace a line from his navel to the cloud of black curls between his legs. “And why don’t you wash up when the rest of the crew does?”

Despite his careless words, there’s a tense rigidity to his shoulders that betrays his caution and alarm. I’ve stumbled onto his secret. Even though I might not know exactly what that secret is, I’ve got leverage over him now. And I won’t lie—it feels really good.

“Why don’t you wash with the others?” I counter.

His eyes penetrate mine, delving deep, like he’s going to read my very soul. I clench my teeth and stare back just as intently, almost belligerently, until heat ignites in his gaze and I start to feel very warm and tingly. Blood rushes to my cheeks, flooding them with warmth.

When I glance down, he’s half-erect.

“So you want a turn?” he says.

“What?” I breathe.

“A turn to bathe in private.”

“Um—yes.”

“You can bathe when I’m done. I’ll keep watch for you.”

“Why would you do that?”

He shrugs. “You must have your reasons for not exposing yourself to the rest of the crew. Scars, birthmarks, tumors—it’s not my business to know. I’ll keep watch for you, if you’ll promise not to talk about my hair, my eye, or the tattoo.”

It’s a good deal. I’d be a fool not to take it. “I won’t mention any of it.”

“I mean it, boy. Not a word.”

“I keep my promises.”

“Do you now?” He continues to wash himself, slowly, rivers of bubbles skimming along the planes of his chest and abdomen. He looks so beautiful, sparkly, clean—and at the same time so firm and roughly male. The tingling at my core intensifies.

I drag my gaze back up to his eyes. The tiniest smirk curves the corner of his mouth. He noticed my interest. Now he’s going to think I’m a boy who likes boys—no shame in that, I suppose, but I really don’t want another complicated layer in the role I have to play.

Maybe he’s a man who likes boys—or men. He’s certainly reacting in a noticeable way to my examination of his physique. The air between us practically crackles with heat and tension. My heart thrums faster.

This is too strange.

Get ahold of yourself, Veronica.

I close the galley door and sit against it. Since it opens inward, my body will block anyone else from entering. Instead of watching Locke, I focus on the oven at the end of the galley.

“Do you work for one of the seven kings?” I ask quietly. “Are you spying on the pirates? Trying to find their hideout?”

“That would be a dangerous mission indeed,” he says. “I confess, I wondered the same of you.”

“Me?” I give a harsh chuckle. “No. I’m not spying for any king. I’m running from the courtly life, and I have no intention of ever returning to it.”

“Then what do you want instead?” His question is punctuated by the liquid slosh of the bathwater, and the squelch of the sponge against his body.

What do I want? Honestly I hadn’t thought past finding my brother.

“I don’t know,” I mutter.

8

“Well, I’m glad you’re not a spy,” Locke says. “Because a mission like that would never succeed. Everyone arriving in Ravensbeck for the first time is imprinted with a magical tattoo that prevents them from revealing its location to anyone, ever.”

I turn my head and stare at him. “Are you serious?”

“As death.” He lifts one foot from the bath and braces it on the edge of the tub. He points to a tattoo banding his ankle, a complex interwoven braid. “It’s unbreakable. Should a sorcerer try to interfere with the tattoo, its bearer would die. Without this magic, we’d have to be a lot more careful about taking on sailors from the ships we intercept.”

“Intercept is a gentle word for what you do,” I say.

He tilts his head. “You’re a judgmental one, aren’t you, Nick?” There’s a crispness to the way he says my name, a glittering bite to the word. I wonder how my real name would sound in his mouth. “Like it or not, this tattoo allows me—us—to spare lives.”

“But you kill people every time you attack a ship,” I protest.

“We kill those who resist, and spare those who surrender.”

“And what of the women?” I say, my voice trembling slightly. “You abandon them to die.”

“You’re thinking of your sister,” he says. “The woman you sent away before we boarded.”

I swallow hard. “Yes.”

“We give the women a fighting chance to survive,” says Locke. “Aboard a ship like this, there is no way to protect their virtue. Long voyages do strange things to the best of men, and unfortunately there are bad men in every crew. Taking female survivors on board would only end in tragedy. The Pirate King won’t subject any woman to the fate of having her will and her body stolen from her. Better that she takes her chance with the Mother Ocean.”

“So you’re saying the women are left to die so they won’t be raped?” My voice nearly shrills, and I have to remember to coarsen and deepen it. “Couldn’t the Pirate King just order his captains and their men not to touch women?”

“Not every captain would enforce such an edict, or follow it himself. They are pirates, after all, with a very loose moral code if they possess any at all.” Locke takes a small bucket, scoops some water, and pours it over his head. My eyes follow the gleaming river of liquid as it flows along his body. He’s not even slightly aroused now, and that fact comforts me, given the topic of our conversation.

I’ve seen naked men before. But it has always been a quick glimpse before we rushed into the act. I’ve never sat and had a conversation with a naked man—certainly not with one so powerfully built. Locke radiates a raw virility that I can scarcely handle.

He shakes water out of his dark hair, and my eyes fix on that white streak near his temple. Was he born with it, or did it result from some traumatic experience?

“It’s not a perfect system.” He steps out of the tub, seizes a towel from the table, and begins to dry himself. Gritting my teeth, I face toward the oven again. “Women aren’t the only ones at risk. Boys like yourself, softer men, anyone weak—they’re all in danger out here on the lawless seas.”

I pull my knees close to my chest and wrap my arms around them. “But you—you don’t—wouldn’t—”

Locke crouches beside me, startling me with his bulk and nearness. His lower half is wrapped in the towel, and his pale eyes blaze into mine.

“I would never participate in such a thing, or allow it to happen in my presence,” he whispers. “I would banish the idea from existence if I could.” His teeth pinch his lower lip for a second before he continues. “When you’ve endured a terrible thing, you become more devoted to ensuring that it happens to no one else. You are safe here.”

He’s up again and moving away from me the next second. A hideous chill rolls over my body. When you’ve endured a terrible thing—

Did someone do that to him? He’s so tall and strong—I can’t imagine anyone being able to overpower him. Maybe it happened when he was younger, more vulnerable.

I suppose the Pirate King’s edict is, in some twisted way, intended to protect women. It’s a flawed practice, but then again, the whole world is flawed. I’ve heard plenty of stories at court that made my spine shiver and my blood boil. Injustice and cruelty crawls through the cracks of the world, poisoning us all.

“You should bathe,” Locke says abruptly. “Cook will be up soon to fix the breakfast, and he’ll be suspicious if you’re not in your hammock. You can use this water. It’s still warm.”

I don’t like the thought of reusing Locke’s bathwater, but I don’t have time to heat any for myself. “And you’ll keep watch for me?”

“I will. I’ll sit right there so no one can come in.” He nods to my spot against the door.

Oh no.

“You—you can’t be in the room with me,” I stammer.

“Why not? You were in here while I bathed. I promise I won’t tease you about any physical abnormalities, or gossip about them to the others.” He strips off the towel and begins pulling on fresh clothes.

Shit. I don’t have any clean clothes.

“Do you think you could get me some fresh clothes?” I ask tentatively, rising from my spot on the floor. “I only have these.”

Maybe I can bathe quickly while he goes to fetch the clothes for me.

“What am I, your servant?” He towers over me, unsmiling despite a sparkle in his eye. “Get the clothes yourself. I’ll wait here. Hurry, you don’t have much time.”

9

Quickly and quietly as I can, I run to the area of the hold where Locke scrounged up the half-boots for me. After opening and rifling through a couple of trunks, I find a clean, well-made shirt and a pair of trousers that look as if they might fit me. There are several rolls of cloth bandages, too, and I take one. It will do as binding for my breasts.

Now I have to figure out how to bathe without Locke watching me.

When I get back to the galley, Locke is still there, lounging against the wall and gnawing on a carrot. “That was fast,” he drawls.

“I’m quick.”

“So I’ve noticed. You’re always whisking and scurrying about as if you’re terrified of standing still.”

He’s been keeping an eye on me? That’s flattering and unnerving at the same time. What if he does like boys, and he’s interested in something physical? Much as I’d like to indulge him, he’d take one look at my parts and run to the captain. And then I’d be dumped overboard as the Pirate King’s law demands.

“Please,” I say. “Wait outside while I bathe.”

“I said I won’t tell anyone about whatever you’re trying to hide.” He holds my gaze, and a challenge burns in his eyes. “Hunchback, mottled skin, tiny dick—whatever it is, I won’t judge. I showed you mine. Show me yours.”

“I—I can’t.”

If Locke won’t listen, I’ll have to bite him and coat my mouth with his blood. Then I could make him leave me in peace. The compulsion would only last for a minute though, long enough for him to get up on deck—and then he might come back. He’d remember what I did to him, and then I’d be twice screwed—discovered as both a woman and a wielder of magic.

That’s the trouble with my ability—it’s an “all or nothing” sort of power. If I use it on someone, I usually have to kill them. And I don’t want to kill Locke, but I don’t want to be tossed overboard either.

I’ll just have to skip the bath.

“I’m not that dirty,” I mumble. “I’ll bathe another night.”

“Not that dirty?” His eyebrows shoot up. “Boy, your stench is enough to knock a man from the rigging. If you won’t bathe, I’ll have to make it happen.”

“You can’t force me to bathe,” I protest, shrinking backward.

He prowls toward me, a half-grin twisting his mouth. “For your own health and wellbeing, Nick. And for the sake of everyone aboard. What’ll it be? Do I have to strip you naked and scrub you down myself?”

Oh gods. My butt hits solid wood—I’ve run out of space to avoid him.

Locke moves in, caging me against the cupboards. He’s still grinning as if he thinks this is all a big joke. Then he meets my eyes.

I’m not sure what he sees in them—fear, vulnerability, pain? The look of a cornered animal? But he stops, and his face changes.

“Only teasing, lad.” He sighs and takes the roll of bandages from my hand. Then he tears off a strip and wraps it around his eyes as a blindfold. “There. Happy? Now you can bathe in privacy.”

“Thank you.”

He mutters something under his breath and sits down in front of the door.

Trembling, I strip myself of everything. I drop the soiled, ragged, smelly clothes and wrappings into the low fire in the oven. And then I step into the washtub.

The water is only mildly warm, but there’s soap, and it’s heavenly to feel the grime peeling away from my skin. I lather my hair and body quickly, keeping my eyes on Locke. He makes no move to dislodge his blindfold, only sits with one leg arched up and the other stretched long before him. He leans back against the door so no one can push their way in and disturb me.

As I bathe, Locke begins to sing softly, a sea shanty about a wellerman and a whale. He has a silky baritone that’s unnervingly sexy. When he leans his head back against the door, I find myself staring at the slope of his neck, the way the lump of his throat bobs as he sings. He hasn’t replaced his bandana, and his dark hair drips onto his clean shirt, soaking the fabric. The scruff along his jaw is perfect—long enough to be pleasantly rough, yet not short enough to be scratchy.

“Are you done yet?” he asks. “Because I’m starting to feel ridiculous. I don’t usually blindfold myself, you know. I like to be able to see clearly, in case of enemies or emergencies.”

“Yet you wear a patch over your eye.”

“Ah yes. That.”

“You’re hiding for some reason. Why?”

“I could ask you the same question.” His voice is low, heavy with meaning.

With the towel wrapped halfway around me, I freeze, my nerves buzzing with alarm.

Silence curls between us, growing thicker, extruding thorns of suspicion.

He knows.

He must have figured out what I am.

I don’t know how to respond. All clear thought seems to have fled my brain.

But the next second Locke clears his throat and says jovially, “Gods’ bones, you must have an oddly shaped cock if you’re that intent on hiding it. But you know, lad, it’s all in how you use it. And to be honest, the fingers and tongue work best for pleasing women. You’re a mite young to be doing anything of that sort yet, but when the time comes, try a little of this.” And he flicks his tongue rapidly, an illicit motion that sends hot chills over my skin.

So he’s not into boys or men—or at least not exclusively. My heart jumps with ridiculous, impossible hope, even as my nether regions turn melty and warm. I can imagine what it would feel like to have that lithe tongue of his on me, and the idea makes my skin prickle with longing.

“You want to move quick over the little nub at the top,” Locke says. “Light and delicate, and then do long slow sweeps awhile, like this.” His broad tongue slides out again, performing a lazy lapping motion. “And then fast again. Don’t be afraid to dive right in, too, if you get my meaning. And never underestimate the power of a nibble in the right spot.”

My nipples stand at attention as I wrap my chest tightly and tie the bindings. I’m desperate to get out of here, away from Locke’s deep sultry tones and his wicked tongue. Maybe he thinks he’s being kind, teaching a genitally deformed teenage boy how he can have successful trysts—but there’s only so much a girl can handle, and I’m five seconds away from touching myself right here, with him sitting blindfolded across from me.

10

Quickly I pull on my clothes and tie the extra binding cloth around my head. My chopped-off red hair sticks out wildly around the makeshift headband, but hopefully I still look boyish enough. Plenty of the pirates have longish hair, like the captain with his lengthy braid.

I approach the galley door, clutching my boots to my chest. “I’m done,” I choke. “Thank you for—thanks.”

Locke rises to his full height, towering over me as he removes the blindfold. His eyes skim my body from top to toe.

I can barely breathe. When I washed off the dirt and old dried blood, I scrubbed away part of my disguise, part of what made me look like a grubby boy. All that’s left to protect me are my bindings, my baggy clothes, and my splatter of freckles. I hope it’s enough.

Locke is still in front of the door. I stand mute, holding my boots, while his gaze travels down to my small feet. Even they are spattered with a few freckles.

“Like someone sprinkled you in brown sugar,” Locke murmurs, as though he could hear my thoughts.

“May I—may I leave?” I venture.

“Of course.” He shakes himself, stepping away from the door. When I look back over my shoulder, he has replaced his eye patch, and he’s busy concealing his hair with a fresh bandana—a blue one this time.

I slink back to my bunk, my heart pulsing rapidly and my mind repeating his words, over and over: Like someone sprinkled you in brown sugar.

It’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said about my skin.

Barely an hour later, Cook wakes me—or at least I pretend to wake, though I wasn’t really sleeping. I was lying in my hammock, aching to touch myself and relieve some of the pressure that built up inside me during the interlude with Locke. But I can barely bring myself to sleep in the roomful of pirates—no way am I indulging in private pleasure while they snort and snigger in whatever disgusting dreamscape they inhabit.

The day passes much like any other. No one comments on my cleanliness, except Dez, who wrinkles his nose and says, “You washed? Now Cook’s going to make me wash too.”

But when I carry the noontide servings of food up on deck to the men on duty, Captain Neelan is standing on deck nearby, almost like he’s been waiting for me. His glossy black hair isn’t braided today; it’s flowing free over his shoulder, the ends tossed by the brisk sea air. Like the other pirates, he wears black paint around his eyes to help deflect the sun.

He’d be a stunning sight if it weren’t for the cold, malevolent purpose shining in his eyes.

“Nick, Nicky, Nicholas—is that your full name, Nicholas? Dear boy, you and I have a problem.” The Captain twirls his hat on one hand.

My lungs seize up and my heart lurches, kicking into a panicked rhythm. What did I do? Did someone figure out what I’m hiding? Did they find out about Jinks?

“Problem, sir?” I wheeze.

“I keep a close eye on the inventory aboard ship, Nicholas,” says the Captain. “And those clothes you’re wearing are part of the inventory. Part of the cargo. Very fine fabric, exquisite weave. You have excellent taste.”

The Captain snaps his fingers at another sailor, who comes forward to take the food tray from me. Without it, I’m not sure what to do with my shaking hands.

“Where did you get those clothes?” asks the Captain.

“From the hold, sir,” I say.

“You didn’t ask me if you could have them. You just took them. Do you know what would happen if I let every man aboard take bits and bobs from our plunder? There’d be some who would take more than their share, and others who’d get nothing. Does that seem fair to you?”

“No, Captain.” My stomach is a rock, dragging my body downward. My knees quiver beneath me.

“Stealing carries a very severe penalty aboard the Ardent,” says Captain Neelan. “We steal from our targets, but never from each other. Never from your own crew, do you hear me, Nick?”

“Yes, Captain,” I murmur. “I’m sorry, sir. I was allowed to have the boots, so I thought I might get one set of clean clothes—”

“Did I ask for your excuses?” Captain Neelan snaps.

“No, sir.”

“I should tie you to the mast for three days, or lob you overboard,” he says tightly. “But Cook tells me you’re the best worker he’s ever had. You’ve done more than your fair share of work since you came aboard—more than that lazy good-for-nothing cousin of mine ever did. So I’ll give you mercy, this once.”

“Thank you, Captain.” I sink to my knees, bowing my head, but Neelan grips me by the hair and drags me upright again.

“We kneel only to the Pirate King,” he says. “Stand like a man, and take your punishment like one. Five lashes. Mr. Hanschel will deliver them. Take off your shirt.”

With growing horror, I clutch the neck of my shirt. How am I going to get out of this one?

11

“Did you hear me, boy?” Captain Neelan frowns at me, his thin black brows forming a V above his sharp nose. “Take off the shirt!” He raises his voice, looking around the deck. “Everyone else, gather round! You’re about to see what happens to the man who steals goods aboard my ship!”

My heart is beating so fast I’m terrified it will give out altogether. Black flecks dance before my eyes.

I have to do this. I have to strip and reveal myself, and beg for their mercy. Though from what I’ve seen of Captain Neelan, he won’t be lenient. He’ll have me tossed over the side before the men can even begin to process that there’s a woman aboard.

My fingers slide down to the hem of my shirt, and I start to pull it up.

“Captain, if I may.” It’s Locke, striding forward, the sun gleaming on his black eye-patch. He’s still wearing the blue bandana—not a strand of hair in sight.

“Well, speak up! What is it?” growls the Captain.

“I told Nick he could take a set of clothes from the hold,” Locke says. “It’s my fault, sir. He thought it was allowed.”

Neelan rounds on Locke, looking confused and angry. Locke isn’t the first mate, just one of the regular sailors, but I’ve noticed that Neelan relies on him more than the others. There’s a mutual camaraderie between them, a respect which seems rare for a captain and a crewman.

“You told him to take the clothes?” asks Neelan. “And who gave you authority to dispense such permission?”

“No one, sir.” Locke bows his head. “I humbly ask to take the whipping, sir, since the boy knew no better. I was the one at fault.”

My teeth find the sensitive inner flesh of my cheek and bite hard as emotions well up inside me. I’ve had my fair share of whippings—more than most girls of my station. My parents believed that strict discipline would yield a docile daughter. They didn’t realize that with every smack of the paddle on my behind, every sting of the switch against my thighs, they were feeding my inner rage and rebellion, stoking the fire to fresh heights.

That fire burns in me even now, fueling my will to survive, my determination to find my brother, and my resolve to escape my former life.

Yes, I’ve been beaten and chastised many times. But not once has anyone volunteered to take my punishment for me.

Locke is accepting the blame for my thoughtlessness. He didn’t actually tell me to get clothes from the hold last night—maybe he assumed I had some of my own clothing stashed elsewhere. But he’s claiming full responsibility for what I did, to spare me.

I don’t protest his offer. I stand quietly, while Captain Neelan looks from Locke to me.

“Is this true, Nick?” the Captain asks. “Did Locke tell you to find clothes among the swag in the hold?”

I dart the tiniest glance at Locke. He’s not looking at me. His face is calm, acceptant.

He’s really going to do this for me. And I’m going to let him.

“Yes, Captain,” I say in my husky faux-male voice. “It’s true.”

“I’m disappointed in both of you. Let this be a lesson to you, Nick, to think for yourself and mind the rules aboard ship. And you, Locke—I don’t know what was in that ale-cask you call a head, but mind you don’t advise any other sailors to steal from the stores, or it’ll be the worse for you. You’ll take the lashes, but you’ll take ten, not five.”

I stifle a gasp.

The moment the punishment is pronounced, the pirates’ attention shifts from me to Locke. He nods, accepting his fate, and strides across the deck to stand before the central mast. With his back to the great wooden column, he faces the crew, the Captain, and me.

Mr. Hanschel comes forward, carrying a short whip with six leather tails. Locke says something to him, quick and quiet, and Hanschel leans in for a second, letting Locke murmur in his ear.

“Ho now, what’s all that whispering about?” calls the Captain. “Not thinking of taking it easy on him, are you, Hanschel?”

The crew mutter their agreement, low cheers and whistles rising from the lot of them. They’re eager for a break in routine, for some drama. Just like the ladies at court swarm to devour a new piece of gossip, these sailors lust for Locke’s blood. I suppose court ladies and pirates share a taste for human suffering.

Whatever Locke said to him has drained the color from Hanschel’s face. His hand goes slack around the whip he holds. But Locke hisses something else—an order I can’t hear from this distance—and Hanschel nods, swallowing hard, renewing his grip on the whip.

Locke shucks off his shirt and stands half-naked, the curved muscles of his arms and pectorals shining in the sun. I want to see his exquisite moth tattoo again, but Hanschel is the only one who can see Locke’s back.

Slowly Locke sinks to one knee, bracing his hands on his other thigh. His one pale eye fixes on me and doesn’t leave my face, not even when Hanschel begins to beat him. Again and again the narrow strips of leather slice across his back and shoulders.

For the first five strikes, Locke doesn’t flinch. But by the sixth one, I can see sweat beading on his skin, dripping down his temples. The lines of his face harden as if he’s trying not to make a sound. With the seventh lash, blood sprays in a fine mist from the whip’s tails, and Locke’s lips part, revealing clenched teeth.

Still he manages to stay quiet until the tenth lash, and then an agonized groan breaks through his control.

My heart throbs with echoed pain and pity. I’m convinced I will hear that sound in nightmares to the end of my days. And yet some primal, savage, sadistic part of me craves this, delights in watching his control slip, revels in the fact that he took this beating for me, when he had no reason to step in.

The punishment is over, and Locke pulls his shirt on immediately, grimacing through what must be excruciating pain as the fabric slides over his skin. He walks past all of us, staggering only slightly, blood blooming through the material across his back.

When he has disappeared below, the Captain snarls, “What are you all waiting for—your turn under the lash? Get back to work!”

I scuttle belowdecks and head straight for the galley.

“There you are!” grumbles Cook. “What took so long?”

“One of the men was whipped,” I reply. “May I take him something for the pain?”

Cook grumbles, but he passes me a flask, a roll of clean bandages, and a small tin. “There’s ointment in there, for the wounds,” he says.

“Are you a doctor as well as a cook?” I’m half-joking; but Cook nods. “I cook up medicines as well as meals, Nicky boy, and I’ve sewn up more wounds than there are weeks in the year. Off you go now, and don’t be long. I’ve something I need to say to you.”

12

I have no idea what Cook wants to discuss with me, but his words gnaw at my brain as I hurry toward the crew’s quarters. The few sailors who took the pre-dawn shift are snoring noisily in their hammocks, and I sidle past them, wrinkling my nose at the stench of unwashed feet and man-butt. Now that I smell better, the odor of everyone else seems worse.

Locke sleeps in the same long, narrow room where my hammock hangs, but he actually has one of the bunks—lucky man. It’s the bottom bunk of three, at the far end, half-hidden by a bulkhead. Not that I’ve been watching him or anything.

He’s standing in the corner beside the bunks, his tall form draped in thick shadows. After the morning brightness up on deck, I can barely see him in the gloom.

My toe catches on someone’s trunk, and my other foot bumps a sailor’s satchel, and I fall headlong into the personal possessions that litter the floor. “Hellsfire,” I snarl, struggling to disentangle myself. I fumble around and find the items Cook gave me, hauling myself to my feet. The Captain should really make his men keep a tidier ship. Even when the seas are calm, this room is a hazard, and it’s far worse when there’s rough weather and everything slides across the floor.

Locke is watching me, his one pale eye catching what little light there is. I square my shoulders and start to walk primly toward him—a reaction born from years of training in deportment and decorum—and then I remember to slouch and shuffle, to keep my head low.

When I reach him, I risk a glance up at his face.

He’s grinning so broadly I can’t help smiling back.

“That was quite the tumble, Nick,” he says. “Just what I needed.”

“Glad to oblige.” I hold out the flask, ointment, and bandages. “I’m here to fix you up.”

His mouth tightens. “Don’t need fixing.”

“Of course not, because you’re a big strong pirate,” I say dryly. “Everyone needs fixing sometimes. You took the beating for me—let me do this for you. I know you’re in pain.”

His tall figure, cloaked in darkness, looms over me. “In pain,” he says quietly. “Ah, Nick. You have no idea.”

Something about the way he’s looking at me makes my stomach flip. There’s heat in his eyes, mingled with the suffering. He’s got to be in his early twenties, mid-twenties—he shouldn’t be looking at a boy of sixteen with that kind of molten intensity.

Or maybe it’s my imagination, and it’s only pain in his gaze. Lust and agony can look similar, feel similar. I should know, because I want the beautiful bleeding man in front of me, and it hurts.

My voice sharpens. “Lie down and let me help you.”

Locke sighs and pulls off his bloodstained shirt. “So busy and businesslike, always, aren’t you, Nick? Is that what you were like at home, wherever you came from?” He lies on his stomach, his long frame draping off the side of the bunk. How can a man as tall and broad as him possibly sleep comfortably in a place like this?

I can barely see his back. “It’s too dark to do this.”

“Get the lantern by the door and bring it over here. But you’d best be quick. I don’t want anyone seeing my—”

“Your special secret tattoo, yes, I know.” I pass Locke the flask, and he gulps from it while I fetch the lantern and hang it on a hook near the row of bunks. It’s not a perfect solution, but the light is a little better now.

“Give me that for a moment.” I tug the flask from his reluctant fingers and pour some of the alcohol onto a bit of bandage. As I daub the soaked cloth across his back, Locke hisses a curse through his teeth. I try not to be too distracted by the magnificent slopes of muscle under my fingers. There’s something brutally enticing about the scarlet lacerations cutting through his tanned, tattooed skin.

A few stray bits of dark hair have escaped from his headwrap, and they lie against his nape in feathery swirls. I desperately want to touch those silky ends, to let a bit of his hair curl soft around my fingers.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Locke says. “Were you this intense at home?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re always working on something, or running off to the next task.”

“Oh.” My mind drifts to painfully slow days sitting upright on divans, holding cups of tepid tea, smiling stiffly while pretending to heed the drone of conversation around me. I remember slow, stately walks through gardens I would have liked to explore more thoroughly, and darkly alluring books that were snatched from my hands and replaced with bland, approved fare.

After handing the flask back to Locke, I open the tin and dip two fingers into the ointment. “No, I wasn’t this busy at home. I wasn’t allowed to do much useful work. Nothing that appealed to me, anyway.”

“And this work appeals to you? The galley, the cooking and cleaning?”

“Not exactly.” I smooth ointment onto Locke’s back, noting how his flesh quivers at my touch. “But the work keeps me alive, and I like being alive.”

He chuckles, and the vibration travels through my fingers. I smile to myself and stroke more ointment onto the cuts. “And I think I like being at sea,” I continue. “Or I would like it, if I were aboard a different ship.”

“We’re not so terrible, some of us,” he murmurs.

“Pirates are dreadful people. It’s their nature.”

“We’re naught but sailors who decided to take our due and serve no kingdom,” he replies. “Surely you, a runaway, must understand the appeal of that freedom.”

“I do, I suppose. It’s the attacking and killing and stealing I don’t understand. I hope my brother hasn’t fallen into such devilish ways.”

“Your brother?” Locke lifts his head slightly to look at me. “I thought you had a sister. You said your sister also ran away with you, that she was on board the merchant ship.”

“Oh—um, yes.” I had almost forgotten about my fake sister. “Well, she and I ran away from home to look for our older brother, Mordan. He ran away first, you see.”

Cheeks flaming, I risk a glance at Locke’s face.

His expression is bland, revealing neither suspicion nor belief. “Must have been a terrible home life, for all of you to abandon it so readily.”

I squirm, conscious of the privilege and wealth that was mine as a member of a noble family. Many would call me foolish and ungrateful for abandoning it all, when so many unfortunate people would have loved to be in my place.

“It wasn’t terrible in the way you might think,” I say quietly. “But I was dying inside. And when my brother left, it felt like he took a piece of me with him. He and I were very close growing up. For a long time, I was the only one who knew his secrets, just like he knew mine.”

As I spread ointment over the deepest whip mark, Locke shifts, growling at the contact.

“Hold still,” I order.

“Remember your place, cabin boy,” he throws back.

I lay my palm against the back of his neck—a warm, firm pressure, something I used to do for Mordan when he was having one of his fits, or for Mother when she had a headache. The gesture usually has a calming effect.

And it works on Locke, too. He goes absolutely still.

“Why did you step in and take the punishment for me?” I whisper.

He curls one large hand around the edge of his pillow. It’s a stained, well-used piece of bedding, probably heavy with salt and sweat, but it looks pale in contrast with his tanned profile.

“I felt responsible,” he says. “And I know you’re shy with your body. I suspected having to strip in front of the entire crew might be difficult for you.”

“You risked your own secret, whatever it is,” I say. “You had to tell Mr. Hanschel what it was, didn’t you? He saw your back, uncovered. He had such a strange reaction—"

Locke cuts in. “What secrets did you and your brother share?”

I narrow my eyes and press more firmly on his flesh, and he yelps with pain.

“Don’t be such a baby. Sit up so I can bandage you properly.”

He sits up, half bent so as not to strike his head on the bunk above him.

Frowning, I survey his position. “That’s not going to work. Stand up and lift your arms a bit, if you can.”

Grimacing, he rises, clutching the bunk frame for support. I slip a length of bandage around his torso, wrapping as carefully as I can. To do this right, I have to stand very close to him. With each fresh loop of the cloth under his arms and across his back, my face is nearly pressed to his chest.

I inhale his scent—the metallic bitterness of blood, the brisk sharp tang of the sea, salty sweat laced with soap, and a spicy male fragrance beneath it all. If I could bottle that scent, I would take a whiff every morning. Hell, I would probably never stop sniffing it.

Finally I fasten the bandage at the front, tying and tucking the ends. My face burns as my knuckles brush Locke’s smooth skin. His body is trembling with pain and with the effort of staying upright.

“You can lie down again now,” I say. “How long will they let you rest?”

“Not long.” He settles himself onto the bunk, on his stomach, with his legs hanging half off the thin mattress. His uncovered eye closes. “I’ll be expected to work in spite of the wounds.”

Gingerly I touch his shoulder. He flinches at first, then sighs, relaxing into the contact.

“I think you saved my life today,” I whisper. “Thank you.”

“You’ll pay me back with secrets,” he mumbles. The flask hangs loose in his fingers, so I take it gently away.

Leaving Locke to sleep, I return to the galley and put away the items I borrowed. Cook is at the table, eyeing jars of spices and noting down the amount left in each. He keeps precise records of everything, all the supplies in his charge.

“Sit ye down, lad.” His sharp gray eyes are like steel blades under those bristly gray brows. He tucks two thin fingers into a shallow vest pocket and pulls out a small object, setting it on the table. “I found this on the floor this morning.”

I nearly choke on my own spit. It’s my family ring, the one I tucked into my breast bindings the day I was captured. I’d forgotten it was there. It must have fallen out when I unwrapped myself to bathe—I was so nervous, so distracted with Locke—I never noticed that I lost it.

My gaze snaps up to Cook’s, and I see the awareness in his eyes. He already knows it’s mine.

13

Cook runs a finger over the golden curve of my family ring.

“A pretty thing, this,” he says. “I’d wager it belongs to a high-born family of some kingdom or other. Any man or boy in possession of this trinket should keep it close, wouldn’t you say? There’s some on board as would take it amiss to have a courtly type among us. We’re not friends to any of the seven kings, you know.”

“I am no friend to any king,” I say cautiously. “Just a boy looking to make a different sort of life for himself.”

“That’s all, is it? I wonder, now—I wonder,” Cook muses, tapping the ring. “Maybe a fine young gentleman dressed himself in rags and pretended to be a cabin boy, so he wouldn’t be held for ransom.” He looks straight at me, abandoning all pretense. “You are valuable for ransom, aren’t you, lad?”

Rebellious though I’ve been, my family would pay good money to get me back. My parents don’t know about my ability—only my brother Mordan, one of my cousins, and two servants know what I can do. My parents still think I’m their normal child, the safe one, the one without magic.

They would pay to have me back so they can marry me off. True, my reputation would be somewhat tarnished, and I’d have to accept a less fortuitous match than the one they originally planned for me—but my parents desperately want legitimate grandchildren. They want the continuation of our bloodline—if not through Mordan, then through me.

My gut tells me to speak the truth, however foolish that seems. So I stare Cook in the eyes, and I say, “Yes, I am valuable for ransom.”

Let him think that’s why I posed as cabin boy. Anything to circumvent the truth.

Cook nods, approval shining in his steely eyes. He pushes the ring toward me with one finger. “Hide that bit o’ swag, lad. Hide it away good, and don’t let no one see it.”

My pulse jitters. Is he really not going to tell Captain Neelan?

“I’ll hide it,” I promise.

“Good. Best find a spot for it now, then get back here quick as death, ye hear me? I need about ten more hands to get everything done today. We’ll be making a stop at the Wierling Isles tonight, and I need to take inventory so I can restock our supplies. Fresh meat, eggs, and fruit!” he chortles, picking up a tiny jar of cinnamon and examining its contents.

Under the pretense of finding a hiding place for the ring, I head back to the sleeping quarters. On the way I tuck the ring between my breasts again, vowing not to forget about it next time I bathe or change.

I can scarcely believe that Cook spared me, that he’s keeping my family heirloom a secret. He’s the second pirate to show me kindness, to help me and cover for me. Is this what it feels like to be part of a crew?

I think I might like it.

But I can’t forget the truth of my circumstances—who I am, and who these men are, and the strange laws under which we operate. Captain Neelan nearly had me beaten for taking a set of clothes. Jinks tried to rape me. Every moment aboard ship is another moment of risk. I have to constantly think about my expressions, my voice, my posture, my disguise.

I have to remember that any camaraderie between me and the crew is only possible because they think I’m male. If they discover the truth, I’m doomed.

Maybe I’ll be able to slip away from the pirates during our stop at the Wierling Isles. I’ve never heard of those particular islands, but setting foot on dry land sounds wonderful. My feet crave solid ground. I think I might fall down and kiss the earth when I reach it again.

If I can hide somewhere on land until the pirates leave the Wierling Isles, I’ll be free. I can bargain for passage on another ship, a less violent one. I wonder if the remaining members of the merchant crew know where we’re going, and if any of them plan to escape. Maybe they’ll include me in the attempt.

It’s even possible that my brother might be on these islands. Out here in the Shorn Seas, islands are few and far between, or so I was told during my geography lessons back home. There are a limited number of places where Mordan could be.

Unless he decided that the sailor’s life wasn’t for him, and he has found a new home in one of the other great coastal kingdoms. Or perhaps he traveled inland, to a nation like Brintzia, Terelaus, or Ista. I know those names distantly, hazily. To me, they are smudges on a map, lands so far away they’re not worth thinking of. Like my brother, I was always more fascinated with the sea, its peril and potential.

On land, you know your destination precisely, and the route you’ll take to get there. But a journey at sea is ever-changing, unpredictable. You can chart your course, but as I know from painful experience, anything can happen along the way.

14

Now that I know we’re approaching land, I’m a jittery wreck. I keep dropping things and then panicking because I’m afraid if I’m too clumsy or messy, Cook will think twice about keeping the secret of my family ring. So I apologize profusely, which annoys him until he finally banishes me to the deck with orders to “scrub ’til ye can see the ship’s bones.”

Of course I choose to scrub the forecastle. Its position near the prow gives me the best chance of spotting the islands the moment they’re visible.

I take my time swirling the scrubbing brush over the deck, alternating with the mop sometimes. I’ve been there a handful of minutes when Cauley, the former first mate of the Wending Willow, climbs the steps to the forecastle and sidles nearer, slowly winding a coil of rope.

“All good, Nick?” he asks.

This man is one of the few on board who know my secret. To their credit, he and the other former crew members have said and done nothing to put me at risk, and I’m deeply grateful.

“All good, Mr. Cauley,” I reply.

He’s shifting his weight, licking his lips, darting glances around even though no one is standing within earshot.

“What is it?” I say under my breath.

“The others were talking of escape,” he says. “Of getting away once we reach the islands.”

My pulse quickens. “Yes?”

“There’s no way it’ll work,” he says dolefully. “Captain Neelan’s first mate warned us not to try anything. Said these islands are loyal to the Pirate King. Any prisoners who attempt to escape won’t find help among the islanders. We’ll be caught and then shot, hanged, or drowned if we try it.”

I pinch my lip between my teeth. “So what then? We’re permanently pirates now?”

“You’re the only one as might be able to get away,” Cauley says. “If you wait until we’re on land, and then reveal yourself, they’ll have to leave you on the island. The rule is, no women on the Pirate King’s ships. I doubt they’d kill you, especially after you’ve made yourself so useful aboard. You’re smarter than I gave you credit for.”

“Thank you?” I mutter.

“Just wanted you to know—you’ll be on your own if you want to try to stay on the island,” he continues. “The rest of us are bound to the ship until we reach Ravensbeck. Once we get there, they’ll print us with those magical tattoos so we can’t tell the Pirate King’s secrets, and then we’ll be ‘free,’ I suppose. Though the only way we’ll ever leave Ravensbeck is aboard another pirate ship, seeing as pirate vessels are the only ones that make berth there.”

“And pirate vessels won’t take women aboard,” I say faintly. Hope drains out of me. The only chance I’ll have to get away will be our stop at the Wierling Isles. Failing that, I’ll have to continue my ruse until we dock in Ravensbeck. And then I’ll be stuck in Ravensbeck, because no other ship of the Pirate King’s will take me elsewhere.

“What about other buccaneers who stop at Ravensbeck? Surely there are some who trade there, but don’t fly the Pirate King’s flag or follow his rules. One of them might take me along.”

“You’d not be safe aboard one of them lawless galleys, lass,” says Cauley. “Best to get off at the islands.” He steps away from me with a curt nod and another sharp glance around the forecastle. “I’ve said my piece. The rest is up to you. May Mother Ocean guide you.”

He descends the steps to the main deck, and I scrub furiously, blinking back angry tears. The soapy froth blurs until I can barely see what I’m washing any more.

Steps vibrate through the planks, but I don’t look up. Whoever is standing nearby can’t see me crying like a little girl. Though that’s exactly what I feel like—a stupid, spoiled little rich girl fussing over the consequences of the choices she made.

The steps halt near me. “Nick.”

I know that voice like I know my own soul.

“What?” I answer Locke gruffly, without looking up. “You should be resting.”

“I was told to return to work,” Locke replies. “What’s wrong?”

I haven’t looked at him. How can he tell that anything is wrong?

“I—um—” I scramble for some reason to be upset, besides my dashed hopes of escape. “Well, someone told me I wouldn’t be allowed to go ashore when we make port.” I swipe a wrist across my eyes and lift my gaze a bit higher.

“Nonsense.” Locke starts to crouch in front of me, then releases a grunt of pain and straightens again. “Everyone will be going ashore. The people of the Wierling Isles are always happy to see one of the Pirate King’s vessels—there will be feasting, stories, songs, dancing, and games! You must see it.”

“I’m only a cabin boy—” I begin, but he cuts me off.

“You’ll be going ashore with everyone else. I’ll ensure it.”

I glare up at him. “There you go again, talking like you own the world, when you’re just another man before the mast. You were whipped today. By your captain. For something I did.”

“It wasn’t your fault. You only took those clothes because I let you claim a pair of boots on your first day,” he says with a grimace. “Neelan let it slide the first time, because it was a swap of goods—the fine boots I’d claimed in exchange for those.” He nods to the scuffed half-boots I’m wearing. “But I should have warned you that it would be a one-time concession. I had a certain view of the rules aboard the Ardent, and well—let’s just say I had some things to re-learn. I’d forgotten how it feels not to own everything I touch.”

I stare at him, my hand limp on the scrubbing brush. “Who are you?”

His tanned face splits in a flashing smile—teeth whiter than any normal pirate should have. “I’m Locke, the humble sailor. And who are you?”

Again he has cornered me with his words, and I have no choice but to retreat.

“I’m Nick, the cabin boy,” I growl, grinding the soapy brush against the wood again.

“As I thought.” And then his voice changes, turning wild and bright. “Look, Nick. The islands!”

15

The instant after Locke speaks, a sailor cries “Land ho!” from the crow’s nest.

I jump up, suds dripping from my fingers, and I dash forward. My wet hands slap against the railing and I lean out as if the angle of my body can make us speed faster to the islands.

Locke comes up beside me, laughing. He clamps an arm around my shoulders, squeezing companionably. “A cheering sight, isn’t it, lad?”

“Glorious,” I whisper, and I mean it.

Beyond the bowsprit and jib, the sea sparkles like the sapphires of my mother’s best necklace. In the hazy sunlit distance, three lumps swell the horizon. Gulls dart and swoop overhead, squalling intermittently. The sharp sea wind dries the tears on my cheeks, leaving salty traces.

I look at Locke, and he’s looking at me—and this time the admiring glint in his eye is unmistakable.

My heart throbs, hot and glowing and terrified.

Back home, men and women marry as young as sixteen, and some are paired with spouses far older than themselves. I suppose a bold sea-faring man in his twenties, like Locke, might cast his eye on someone of my presumed age without shame. It surprises me that he’d crave a boy, though. He seems so well-versed in pleasing women. Perhaps he likes both.

Oh gods, I’ve been staring at him for a full minute now. I should stop.

I slump my shoulders forward, as has become my habit, and I shuffle back to my bucket of suds. Locke stays at the railing a moment longer before passing me again.

“We’ll be there by nightfall,” he says. “Be ready to enjoy yourself, Nick. No busywork, just fun.”

I grunt in response.

Apparently Locke doesn’t accept that answer. “If I can enjoy myself with a torn-up back, you can manage to set aside your manic devotion to your duties for one night.”

Sighing, I look up. “Go away, sir. I’ve got a job to do.”

Locke reaches down and chucks my chin lightly. “Someone has to pull that stick out of your ass, cabin boy,” he says softly. “And I like a challenge.”

I’m left blushing, grinning at the deck planks like a loon while I scrub—until I remember that if I do decide to reveal myself and try to claim sanctuary on the islands, I won’t see Locke again. And that pains me more than I want to admit.

He has protected me more than once. Much as I’d like to be self-reliant, a woman in my position needs allies.

My smile gone, I finish with the forecastle and move to the main deck. But I’m underfoot for the sailors preparing the ship to land, and I’m soon cursed soundly and sent back belowdecks.

I don’t get to see the anchor drop, but I feel it—the growling clank of the chain, the suspended stillness of the ship as it floats, sails furled. My first glimpse of the cove where we’ve anchored comes when Dez and I are conscripted to carry a number of heavy bundles from the hold to the deck, where they’re loaded into the skiffs and rowed to shore.

Like a drowning man taking sips of air, I snatch glimpses of feathery palms and salmon sunset before I have to duck belowdecks again and fetch the next crate or trunk. As we work, night crawls across the sky, muting the colors and darkening everything to star-sprinkled blue.

Captain Neelan, Locke, and some of the other pirates are already on land. Neelan’s first mate finally declares that we’ve got enough to trade, and the rest of us can go ashore. Well, except for one pirate and one sailor from the Wending Willow. They drew the short straws to stay aboard and keep an eye on the ship.

I pity them, but they’ll get their chance to go ashore tomorrow. For my part, I’m so excited I can hardly sit still during the ride to the beach. I don’t even have to attempt rowing, because the two big pirates in the boat with me, Cook, and Dez prefer to do the rowing themselves. Their muscles swell and pulse, shining in the bright moonlight. The sea is darkness and diamonds, the moon glows large and luminous between wisps of cloud, and I feel the glitter of the stars in my very soul. Anything seems possible on this night.

The pirates have set up camp on the beach, and the scent of two bonfires curls warm and smoky into my nostrils. Dark shapes whisk back and forth in front of the amber glow.

“I thought we’d sleep in the village,” I say to Cook. I can’t lie—I was hoping for a real bed tonight. Or a pallet at the very least. Something that doesn’t swing.

“The Captain and his officers will stay in the village,” says Cook. “The rest of us will be in tents.”

“And we’ll need to help you cook, right?” I ask.

“No, lad, we all get the night off.” Cook stretches his thin arms. “The villagers like to feed us their fare while we’re here. Enjoy yourselves.”

Dez crows with delight and jostles my arm. “I’m gonna find me a wench to lay with. How about you, Nick?”

“A wench?” I choke. “You’re what, fourteen?”

“Fifteen,” he says stoutly. “I’m fully able to bed a woman. I’ve got a beard coming in—look.” He points to a pair of sprouting hairs on his chin. “That’s more than you’ve got, Nick, and you’re older than me.”

I rub a hand across my own chin. “None of the men in my family have good beards.”

“You should drink some of the island liquor,” says one of the pirates who’s rowing. “It’ll put hair on your balls, chest, face—everywhere.” He laughs, and so do the others. I echo them faintly.

The boat bumps into sand, and the pirates hop out to pull it in closer. Unable to wait a moment longer, I shuck off my boots and leap over the side of the skiff.

My bare toes plunge deep into wet sucking sand, cool and thick and grainy. The sensation is pure pleasure.

16

A splorch sound from behind me tells me that Dez followed my example and jumped out of the boat as well. Cook chuckles and tells us to “have a good time” without the usual tension in his tone.

Dez and I run through the shallows, foam skimming our calves, tendrils of seaweed brushing our ankles—and then we’re really on land, pounding across damp flat sand. I hop over prickly ridges of corrugated shells, onto the pillowy sand beyond. It’s still warm from the day’s sunshine.

Joy turns me careless, and I tear off the cloth around my head so I can feel the wind rush through my short hair. I know I did a terrible job cutting it, and honestly it’s better that way. The more disheveled and ragged I look, the better.

I stick with Dez for a while, because when we’re side by side it’s easier for people to see two teenage boys. Besides, he’s not a bad kid. A bit lazy, a little too anxious to immerse himself in vices—but that’s typical of a boy his age.

Tonight, though, there’s not a hint of laziness in him. He’s brimming with energy and eagerness, so I follow him around, his joy fueling mine. We snatch roasted pork so hot that its grease burns our fingers, and we snag tankards of rum. We claim sugared rolls from the high-piled platters near the bonfires, and we perch atop a broken overturned rowboat, just inside the circle of firelight, to enjoy our loot.

The villagers mingle with the sailors and pirates, joking and laughing, jostling each other, whooping and whistling. A number of women are present, and I instinctively shrink when one of them comes too close. I’m afraid they will see what I’ve concealed from the men on the Ardent. And I’m still not sure if, or when, I’ll reveal my gender. I have to think about what would best serve my goal of finding Mordan.

When Dez and I have eaten all we can hold of fruit tarts, stew, roast pork, and fried fish, he tucks into the rum.

“Take it easy,” I warn him, as he tips back the tankard and gulps it down.

“I don’t feel it,” he says muzzily. “Not a bit. I’ve got a stomach as hard as the Captain’s dick.” And he points to where Neelan sits on a wooden bench, with a busty woman on his left and a handsome young man on his right. It’s true—there’s a visible bulge in the Captain’s pants.

I can’t help laughing along with Dez. But I’ve had a few sips of rum myself, and what breaks out of me is an actual giggle, not the brusque masculine laugh I’ve been perfecting.

“You know,” Dez slurs, leaning confidentially toward me, “sometimes you sound like a girl. No ’fense.”

“None taken,” I mutter, burying my face in my tankard again.

Dez is snoring a few minutes later, so thankfully he can’t think any further about my incautious giggle.

The rum tastes terrible, but it makes my chest pleasantly warm and spicy inside, so I take another sip. Best not to think too hard about what’s in it or how it was made. It’s certainly a far cry from the refined wines I consumed at home.

Most of the crowd on the beach has clustered around this particular bonfire, since Captain Neelan holds court here. I scan the beach, peering into the dark beyond the glow of the flames. There are a few shifting shapes on the sand, and the moonlight licks bare buttocks and surging backs. Apparently some of the pirates couldn’t wait for a more private place to get their pleasure.

My face burns from rum and embarrassment. Back home, coupling in public was unheard-of. Here, no one seems to care much.

“They’re purely carnal creatures,” says a voice at my elbow, and my whole body thrills at Locke’s presence. “Free of all the rules of social conduct. Don’t you love it?”

Secretly, perhaps I do. My most salacious interlude happened in the study of a nobleman’s home, with a half-closed door and a short hallway between me and the dinner party my family was attending. The heir to the house took me on his father’s desk. He gave me the best orgasm of my life, but he could talk of nothing but ledgers and lands, so I crossed him off my mental list of potential husbands.

Sometimes I wonder if the exquisite power of that orgasm was partly due to the peril of being caught, the increased chance of being seen.

“I can see the appeal,” I murmur. I’m tempted to take another sip of rum, but my brain is already growing soft and silly, and if I go too far I won’t be able to keep up my necessary ruse.

Locke ruffles Dez’s hair. “Poor lad. Drank himself to sleep too soon, and now he won’t be able to join in the fun.”

“He’s too young for that kind of fun,” I say sharply.

“Not that.” Locke jerks his head toward the rutting pairs in the darkness. “I meant the songs, and the dancing. Now that everyone has eaten their fill—ah, what did I tell you?” For at that very moment several of the villagers begin to play instruments—twanging lap harps, pipes, and drums. It’s a jaunty melody that makes me want to jump up and dance.

My gaze travels Locke’s form, from his broad shoulders to his long muscular legs. I wonder if he can dance well.

Before I can ask him and make an idiot of myself, one of the island girls approaches him. She has bronze skin and long braids swinging to her waist. She’s beautiful, with soft golden eyes and full lips.

“Care to dance, sir?” The girl’s voice is melodic, enticing. Her breasts swell against her light tunic, which is held up by a shell-studded rope around her neck, leaving her shoulders and back bare. She glows with health, warmth, and luscious beauty.

In contrast, I’m a scrawny, scruffy, brown-speckled scrap of a thing, flat-chested and sloppily dressed.

Locke goes with her immediately, without a glance back at me. And I ache inside. I ache so deeply I could cry for days.

I can’t watch Locke dancing with her, but I also can’t look away. They’re such a perfectly matched pair. The beauty of them cracks my soul. So I watch, and glower, and gulp more rum.

17

After a while, Captain Neelan calls out for a song, and several of the crew chorus for Locke. He laughingly accepts, stepping away from the girl and approaching the fire. Its orange glow lights him up, savage dark-blue shadows cutting his features even sharper, gleaming on his eye patch.

The sheer masculine power he exudes in that moment is like a tidal wave, crashing over me. Dozens of eager faces turn to him, captivated as his smooth baritone rolls across the beach. A drum keeps rhythmic time as he sings a slow, decadent ballad about sirens and secrets; and then he dips into a quick-paced shanty whose primary lyrics seem to be “rum for all.”

Everyone joins him on that one—a growling chorus of male voices, rising to vociferous heights with each repetition of “rum for all.” Locke’s voice soars above the thumping boom of the drums and the other men. At the end of the song the beautiful island girl rises on her toes to kiss him.

He sweeps a hand into her hair and kisses her back, deep and hard.

I’m sickened and excited at the same time, titillated and tortured.

“Rum for fucking all,” I mutter into my tankard, and I drain it to the dregs.

The full power of the rum doesn’t hit me until several minutes later, when my body begins to boil inside my clothes. I’m hot, so hot. I can’t bear the thickness of the wrapping around my chest, or the scrape of my shirt against my arms.

Maybe if I get into one of the tents I can strip for a while. Just for a little while. All I need is a bit of relief.

Or those trees over there—they would also be a good place to get naked.

I slide off the upturned rowboat, leaving the snoring Dez to his dreams.

Swaying, I stagger toward the cluster of tents. My head is swimming pleasantly, but I’m still burning up. I need to be naked awhile. I haven’t been naked in so long. Why is this island so damn hot at night?

I stumble against one of the larger tents, fighting with the flap until I manage to get inside. It’s empty, thankfully. My bleary mind tells me I can take off my clothes in here and be totally safe, totally fine. Except my fingers have forgotten how buttons work. I pluck at them, confused, burning hot, almost in tears.

The tent flap shifts, sweeping aside as a tall man with an eye patch ducks in. Locke, my mind registers slowly. Locke hurt my feelings. He kissed that girl.

“What are you up to, Nick?” he asks.

I have to think very carefully about each word as I form it. “Just taking my clothes off.”

“Are you now?” He approaches, gathering my hands carefully in his. “I don’t think you want to do that.”

“I do. I do want them off. I’m so hot, Locke. Please can you help me with the buttons? I’m not drunk, I’ve just—I’ve forgotten how to manage them.”

He smirks. “No, you’re not drunk at all.”

“No.” I shake my head, frowning because I think I hear a hint of sarcasm in his voice. “Now please help me with the clothes before I burn up.”

“You’re asking me to undress you?”

I nod, looking up at him with all the pleading I can muster. Why does he seem to swim before my eyes? “Locke, why are you even here? You were singing, and kissing that girl—”

“Orlah? Yes, she’s charming. I’m sure she’s a delight in bed. But I won’t be seeing her again tonight.”

“You should,” I say sourly. “You should plow her well. Or do that thing you showed me, with your tongue. Make her beg for relief.” I pitch forward suddenly, and Locke catches me against him.

“I don’t need to do any of that, Nick,” he says. “Now let’s get you to bed. You’re sleeping in Cook’s tent, yes?”

I whimper in protest as he pulls me out of the big tent and leads me to a smaller one, grabbing a lantern on the way. He shows me a pallet, and I sink gratefully onto it. But I’m still roasting in my clothes like a pig in its skin, and I moan, pulling at the fabric.

Locke stands over me, surveying me by the light of the lantern in his hand. “If I leave you here, you’re going to strip yourself naked, aren’t you?”

“No,” I lie.

“Much as that would delight me, I can’t let you do it.” He settles onto the pallet beside mine, lying on his stomach so he doesn’t put pressure on his wounds. His wounds… the wounds he took for me. Tears well in my eyes.

“You’re a good man, Locke.” My voice trembles.

“I wouldn’t go that far.” He gives a brusque laugh. “A good man wouldn’t be having the thoughts I’m having right now.” He sets his forehead to the thin mattress and sighs deeply. “Rest, Nick. I’ll stay here until you’re asleep.”

“But—you’ll miss the dancing and songs, and the sex,” I mutter. My eyelids are thick and heavy, but I force them to stay open.

“There will be more of that tomorrow night, and the night after, and possibly longer if Neelan decides to prolong our stay. Get some sleep, Nick.” Locke’s voice drops to a register deeper and more decadent than any I’ve heard him use. “I’m right where I want to be.”

18

The next morning my mouth tastes horrible, and I’m ravenous, and my head aches a little—but I’m clothed, and my secret is more or less intact, thanks to the long-legged pirate sleeping on the pallet beside me. Locke’s cheeks are flushed with sleep and a wisp of white hair has worked its way out of his head-wrap. Gently I tuck it back in.

I rise and pad outside, relieving myself behind a dune. The villagers brought water for our camp, so I drink and rinse my mouth. Then I help Cook with the breakfast porridge. If Cook ever came back to the tent last night and found Locke and me lying near each other, he doesn’t mention it. Of course, Locke helping a drunk cabin boy to his pallet and then falling asleep nearby doesn’t merit comment, I suppose, even if the event feels momentous to me.

When Locke comes for his share of the food, he gives me a slow, warm smile. I’m embarrassed, and I have no idea how to thank him, so I look away.

One benefit of living a pirate’s life is the ability to keep any schedule you like. The Wierling Isles are packed with sensual attractions for a crew like ours. The islanders have their own stills for making liquor, and they have gardens and orchards bursting with produce. There are forests full of fresh game, deep pools for fishing and swimming, glistening waterfalls, and even a hot spring on one of the smaller islands.

In return for the islanders’ hospitality, Captain Neelan provides them with bolts of fine cloth, trunks of clothing and shoes, and a chest of coin and jewels.

Since the islanders are helping to feed the crew, Dez and Cook and I have far less work to do, which is a good thing for Dez, since he’s suffering from a headache and stomach pangs after his big night. Once we’ve cleaned up the breakfast, tidied camp, and toted water, we’re free to enjoy the delights of the island.

Unfortunately for me, I can’t go swimming naked like the men do, so I pretend that I’m more into gardens and tree-climbing and exploration. When I tire of that, I sit on a thick branch above the swimming hole, watching nude men and women jump off a rock and splash into the deep pool below.

I still haven’t decided what I want to do. Should I stay here, and try to get passage on another ship eventually? I have no idea how long it would be before another vessel stopped here. And what would I do in the meantime? I’d have to find someone to take me in and give me paid work.

Or I could stay with the Ardent, keep up the ruse of cabin boy all the way to Ravensbeck, and hope that someone there has heard of my brother and knows his whereabouts. Since Ravensbeck is the pirate hideout and stronghold, I’m sure it’s also a hub of gossip and information. I’m more likely to find news of Mordan there than anywhere else.

The second night of our stay involves more music, drinking, and song. This time I avoid the rum altogether, and I join in the merry dances around the fire, swinging arm to arm with islanders, pirates, and merchant sailors alike. No one questions me, because no one really notices me. Or if they do, they take one curious look at my spotted face and then avert their eyes quickly.

When the music begins to wind down, and half the revelers have drifted away to fuck or fall asleep, one of the pirates lifts his tankard and shouts, “Blindman’s Buff!”

Cheers follow his pronouncement, and someone produces a strip of dark cloth to serve as the blindfold. Two pirates drag sticks in the sand, creating an enormous circle around the bonfire area.

“First player is spun seven times, and then he has to catch another player to take his place as blindman,” shouts the pirate who suggested the game. “Warning must be given if anyone is about to step into the fire. No going outside the circle. When the blindman catches someone, he must guess who it is. If he’s wrong, he must search for someone else.”

There’s a protest from some of the sailors and islanders about that part of the game, since most of us don’t know each other’s names.

“I propose a different rule,” says Locke. “The blindman must ask the person he catches for a kiss. If they deny him, he finds another target. If they agree, they take his place.”

Roars of approval rise from everyone.

Heart pounding, I start to slink toward the edge of the circle. But Cook is nearby, gripping a bottle of something strong-smelling, and he shoves me back into the center. “Go have some fun, lad.”

“You’re not staying for the fun,” I point out as he shuffles past the line in the sand, toward the tents.

“I’ve got my evening’s pleasure,” he says, lifting the bottle. “A good night to you, boy.”

During the first two rounds of the game, I manage to stay clear of the blindman without too much trouble. When Locke’s turn comes to be blindfolded, the other female players seem to be thronging him rather than trying to escape him. He ends up seizing a curvy woman with sparkling dark eyes and scarlet hair, who giggles in his arms and eagerly consents to the kiss. It’s her turn next.

Locke sidles up to me while the red-haired woman is tying the blindfold across her eyes. “Enjoying yourself, Nick?”

“Immensely,” I say in my blandest tone. “Watching other people get kissed is so much fun.”

“Ah, you’d rather be a participant, not a spectator?”

“I didn’t say that—” I protest, but it’s too late. Catching my shoulders, Locke pushes me directly into the path of the oncoming blindfolded woman.

Her hands close around my waist, then fumble upward over the folds of my baggy shirt. I hold my breath, willing her not to notice anything amiss.

Gingerly the woman touches my features. “A nice face.” Her fingertips find my mouth. “Soft lips. May I have a kiss?”

The last thing I want is to be the center of attention like this. My skin is crawling with the sensation of so many eyes fixed on me. But as much as I want to back out of the kiss, I need to think about what a horny sixteen-year-old cabin boy would do when presented with the opportunity to kiss a beautiful woman.

The character I’m playing would kiss the woman. So that’s what I do.

I lean in and kiss her—a light, warm press of lips.

She says, “Mmm,” appreciatively and removes the blindfold, interest lighting her eyes. But the minute she sees me, realization and reserve creep into her gaze. She doesn’t want the spotted cabin boy, and I don’t blame her.

“Your turn,” she says lightly, handing me the blindfold and walking away.

Even before I get the blindfold over my eyes, I notice everyone moving away from me, leaving me a wider berth than any of the previous players. It hurts, because as confident as I am in my own worth, part of me still wants to be considered beautiful.

I shut my eyes and tie the blindfold in place, praying that the dancing firelight and shadows will conceal anything suspicious about my figure. Arms outstretched, I shuffle forward as quickly as I can, eager to get this over with. It will probably take a while, given how reluctant everyone is to engage with the strange freckle-faced cabin boy.

The moment I begin to move, my hands slam into a solid chest. Cautiously I feel upward, my cheeks flushing hot as my fingers travel over a coarse shirt. I can feel broad pectorals beneath the material, then thick collarbones, then a strong neck. There’s a jawline coated in thin scruff—the string of an eye-patch, the edge of a bandana, the faint smell of spice and salt—

My heart jolts.

Locke planted himself right in front of me.

He wanted me to catch him.

19

Blindfolded, I freeze, with one hand pressed to Locke’s face. A woman’s voice somewhere in the darkness mutters that it’s not right to stand directly in front of the blindman, that players have to at least try to get away. I don’t mention how the women swarmed Locke when it was his turn.

But her words do galvanize me with enough courage to speak, in the hoarse voice I’ve adopted for my cabin-boy persona. “May I have a kiss?”

“My pleasure, Nick,” Locke says.

My face burns hot beneath the blindfold, but I tip my mouth up, and his lips descend, rough and warm. They mold softly and perfectly to my own, and rivulets of bliss trickle through my body, born from that magical place where Locke’s mouth cradles mine.

Whistles and jeers echo around us, but Locke doesn’t stop kissing me. His hand cups the back of my head, and he presses deeper, sliding his tongue along the seam of my lips. But I don’t let him in. I’m liquefied, terrified.

I lurch backward, ripping the blindfold off and shoving it into his hand.

“Your turn,” I spit, and I stalk out of the firelight circle.

Heat pulses between my legs as I walk the beach. My rapid steps carry me far, far from the camp, along the sweep of the cove, toward the point that overlooks the sea. I clamber up the tumble of rocks until I reach the jutting promontory, and there I sit among waving sea grass, with my back pressed to a rock and the silvered ocean spread before me. The moonlight bathes my body, and the sea air breathes on my flushed cheeks, cooling them.

How dare Locke act like that?

At first I thought he was trying to help me, to make my turn quick so I wouldn’t be embarrassed. But then—the way he kissed me—gods.

I touch my mouth, remember the questing of his tongue against my lips.

Closing my eyes, I slip one hand beneath my trousers, into the delicate folds there. I tease myself gently, sliding a finger through, imagining that it’s Locke’s finger, or maybe his tongue.

I don’t know what to make of his attraction to me. He must be drawn to something in me that’s beyond gender—though I can’t imagine what anyone would see in the desperate, furtive thing I’ve become. Or maybe Locke has had his fill of women and wants to try something else. I squirm, picturing Locke pushing inside me in a new, tighter spot. I don’t think I’d like that sort of sex. It would hurt.

Why am I even thinking about this? It’s not as if we could be together without him discovering my secret—and then I’d have no chance of getting back aboard the Ardent.

It has been weeks since I pleasured myself, and much longer since I had a man. I lean back against the rock, allowing myself to reawaken, to relax, to indulge the desires of my body. I tantalize myself into a shuddering climax—and it’s delightful, but I want more. I want to be touched, tortured, tempted. I want to be ravaged, soundly and deep, by a man who knows what he’s doing.

Sighing, I pull myself back together and trudge down to camp. In the galley tent, Dez occupies the pallet on which Locke slept last night. I throw myself onto my own pallet and shut out every remaining thought, focusing only on the rush and whisper of the ocean.

The next morning, Captain Neelan announces a trip to the island that has the hot springs. “Everyone will go, from first mate to captives to cabin boys. It’s not so bad being a pirate, is it, lads? Hot water, grog, feasting, and eager lovers!”

Cauley and the other merchant sailors reply, “Not bad at all, Captain,” and honestly I think they mean it.

Since we were taken aboard the Ardent, we’ve had good food and honest work, and we’ve not been cruelly treated beyond the occasional verbal lashing and the incident of Locke’s whipping. And now we’re enjoying a respite on these beautiful islands.

Now that they’ve tasted the delights of the Wierling Isles, I’m not sure the former crew of the Wending Willow would try to escape, even if the risk were lower. Maybe that’s part of Neelan’s strategy, to earn their loyalty by showing them the better side of this lifestyle.

But it can’t be all rum and hot springs. Eventually, the Ardent will attack another ship, and more people will die.

Locke and I aren’t in the same boat during the crossing to the next island. Strange how I’m always tracking his whereabouts and keeping an eye on him, as if he’s the North Star to my inner compass.

I’ve never seen anything so beautiful as the island on which we disembark. Its sands are whiter and softer, and its waters seem bluer, if that’s possible. Lush foliage lines the beaches, yielding to cool forests threaded with paths of pale crushed shells. It’s clear that the islanders tend this place with love.

Delicate vines twist through the trees overhead, and the undergrowth is fragrant with bright blooms. There’s a humid, heavy decadence to the air, a lush allure that calls to every pore of my skin, every cell in my body. The call of the springs, the idea of sinking into clean hot water—it’s too much to resist. I don’t know how I’ll be able to enjoy the water without exposing myself, but I’m hoping there will be some private nook where I can bathe.

Or maybe I’ll throw caution to the wind and strip in front of them all. A few seconds of heated bliss might be worth it, before I’m dragged out again and hauled in front of the Captain so he can decide what to do with me. He might kill me. Or he might allow his men to do as they like with me.

He might let me stay on the islands, unmolested. I would have to wait for another ship, if any would even take me aboard. I have no money to pay for passage.

An idea flashes into my mind—a very dangerous idea.

I could steal a bit of treasure from the hold and hide it somewhere on the main island. It could serve as my passage money, securing a berth for me on another ship.

But the Captain has made it clear that theft isn’t tolerated aboard the Ardent. He was going to let me off with a whipping because I only took one set of clothes, but if I try to steal treasure, and I get caught, he’ll probably kill me.

I shake off the dark thoughts as the pirates and islanders around me surge forward eagerly, their voices quickening with anticipation. Up ahead the path widens, opening onto a bank of flowering plants and smooth rocks. Steam curls from the surface of three large pools. Behind the pools, rocky cliffs rise, their surfaces garnished with dripping greenery and florals. Sunlight winks bright on streams of water that emerge from the cliffs and trickle into the pools below.

The hot springs are a warm, fragrant, sunlit paradise. But I can’t participate without revealing myself, so when everyone charges for the water, shedding clothes along the way, I slink into the undergrowth and circle the clearing. I plunge into the forest, following a little rivulet of the water that trails away from one of the pools.

20

I’m in luck, because the tiny stream I’m following pours over a lip of rock and empties into another pool, much smaller than the three I left behind. The water is clear and golden where threads of sunlight pierce it, but the pebbled bottom is shadowed and distorted, so it’s hard to tell how deep it really is.

All around this little pool, the forest foliage clusters, rich and green and deep. Tropical fronds arch over the steaming surface, and petals drift from lacy flowering trees above, floating through the shimmering air.

I take off my boots and dip in a toe. The water is so hot it stings—a wonderful, blessed kind of sting. I ache to submerge myself in it. The desire is so strong that I almost don’t care if I get caught.

Quickly I take off my shirt, knotting my family ring into one of my shirtsleeves. Then I unwrap the binding from my breasts, hissing through my teeth as sharp pain shoots through the compacted flesh. I have to take a minute to breathe through it, waiting until the agony subsides to a manageable soreness. Then I strip off the rest of my clothes.

Naked, I ease myself into the water, trembling and moaning softly at the delicious heat. My weary muscles scream with anguished delight as I sink deeper. I swear my very bones are singing.

My toes skim the bottom. The water is up to my shoulders—the perfect depth. With a whimper of joy, I close my eyes and surrender.

“You’re being incredibly foolish,” says a much-too familiar voice from the bank.

My eyes fly open.

Locke stands at the edge of the pool, his eyepatch flipped up and his pale, intense gaze locked with mine.

I clap my hand over my mouth, stifling a scream. My other arm clamps over my breasts.

“Locke!” I gasp. “I—what are you—don’t look at me!"

“Oh gods,” he drawls with exaggerated surprise, looking away into the trees. “You’re a woman. How shocking. How will I ever survive the shame of being so thoroughly convinced and so completely fooled?”

My mind turns blazing white with shock. “You—you knew?”

“I’ve known since we swung across the sea from your ship to mine. Well, I suspected it then. And I was fairly sure of it when I picked you up to toss you overboard. But what really clinched it for me was seeing that pretty little bare foot of yours.”

“Why are you here?” I manage.

“I saw you slip away and I thought you might be tempted to do something stupid like this. So I followed you. And I thought it would be more honorable to announce my presence than to slink around in the bushes.”

“Neither one is honorable.” I can barely think—can barely compute the fact that Locke has known I am a girl all along. The whole time. Every time we spoke to each other, he knew. “So when you were talking about handling things that were—long and thick—and when you explained how to please a woman—”

“I was having a bit of fun. You’ve been the most entertaining part of this entire voyage.” He’s looking into the trees to grant me privacy, but I can see his profile, and the cocky grin on his face.

“You bastard,” I gasp. “This is not a joke. This is survival.”

“I’m well aware.” His smile fades. “But you have to believe me, Nick, I’m not going to tell. And even if someone finds out, I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“You wouldn’t be able to stop it,” I say. “The decree of the Pirate King keeps women from being allowed aboard any ship flying his flag. And you’re not the Pirate King, or a captain, or even a first mate.”

He looks back at me again, keeping his eyes on my face. “I can protect you.”

“I doubt it. Is that why you followed me here, to protect me?”

“I wanted to warn you about the foolishness of what you’re doing. Of course I knew you wouldn’t listen, in which case I hoped we could enjoy this private spot together.”

My stomach flips and dives. “I was here first, and I’m not inclined to share.”

“Maybe you don’t have a choice.” His smile returns, dark with sultry promise. “I am a pirate, remember? I do what I want, and you don’t own this spring.”

My face blazes hotter than the water. “Fine,” I bite out. “Then I’ll leave. Thanks for spoiling one of the few pleasures I’ve had in weeks.”

I clap both hands on the lip of the rock and start to haul myself out.

“Damn it—just stay in there.” Locke cups a hand to shield his eyes. “I’ll go. I’ll wait halfway along the path and make sure no one disturbs you.”

He turns away. The sight of his broad back makes me think of the tattoo he conceals beneath his loose white shirt. Locke can’t enjoy himself in the larger hot springs, either, because of whatever he’s hiding about his identity. He’s not a spy for one of the seven kings. Maybe he’s a member of a rival pirate gang? Maybe he’s planning to steal something from the Pirate King?

I have no idea what he’s hiding, but the only way I’ll find out is by getting closer to him. And knowing his secrets might give me the leverage I need to protect myself.

Besides, he seems devoted to guarding my secret, even though I objected to sharing the pool. It’s kind of sweet, really. And now that my fury is easing a bit, I can’t deny that the prospect of having him naked in the water with me isn’t completely repulsive.

“Wait,” I say, and Locke halts.

“Maybe we could share,” I murmur.

“Generous of you. I suppose you’ll demand that I blindfold myself again?” he says dryly.

“You don’t have to wear a blindfold,” I say. “But you can’t touch me.”

“Just so we’re clear—You’re asking a pirate to share a bath with you, while you’re naked, and not touch you.”

“Yes, exactly. And thanks to our conversation in the galley, I know you’ll respect my wishes.”

“Of course,” Locke says, turning slowly around. “I’m so damn honorable.” His lashes sink low, his eyes burning like pale stars beneath them. “So the rule is, I can look, but I can’t touch.”

“That’s correct.”

“I can live with that.” He drops his knife belt and starts stripping. At first I glance away—but then I swerve my gaze back to his form. I’ve seen him naked before and honestly, I want to see him again. All of him.

In this quiet place, sprinkled with birdsong and hazy with floral fragrance, he and I are shedding more of our layers, scraping away the civility and pretense.

It’s dizzying, intoxicating. Dangerous.

21

When Locke drops his pants, he’s boldly erect, a mute testimony to what he really wants. As far as I know, he hasn’t been with any of the other women on the island, and I don’t understand why he’d prefer me, the skinny spotted thing with the scraggly auburn hair. Even my shoulders and chest are liberally sprinkled with freckles in every size and shape.

So many times I’ve longed for smooth brown skin or creamy white skin. I’ll have whole days, weeks, or months when I’m perfectly comfortable with myself, exactly as I am—and then, in a single moment, my mind will dive back into self-loathing, into despairing insecurity.

The sight of Locke’s long-limbed, beautifully proportioned, perfectly tanned body makes me feel so horribly inferior that nausea creeps into my belly. He slides into the water, wincing as the hot liquid contacts his back.

For a moment I’m distracted from my self-consciousness. “What about your wounds?”

“I heal faster than most,” he says. “They’ll be fine.”

“Do you have healing magic?” I ask curiously.

He pulls off his bandana and shakes his hair free. “Not exactly. My whole family heals quicker than the average human though. And I do have one magical ability.”

“Let me guess—something to do with your dick?” I roll my eyes. “I’ve heard that line before.”

“Actually, no.” He smiles. “I’ll tell you, if you tell me a secret of yours.”

“You already know my secret.”

“Oh, no, Nick.” Locke advances toward me, the water flowing past his shoulders in a rippling wake. “You’ve got more secrets. I can practically smell the mystery on you.” He leans close to me, inhaling.

“You’re so strange,” I reply. “Fine—I’m actually twenty, not sixteen.”

“I guessed as much. Tell me about this brother of yours. There’s more to that story, isn’t there?”

For a second I chew my lip, debating. I crave Locke’s secrets, and Mordan’s ability isn’t exactly a secret—at least, not back home. Back in Ivris, his power was a raw, exposed truth that tore my family apart.

“My brother can manipulate the wind,” I say. “He can move the air in certain ways—not with very precise control, but strongly enough to influence weather. People were always suspicious of him, and maybe a little scared, because he—well, he had a terrible temper, and when he was angry he liked to cause pain.”

I pull a bloom from a nearby plant and pluck its velvety white petals, one by one, just to have somewhere to look that isn’t Locke’s eyes. “In spite of that, my parents managed to secure him a betrothal, a marriage to the daughter of a high-born noble. But she didn’t love him, and shortly before the wedding he discovered that she was sleeping with a boy from one of her father’s farms. So my brother sent five huge tornadoes across his future father-in-law’s property. The tornadoes destroyed everything—the manor, the farmhouses, all the barns and the crops—and a dozen people died, including my brother’s fiancée. He was going to be arrested and put to death for what he did. That’s why he ran away to sea.”

My voice hitches, and I grind my lip between my teeth, trying to hold back the tears. The flower I picked is bare now, a naked petal-less center, so I toss it away.

Locke’s voice is gentle. “And now you’re out here looking for him?”

I nod, swirling my fingers through the floating white petals on the surface of the water. They’re already turning brown from the heat. “I’m worried about him. I was always the one who helped him stay calm, you see. If he was getting out of control, there was something I did to keep him quiet until he could manage himself.”

“Something you did?” Locke drifts nearer. But I’m not ready to tell him about my own ability yet, or about how I used to bite Mordan and control him with his own blood to keep him from hurting other people. He let me do it—asked me to do it, in fact. He wanted someone to help him suppress the anger.

I don’t want to imagine what Mordan has been doing without me, how many people he might have hurt by now.

“I used some calming techniques. Nothing special,” I lie. “Anyway, I wondered if he might have taken up with pirates, maybe offered his services as a mage to help with favorable winds and that sort of thing.”

“The Pirate King doesn’t usually allow magic-wielders among his crews,” Locke says. “People with power tend to lose control of it, or to want more, and that’s a dangerous thing at sea. But he might have managed to persuade a captain to hire him.”

“What about rivals of the Pirate King? Could he be working for one of them?” I eye Locke’s face for any sign that he might be a spy for a rival gang of buccaneers, but he only laughs.

“There are no rivals of the Pirate King. His dominion extends across all the Shorn Seas, from the coastal waters to the edge of the map.”

“I thought pirates were all about not swearing allegiance to any king,” I counter.

“The Pirate King doesn’t control everyone like a land ruler would,” Locke says earnestly. “The captains who willingly join his fleet and pay their dues are granted the best ships, supplies, and equipment. They receive intelligence about the most toothsome cargo, and they can call for the help of other vessels flying the Crowned Skull. On top of that, they get special access to certain establishments in ports all over the world, and they receive premier treatment in Ravensbeck. But no one is forced to join. Privateers are welcome in Ravensbeck too, and they can trade their goods for fair prices. But they are independent vessels, not rivals.”

“So the Pirate King’s fleet is like a special club. A men’s club.” I throw him a stern look. “I don’t approve of this prejudice against women on the ships. You may say it’s a protective or preventative measure, but why can’t men simply learn not to be assholes?”

His eyes turn sorrowful and distant, contradicting the faint smile on his face. “That’s the question, isn’t it?”

22

Locke is quiet for a moment. I can sense that he’s caught in a tragic memory of his own, and his dejected expression makes my heart sore. Time for a change of subject.

“I told you about my brother,” I say. “Now you owe me a secret, too. You said you have a magical ability?”

“Ah, yes. It’s a strange and dangerous one. You might decide to run away once you hear it.” He smiles, but there’s a cautious apprehension in his eyes.

If he only knew… I’m the last person to judge someone for any strange or dangerous magical abilities they may have.

Locke inhales, then lets the words out in a rush. “I am one of a handful of people in the world who can bind someone to a vow using tattoo magic.”

“Tattoo magic? Wait—like the magic they use in Ravensbeck, to keep people from betraying its location?”

“Exactly like that.”

I gasp, my eyes widening as realization floods my mind. “You’re a tattooist who works for the Pirate King! So that means, if you work in Ravensbeck, you’re pretty recognizable, right? And while you’re out at sea, you don’t want people to know what you can do! That’s why you’re in disguise!”

There’s an unreadable shift in Locke’s expression. “Yes,” he says. “That’s why.”

“So you could give me a tattoo and make me do anything you wanted?”

“You’d have to make a vow first. Then I’d seal it with the tattoo. Pirates who receive the Ravensbeck mark can’t speak, write, or guide an enemy to the location of our haven—but they have to swear that vow aloud while the mark is being imprinted.”

“What if someone refuses to swear?”

Locke’s voice gains a crisp edge. “Then they have to stay in Ravensbeck as our permanent guest.”

Again there’s that echo of command, that hint of haughty control. I’ve heard it in the voices of men and women at court, and it creeps into Locke’s voice from time to time.

When he talked of magic-wielders wanting more power, was he speaking of others, or of himself?

Now that he and I have confided in each other, I feel strangely free and unburdened. I’ve still got secrets, and I suspect he does too—but in this golden space of floral fragrance and liquid heat, we’ve grown closer, and not just physically. I can feel my heartstrings weaving themselves to his, and I suspect that if he left aboard the Ardent and I stayed in the Wierling Isles, those interwoven lines would slice right through the tender flesh of my heart, and it would be shredded. I’m not sure I’d recover.

I’ve never felt this strongly for anyone. The only relationship even close was my love for Mordan, but that was familial, a blood bond. This is new, and sparkling, and powerful. I can’t be sure that it will last, though. In the past, I’ve always lost interest in my partners once I had sex with them.

I need to know if my connection to Locke will last beyond a physical tryst. If it doesn’t, I’ll be free to stay here on the isles. And if my feelings for him persist, then I’ll be twice as confident about continuing to Ravensbeck with the Ardent.

Now I just need to seduce him. That shouldn’t be difficult—he’s naked in the pool with me. As I drift nearer to him, the tip of his erection brushes my belly.

He doesn’t apologize or shrink away, but his lips part as I bump him again, sliding my lower stomach along that rigid length.

I lift my wet fingers from the water and walk them up his bicep, along his gleaming shoulder. “Let’s pretend you’re giving me a tattoo,” I say softly. “What vow would you have me make?”

“You’re touching me, Nick.” His hand hovers over mine. “Does that mean I can touch you?”

Everything inside me says, Yes, please. But I manage to stay nonchalant, and I shrug. “Fair is fair. I suppose you may.”

He collects my wrist in his hand and flips it over, exposing the fragile skin on the underside. His fingertip traces my vein. “I would place the tattoo here, I think. But I would never force you into a vow.”

“What if I permitted you to dictate the terms?”

Locke’s eyes meet mine through the hazy sunlit steam. His voice drops, low and smoky, rich with desire. “I would make you vow to never be satisfied by another man, but to yield me the sole pleasure of making you come, over and over, until you’re so weak with ecstasy that you can’t walk.”

I stare at him, my skin buzzing with lush heat. “Godstars,” I whisper. “That sounds like a lot of work for you.”

“Not at all.” He surges nearer. Our bodies are aligned, inflamed—the sensitive space between my legs is throbbing and pulsing, aching for his touch.

Locke’s palms slide over my rear, cupping me, drawing me in until we’re pressed together, steaming skin to skin. My hair curls damp and humid around my temples, and every part of me feels loose and wet and wicked.

His mouth slides over mine and I throw both my arms over his shoulders, aching, eager. Our tongues nudge and twine, mouths opening mutely wider with every kiss.

I can feel him pressed to my belly, so close to where I want him. He rubs against me, and I whimper my need over his tongue. Harder he kisses me, his arms banded around my body, locking me to him. But I don’t feel confined. I feel alive, and free.

“Tell me your name,” Locke gasps as I writhe along him.

“You have to keep calling me ‘Nick,’” I pant, kissing him again. “Or you might slip up when we’re with the others. What about you? You’re in disguise. Is Locke your real name?”

“It’s part of my real name.” He looks down, where my breasts are compressed to his chest, and he moans softly. “Gods, you’re adorable. Look at you.”

“But I’m so—mottled,” I say lamely, flushing deeper. “Doesn’t it bother you?”

“Why should it?” He stares at me, as if he honestly doesn’t believe I’m asking that.

I shrug. “People prefer unblemished skin.”

“No one has unblemished skin. That’s a false idea of beauty. And these—” he touches my freckled cheekbone— “aren’t blemishes. They’re an adornment. They’re art. Simply beautiful.” He ducks his head to kiss my shoulder.

I inhale sharply, unable to keep a wide glorious smile from breaking over my face. “I’m going to put you inside me now,” I whisper. Locke’s hardness twitches against me, and I grin wider at the response.

But at that moment, I hear voices. Distant, but distinct, and coming nearer.

“Locke,” I gasp.

“I hear them. Get out, quickly, and run into the forest. You can change there. I’ll stay here and distract whoever it is.”

Clumsily I haul myself out of the deep pool. Locke helps me out with a teasing push against my ass and a clever stroke of one finger along my slit as he pulls his hand away.

“You devil,” I whisper-yell at him, snatching my clothes and bindings. I have a handful of seconds to bury myself in the undergrowth before a couple of the pirates push through the bushes and stand at the edge of our pool.

23

I lie still, completely concealed by the foliage, but unable to move any further away without attracting attention. I never expected to be lying totally naked in the dense, humid forest of a tropical island. It’s not comfortable at all. Gnats hover near my nose, and I glimpse something scaly and multi-legged scuttling under the fallen leaves. What if something crawls on me? Or into me? Ugh. I press my legs together and cover my mouth and nose with my hand.

“Found yer own personal steam bath, did ye, Locke?” drawls one of the newcomers. It sounds like Tir, a graying granite block of a man. “Now that’s downright unfriendly, keepin’ it all to yourself.”

“Come on in, boys,” says Locke gruffly. “There’s plenty of room. Well… there isn’t, but I doubt that’ll stop you.”

The men splash noisily in. I can see a sliver of the pool from my hiding spot. Locke faces the men, keeping his back tattoo out of their view. While I was grabbing my clothes, he must have grabbed his bandana—it’s back in place, along with his eye-patch.

“Thought we might find you here with that runt of a cabin boy.” That voice belongs to Gorm, a pirate practically made of tattoos and piercings. “You seem to favor the lad, Locke. Can’t see why. Plenty of juicy tits and ass to be had ’round here. No need to settle for a little spotted frog of a boy. And if it’s a cock you want, you could do better.”

“Come to think of it, we’ve never seen the lad’s piece,” says the first pirate, Tir. “Seems odd, don’t it?”

“He’s a shy, jumpy sort of thing,” answers Gorm. “Might need to toughen him up a bit. Remember when we tied Quint to the mast naked?”

They both guffaw. I don’t hear Locke laughing though.

As for me, my stomach is turning at the coarse talk and the jabs at my expense. I grit my teeth, angry at the prickle of tears in my eyes. What they say about me doesn’t matter.

“Let the boy be, Tir,” grunts Locke. I’ve noticed that when he’s talking only to me, he’s smooth and well-spoken—but when he’s with the other pirates, he’s all brusque and growly.

“You do like him!” Tir says, triumphant. “So where is he? Did he run off? Oh, Nick!” he calls in a singsong voice. “Come on out and soak yer balls with us. We won’t bite. Maybe we’ll have a little fun, all four of us.”

All my muscles go rigid with panic. What if they start hunting around for me? What if they find me?

“No idea where the scamp is,” drawls Locke. “Go ahead and yell if you want. Won’t do no good. Hey Tir, who was that I saw you with last night? The blonde with the thighs?” He whistles appreciatively. “Good fun?”

I’m conscious of a quick pang of jealousy before I realize that Locke is steering the men away from the topic of me.

And it works. Tir groans with lustful exuberance. “Good fun? I’ll tell you about good fun.” And he launches into a detailed account of his erotic escapade with the woman.

For a full hour I lie unmoving in the bushes, listening to the pirates’ raunchy stories. Once a centipede scurries across my hand and I nearly scream, but I clamp my hand tightly over my mouth and manage to swallow the sound.

To my complete shame, I’m also incredibly aroused. I’m nude, and there are three naked men a few strides away, discussing their amorous exploits in the most explicit language I’ve ever heard. Not even aboard ship did I hear them talk like this, and my body reacts to the raw sexuality of it all in a way I can’t control.

Locke is mostly quiet, though he contributes a tale of a tavern girl he pleasured with his hand under the table, in the corner of a busy common room.

“Damned if I’m not horny as the captain himself,” says Gorm after a while. “Time to head back to the others and find some women. I’ve sown enough of me sperm over the sea, like a rutting whale. I’d rather spend it in a warm belly.”

I nearly gag. But at least this means they’re leaving.

“You coming, Locke?” asks Tir.

“I’ll stay a few more minutes.”

Even after the crunch of their steps fades, I lie where I am, naked and stiff and traumatized. My skin is dry by now, except for—certain places—

The foliage above me parts, and Locke peers down. I lift my head and give him my saddest pout.

“Poor darling.” His eyes are soft and pitying. “I am sorry you had to stay in there. Can you move?”

“I’m all stiff,” I whimper, struggling to rise. My body aches from the tension, and from lying so perfectly still for so long. “Are there bugs in my hair? If there are, don’t tell me, just get them out.”

Locke reaches down and pulls me upright. An amused smile plays across his lips. “You’ve been aboard ship for weeks and seen all sorts of disgusting things, but bugs terrify you?”

“Leggy poisonous tropical bugs,” I clarify. “I was so scared one of them would crawl up my—um—”

“Want me to check?” He’s still smirking, but his voice has that sultry smokiness from earlier. “I’ve been told I’m very thorough.”

He’s wearing pants now, but I’m still entirely nude. My stomach has bits of grass and leaves stuck all over it. I brush them off angrily. “Gods, I hate men.”

Locke chuckles. “I don’t blame you.”

Clothes in hand, I walk toward the tiny rivulet leading away from the pool. But as I pass through a shaft of sunlight and sense its caressing warmth, I hesitate, letting the bindings, shirt, and trousers drop to the ground and lifting my arms to the light. It just feels so good to stand here, bare in the sunshine, with the warm breeze whispering over my skin.

When I glance toward Locke, he’s motionless, staring at me with a deep, ravenous hunger in his eyes.

“I try not to be that kind of man,” he says hoarsely. “But sometimes—” He shuts his mouth tight and prowls toward me around the edge of the pool, over the sun-warm rocks, through the damp leaves and grasses.

I turn to face him, a wordless consent to whatever he plans to do.

First he lays both hands reverently over my breasts. Though they’re small, he doesn’t seem to care. My toes curl in the damp moss as I relish the sensation, reveling in the way his calluses brush across my nipples and scrape lightly over my stomach.

Then his right hand hooks between my legs, and I inhale at the suddenness of it. The firm, confident intimacy of his hold thrills me to my bones.

Locke bends forward, whispering in my ear. “All that filthy talk made you wet.”

24

A soft mew of helpless need escapes me. I can’t find words. I can only stand here, bare and vulnerable to Locke, silently begging for his touch.

He kneels in front of me, gripping one of my thighs in each hand and urging them apart. I shift my stance, spreading for him. Aching for him, dripping for him.

His tongue trails over me, a lingering glide along my center, and I quiver, laying my hands on his head. Tiny shrill breaths slip from my mouth as he laps and kisses me, as he pushes his tongue in, swirling and then nibbling and oh… gods… oh stars…oh. A pulsating thrill flows from my core, undulating along every limb. I tremble, helpless, hardly able to stand upright as his lips soothe me through the eddies of the pleasure.

It’s a gentle climax, and it’s over quickly, but it’s so satisfying. My body has been craving that release for hours, from the moment Locke joined me in the pool.

Locke stands and wipes his mouth with one hand. “You should dress, before anyone comes this way again.”

“But—you—” I drop my gaze to his dramatically tented trousers.

“I’ll be fine. Go ahead and circle around to the hot springs from a different angle, so they won’t know you were with me.”

“Oh. All right.”

After binding my chest, hiding my family ring, and dressing myself, I trudge away into the forest, trying not to feel hurt. Locke is advising this separation, this caution, for my sake. He wants to protect me. But it makes me sad that anything between us will have to be kept a secret.

What am I thinking—there’s nothing between us except mutual fascination and thwarted lust. He only likes me because I’ve been the mysterious fruit, within arm’s reach but forbidden. Once we finally have sex, we can drive this attraction out of our systems and go on about our separate lives.

I can’t afford any more distractions. My mission to find Mordan has already gone far enough off course.

I need to find my brother. For his own sake, and that of others.

As I swish aside dangling fronds and duck under vines, my mind takes me back to the day my brother cut his knee. The day I first discovered my ability.

Mordan was in the garden with two of his friends. He was ten, five years older than I was. When I went out to see if the boys would let me join their game, I couldn’t find them at first. Then I heard sobbing and wailing from beyond the hedgerow at the back of the garden. I squeezed through the gap Mordan and I often used to reach the fields.

In the center of a field, above the yellow grass, Mordan’s two friends were whirling in midair, carried by incessant eddies of wind. They were both crying, pleading, asking to be let down. My brother stood nearby, feet planted and hands held aloft.

“Mordan, what are you doing?” I asked.

“They wouldn’t play the right way,” he said. “I’m punishing them so they’ll learn. You know, like Mother and Father do with us.”

“But these are your friends,” I said. “You don’t get to punish them.”

“You’re five,” he spat. “You don’t know anything.”

One of the boys began to moan, “I’m going to be sick, I’m going to be sick!” And then he vomited, and the filth spewed in a wide arc and splattered my brother’s clothes.

Mordan let out a shriek of rage, and he spun the boys faster and faster, until I could barely see their faces. They weren’t shrieking anymore, and somehow I knew that was a bad sign.

“Mordan, stop!” I cried. “You’re hurting them!” And I shoved him with all my five-year-old strength.

My brother crashed to his knees, and his hold on the boys broke. Their spirals slowed, and they tumbled to earth.

Climbing to his feet, Mordan glared at me through tears. “Look what you did,” he choked, and he pointed to his scraped knee, which was oozing copious amounts of blood. A sharp rock lay on the ground where he’d fallen; its edge had cut him to the bone.

“I’m bleeding,” he wailed. “Oh, it hurts, it hurts so much!”

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, overcome with guilt, because I loved him, idolized him, and I couldn’t bear having caused him pain.

“Kiss it, Veronica,” he sobbed. “Kiss it better.”

I kissed it, tasting his blood on my lips, salty and bitter.

“It didn’t work,” Mordan screeched. “It still hurts. Kiss it again.” And he gripped the back of my head and made me kiss the wound harder. More of his blood seeped into my mouth, coating my tongue.

I struggled and got free of his grip, though he pulled my hair until a clump of it tore loose. The pain broke something in me, shattered the illusion I’d had of him. I began to see who he was, the unreasoning wild anger he was capable of.

“Stop crying,” I shouted through my own tears—I still don’t know if I was saying it to myself or to him.

Mordan quit crying instantly, cut off mid-sob. No more tears streamed from his eyes, and he looked at me, complacent and calm.

I gaped at him, astounded. Then I said tentatively, “Help them up.” And I nodded to his two friends, who lay dizzy and weeping on the ground.

Mordan gave them each a hand and pulled them up. Next I told him to apologize, and when he did that without question, I knew what my power was.

The taste of his blood faded, and once that happened I could no longer control him.

When my influence dissipated, Mordan remembered what I’d ordered him to do. He understood my ability more quickly than I did.

His two little friends ran home and told their parents what happened, but when we were questioned about the day’s activities, I swore to our parents that I’d been there, and that Mordan hadn’t hurt the other children at all. I protected him, and he kept my secret.

Over and over throughout the rest of our childhood, we made the same bargain. “Fair is fair,” Mordan would tell me, if I hesitated to lie for him yet again.

Fair is fair.

Except I kept a hundred of his dark secrets, and he kept only one of mine.

25

The memory of my brother darkens the day—at least, that’s how it seems, until I realize that above the forest canopy, clouds are scudding across the sun. When I step out of the forest onto the beach, the sand looks pearly gray, not white, as the sky quickly grows overcast.

The other crew members and islanders emerge from the forest a few minutes later.

“We’re in for a hard rain,” shouts the first mate, urging the others to the boats.

By the time we reach the main island, rain is spattering the beach, soaking the sand. There’s a flurry of activity as everyone heads for the town. There’s an inn and tavern there, where Captain Neelan and his first-tier crewmen have been staying. The tavern will be the setting for tonight’s activities.

I linger behind the others to help Cook cover some of our crates and supplies with tarps. By then I’m soaking wet, my coarse shirt sodden and clinging to my form. It’s dark out here on the beach, and I don’t think Cook notices my chest—but I’m worried that if I go to the tavern in wet clothes, someone will take a closer look.

“I’m staying in the tent,” I call to Cook. “Not feeling well.”

He nods and trudges off up the beach after the others.

The camp is abandoned. Two sailors always keep watch aboard the ship, but it’s a misty ghost in the distance, veiled by sheets of rain, and I doubt they can see our camp at all.

I’m not sure where Locke is. Probably with the others at the tavern.

I duck into the tent I share with Cook and Dez. It’s pitch black, and the rain drums loudly against the canvas, but it’s dry enough inside. And I’m alone. I have complete privacy for at least a couple of hours, with no one to disturb me.

A blissful calm seeps through my body. I fumble around and manage to get a candle lit, then a lantern. There’s a pile of extra blankets in one corner, so I peel off my wet clothes, wrap myself in a blanket, and place my family ring on my finger. The red stone at its center glimmers like blood.

I wonder if my brother would recognize me without it. We’re five years apart, and it’s been years since he left us. I know I’ve changed. But my skin is the same, just as speckled as always. He’d know me by that alone. So why am I so reluctant to part with this trinket?

It’s not as if I have any particular pride in belonging to my family. Our lineage is tarnished with murder and mayhem of all kinds, mostly due to the strange magical abilities that keep popping up randomly in various people. There’s no rhyme or reason to the appearance of the powers, and no predicting what they will be. As far I can see, the magic in our blood has been the source of nothing good. It only brings destruction and death.

Maybe Locke is right. Maybe magic always corrupts, inciting its bearers to pursue more and more power over others.

I twist the ring, admiring the craftsmanship of its braided golden band. Sighing, I settle onto my pallet.

As much as I like this privacy, I would prefer a real bed in a nice dry room with walls. The rain sounds as if it’s going to beat through the tent any second.

Wind catches the tent flap and whirls it aside—no, not the wind—a hand. A dark figure shoulders its way into the tent, dripping onto the smooth sand.

Frantic, I clutch the blanket around my body. But it’s only Locke, his clear-cut profile and scruffy jaw slick with rain. The sight of him sends a flare of heat through my belly.

“Are you all right?” He sweeps moisture from his face with one broad hand. “Cook said you were ill.”

“I wanted to be alone.”

“Oh.” He hesitates, hunched over under the low tent canopy. His shirt clings to his chest, wetly transparent. “So—I’ll go then.”

“Or you could stay.” I let the blanket slip off one shoulder and give him a small smile.

Locke stares at me for a second.

Heat thrums between us, coiling and tightening. My heartstrings are thrumming, taut and hot. As my lips part a single whispered word falls out. “Please.”

Something in Locke’s gaze snaps, and he launches into motion.

He tears off his wet shirt, the eye patch, the headwrap—shucks off his boots and clothes with a desperate speed that sends tremors of anticipation through my body. The next moment he’s naked, huge and damp and muscled, and as he crawls over me I lie back, opening the blanket, exposing my body to him.

He’s so big he seems to fill the whole tent, my whole world. Heat and steam and lust surge off him. Beads of rain glisten along his jawline. His eyes are white flame as he hovers over me, bracing himself on one forearm. His hips settle between my parted legs, the hard core of him sliding along my folds.

He palms the back of my head, dragging my mouth up to his for a brutal kiss. This is a man who’s been holding himself back for too long. He is a storm of scorching muscle and feral lust, unstoppable—not that I want him to stop. The force of his kiss, the abandonment of his control—it turns me on like nothing else.

Locke’s teeth drag across my lips, and I respond, catching the swell of his lower lip in a gentle bite. His tongue swerves across mine and then his lips close firmly over my mouth, a solid claim.

Dominant, tyrannical, he rears up, looking down into my eyes. “Tell me your name.”

“I will, when you tell me who you really are.”

“Damn it, Nick.” He sweeps a broad thumb across my mouth, slides his hand down to my neck. His thick fingers stroke up and down the column of my throat. He could snap me in half, this pirate. The awareness spikes my heart rate, and my eyes widen.

But his hand moves on, from my neck to my breasts. He pinches one nipple, and I hiss a breath.

“Your name,” he demands.

“No.”

Locke makes a sound, half laugh, half frustrated growl. His hips retreat and then ram forward. A rush of burning thick flesh plunges into me without warning, without mercy. A choked gasp of delight escapes me as I’m filled, tight and deep. Locke rolls out of me again and surges back in, jarring my whole body.

“Tell. Me. Your. Name.” He punctuates each word with a violent thrust.

“More,” is the only word I can manage.

But he stops pounding me. Draws out, leaving me quivering and empty. I claw at his shoulders, trying to bring him back down to me, but he pulls my wrists together and pins them above my head with one hand. I squirm, my insides trembling, aching.

With one finger he touches me at the apex of my thighs, and I nearly shriek. My muscles are taut with want, my entire body writhing, craving that burst of pleasure.

“Locke,” I whisper. “Please.”

He nudges his nose against mine, still gripping my wrists. “Your name.”

Another touch, feather-light against my folds. I arch upward, trying to gain some friction, anything. But he pins one of my thighs down against the pallet.

“Name,” he growls into my mouth. His tongue darts across my teeth, a salacious swirl, and then he kisses the sensitive skin under the corner of my jaw.

“Veronica,” I breathe. “It’s Veronica.”

“Gods,” he groans. “Veronica.” He says my name like it’s the one word he’s been trying to remember for years.

In one ferocious, fluid movement he releases my wrists and grips my legs, arching them up. He slides into me again, and I stifle a mewling cry at the blessed, blessed fullness and heat of him. Several more savage thrusts and he comes undone, pumping himself hot and liquid inside me. His shuddering groan, the throbbing heat, the bare sight of him braced over me—I buck against him one more time and press two fingers in the right spot and I come, waves of white-hot light coursing through my belly.

“Locke,” I scream. “Locke, Locke.”

He curls one arm around my head, holding me close while I shake and gasp. “Sshhh,” he soothes hoarsely. “There’s a good girl. My beautiful girl.”

26

Locke rolls onto his side, scooting me over so we can both squeeze onto the pallet. I’m suddenly struck by the strangeness of it—the gruff pirate who swung me over the sea and onto the Ardent, the one who nearly tipped me overboard into the deep—I just let him plow into me. He’s lying right next to me, this stranger, this person I barely know. He just gave me a lightning-crack of an orgasm, and I’m not even sure who he really is.

I sit up, feeling the faint throb inside me from where he was. He came inside me. I could get pregnant.

Back home I used to take a special tonic the day after a tryst, to prevent pregnancy. I wonder if the islanders have anything similar.

Sighing, I massage my forehead with my fingers.

“What is it?” Locke sits up as well, and he’s suddenly too close to me. I rise and wrap the blanket around me again.

“It was good,” I say. “And now it’s over.”

Locke runs a hand through his hair. “Did I hurt you? Sometimes I’m too rough…”

“No, it’s not that. I just—once I sleep with a man, that’s it. I’m done.” I tug the blanket tighter around me, a shield against the surprise and hurt in his eyes. He’s a pirate, damn it. Rejection isn’t supposed to bother him. He’s not supposed to look at me like a puppy I just kicked. Not that I’ve ever kicked a puppy—

“Look, it’s nothing personal,” I tell him. “I’m just not the type to get attached.”

Locke doesn’t say anything.

“Stop staring at me,” I hiss.

His jaw works, and a frown dents his forehead, but he looks away. “I thought you and I—I thought we had something. More than just—”

“No,” I say quickly. “Nothing more. And I’ve decided that tomorrow, I’m going to reveal who I am to everyone. Then Captain Neelan will have to leave me here on the island. I’ll be free.”

Locke’s frown deepens. “I see.”

“You don’t think it will work?”

“Oh, it will. It’s a good plan if all you want is to escape from pirates. But if you’re hoping to find that lost brother of yours, you need to come with us to Ravensbeck. If your brother isn’t there himself, someone will know where he is. I have connections. I can help you locate him.”

I hesitate, clutching the blanket. The rain pelts the tent steadily, lighter now, but still incessant.

“Why would you help me? Just so you can have more of this?” I gesture to the pallet where he took me. “Is that why you’ve been helping me this whole time? So you could get your dick inside the girl pretending to be a boy?”

“That’s not it.”

“I’m under no illusions about my own appearance. I’m skinny, my breasts are small, and I’m covered in these spots—my hair looks terrible, and I haven’t had access to cosmetics or perfume or jewelry for ages—”

“As if I care about any of that,” Locke growls.

“Exactly. You don’t care because all you want is a tight hole, right? That’s what you said of Captain Neelan, and I’m thinking you might be the same way.”

He jumps up, and even though he has to bend under the slope of the tent roof, he’s still taller than me. His face is a breath from mine, his frosty eyes shining with anger and passion. “If I wanted a hole, I could have picked any of the women out there. But I wanted you. I still want you. Your eyes stop my heart—like green stars they are, or emeralds fit for a Pirate King. Your face, your body—every inch of you is stunning, adorable, unique.”

I scoff, but I’m breathless too, and flushing deeper with every word he speaks.

“Don’t laugh.” He grips my upper arms, his breath going ragged. “It’s not only your beauty—it’s your plucky spirit, the way you throw yourself into every task. You’re an unstoppable force, Veronica. You are determination incarnate—clever and deceitful and naïve and bold. The thought of never seeing you again—” His grip tightens until it’s painful. With a jerk, he slams me against him and crushes his mouth to mine.

I voice a muffled protest, but when he heeds me and breaks the kiss, I dive for his mouth again, kissing him with a kind of angry gratitude for everything he just said.

“Why are you so good to me?” I snarl against his lips.

“I don’t rutting know.” Locke kisses me back with brutal force, grinding his pelvis against mine. He’s getting hard again, and there’s an answering tremorous tingle in my own body, a craving not yet sated.

“Now I have to go with you,” I hiss, planting a vehement kiss on his mouth, and another on his jaw. “Curse you, pirate.”

“Curse you,” he replies. “You weren’t supposed to happen. This voyage was supposed to be simple, dammit. I wasn’t supposed to find—oh great gods—” His words dissolve into a hoarse moan.

As I writhe against him, he kisses me again, open-mouthed, like his lips yearn to swallow mine, like his tongue wants to slither into my mouth and stay there for good.

There’s a brutal abandon in the way we attack each other. Our time is short—someone could return to camp any minute, and there’s no guarantee of another time and place to be alone. The Ardent might leave the islands tomorrow. Now is all we’ve got.

We’re face to face, crushed together, his length trapped between us. Locke reaches around past the curve of my ass and teases my slit from behind, sliding his fingers through slowly. I gasp, arching against him, and he kisses me through a feral grin.

“I don’t sleep with men twice,” I pant. “I never have. I don’t—”

“Do you want me to stop?” He ripples his hand across my folds, and I whine, wriggling helpless like a slippery fish on a wicked, wanton hook.

Locke keeps diving into me with his fingers, until I can only hang onto him and breathe, ragged and quivering.

Then he throws me face-down onto the pallet, hitches my hips up, and sinks into me with a quaking groan. This time he achieves a depth that he didn’t before, hitting a spot that sends exquisite sparkles through my abdomen. Again and again he moves, in and out, sometimes a quick pounding rhythm, sometimes a slow languid glide. I lose track of how long he pounds into me—I only know that I crash and shatter once, and then again when his thick fingers probe between my legs, massaging in quick, firm circles.

It’s as if the two of us are trying to cram a week’s worth of love-making into a couple of hours. It’s messy and wild, and when he comes the second time we collapse in a shaking tangle of limbs, spent and breathless and weak with pleasure.

27

“We can’t just lie here.” My voice is blissfully weak. “I have to get dressed.”

Locke leans over to kiss first one breast, then the other. He pets them ruefully. “Poor things. I wish you didn’t have to bind them again.”

“It’s a necessary discomfort, thanks to the rutting Pirate King.” I roll my eyes. “Where did this ‘Pirate King’ come from anyway? How did he gain so much power? Have you ever seen him? What does he look like?”

Locke chuckles, pressing his fingers over my mouth. I can smell my own scent on his hand. “So many questions. To answer them in order—no one knows—in the most dastardly way—yes—and he’s old. Paunchy. Big gray beard. Missing hand, wooden leg.”

“Oh.” I frowned. “I thought he might be rather handsome.”

“Kings are rarely as handsome as one might hope.”

“I suppose that’s true. Back in Ivris, our king is white-haired and wrinkly, nearing eighty—and his son is a disgruntled fifty-something who’s tired of waiting for his turn on the throne.”

“Pirate leaders have no laws of succession,” Locke says. “The power goes to the man bold enough to take it, the one ruthless enough to cow his enemies and kind enough to inspire loyalty among his allies.”

I sit up, examining his face. Under the shaggy dark hair and the scruffy jaw, under his brusque demeanor aboard ship and his animalistic passion, there’s a keen, agile mind. I’d like to explore it more.

“Where do you come from?” I murmur, laying aside the single lock of white hair that arches from his brow.

His gaze shutters, walls rising in his eyes. “From somewhere dark and deep.”

“You’re running from something, too. Maybe you’re secretly a prince who went to sea to escape the royal succession. Or a notorious highwayman, fleeing the noose.”

“I don’t run from anyone.” He gives my forehead a quick kiss and rises, pulling on his clothes. “People run from me.”

He snaps the eye-patch into place again and wraps the soggy bandana around his hair, concealing the white stripe. “Sleep well, Nick.”

He ducks out the tent flap, into the pouring rain. Half-smiling, I rewrap my chest and put on the half-dried clothes I discarded earlier. Then I douse the lantern and lie in the dark, my mind racing. My body is thoroughly satisfied, but I have so many questions, and worries, and plans. It takes a long time for me to drift off.

I’m roused by a kick to my rear—sharp, but not cruel. Cook’s angular frame and beaked nose tower above my pallet.

“Captain’s bound he’ll set sail again today,” he says. “He’s heard some rumors of trouble out to sea, and he wants to get to Ravensbeck for more news.”

“Trouble?” I wince, sitting up. “What kind of trouble?”

“There’s news of a great storm near here, one that sucks in ships—pirate, passenger, and merchant alike, and they’re never seen again. The islanders claim there’s a monster at its center, eating whatever comes its way.”

“Sounds like a folk tale.” I yawn.

“Be that as it may, the Captain’s not taking chances with our fine cargo. Up, and look lively. We must load the boats and make ready to leave.”

Groggily, I shove on my half-boots and stumble outside in the pre-dawn chill, my soles squelching in wet sand. There are men waking up everywhere, pulling their dicks out and urinating wherever they please. Gross. Lucky for me, I’m clever at finding excuses and private moments when I need to relieve myself. I volunteer to tote water from the village well, which allows me a few minutes’ detour into the trees to take care of personal matters. Still, I have no idea what I’ll do when my next monthly cycle begins.

Hours later, we’ve brought aboard all the fresh supplies from the island, along with our tents and gear. I don’t catch more than a passing glimpse of Locke now and then, as he labors alongside the other sailors to prepare the ship for the next leg of its journey.

“How far to Ravensbeck?” I ask Cook.

“About a week if the weather’s good,” he replies. “If we stay on this course, we can intercept another merchant vessel on the way. The Lady Marcella, she’s called. Supposed to be richly laden with goods, and the Captain’s got an eye for her.”

A panicked chill raises bumps all over my skin. “We’re going to attack another ship?”

Cook peers at me. “We’re pirates, lad. It’s what we do. Or did ye forget where ye came from?”

“No,” I mutter, as he turns away. “I haven’t forgotten.”

What will I do if the Ardent attacks the Lady Marcella? Will I be expected to fight—to kill? Is Locke going to kill innocent sailors? I know he’s done it before, and the knowledge rankles in my gut, a hideous truth I don’t want to face.

Locke is a pirate. A thief. A murderer.

He is also kind, intelligent, and a skilled lover. How I wish he wasn’t! That would make it so much easier to hate him, to forget him.

And I can’t forget him. When we’re all on deck, waving to the islanders as we raise the anchor and set sail, I find my eyes darting to his tall form at the railing, a few paces away from me. His pale shirt isn’t laced at the front, and it billows in the wind, revealing glimpses of his tanned chest. He lifts a sinewy forearm as one of the women ashore shouts a shrill farewell, and I can’t help thinking of those strong fingers manipulating me so cleverly.

The mood aboard the Ardent has changed. The men should be mellower, and better rested, but instead there’s an odd restless energy swirling among them. Maybe it’s bloodlust, the anticipation of their impending attack on the Lady Marcella. Whatever it is, I notice them snapping at each other more frequently, and picking on Dez and me.

Dez is spared the worst of their teasing, since he’s the Captain’s cousin—but their jabs at me are much sharper now. Before they were good-natured jostles and the occasional mocking nickname, like “Spot” or “Twigs.” Once the navigator asked if I could stand in as one of his star-charts so he could plot our course on my freckled skin.

But now the teasing is worse, especially from the two pirates who hung out with Locke in the hot spring—Tir and Gorm. They noticed Locke’s preference for me, and I suspect they’ve told the other sailors about it. A couple days after our departure from the isles, when I’m passing out bowls of food for the men, Gorm makes some comment about the spokes on the ship’s wheel, and how they’d be “a perfect fit for Nick’s asshole”—a comment followed by guffaws from the rest of the crew.

I ignore him and continue handing out the food. But as usual, I wasn’t able to carry everyone’s portion at once, and I run out of bowls just as I reach the other belligerent pirate, Tir.

“Sorry,” I mutter, pointing to my empty basket. “I’ll go back to the galley for more.”

“Hurry along, won’t you, Shit-splatter,” he says. A few of the other sailors burst into laughter.

Out of the corner of my eye I can see Locke’s tall, stiff form, arms folded. With all my heart I hope he doesn’t intervene, because doing so will only give them more fodder for cruelty.

I don’t dare glance at Locke, and if I look at Tir he’ll take it as a challenge, so I simply duck my head and turn away.

But Gorm blocks my path. “By the powers, you’re right, Tir! Looks like Nick’s mama shitted him out into the world and didn’t wipe his face clean afterward. ’Twould explain why the boy stinks so bad. Why do we never see ye wash, eh Nick? I’d say it’s time for a good scrubbing, and we’ll hang ye to dry afterward.”

Keeping my eyes down, I say, “I have a job to do.”

For a moment I fear Gorm won’t move. Then he shrugs and steps aside. “Well, get on with it then.”

As I’m walking past him, his boot pops out, and my foot catches on it. I sprawl headlong, crunching the basket beneath me.

28

I lie sprawled on the deck, on top of the crushed serving basket. My ribs ache, and for a few seconds I can’t inhale. My lungs won’t function.

I want Locke to help me up. But I understand why he doesn’t.

Instead I struggle to my feet alone and finish my serving duties. Cook glances from the crushed basket to my face, and when I explain that I tripped, his eyes narrow, as if he suspects there is more to the tale. When it’s time for the evening meal, he sends Dez up to serve the men in my place.

The ship has a mess, a space for the men to eat, but there are so many extra sailors aboard that those tables are being used as bunks, with trunks of loot stowed beneath them. Aboard the Ardent, everyone eats where they may. Dez and I get the leftovers, but Cook always has an eye to us, to make sure we get a decent portion. Another mark of kindness that I didn’t expect aboard ship.

But Cook’s brand of surly, subtle generosity can’t dispel the sting of what Tir and Gorm said to me.

It’s a calm evening, with a brisk wind that’s carrying us ever faster toward the Lady Marcella and her richly stocked hold. Most of the sailors go below to sleep, while a few remain above to keep the ship running through the night.

I try to rest, but the sleeping quarters feel stuffy and hot, thick with male breath and gases and sweat. And then there’s the smell of my pillow—I’m fairly sure someone peed on it, or worse. I lie motionless, pretending to sleep, even when someone bumps my hammock and tweaks my ear.

After a while, the pirates settle down, and I ease myself out of the hammock and pad barefoot along the corridor. The steps of the ladder are cool and smooth under my feet, and when I break out onto the deck, the night air rushes over me, fresh, sweet, and welcoming. I inhale deeply and walk the main deck toward the bow.

When I want to look out at the sea, I don’t climb to the quarter deck or the sterncastle deck, because when Captain Neelan isn’t in his cabin, or in the hold counting the stores, he’s usually on the quarter deck, steering the ship. Other times he lingers on the sterncastle deck, or in the navigation room adjoining it. The Captain pays me little attention, and I prefer to keep it that way. My preferred observation spot is much farther toward the front of the ship.

A few streamers of dark cloud lie across the deep blue of the night sky. Its expanse is gloriously freckled with stars. I feel a latent kinship with the sky, with its frost-flecked design—no rhyme or reason, just a wild spray of sparkling lights.

The two sailors busy about the main deck don’t speak to me, so I mount the steps to the forecastle deck, which is blessedly empty. I hitch my legs over the forecastle railing and drop down to the narrow fore peak, from which the bowsprit runs out to sea.

The fore peak is a narrow spit of boards just wide enough to sit on, with embellished railings on either side. On a ship where there’s little privacy, this has become one of my favorite spots to find a moment’s peace.

Here I’m concealed from most vantage points. Only someone right at the forecastle railing or on the fore mast could see me. When the head is occupied or too disgusting for me to handle, I come here to relieve myself. I’ve learned to do it quickly, with minimal mess, while clinging to rope and railing.

And sometimes I come here just to sit and be alone.

I rest my back against the wall leading up to the forecastle deck, and I soak in the clean sea air. Wind trails chilly fingers through my hair and clothing, and I relish its cleansing touch.

“You should be resting,” says a low voice above me, and I smile. I knew Locke was on duty tonight, and I wondered if he’d see me prowling about and come to find me.

I tilt my head back, and there he is above me, leaning over the forecastle railing. He flips up his eye-patch and smiles down at me.

“The crew’s quarters stink of man,” I tell him.

“I apologize on behalf of all men.” His smile dissipates, leaving a dark expression behind. “Nick, about what happened today—”

“You couldn’t intervene. I know. It would have made things so much worse.”

“Even if you were—what they think you are,” he says, low, “what difference should it make to them whether I love a man or a woman?”

My heart trips over itself. Love? I desperately want to respond—to protest, maybe, or reciprocate? I’m not sure which. I can’t speak.

Locke glances around. “I’m coming down.”

“There’s not enough room,” I protest. “You’re too big.”

Locke vaults the railing easily, lowering himself, and I squeeze aside to make room as his huge boots dangle down to the narrow spit of boards. He drops lightly onto the forepeak, and then he’s right against me, overpowering me with his broad chest and shoulders, the spicy fragrance of him. “Too big? That’s not what you thought the other night.”

He angles his body so his back is to the sea, caging me against the forecastle. His hands brace against the wall on either side of my head.

My body is already singing for him—it began warming and liquefying the instant I heard his voice. Traitorous body. Wicked wanton flesh.

Locke dips his mouth to mine, and I accept his kiss eagerly. He tastes like the savory bacon-and-potato pie Cook made for dinner, mixed with the sting of rum.

“You’ve been drinking,” I whisper.

“Only a little.”

“I miss wine,” I say softly. “I miss having a bed, and pillows, and privacy.”

He scrapes the unruly waves of auburn hair back from my face. “This has been hard on you, hasn’t it?”

Mutely I nod. Why is my lip starting to quiver? I blink rapidly, trying to will the tears not to rise.

“Beautiful Veronica,” Locke whispers. “My good, brave girl.”

“Beautiful?” I choke. “Liar. You heard what they said about me.”

“Stop.” He grips my chin. “Any woman with these features would be considered a peerless beauty. Your eyes alone could stop a king in his tracks.”

“You can see past the spots,” I tell him. “Not everyone can.”

“I don’t see past them,” Locke says. “To me, they are part of the beauty.” He kisses my cheek, my temple, my forehead—I tip my chin up so he can kiss my jawline and my neck. He nibbles along the heated pulse of my throat, and I let out the faintest whimper.

At the sound, Locke’s shadowed face lights with a feral grin. His palm slides down my stomach, moving beneath the band of my trousers, questing lower. When he reaches between my thighs, he swirls a thick finger through the slickness he finds there. “Veronica,” he growls against my mouth. “So ready for me.”

I grasp his face between my hands and pull his mouth to mine again, kissing him hard. My hips surge forward, forcing his central finger deep inside me. “Please,” I whisper. “Please take me.”

“We’ll have to be very quiet,” he says.

I nod, and he unfastens his pants, letting himself bob free, hard and hot against the exposed strip of my stomach. I tug my own pants down to my knees.

Locke turns me around so I’m facing the forecastle wall, and he urges my rear up and out. After a few more strokes with his fingers, he pushes into me, a thick swelling heat tightening deep in my body. A choked gasp breaks from him, and he bows over me, his profile skating along my cheek. The sensation of his perfect scruff against my smooth skin is exquisite.

One broad hand travels my bound chest, along my stomach, then down between my legs. Locke massages me there, quick and light at first, then deep and slow. My breasts are aching, my stomach quivering—every nerve I have is alight and sparking—I’m practically dripping with need.

Carefully, quietly, Locke surges into me faster. We could be seen at any moment. We could be caught like this, rutting silently like desperate animals in the dark.

The thought repeats over and over in my mind—we could be seen. We could be caught. And the peril of it makes me come hard, squeezing Locke repeatedly as I bite my wrist to keep from squealing.

“Oh gods,” he says hoarsely, and I feel him jetting inside me a moment later. He pants against my neck, and when he’s done riding out his pleasure he plants a fierce, claiming kiss on my cheek. “No one else,” he whispers. “You will let no other man take you like this. I want you to be mine, Veronica, always. Forever.”

29

I disengage myself from Locke and pull my trousers back in place despite the dampness along my thighs.

“Say it,” he murmurs, tracing my chin. “Say you’ll be mine alone.”

“You know I can’t promise that,” I tell him. “We’re going to Ravensbeck together, and then I need to find my brother. I need to make sure that he—that he’s under control.”

“How could you control someone as powerful as you say he is?” Locke tucks himself away, adjusting his pants.

“I have ways.”

Locke’s pale eyes narrow, glittering in the starlight. “What kind of ways? What exactly is the relationship between you two? You said you were very—close—”

Shock and disgust roil in my gut at the implication. “Ugh, no! Is that what you think of me?”

“I don’t know what to think, Veronica. You haven’t given me much information, and I don’t know you very well.”

“I don’t do anything of that kind with my brother. Ugh.” I shudder. “No, this is something else. It’s a secret I can’t tell you yet, because I’m afraid it will change everything, for both of us.”

“Another secret?” Locke’s mouth curves in a rueful smile. “Always these secrets dancing between us.” He gives me a long, luxurious kiss, salt and spice and sweetness. “I should go. They’ll be looking for me soon.”

He vaults upward, one foot on the fore-peak railing to propel himself higher. His hand catches the forecastle railing, and he’s climbing up and over before I can say another word. There’s a lithe grace to him, despite his bulk, and I can’t help a little open-mouthed admiration.

“Locke!” I hiss at him. “When we attack the Lady Marcella, will I be expected to fight? To—kill?”

“No, Nick. The cabin boys stay below, with Cook.”

“Oh. Good.”

He’s disappearing, but I call hoarsely again. “Locke!”

His head pops back into view. “What?”

“And you—will you be expected to kill?”

His grin vanishes. “I’m a pirate, love. If the men of the Lady Marcella want a fight, we’ll give them one, and it’ll be bloody. Morals are wilder and more changeful out here on the Shorn Seas. You’d best begin thinking more like a pirate and less like a high-born lady.”

This time, when he leaves, I don’t call him back.

Another day passes, and I sense the crew’s tension ramping up even higher as we near the area where the Lady Marcella should be. I stay in the galley as much as I can, offering to do all the hardest jobs. While Cook is sifting herbs together with spices and Dez is off scrubbing the corridor, I work on scouring pots, clearing off the grime and grease.

“I’m curious about this Pirate King,” I say, scraping at a clump of hardened grease with my thumbnail. “Have you ever seen him?”

“Not many have seen him up close,” Cook says. “But I’ve seen him twice. Once, on my last ship, when he came round inspecting it, I caught a partial glimpse of his face. And he was standing on the docks to see us off when the Ardent left Ravensbeck. Like a god he looked, lean and tall, with his black coat trimmed in gold, wearing a black crown.” Cook shook his head, his eyes distant.

“Lean and tall?” I frown. “How long ago was this?”

“About a month ago.”

“But—I thought the Pirate King was an old man. Gray-bearded, paunchy.”

Cook chuckled. “Don’t know who told ye that, lad, but it’s a pack o’ lies. The Pirate King’s no older than thirty, probably a bit younger, I’ll wager. Youngest man ever to hold so much power over the Shorn Seas and beyond.”

So Locke lied to me about the Pirate King being old and gray. Typical. He probably hasn’t even seen the Pirate King in person. Maybe he pretended he had, just to impress me. I smile as I scour the pot harder.

That evening, as the sun sets in a streaming triumph of gold, scarlet, and purple, the man in the crow’s nest releases a shrill cry. I can’t understand what he says, but the keen excitement in his tone is enough to spur everyone aboard to action.

I’m on the quarter deck, holding the cup of spiced wine Captain Neelan requested. When the lookout shouts, Captain Neelan waves the cup away. “Put that somewhere else, boy, and fetch me my spyglass.”

I wedge the wine cup into a coil of rope and hurry into the navigator’s cabin to fetch the spyglass. When I return, Captain Neelan snatches it from my hand and peers through the eyepiece. “It’s the Lady Marcella all right,” he crows. “We take this ship, and we can return to Ravensbeck with a record-breaking haul. The Pirate King will recognize me as his best captain.” He roars across the decks in his best captain’s tone. “Full speed ahead, lads, and ready the guns! You know what to do!”

I should return below, but I don’t. I hesitate near the Captain, wondering if I dare plead with him for the lives of the innocent merchant sailors aboard that ship.

Captain Neelan pulls away from the spyglass to glance at me. “What is it, lad? Don’t stand there gawking—speak up!”

“I’m sorry, Captain, sir, but I was wondering—you see, I hate to see people killed.”

“You hate to see people killed?” He stares at me. “Of all the paltry, lily-livered cabin boys. Nicholas, I’ve a mind to have you whipped, and no substitute this time, just to put a little steel in those bones.”

I clench my jaw. I have more steel in me than he knows. “It’s only the thought of my sister, you see, Captain, and how we left her adrift when you took the Wending Willow. Couldn’t we spare any women that might be aboard?”

Captain Neelan slams the spyglass shut so forcefully that I jump. “Come into my cabin with me, Nick. Dolomon, take over.”

The navigator nods and steps up to the wheel. Neelan snatches the discarded cup of wine, clamps a hand on my shoulder, and steers me along until he and I reach his cabin. He shoves me inside and slams the door, then whirls on me.

I can’t deny that he cuts a beautiful figure, with his sharp cheekbones and angled eyes, his blue-black braids and his peacock-colored coat. He’s not quite as tall as Locke, but still taller than me, and there’s a swaggering elegance to his bearing. His dark eyes trail my body from top to toe.

“You know I used to be like you, Nick.” Captain Neelan sips the wine and sets the cup into a grooved holder on his desk. “I used to be soft and simpering, queasy at the idea of killing someone. It’s a decent quality, placing such a high value on life. I respect it, though I can’t say so before the others. But out here, lad, such a mindset is weakness. It’ll take you straight to a watery grave if I don’t put you there myself first.”

He approaches me, trailing one fingernail along my temple and cheek. “Nick, when I see weakness like yours, all I want to do is stamp it out. To rid my ship of the infestation. And I can do that by killing you, or I can do that by pounding the weakness right out of you. I’ve done it before, with men too soft to survive life in these waters.” He nods to a corner, and when I glance in that direction I see a pair of shackles dangling from the ceiling.

Captain Neelan’s breath ghosts across my mouth. “What I do, Nick, is I chain the weaklings naked in my cabin awhile, and whenever I sense that softness, I attack it. I attack it with whips and candle-flame. Sometimes I have to use more—invasive methods.” He cups his groin, smirking. “Point being, the subject either becomes stronger, or breaks completely.”

I’m barely breathing, snared by his violent eyes and his wine-scented breath, terrified into silence. For a moment I consider biting him, drenching my tongue and teeth in his blood, using those scant seconds of power to control him. But my sway over him would dissipate quickly, and then what? Unless I drank more of his blood, he’d go on with his plan, and he’d have me tossed overboard for using my freaky sorcery on him.

No, I have to deal with this the way a normal human would.

“Now, Nicky boy, don’t look so frightened,” the Captain says. “I don’t have time to teach you a proper lesson right now. Can you be a man and toughen up for what’s coming? Or do I need to chain you naked in the corner until I have more time to deal with you?”

Swallowing, I answer hoarsely, “I can be a man.”

“Good. I was going to have you stay below with Cook and Dez, but now I’m thinking I’ll let you prove yourself. You’ll fight alongside the others.”

“But I don’t have any training,” I say.

Captain Neelan mimics my words in a high-pitched, sneering tone that startles me. “ ‘But I don’t have any training!’ Do I look as if I care, Nick?”

“No, sir, Captain sir.”

“You’ll see Locke about a weapon, and you’ll join us in taking the Lady Marcella.” Captain Neelan picks up the wine again and drinks, swirling the liquid in his mouth before swallowing. “You know, Nick, in the early days when the Pirate King first came to power, the newer captains under his flag used to kill all the men aboard ship and take the women alive. That’s what was done by crews all over these seas, for generations past. It was the pirate way.”

“They kept the women alive?”

“Not for any noble reason.” Captain Neelan’s leer sours my stomach. “So these captains, they’d arrive in Ravensbeck with the captured women all softened up, used and bruised and bleeding. Sometimes they’d offer the most beautiful or buxom females to the Pirate King as part of their tribute. Well, he wasn’t too fond of that, no he wasn’t. I’ve heard that he executed two entire crews for their treatment of female prisoners. Ever since then, his law has been to leave the women on the ship when it’s scuttled, or toss them in a boat and let the Mother Ocean determine their fate. And his law also dictates that any man who surrenders to us should be offered a place among the crew.”

“Like me,” I murmur.

“Yes, Nicky. Like you. Now get out of my sight and ready yourself for battle, before I change my mind and snap you into those cuffs. I can’t lie, I’d like to see you dangling there.” He licks his lips and reaches toward me, but I sidestep his hand and dart out of the cabin. His mocking laugh chases me as I flee belowdecks.

30

As I charge along the corridor, I crash straight into Locke, who grips my arms reflexively. “Ho there, Nick! What is it? Are you all right?”

“Captain Neelan says I’m to fight with the crew.” My voice quivers on the edge of tears.

“What? How in the tides did that happen?”

“I—I might have asked him about sparing lives—”

Locke closes his eyes. “You didn’t.”

“And he said I was soft, and that I must either fight or have the weakness tortured and fucked out of me.”

Locke’s eyes pop open, gazing wide and startled into mine. “He wouldn’t do that.”

“He says he’s done it before. There are manacles in his cabin—”

“He told me those were only for consensual play.”

“Well, they aren’t. Locke—” I stop talking as a pair of sailors shoulder past us. They peer at us curiously, and Locke releases my arms, shifting to create more space between us.

“I’ll deal with the Captain later,” he says grimly. “For now, you will have to make a show of fighting. Stick with me, and I’ll cover you. I won’t let you be harmed, and you won’t have to kill. I promise.”

“You can’t promise any of that. You’re not all-powerful, Locke.”

He takes my face in his hand, a sharp, sudden grip. “You don’t think I know that? Let me pretend to have this under control, Nick. Otherwise I’m going to go mad with fear for you.”

I nod as best I can with my cheeks squished in his fingers. He looks at me, his eyes warming with an intangible kiss, and my stomach thrills.

“I’ll show you where the weapons are.” His tone is heartbreakingly gentle, as if he’s telling me the most intimate of secrets.

I follow him back along the corridor, to a small room separate from the main hold. The place bristles with weapons of all kinds, jumbled together in a tangle.

“Will I be whipped for using one of these?” I ask.

“No. You were ordered to fight by the Captain himself.”

“And how do these battles usually go?”

Locke picks up a sword and slides it half out of the sheath, examining the blade. “It’s different every time. Depends on how quickly the pirate ship can catch up to its target, if at all. The Ardent is big, and running heavy with loot and men already, so I’m guessing the Captain will use the cannons first, to try and disable the Lady Marcella.”

“But couldn’t that end up sinking the Marcella before we get to her?”

Locke nods. “That’s always a risk with something as imprecise as cannons. When we get closer, Captain Neelan will likely use the grappler guns.”

I cock my head, frowning. “I’ve never heard of those.”

“They’re a unique weapon awarded to larger ships flying the Crowned Skull flag,” Locke says. “They shoot massive barbed darts that pierce the merchant ship. Those darts are attached to chains and cranks, so we can pull the ship nearer. Neelan will likely try to stay behind the Lady Marcella so her guns can’t target us. We have both small long-range cannons and grappler guns near the bow, which puts us at an advantage.”

“And will we have to board the ship?”

“Yes. Sometimes we drop the boats, row over, and climb the sides with grappling hooks. Sometimes we’re close enough to swing ship-to-ship.” He looks from me to the sword and winces. “Have you used a sword before?”

I return his grimace, thinking of long days at the dressmaker’s, afternoons sipping tea and embroidering, evenings spent pretending to read an etiquette book while I secretly had a serial romance pamphlet tucked in the pages.

“No,” I reply. “I’ve never used any weapons at all.”

Locke stares at me, naked desperation in his eyes. He veils it the next second, tightening his jaw. “Take this.” He hands me the sword. “And this.” He passes me a double-barreled flintlock pistol as well, touching a lever on the top. “You’ll need to cock it in order to fire. And you have only two shots, so make them count. I’ll have one of the others show you how to load and reload.”

He leans past me, out of the weapons room, and glances down the corridor in both directions. Satisfied, he loops his arm around my neck and seals his mouth over mine. The kiss scorches my lips, bruises them against my teeth—I can practically taste how scared he is for me. He cares about me, intensely.

The knowledge is a slight balm to my terrified heart. I know Locke will do his best to protect me. I just hope his best is enough. And I’ll need to do my part, to defend myself without actually killing anyone.

Breaking the kiss, Locke whispers, “Don’t you die, Nick.” And then he’s gone, striding up the corridor, shouting to the few pirates still in their berths.

Cauley, the first mate from my old ship the Wending Willow, comes to the weapons room a few minutes later and shows me the process of reloading the pistol—how to gauge the right amount of gunpowder, how to place the wadding and the bullet, and how to ram them both down the barrel.

I can’t pretend I’ve mastered it, but I’ve got the general concept. A good thing, too, because judging by the shouts and the boom of the fore guns, the battle for the Lady Marcella is already under way.

“How do you feel about this?” I whisper to Cauley. “Being part of an attack on a merchant ship? Not so long ago our ship was the one under attack, and now we’re doing the deed ourselves.”

Cauley strokes his short beard. He looks old enough to be my father, but I wonder how much of that age has come from a life at sea, scoured by salt and sand.

“Doesn’t sit right, I suppose,” he says. “But we knew what our choices were. Piracy, or death. I’d rather be alive.”

“Even if it means you have to kill someone else?” Yet even as I speak the words, even as I judge him, I remember what I did to Jinks. How I bit him, and forced him to kill himself. Granted, there’s a difference between mind-controlling a rapist and attacking a ship full of harmless merchant sailors—but who am I to judge what another person does for survival?

“It’s a dilemma, to be sure, lass,” Cauley says quietly. At the word lass I shift uneasily and glance around, but there’s no one within earshot. “Good luck up there, and may the Mother Ocean protect you. Though I think you’ve got a decent protector on hand.” He gives me the quickest of winks.

“I don’t know what you mean.” But apparently my face does, because I can feel it heating.

“Young Locke, there.” Cauley nudges my knee with his. “He’s smitten. Is it the boy or the girl he cares for?”

“The girl,” I whisper. “He knows.”

Cauley nods his approval. “He’s a good man, that one. A decent pirate. Never thought I’d say such a thing, but there it is. Stick close to him and me, and you’ll be all right.” With a companionable squeeze of my shoulder, he rises from the bench where we’ve been sitting. “It’s time.”

He’s right. We can’t hang back any longer. A bell is clanging on deck, men are shouting, and the fore-guns crack every few minutes, making my ears ring.

On our way to the deck ladder, I dodge into the crew’s quarters and grab my brother’s knife. It’s been wedged in a crack of one of the posts that hold my hammock. I tuck it into the back of my waistband.

The acrid smell of burnt gunpowder and smoke singes my nostrils as Cauley and I emerge on deck. I’ve got the pistol at one hip and the sword at the other.

“Grapplers are away, Captain!” Locke bellows from the forecastle. “One hit, one miss.”

“Reset and fire the second grappler again,” orders the Captain. He’s standing a few paces away from me. I give him a wide berth and move to stand with a small knot of pirates nearby. They’re checking their weapons, making jokes, guffawing and jostling each other. They don’t seem nervous at all. They don’t seem to care that in a few minutes, they will be killing other human beings—humans who don’t deserve to die.

31

The grappler chains are in place, towing the two ships together slowly, gradually, so as not to swamp either one.

“This is going quicker than I thought it would,” says one of the pirates near me. “The Lady Marcella is slower than the Captain expected, eh? Must be carrying a right heavy cargo.”

“Some gold, maybe?” Another pirate rubs dirt-seamed hands together. “I could use some extra gold. We’re puttin’ in to Ravensbeck soon, and I wanna buy me a top-dollar whore, a real nice piece, not them smelly, gap-toothed ninnies that lurk by the docks. I want a shiny clean one with tits as big as my head.”

I wince in disgust—and unfortunately my expression doesn’t go unnoticed.

The pirate who spoke leans close to me, his foul breath puffing against my lips. “Ye think ye’re so much better than me? If your dick’s as spotty as your face, boy, ye won’t be getting’ no woman to touch it, ever. They’ll fear it’s contagious.” Laughter blares from him, spit flecking my face.

“Enough.” Locke shoulders between us. “We’re going over on the ropes. Make ready, boys.”

Some of the other pirates have already prepared the ropes we’ll be using. Locke hustles me over to one of them and whispers, “I can’t help you this time, Nick. You’ll have to swing over alone. Grab the rope, climb the rigging right there until you’re about halfway up, then jump and swing.”

I nod, trying to swallow the terror lodged in my throat.

The Ardent’s prow is coming up on the rear of the Lady Marcella. The pirate ship noses slowly alongside, and the pirates already in the rigging begin to swing over and drop. They let loose with ululating battle cries that nearly make me wet my pants. I’ve been on the receiving end of such an invasion. I know first-hand the terror the merchant sailors must be feeling right now.

A new kind of fear pinches my gut as I climb the rigging in the spot Locke indicated. My rope is looped around my arm. Out of the corner of my left eye I see Locke climbing near me, his long limbs moving smoothly, effortlessly. One of his knives is clamped in his teeth, and the sun catches on the silver blade, a gleam of white fire.

“Go,” he calls to me through his gritted teeth.

I’m high up—so terrifyingly, treacherously high. As I look down, the deck seems to shrink farther away. I suck in a hysterical breath and look at Locke.

His answering gaze is steady and reassuring. As if he’s saying, You can do this, Nick.

I can do this.

In the past few weeks I’ve done a million things I never thought I could do. It started when I took money from my father’s coffers, packed a trunk, and paid for passage on the Wending Willow. I remember the sense of dizzying, alarming freedom that infused me as I stood at the railing of that ship, watching the coastline of Ivris recede.

I didn’t know where I was going then, or what I’d do when I got there. All I wanted was to escape the tidy betrothal my parents had arranged, and to find out where Mordan had gone when he left us.

That’s still the plan. Finding Mordan, making sure he’s all right—and making sure he isn’t killing people during his manic moods.

To accomplish that goal, I need to do this thing, this one simple thing.

I need to leap.

Locke takes the knife from his jaws for a second to yell at me. “Go, Nick. Now.” He can’t wait for me any longer—he’s a leader on board, and the men will expect him to be over on the Lady Marcella, fighting the sailors.

I clutch the rope, grit my teeth and jump, pushing off with both feet.

Wind and sunlight blast against me as I swing into the sky. For a second I’m blinded, dizzied—then I see a crisscrossed tangle of ropes—the rigging of the Lady Marcella—a deck full of stamping, whirling figures and flashing blades—like a dance, my brain says distantly—and then I’m swinging dangerously low, starting to skim back toward the Ardent.

Just in time, I let go of the rope. I tumble and roll across the deck, narrowly escaping a jab from someone’s sword. I crash against a cabin wall, scramble to my feet, and press my back to the boards, drawing my own sword and pointing it outward.

When pirates attacked the Wending Willow, I was belowdecks the entire time. I never saw how chaotic a hand-to-hand fight could be. But the chaos is all around me now—a whirl of faces and fists, every shade of black, brown, and white. Shirts and coats flutter, cutlasses flash, boots stamp and scrape. Men are shouting, jeering, screaming. Now and then there’s a shot, and a puff of smoke. And the blood—there’s blood sprinkling the deck near my feet, blood spraying from a man’s severed arm, blood soaking the shirt of a body near me.

A man rushes toward me, wild-eyed, sword held aloft. He’s in some kind of uniform—hired by the shipping company to protect the cargo, maybe. A hopeless task in the face of a buccaneer vessel as well-equipped and well-manned as the Ardent.

At first my brain doesn’t register that the soldier wants to kill me. I don’t think of him as the enemy—but when he looks at me, he sees pirate.

I suck in a sharp breath and lift my sword just in time, just as his blade descends toward my chest. I manage to deflect the blow, but he’s already swinging again. This time I dodge, and the soldier’s weapon cuts a groove in the wall where I was.

“Pirate scum!” he screams, and jabs at my stomach. I barely deflect his blade, and its edge cuts the cloth of my shirt along my waist.

As he recovers from the blow, I see an opening. I could charge in and stab him right between the ribs—but I don’t, and the chance passes.

“Back off,” I plead. “I don’t want to kill you. Surrender, and they’ll let you live.”

The soldier stares, his eyes crazed with panic. He’s not hearing me. With a bellow he charges me again—I’m not going to be able to stop it—

Locke darts between us and slashes the man’s throat.

32

The soldier’s eyes glaze over and he chokes as blood jets from the neat slice Locke made. Locke pushes the man’s shoulder, toppling him backward onto the deck. Then he rounds on me with a glare. “I saw that. You lost your chance to kill him. Don’t hesitate.”

He whirls and parries an incoming blow, then blocks another slash while kicking his attacker in the crotch. The man goes down, but before Locke has a chance to finish him another sailor jumps into the fray. While Locke’s attention is diverted, I drop to my knees beside the man Locke kicked. He’s cupping his privates, groaning. There’s an open cut along his forearm, and suddenly I have an idea.

I run two fingers through his blood and swipe the liquid over my tongue. “Surrender,” I tell him.

The man rolls onto his back, and when Locke turns around to finish him off, he lifts both hands and cries, “I surrender! I give in!”

For a second I think Locke is going to kill him anyway. There’s a brutality in the harsh lines of his handsome face, a simmering bloodlust I didn’t expect to see—and it paralyzes me.

But then Locke growls and lowers his weapon. “Tie him up, Nick,” he orders.

I obey, using the sailor’s tattered shirt for the job. Then I race to another soldier who’s struggling to his feet, preparing to fight the pirates to the death. His mouth is bleeding, so I duck in, gripping his sword-arm so he can’t impale me, and I lick the blood from his chin. “Surrender,” I whisper.

“I surrender,” he shouts immediately.

“Lie down on the deck, face-down,” I order, and he drops instantly.

I manage to tie his hands despite my shaking fingers. My power terrifies me. The obedience is so immediate, so complete, so unquestioning. Not a hint of resistance. Some people might find that exhilarating—I hate it. Except, in this case, it’s doing some good.

Slowly Locke and I work our way along the deck. He wounds the men, and then I sneak a taste of their blood, just enough to get them to yield. Everyone else is too busy to notice what I’m doing. Unfortunately the men I’m saving will probably remember how I sampled their blood—they’ll remember being forced to surrender—gods, I’m going to regret this later.

My power wasn’t much use when the Wending Willow was attacked. But there are lives I can save with it now, and damn me, I’m going to try, no matter what it costs. It’s my defiance against Captain Neelan, against piracy in general—against Locke himself. Every person I force to yield is another life he doesn’t have to end, blood that doesn’t have to stain his soul.

I’m not sure how long the battle continues, only that my lips and teeth and tongue are saturated with the blood of multiple men. The coppery, salty bite of the blood coats my throat, and my stomach churns. Still I keep going. I dodge in front of Locke’s blade and confront the man he’s about to kill, swiping blood from the man’s head wound and licking my fingers. “Surrender,” I whisper.

Locke’s at my back, and his large hand closes around the nape of my neck. “Are you trying to get killed? Clear out of the way, Nick.”

“I surrender,” shouts the sailor.

Locke looks from him to me. “How are you doing that?” he grits out. “How are you making them yield?”

“I’m very persuasive,” I mutter.

Locke shoves the man aside and knots his fingers into my hair, pulling my head back. “Your mouth is bleeding. Did someone hit you?”

“Um—yes. I’m all right though.”

He glares at my bloody lips. This Locke is a different person from the gruff pirate aboard the Ardent, or the charming one who lost himself inside me. This Locke practically smokes with thunderous lethal energy. He looks as if he wants to kiss me, bite me, and choke me—maybe all three at once—and damn it, that look kindles a hot flare of desire in my belly.

“What’s this now?” Captain Neelan stalks up to us. He’s carrying the head of a man in one hand, held at arm’s length so the blood doesn’t get on his peacock coat. The head’s eyes are open, stunned and glassy, as if the brain took a few seconds to die after it was separated from the body. “Is Nick misbehaving, Locke?”

“No, Captain, sir,” Locke says, letting go of my hair and stepping back. “He’s a right hellion with a blade. I’m just warning him to be more careful.”

To corroborate Locke’s report of me, I smile at Captain Neelan with my bloodstained teeth. He laughs heartily. “Excellent, Nick. Maybe I misjudged you. Care to pitch the captain’s head?” He holds it out toward me.

Bile rises in my throat, but I can’t say no to this. So I nod, with a stiff smile, and I grip the gray hair of the Lady Marcella’s dead captain. With all my might I hurl it across the railing, far out to sea. It’s a better throw than I would have thought myself capable of. Without realizing it, I’ve been growing physically stronger while aboard the Ardent. Stronger, and tougher.

Captain Neelan nods his approval. “Good throw, Nick. Well, men—looks like the ship is ours!” He raises his arms, and the pirates cheer their victory.

“Nick, Cauley, Locke, Gorm—you four take the first looks below,” orders the Captain. “Round up any little mice that might be hiding in holes, and check the cargo.”

Cauley heads for the steps leading below. He looks haggard and weary, his shirt hanging open to show a carpet of bloodstained gray chest hair. Blood streaks his hands and wrists as well. There’s an ache in his eyes when he glances at me. He killed, and it marked him.

Grimly I follow him, with Locke at my heels. We move from cabin to cabin, surveying each space quickly.

“All empty, it seems,” says Cauley, pushing open the door to the last cabin.

A shot cracks.

Cauley’s body jerks. His chest puffs smoke and a mist of blood.

And then he’s falling, eyes catching mine and then sliding away, unfocused.

He crashes onto his back, the bullet wound blossoming blood over his heart.

33

“No,” I shriek, and I lunge for Cauley’s body, but Locke hauls me back and shoves me behind him. He tugs my pistol from my belt and cocks it, then stands pressed against the wall by the open cabin door.

“Whoever you are in there,” Locke calls out, “it’s over. We’ve taken your ship. Your best chance now is to surrender. Surrender, and your lives will be spared. It’s the law of the Pirate King.”

A quavering voice emerges from the cabin. “But—the Pirate King does not extend that mercy to women.”

My breath catches. “No,” I whisper. “Oh, Locke… no…”

“Hush, Nick,” he snaps. Then louder, he says, “No women are allowed on the Pirate King’s ships. But if you come quietly, we’ll see that you’re given a boat and some supplies. You won’t be harmed.”

“That’s a death sentence,” I hiss.

Locke whirls, eyes blazing. “Nick. Quiet.”

“Shut yer trap, Nick,” echoes Gorm from the shadows of the corridor.

Locke eases down the lever of the gun and tucks it into his belt. “I’m coming in,” he says. “Don’t shoot me, or it’ll be the worse for you.”

Soft sobs are his only answer. Stepping over Cauley’s body, Locke moves into the doorway.

I can’t breathe. If they shoot him, I—

I won’t—I can’t—Locke can’t die. He can’t. It’s just—it’s impossible.

Locke stands in the doorway, palms up, and I see the muscle along his jaw flex as he stares into the room. When he speaks, his voice is gruff but not cruel. “Come on out. I’ll take you to the Captain.”

He holds out his hands, beckoning. Even grimy and one-eyed, with his hair covered, he cuts an impressively handsome figure. Not that the woman in the room is in any state to admire him—wait, it’s not one woman, but two. Two women are emerging from the room. The older one hands her pistol to Locke—it’s a single-barrel, empty now—while the younger woman clings timidly to the first woman’s arm. I suspect they’re mother and daughter.

They are both dressed in all the layers of wealth—petticoats and corsets and overskirts and ruffles. Their hair is exquisitely coiffed, and their lace-rimmed necklines show off the copious swells of their breasts.

Gorm whistles appreciatively, and the women shrink like startled fawns.

“You won’t be harmed,” says Locke. “The Pirate King’s law prevents any of us from laying a finger on you.”

“But you’re going to put us out to sea, alone,” says the woman who held the gun.

Without answering, Locke guides them toward the ladder, while Gorm follows.

I stay behind for a moment, kneeling beside Cauley, former first mate of the Wending Willow, turned murderous pirate.

He was kind to me. He kept my secret.

Does he have a family somewhere, waiting for him? Better that they never know how he ended his life—how he killed innocent sailors and died at the hands of a terrified woman.

I place one hand along his brow and press it there for a moment. I barely believe in the gods, so I have no prayers to offer, except a wish that his spirit may find peace.

“Thank you,” I whisper. Then I rise, leaving him alone in the hallway. When the crew of the Ardent has finished here, Cauley will go down with the Lady Marcella.

When I reach the deck again, the two women are standing before Captain Neelan, encircled by leering pirates.

“And who might you be, pretty birds?” asks Neelan, tipping up the older woman’s chin with the muzzle of his pistol.

“I’m the captain’s wife.” Her voice shakes. “And this is my daughter.”

“Ah, the captain’s wife.” Captain Neelan taps his pistol against his lips as if he’s thinking. “Hmm, captain, captain—Oh, right, the captain! That captain?” And he points to a headless corpse lying on the deck a short distance away.

Both women scream, cupping their hands over their mouths. The older one darts forward and is dragged back by a grinning Tir, while the younger woman crumples to the deck, overcome.

“Your man should have run up a white flag,” says Neelan carelessly. “Well, my dears, let’s send you on your way as quick as may be. We’ve got loot to transport before we scuttle the lovely Lady Marcella.”

I’m racking my brain, trying to think of a way to save the women. The memory of Cook holding my family ring flashes into my mind. Cook asked me if I was valuable for ransom. Of course, he still thinks I’m a boy, so that was likely the only reason he mentioned it. If the promise of a ransom could save a woman’s life aboard the Pirate King’s ships, I’d have heard about it. Hell, I might have tried it myself, despite my aversion to returning home.

But these women are clearly wealthy. Maybe the Captain will make an exception. I have to try, because the pirates are already preparing a skiff to be lowered over the side.

“We could hold them for ransom,” I say.

Captain Neelan shakes his head. “No, lad. The rule is clear. No holding women for ransom. No women aboard the Pirate King’s ships at all. They go to the sea.”

Locke is standing across from me, and I stare at him, wordlessly begging him to intervene. But he only goes below and comes back with a parcel and a jug. “Food and water,” he says, and sets them in the skiff. He helps each woman in.

“That’s our Locke,” says Captain Neelan. “Ever the gentleman. Right then, you scurvy louts—swing the skiff away and drop her to the sea.”

The two women cry and cling to each other as the skiff is lowered to the ocean’s surface. I run to the railing and peer over, partly because I want to see the women, to know that they have a chance, and partly because Locke is standing by the railing, too.

This skiff is light as a leaf, ducking and bobbing on the swells. A single large wave could overwhelm and sink it.

The other pirates seem to have already forgotten the women. They’re trooping below with Captain Neelan to see the loot in the hold.

“Locke,” I whisper. “You have to do something. We have to save them.”

His jaw is set, his eyes cold and pale as ice. “This is the law.”

“It doesn’t have to be. You could interfere—ask Captain Neelan to—”

“No.” The word is sharp, a dagger to my soul. “This is better than the alternative. At least now they have a chance.”

“A chance?” I choke on a bitter laugh. “What chance?”

“A chance to survive, or the opportunity to die with dignity, unmolested.” Locke whirls on me. “Do you think I like this? I don’t. But it’s better than the horror of rape happening aboard my—aboard the ships.”

“You know what I think?” I seethe, standing on tiptoe so I can hiss in his face. “I think you’re a rutting coward.”

“Think what you like.”

I shove him hard in the chest and stalk below, so angry I can barely see. I help the other pirates load the merchant vessel’s cargo onto the Ardent, until our ship’s hold is full to bursting and Captain Neelan orders us to leave the rest.

“Wouldn’t want to sink our own ship,” he jokes, and the pirates laugh.

Then Captain Neelan turns to the dozen merchant sailors and soldiers I convinced to surrender. “I’m right sorry, lads, but I’m afraid we’re packed to the brim. We’ve no room or need for more bodies to serve before the mast.” He glances at his pirate crew. “What say you, lads? Should we treat these sailors to a good plank-walking, like in the jolly old days before the Pirate King abolished such things?”

34

No. Captain Neelan can’t murder the men whose lives I saved. I spared them, I forced them to surrender. They were supposed to be safe. My fingers curl into painfully tight fists at my sides. Desperation claws through my heart, ravages my throat. My eyes prickle with helpless tears.

At the idea of making the captives walk the plank, some of the men shout their approval. But several look uncomfortable, including the first mate, Shem, and the navigator, Dolomon.

“Hold up there, Captain,” says Dolomon. “It’s the Pirate King’s law that we must be taking aboard any man who yields to us and swears allegiance to the Crowned Skull.”

“Aye,” adds the first mate. “We followed the law with the women, Captain. Shouldn’t we follow it with these men as well? We can ditch some of the swag to make room for ’em. ’Tis the Pirate King’s wishes, sir.”

Captain Neelan turns to them slowly, his smile full of blades and blood. “But the Pirate King isn’t here now, is he? This is my ship, and while I may fly the Crowned Skull, I’m still the Captain. I give the orders. And I say we make these fools walk the plank. Every man-jack of you will report that these lubbers did not yield, that they fought to the very last soul. And anyone who thinks himself high-minded, who lets a word slip to the Pirate King or his officers—that man’ll have no place on this ship, and no part of the loot. Am I clear?”

“Yes, Captain!” shouts the pirate crew. Dolomon and the first mate echo, more quietly, “Yes, Captain.”

Locke says nothing. He does nothing but stand there, rooted to the deck, while the pirates set up a plank and march the merchant sailors off it, one by one. The sailors wail and plead, and the pirates guffaw, poking them along the plank with the tips of their swords. When the last merchant sailor clings to the end of the plank, refusing to drop, Captain Neelan levels a pistol and shoots him in the head.

Wheeling away, I clutch one of the ropes and start to climb the rigging. Anger fuels me, blurring my fear of the height. I launch from one of the beams branching from the mast and propel myself through the air, landing neatly on the deck of the Ardent.

For a second I stare at my own hands, so much stronger now, and at my feet, so much steadier whether I’m on deck or below it. I’ve truly become a sailor.

No, I’ve become a pirate.

I know the crew of the Ardent will have noticed my abrupt departure. It’s the only rebellion I could risk, the only protest I could manage—and honestly I’m furious with myself about that, too. I’m just as much a coward as Locke.

Bloodied and bruised, I stomp down the ladder and into the galley. Cook looks me up and down, then hands me a basin of water and a cloth.

Dez bobs at my elbow while I wipe the gore from my face and forearms. “Did you kill anyone?” he asks eagerly.

I stare at him blankly, aching inside. I can still hear the shot from Captain Neelan’s pistol—I can see the bullet blasting through that last sailor’s skull, spattering gore across the waves. I can see Neelan blowing the puff of smoke from the mouth of his gun, and Locke standing rigid and unyielding, his feet braced apart, his mouth grim beneath the eye-patch and the head-wrap. Locke looked every inch a pirate in that moment, with none of the softness he’s shown me when we’re alone.

Dez frowns, his curiosity faltering under my stare.

“Be off with you now,” Cook tells him. “Run up above and see if they need help stowing any more swag. Nick can take over chopping the onions.”

Dez races out of the galley.

Mechanically I finish washing up. Then I pick up the knife Dez abandoned, and I chop the onions into small white squares. Their fumes rise, stinging my eyes, and I let the tears trail along my cheeks.

Cook comes to collect the onions a few minutes later. I scrape them into his pan with the blade of my knife. His expression is grim, but not unsympathetic, so I mutter, “I’m too soft for this life.”

“Compassion,” Cook says gruffly. “Some might call it weakness. Others would call it strength.”

He says nothing else, but those few words carry me through the rest of the day, until the late hour when I can finally stagger to my hammock and throw myself into it. Someone has replaced my old sour-smelling pillow with a new, fresh one from the Lady Marcella. It was probably Locke, making some sort of apologetic gesture—I noticed his shape lying in his bunk when I entered the room.

Maybe he was trying to be nice. But one of the murdered sailors or the abandoned women used this pillow, and I can’t lay my head on it.

Nausea roils in my gut and I throw the pillow out of my hammock.

Since I was in the galley, I didn’t have to watch the holes being blown into the hull of the Lady Marcella, but I heard the distant boom of her demise as the Ardent sailed away. I didn’t have to watch the women in that skiff being swamped and overturned, but I know it must have happened.

Shutting my eyes tight, I try to blur the memories of the fight and its aftermath, try to force my mind to think of something pleasant so I can rest—but it’s of no use. The grating snores of the men around me fill my ears, and I hate them for being able to sleep so deeply after what they did today.

Finally I launch myself out of the hammock and run from the crew’s quarters, up the ladder, onto the deck where I can breathe.

It’s dark tonight. The sky is thick with clouds, and only the slightest haze of moonlight shines through. A lantern hangs near the ship’s prow, and a couple more glow on the upper decks.

I’m halfway across the main deck when a hand clamps over my mouth and a thick arm slams across my throat. Another pair of arms sweeps my legs up, right off the deck, and I’m carried along, unable to do more than squirm. My cries are muffled by a meaty palm.

35

“Quick, gag him,” says a hoarse voice. With the arm pinning my throat, I can barely breathe, let alone gather air for a scream—and I have enough sense left to realize that a scream might betray my gender. So when the hand disappears from my mouth, I invest in taking the deepest breath I can manage, instead of screaming.

The next second a foul-smelling cloth is stuffed into my mouth, and then another strip of cloth is worked between my jaws and knotted at the back of my skull.

The faces of the two pirates holding me are shadowed, but one is a huge block of a man—probably Tir. There’s a glint and sparkle whenever the other one moves—most likely it’s Gorm. His piercings tend to catch even the tiniest ray of light.

What are these brutes up to?

“We noticed your insubordning today,” grunts Tir.

“Instubbornation,” corrects Gorm.

If they’re trying to say “insubordination,” they’ve both got it wrong. I stifle the urge to laugh despite my growing panic.

“Aye, and the Captain might let that slide, but we won’t,” Tir continues. “We’ve dealt with lads like you afore, and we’ve a mind to do it again. You’re a trouble-maker, Nick, that’s what you are. You’ve turned Locke’s head, and you’ve disrespected the Captain. And now you’re gonna pay.”

With a jolt I remember what they said in the hot spring, about how they tied a sailor naked to the mast to teach him a lesson.

Is that what they plan to do with me?

Desperately I thrash, kicking out and bucking. I wish my mouth was free so I could bite one of them and control them through their blood. I could make them jump overboard like I did with Jinks. They deserve it for what they did today.

If I get out of this, I’m going to make the rounds of this ship, little by little, biting each man I believe to be worthy of death and forcing them to jump into the sea. I should have already done that—but I was lulled into complacency. I actually began to think the pirates might not be so bad after all. I thought maybe some of them had good qualities.

I was a fool. I should have been working my way through them this whole time, killing them one by one. And now I might not get the chance, because Gorm is tugging at my shirt.

I’m fighting him so hard that he can’t get a proper grasp on the material. He loses patience, slaps me hard across the face, and then sinks a punch in my gut. Plain explodes through my stomach and ribs, and I go limp with the shock of it.

Gorm rips my shirt wide, buttons scattering. He and Tir drag it off me and throw it aside.

“Here now, what’s this?” Gorm touches the layers of binding across my upper chest.

With a muffled screech through the gag, I thrash again, but Tir grips my upper arms from behind and lifts me clean off the deck. Helpless I hang there while Gorm unwraps my bindings.

Pain rushes through my flesh as the cloth loosens and circulation returns to my breasts. They hang free, soft and exposed, nipples hardening in the chilly air. I hear a faint ting as my family ring falls out of the wrapping and rolls away somewhere—but Gorm and Tir don’t notice. They’re too busy staring at my chest.

“Gods’ bones,” says Gorm hoarsely. “Nick ain’t a he. It’s a woman we’ve got here. A sneaky, conniving, interfering woman.”

“I don’t believe it,” Tir says. “Those ain’t tits, they’re too small.”

“There’s one way to know for sure.” Gorm holds my legs so I can’t kick him and works my pants down. Finally he’s able to yank them off, and I hang in Tir’s grip, naked and exposed.

“Well, ain’t this a surprise,” Gorm chortles. “So Locke wasn’t lusting after some beardless boy. He knew what you was hiding between the legs, didn’t he?”

Go to hell, I seethe inwardly, glaring daggers at him.

“What are we gonna do?” Tir asks.

Gorm’s lip piercing flashes as he smiles. “We’re gonna tie her to the mast, like we planned. And then we’re gonna invite everyone to come have a look.”

They tie me to the foremast, stark naked. One set of ropes winds around my thighs, while another cinches across my ribcage right under my breasts. My arms are pinioned at my sides.

While Gorm and Tir were tying me up, a few more sailors on duty came to watch and to exclaim over the revelation of my gender. It’s boring honestly—the same salty curses, the same personal comments about the extent of the freckling on my body and the size of my breasts.

It’s revolting, having to hang there while they stare at me.

“Not much to look at, is she?” sneers one man.

I roll my eyes. I’ve seen all of these men shirtless—most of them are no treat for the eyes, either. Too dirty, too covered with hair and moles and scars. If they can judge my body, I can judge theirs.

Gorm goes below and rouses more sailors, who come trickling out on deck, rubbing their eyes. The sailors from the Wending Willow, the ones who knew my identity, hang back in the shadows, looking guilty and nervous. They’re probably afraid they’ll get in trouble for keeping my secret.

Finally Gorm comes up from below, bringing a sleep-muddled Locke with him. As they cross the main deck and approach the forecastle, I can hear Locke muttering grumpily, “What is it you want me to see?” He rubs his uncovered eye and yawns. “Another ship? We’ve got plenty of swag in the hold.”

“Funny thing,” Gorm says. “Your little favorite, Nick? Well, we decided to teach him a lesson. Toughen him up a bit, you know—teach him to be a man. And you won’t believe what we found when we stripped him.”

Locke freezes mid-stride and looks up at the forecastle deck—at me, bare and bound and gagged.

Rage floods his eyes, and he spins, whipping a knife from his waistband, catching Gorm’s throat in his hand and tucking the tip of the blade under Gorm’s chin. “Cut her down and give her some clothes.”

“Hold up, now,” says Tir, striding forward. “Ye can’t be makin’ demands here, Locke. You’re in no such position, seeing as you knew there was a woman aboard and didn’t report it to the Captain.”

“That’s right,” another pirate chimes in. “Terrible bad luck, women—besides the fact of the Pirate King’s law.”

The others assent with grunts and nods.

“And those crewmen from the Wending Willow,” cries a pirate. “They knew, and they didn’t warn us.”

“By the powers, you’ve got a point there!” Tir shouts. “Take ’em, boys!”

The pirates grab the survivors of the Willow, most of whom came up on deck weaponless. “Toss ’em overboard!” someone shouts.

“Too good for ’em! Keelhauling it is!” cries another.

Amid the contradictory shouts, Locke walks untouched, still clutching Gorm’s throat. He marches Gorm up to the forecastle deck, but Tir blocks the way.

“You’ll not set her free until the Captain gives the word,” Tir says, folding his massive arms.

“Is that so?” Locke tightens his grip on Gorm and slams the hilt of his knife onto the pirate’s skull. Gorm’s knees loosen and he slides to the deck, unconscious.

“Out of my way, Tir,” Locke snarls.

Tir cracks his neck and knuckles. “Come on, pretty boy.”

At that moment, Captain Neelan’s voice rings across the main deck, all the way to the forecastle. “What in the gods’ names is going on out here?”

36

Captain Neelan is wearing a quilted dressing gown in his favorite color, peacock blue. He advances across the main deck, while the pirates shout explanations and point at me.

In the midst of the chaos, while Tir is momentarily distracted, Locke darts in and strikes the bigger man on the back of the head with his knife hilt.

But Tir’s skull is thick and tough as an old barnacle, and he doesn’t go down like Gorm did. He turns his head slowly, then makes a grab for Locke with one meaty hand.

Locke pivots and ducks, landing a sharp blow to the back of Tir’s elbow. He must have hit a nerve, because Tir yells in pain.

“Stop!” shouts the Captain. “Stop it, both of you. Stand back, Tir! Locke, that’s an order!”

Tir retreats, clutching his arm. Locke seethes, his eyes blazing. He backs up, placing himself between me and the Captain, shielding my body with his.

“So our little Nick is a woman,” Captain Neelan says. “Fooled us all, didn’t she, men? Well, not all. Our friend Locke knew. And so did the sailors of the Wending Willow. This girl broke one of the Pirate King’s laws. She made us all complicit, and guilty. How should we punish her?”

“Nothing has to change,” Locke says, low and terse. “She can keep serving as cabin boy. She’s good at it, you know she is. She’s a useful member of the crew.”

“That she is,” says Captain Neelan. “But she’s also a traitor, for she pledged her service to the Crowned Skull under false pretenses. Perhaps we should toss her into the drink, eh lads? Do what we should have done that first day?”

The pirates rumble in agreement.

All I can do is stand against the mast, bound so tightly my bones ache, mute from the gag in my mouth. I stare back at the faces of the pirates to whom I’ve served so many meals—faces that leer or glower at me. Past Locke’s figure, I can only see a sliver of Captain Neelan’s face—one dark eye, fixed on me.

I won’t let the tears come. Even if I weren’t gagged, I wouldn’t cry and plead for my life. If they toss me into the dark water, if I plunge into gurgling, black, bottomless depths—if I resurface, salt-choked, only to see the Ardent’s massive shape sailing away—if I breathe the sea and drown, so be it. I tried. Gods, I tried so hard to make it through this, to survive.

“Into the sea she goes, then,” says Captain Neelan. “Unless—”

The entire crew hangs on his words. Silence tightens across the ship, and the only sound is the rush and slosh of the water, and the creak of timbers, and the faint whistle of the wind.

“Unless, since the Pirate King’s law has already been broken, we consider another possibility. A punishment for her and a reward for us, you might say.”

“Like what, Captain?” calls a pirate.

“Well, she is a woman, isn’t she?” Captain Neelan purrs. “What are women good for?”

My stomach twists.

“What say we all take a turn, and then toss her in, along with those that collaborated in her treachery?” The Captain tilts his head, peering at me around Locke. “What do you say, men? We’ve been wronged, we have, and why shouldn’t we be repaid?”

Just as before, when Neelan sent the merchants who surrendered to their deaths, the crew is divided. Some surge forward eagerly, a grotesque lust shining in their eyes—animals, acting on baser instincts. But others frown, and mutter, and withdraw a step or two.

“It’s against the Pirate King’s law!” shouts a voice from the back of the crowd. It’s Cook, gripping a pallid Dez around the shoulders. Dez looks as if he’s going to fall over, like Cook’s grasp is the only thing holding him up. “You’ll not touch her,” Cook adds, and he brandishes the butcher knife in his other fist.

My heart swells tight with gratitude.

“Trust me, lads,” adds Hanschel, the crewman who whipped Locke. “Ye don’t want to be doing anything against the Pirate King’s law. He has ways of knowin’ what goes on aboard his ships.” He clamps his mouth shut after speaking, as if he’s afraid he’ll let something slip out.

Captain Neelan looks around, surveying the crew, probably trying to gauge whether he can get away with this egregious breach of the Pirate King’s law.

Before he can decide, Locke throws down his knife. “Enough of this!” he bellows. “The decision doesn’t belong to any of you—or to you, Captain. Because I outrank everyone on this gods-damned ship.”

He tears off his bandana and his eye-patch. Drags his loose shirt over his head. He steps forward, and the light of a nearby lantern catches him in its glow—ice-pale eyes, black hair streaked with white. The tattoo on his back seems to ripple under my gaze—the beautiful moth, with the crown above it.

“What’s this now?” begins Tir, but Captain Neelan throws out a hand for silence. His face has gone taut and gray.

The tattoo on Locke’s back shifts. It doesn’t vanish, but shadows unspool from it and weave themselves into a shape, a spiked circlet—a crown.

The crown settles onto Locke’s temples and solidifies into something real, something tangible and brutal and powerful. It’s not an exact replica of the crown on the pirate’s flag, but it’s close.

Pirate, and king.

Pirate King.

My whole body is shaking. My mind blazes white with the realization, unable to hold any other words or thoughts except—Locke is the Pirate King.

Locke is the Pirate King.

37

A shuddering gasp races through the crew, and they collapse to their knees, all of them, an avalanche of obeisance.

“What is the meaning of this?” Captain Neelan’s voice is sharp and thin.

“From time to time I like to check in on the newer captains who join my fleet,” says Locke. His tone is the smooth educated one he uses when he’s around me—his true self, resurfacing. “There’s only so much you can know about a man unless you’ve sailed under his command. You’re not the first captain who has hosted me unawares. But you are the first whose entrails I’ve wanted to hang from the rigging.”

I can’t see Locke’s face, but whatever expression it holds must be terrifying, because Captain Neelan shudders and sinks to one knee. “Begging your pardon, sir. Decisions made at sea are sometimes difficult, and I—”

“Shut up, and get up.” Locke’s voice drips with malevolent scorn. He snaps his fingers at Captain Neelan. “Cut her loose and give her your robe.”

My mind is spinning, everything I know about Locke rearranging to fit a new reality. Yet even amid all of that, I can’t help but be impressed by the level of power he wields over these men. He stands alone, with no weapon but a knife, and nothing to identify him but a distinctive tattoo, a white streak in his hair, and a crown. Technically they could defy him, overwhelm him, toss him into the sea. Yet they obey him immediately, implicitly.

“The rest of you,” Locke says. “Show me your marks of allegiance.”

The pirates shift and shuffle, scraping aside hair or clothing. Except for the Wending Willow sailors, each man points to a tattoo—markings I’d thought were simply personal adornment. Every tattoo is different—I can tell that much even from this distance. I suppose the shape of the tattoo doesn’t matter so much as the magic infused into it.

Neelan finishes sawing through my ropes and I step free, rubbing my skin where the rough cord chafed it. The Captain takes off his blue robe and holds it out, avoiding my eyes. I fold the robe around my body, hating the way it smells of Neelan, pipe smoke and sickly florals and peppermint.

Locke is speaking to the crew, his voice firm, tinged with rebuke. “Most of you I inked with my own hand, though you may not have known it, since I wear a mask when I perform tattoo magic. Some of you were inked by one of the other two tattoo mages in my employ. But all of you swore dual vows the day you were marked—an unbreakable vow to never reveal the location of Ravensbeck, and a second vow, less deadly, but no less binding—a vow of allegiance to me, your lord and governor.”

I inhale deeply as I finish untying my gag. So Locke does have some sway over these men, through the magical tattoos they accepted and the vows they spoke. They wouldn’t die from breaking his laws, and they don’t appear to be under his control, exactly—but there must be some compulsion to obey him. I’ll have to ask him about it later, when I’m done beating the shit out of him for not telling me who he is.

“You’ve heard tales of how I punish those who defy or betray me?” Locke asks, and an uneasy rumble moves through the men. “I see that you have. Good.”

“Sire, if I may,” says Captain Neelan. “Would you like the girl tossed overboard now, in accordance with your law?”

Foolish of him to interrupt. Even more foolish to suggest such a thing, because Locke would never let me be tossed overboard. He promised to protect me. He—

My confidence falters as he turns and looks right at me with eyes like shards of ice.

Then he glances at Neelan. “Where in the law does it say to kill the women? They are to be left on the looted ships or sent to sea in boats, not slaughtered. I’ll decide what to do with her in the morning. For now, Captain, take her to your cabin, which is now my cabin. You’ll bunk with our navigator Mr. Dolomon.”

Captain Neelan’s face goes tight with rage, but he only nods and hustles me along, down the forecastle steps and across the deck. Locke is saying something about whippings and punishments, but I barely hear him. Dozens of eyes are focused on me, gazes pressing heavy against my shoulders, heating my cheeks.

Neelan shoves me ungraciously into his cabin and begins to collect his personal effects. “Cunning little shrew, aren’t you?” he hisses. “You think you’ve won, but I haven’t climbed this high to be knocked down by a pair of spotted tits.”

“For a while I thought you might be decent enough,” I say. “But you’re a real asshole, aren’t you?”

Neelan glares at me with so much rage that I step back. “I hate you,” he seethes. “You worthless piece of shit. You’ve cost me my place in the fleet. I’ll be lucky if I get to keep my ship.”

Suddenly he drops everything he’s carrying and charges me, seizing my throat and ramming me against the cabin wall. “Did you know who he was?”

“No,” I gasp, writhing in his grip. “No.”

“That bastard is going to ruin me. I’ll be damned if I let it happen without a fight.”

“If you hadn’t suggested gang-raping me, he wouldn’t be so angry,” I choke out. I’m tempted to kick Neelan in the crotch, but I’m afraid of inciting him to further violence. His hold hurts, but at least I can breathe, for now.

“I don’t know much of the Pirate King,” seethes Neelan. “Before this voyage I’d only seen him once, at a distance. I wanted the protection and perks of his flag, you see. Not much interest in the man himself. But I’ve heard a few tales of his past from them as should know. He’s a sick one, he is. Murderous and vile, just like the rest of us. Now that you’re not his secret piece of ass, you’ll likely see a whole new side of him.”

“Let go of me,” I whisper.

With a final harsh squeeze, Neelan lets go. He collects his things and storms out, while I drag air through my bruised throat.

I don’t know what to do, or where to sit. I don’t want anything to do with Neelan’s bed, or with the big captain’s chair by the desk. I have no clothes but the robe, and I’d rather not rifle through Neelan’s drawers and trunks to find something else. So I grab one of Neelan’s knives from a belt hanging over the chair, and I sit in a corner with my legs tucked up, waiting, watching the lantern gutter and flare and swing from its hook.

A long while later, there’s a scrape at the door handle. I tense, clutching the knife hilt.

Locke walks in, shirtless, still wearing the brutal spiked crown. How did that crown come out of his tattoo? How does his magic work? I’m desperate to know, but I’m more desperate to find out his intentions. He told the crew he would “decide what to do with me” in the morning. What in the gods’ names did that mean?

38

Locke closes the cabin door and bolts it from the inside. Then he turns to me, his handsome face impassive, unreadable.

I’ve only seen him shirtless a few times, and each time is a delight. He’s so beautifully formed, his muscles smooth and well-defined. I remember how that body of his felt against my breasts, under my palms—and the lust of the memory mingles with my sharp terror and my burning anger. I’ve never been so confused, aroused, and scared at the same time.

“You’ve put me in a very difficult position, Veronica,” Locke says.

“Sorry for trying to stay alive,” I snap.

He half-smiles. “How dare you, really. You should have gone quietly to the deep like a good girl.”

I want to be angry, but the words “good girl” steal my breath. He has spoken those words to me before, while I was trembling in the throes of violent ecstasy.

“You lied to me,” I say.

“I lie to everyone, love. All the time.” Locke sinks into the Captain’s chair, sets the crown on the desk, and pulls off his boots—the fine leather boots I took from the dead captain of the Wending Willow. A sudden surge of hate rushes through me—hate for those boots, and for him.

“How did they not recognize you?” I ask. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“I don’t sit for portraits, Nick,” he says. “My most recognizable features are my pale eyes, this streak in my hair, and the tattoo on my back, which many have seen. Disguise those key features, add slovenly clothing and a bit of grime, and you’d be surprised how few ever suspect. Not to mention that no one would expect me to be aboard ship, not when they see me standing on the dock to wave farewell to departing vessels.”

“Cook mentioned that,” I say. “How do you manage to be in two places at once?”

“I have a double. A trusted friend who takes over my duties when I go on an investigative foray such as this one.”

“And have you ever been caught, or revealed yourself like this?”

“Never. Usually the voyages are fairly straightforward, and any small infractions I notice can be taken care of later, once we’re back in Ravensbeck and I’ve resumed my role as Pirate King.” He gives me a hard stare. “This is the first time I’ve had to remove my disguise before I was ready to do so.”

“Apologies for the inconvenience, milord.” My voice is a sardonic hiss.

His eyebrows lift. “Milord? Oh, I do like that. Say it again.”

“Bastard,” I spit. I rise, knife in hand, and stalk toward him. “You killed people today.”

“Fewer than I expected, thanks to you. What were you doing to those sailors, anyway? And don’t tell me you’re ‘persuasive.’ I know magic when I see it.” He leans forward, clad only in his loose pants now, palms on his knees. “You’re still keeping secrets, Nick.”

“That’s rich, coming from you. You had a crown hidden in your tattoo. What’s that about?”

“It’s a very complicated and painful spell, one I never want to repeat. But it gives me proof of my authority when I need it.”

“That’s not enough explanation.”

“It’s all you’re going to get.”

I’m an arm’s reach from him now, and I lunge forward, intending to set the knife to his throat and force an explanation out of him. But his hand darts out, quick as lightning, and tweaks my wrist so the knife falls from my fingers.

“Bastard,” I seethe, but he doesn’t let go. He catches my other wrist and pulls me in so I’m standing between his knees.

“You don’t seem scared of me, Nick,” he purrs. “I think you lack the proper respect for my title.”

“What are you going to do with me?”

“Let’s see—I could follow my own laws and send you away in a skiff tomorrow. I promise to bed you well before then, so you can die happy.” His full mouth twists in a smirk.

I jerk against his hold on my wrists. “Asshole.”

“Or,” he continues, “I could take you to Ravensbeck with me, as my captive. But the only way they’ll accept that option is if I claim you as mine.”

“Yours?” I quiver in his grip. “Your what?”

Locke trails his gaze down my chest, where the robe has loosened and parted. “A pirate captain or king is expected to have lovers. In the past, a captain might pay a woman to come along for the voyage and serve him in bed. That woman was untouchable by anyone else aboard. Only the captain could use her, or punish her.” His left eyebrow arches slightly.

“You’re talking about prostitution.” I stare at him, incredulous. “You want me to be your whore?”

“Like it or not, the Pirate King’s whore would have protection that a simple passenger from a merchant ship would not,” Locke says. “And you’re already providing those services to me. I would simply pay you for any future interludes between us. The crew already suspects that we’ve been intimate, that I’m showing you favor because of my affinity for you. If we announce officially that you’re going to be my paid whore, they won’t protest so strongly about keeping you aboard.”

Fury spikes hot inside me, but I force my face to stay smooth. “Let me go,” I say softly. “So I can touch you.”

Smirking, Locke releases my wrists immediately. I smile gently, reaching for his cheek—and then I strike him as hard as I can. His head whips aside, and his mouth falls open in shock.

“I’d rather jump in the ocean,” I hiss.

“That can be arranged.” He massages his cheekbone. “Damn, woman, you’ve gotten strong. I’m not sure why you’re so angry—you told me yourself there was nothing meaningful between us.”

“There isn’t,” I say, though my soul quivers at the denial.

“Then you shouldn’t object so strongly to this. It’s your only way to avoid a watery grave. You’re lucky I have the power to offer you an alternative.”

“If you have so much power, why didn’t you use it to save those two women from the Lady Marcella?” I go for another slap, but he captures my wrist again, his eyes igniting to white flame. He rises, towering over me, but I refuse to be cowed. “You could have helped them, and you didn’t!”

“I am bound by my own laws!” he shouts. “They mean nothing if I don’t follow them myself! That’s why I’m offering you this one way out, this choice that might be halfway acceptable to my crew so I don’t lose my credibility.”

“And that’s all you care about—your credibility.” My voice shakes, and my throat feels tight as a drum. “What about my honor?”

“Let’s talk about your honor,” he says, low and dangerous. “Let’s discuss the way you begged me to take you when we stood on the forepeak together. How you bared your ass for me, and let me slip inside you—”

“Stop,” I whisper.

“You’re so very honorable, Veronica,” he croons, crowding me backward toward the cabin wall. “So honorable that if I slid my hand under that robe right now, I’d find you ready and wanting.”

“No,” I protest. “I’m not—” But I pause, open-mouthed, because I am. Without even realizing it, I’ve become incredibly aroused. My body is preparing itself for him, even while I argue and struggle.

I retreat until my back hits the wall, and I stand there—confused, angry, torn.

39

Locke plants his hands against the wall on either side of my head. “No matter how your body reacts to me, I’d never take you against your will. It’s important to me that you know that.”

“I don’t want to be your whore,” I whisper.

He nods, his eyes sad and sympathetic. “What if it was only a pretense? You’ve had practice now, portraying yourself as something you’re not. All you have to do is act the part. I won’t expect service from you—only your cooperation in this ruse, until we reach Ravensbeck, and perhaps a little longer if necessary, to convince everyone that I haven’t gone soft. I’ll pay you, and you don’t have to touch me at all.”

“So if I play the paid whore, you get to keep your reputation as the bad-ass Pirate King?”

He winces. “It’s the precedent that matters, the history of powerful captains keeping their women aboard. Look, I’ve already broken their trust by hiding your secret from them. I can’t go much further than this without stretching their allegiance to the breaking point.”

“Don’t you have some control over them, with the tattoos?”

“It’s not actually control,” he says. “It’s more of an emotional influence, a tug toward me, a rush of loyalty. But it doesn’t dictate their will or their choices. If other emotions are strong enough, like a sense of betrayal or unfairness, they can overcome that sense of duty to their king.”

He’s too close to me, looking at me so earnestly, with those long thick lashes fringing his ice-pale eyes. I turn my face aside, sighing faintly.

“Try to understand,” he murmurs. “The men might not respect me for showing mercy to a prisoner, but they’ll understand my claiming of a woman for my own lust. It’s my right as the Lord of the fleet.”

“It’s sick, and twisted.”

Locke’s fingertips graze my jawline, tracing my chin, then my lips. “I’m a pirate, love. I’m a little sick and twisted. And it’s either this, or I set you in a boat at dawn and send you away. Don’t make me do that, Veronica.” He sets his brow to the wall beside my head, his hair brushing my cheek. His body is pressed along mine. “I can’t do that.”

“You could go with me in the boat,” I whisper.

He lurches back, staring into my eyes with alarm and a thread of anger. “Go with you? We’d both die. And if we didn’t, I’d lose everything, Veronica. If you knew what I’ve sacrificed to build this empire, you wouldn’t ask me to yield it, not when there’s a way we can both be saved.”

I shift my eyes from Locke’s intense gaze. I’m holding too many conflicting emotions inside myself right now—my shock over his identity, my anger about what he’s guilty of, my shame at the idea of playing the whore, and my secret affection for him. Damn these heartstrings of mine! And through the whirling tornado of my emotions sings the sad truth that even though he obviously cares about me, he doesn’t care enough to sacrifice everything for my sake.

Would I even want him to? Would that be fair? I doubt I would do the same for him.

“Fine,” I grit out. “I’ll pretend to be your whore. But only until Ravensbeck.”

“And a little longer,” he presses. “Until I’m able to help you locate your brother.”

“How do I know you’ll keep that promise?”

“My word is good,” Locke says.

I laugh in his face, a merry, melodic sound I haven’t been able to make in weeks. It feels so good to laugh freely. I’ve been told my laugh is one of my best qualities, and apparently Locke thinks so too, because his eyes and his smile widen.

“Your word?” I laugh again. “That’s what I’m supposed to trust? The word of a lying, murderous, thieving pirate? You’re a despicable monster, expecting me to trust your promise after what you did to those poor women today. And the sailors I tried to save—you stood by and said nothing while they were slaughtered in cold blood. You could have stopped it.”

“I didn’t want to reveal myself yet. But Neelan will pay for that breach of my law,” Locke growls. “Believe me, Veronica, you can trust my word. Nick trusted Locke, right? I kept your secret, even when you had no idea I knew it.” His lashes droop over his eyes, and his voice drops into a cajoling murmur. His mouth is a mere breath from mine.

I swerve my face away, not wanting to smell the addictive male spice of him, the salty musk of his skin. “I don’t know who you are. I guess I never did.”

Locke takes a step back from me, his arms falling to his sides. I’m no longer caged against the wall, so I should feel slightly less defensive. Instead I feel angrier—murderously, violently so. Helpless rage heats my blood, the burning anxiety of the past three weeks coming to a boil, and I feel as if I must let it out, or I’ll explode into irreparable shards.

“We’ll sleep a while,” he says. “At dawn you’ll dress in something that befits your new role, and you’ll come on deck with me, to witness the punishment of every man who was willing to hurt you.”

“You don’t give me orders,” I seethe.

“I do, though, Nick.” He gives me an infuriating smirk. “By any calculation, I’m entitled to give you commands. I outrank the cabin boy, and I own the whore.”

I fly at him with an aggrieved shriek, a storm of fingernails and flapping robe. I manage to get in a hard slap and a few red claw marks on his neck and chest before he hustles me over to the captain’s bunk and presses me down into the bedding. My robe has come undone, and my chest and stomach surge through the gap between the silky folds.

“Stop it, you little hellion,” Locke hisses into my face. “I’m trying to save your life. Don’t you understand that?”

“I do,” I snap. “That doesn’t mean I can’t be mad about the way you’re doing it.”

His eyes snare mine, and after a second he chuckles, his grip on my forearms easing. “I suppose you’re right about that. You’re entitled to your anger.”

“Kind of you.” I writhe, trying to shake off his hands altogether, but I only succeed in disarranging my robe completely. Locke’s gaze darts to my exposed flesh.

At the look on his face, I stop moving.

A trembling stillness hovers between us, charged air thrumming and quaking, like the prickle of acrid heat before a lightning storm.

Locke lays a broad palm on my bare stomach, and my flesh quivers at his touch.

Every inch of my body wants that hand of his to slide lower. But my heart is sore, and my mind is weary. Not one hour ago I was hanging naked in front of every man on this ship, and I think being pleasured by Locke right now would wound me, scar my soul.

His fingers shift incrementally lower.

“No,” I whisper.

Locke stops, eyes glued to mine. I shake my head at him.

He nods, tucking the folds of the robe over my body. “As milady wishes.”

40

Locke doesn’t ask permission before climbing into the captain’s bunk with me, but he turns his back to mine, and he’s careful to leave a slim corridor of space between us. The next few hours pass fitfully for me—I doze a little, but mostly I fret over the new part I’m going to have to play.

I’m going to be the Pirate King’s whore, his servicer, his hired lover. Instead of hiding my sexuality, I’ll have to play it up, exaggerate it.

Back home in Ivris, I was taught a refined sort of allure—a sexuality just tempting enough to attract suitors without being too potent. Of course I went far past the line where I was supposed to stop, adding tiny winks and tantalizing touches, drawing men into closets and dark corners, letting them sample everything I was supposed to be saving for marriage.

I suppose, being thickly freckled as I was, lacking the clear complexion of the other women my age, I didn’t expect any of the men to court me seriously, so I comforted myself by taking whatever scraps of pleasure they wanted to give me. At least I had the satisfaction of knowing I got there before their future wives did. Despite my imperfections, I could give a man a good time.

The idea of playing prostitute to the Pirate King shouldn’t bother me so deeply. After all, as he said, I’ve allowed him access to my body already. The rest is simply a strategy to excuse my continued presence on board.

But it does bother me, because I have so many complicated feelings toward him—longing, anguish, betrayal, distrust, affection, craving, and yes, even hatred.

After we slept together on the islands, he told me he thought we “had something.” And I repudiated the notion, when I should have been honest with him—should have told him about the connection I feel, how my heart is entwined with his.

At least, my heart was entwined with Locke’s. This new person, this Pirate King—I don’t know him. There’s a scope and depth to him that frightens me—horizons unknown in his past, present, and future.

My eyes fly open. Forget sleep—I’m galvanized with the need to know more about him.

“Are you awake?” I whisper.

No answer.

I revolve in the bed, peering at Locke’s bare back. The room is lit by a single candle, and its glow picks out the black markings on his tanned skin.

How can he sleep right now, when everyone on the ship is either frightened or furious over this night’s events? What if Captain Neelan decides to try mutiny?

“Locke,” I whisper. “Is that even your name? What do I call you now? Your Pirate Majesty? My employer?”

“Milord will do,” he mumbles. “Why aren’t you sleeping?”

“How can you sleep at such a time?”

“I’ve learned to seize rest when I can get it.”

“But aren’t you afraid Neelan might mutiny?”

Sighing, Locke rolls over to face me. “He won’t. If he killed me, there wouldn’t be a port or tavern he could enter safely. He’d be a hunted man throughout the Shorn Seas, the seven kingdoms, and beyond. I have loyal friends all over the world, Nick—and where people don’t love me, they fear me. You and I are perfectly safe.”

I flinch at the words you and I, and a tiny crease dents his forehead. “You hate me now, don’t you?” he says.

“I’m angry with you.” I breathe the words into the soft quiet between us. “I despise you for letting innocent people die. I thought you were a good-hearted sailor, and now I find out you’re a magnate of the seas, a ruler over a vast network of ports and pirate ships, lord of Ravensbeck, maker of horrible laws—”

“Laws no less horrible than the cruelty they’re intended to prevent,” he retorts.

“You control, and kill, and punish—you tattoo people with your marks to secure their allegiance—you keep whores—speaking of which, how many women are waiting for you back in Ravensbeck? Do you have an entire harem?” My stomach curdles at the thought.

“I do.” Locke smiles. “They’re wonderful girls. You’ll love them. Katya has big glossy gold ringlets, and Setelle has the loveliest copper skin. Marisse has breasts the size of cannonballs—the big ones, mind you. And Sharay is pale as the moon, with silver hair. With your delightful complexion and auburn hair, you’ll be the perfect addition to the set.”

Pain floods my body, so sharp I can’t move. I can only stare at him, while moisture gathers and wells in my eyes.

Locke’s cocky, sultry smile disappears, and his eyes widen with alarm. “By the powers, Nick, don’t cry! I was only teasing. There’s no one waiting for me—no one regular, anyway. I don’t have trysts in Ravensbeck very often, and when I do I’m usually masked—I don’t have a harem. No need to be jealous.”

“I’m not crying because I’m jealous, damn you!” I launch myself out of the bed. “I’m crying because—because I felt sorry for those poor girls, being slaves to a horrible man like you. And I’m crying because I’m hungry, and I can’t sleep, and I want some clothes, not this robe that reeks of Neelan.”

“Done,” he says, rising from the bunk. “Wait here.”

He leaves the cabin, and I sink limply back onto the mattress, trying to untangle my emotions.

I must have succumbed during my untangling efforts, because the next thing I know, Locke is leaning over me. “Nick, my darling, you have to dress. We’re needed on deck. I’ve brought you some clothes, and food.”

Groggily I sit up. My brain feels tight in my skull, and my eyelids are heavy.

“I chose a few things from the hold that I thought might suit you,” Locke says.

Rubbing my eyes, I gape at the items he brought. Fishnet stockings, scanty ruffled skirts, embellished corsets, gauzy material that’s practically transparent, shoes and boots with chunky heels and a scandalous number of hooks and ribbons.

“These clothes are disgraceful,” I gasp, although I’m secretly curious to see how I might look in them.

“Indeed they are,” he replies heartily. “Eat and dress quickly, Nick. You’ve got an entrance to make.”

41

Once Locke leaves the cabin, I stuff my mouth with bites of sausage and bread while I try on the clothes. I’m not sure why these items were in the hold, but they are fantastically licentious pieces that I’d never have been allowed to wear back home.

Finally I select a tight black corset with tan trim, short enough to show a bit of my stomach. Ruched white lace curls around my upper arms, leaving my neck and shoulders bare. The corset’s padding amplifies my small breasts, shoving them up and giving me a delightfully unexpected amount of cleavage.

A decadently ruffled skirt circles my hips, stopping mid-thigh. Underneath it I’m wearing tiny black-lace pantalettes and a pair of gauzy black stockings fastened with garters. My thick-heeled boots, made of soft fawn-colored leather, give me the height I’ve always craved—enough to look down on most men.

Locke also brought up a selection of combs and hairpins. He clearly didn’t know what they were for—he just dropped them in a jumble into the recessed section of the table. I sort out a few and cobble together a decently feminine hairstyle, despite the ragged nature of my self-imposed haircut.

I’m placing another pin when Locke swings the cabin door wide. He’s wearing sleek black pants, but he’s bare-chested, with a scarf of velvety dark fabric slung around his shoulders and pinned with a red jewel. Gold chains dangle from his ears, and the black crown sits on his head. Morning light floods into the cabin, highlighting the white streak in his wavy dark hair.

He says irritably, “Come on, now, Nick, it’s time to—”

He stops mid-sentence and shuts his mouth tight. A muscle along his jaw throbs, and his Adam’s apple bobs hard.

“Think it’ll do?” I turn slowly, letting him absorb the sight of me in the new clothes.

“I—um—” He swallows again. “Fuck.”

And he leaves the cabin, slamming the door.

That was odd. Should I take these off and try something else? Maybe I went too far with the “captain’s whore” outfit. I should tone it down.

Before I can remove or add anything, Locke flings open the cabin door again. His cheekbones are flushed and his pale eyes are star-bright, white-hot.

“Come,” he snaps.

I mince toward him on the high heels. When I reach the door, he takes my arm and leads me out on deck.

After the first rush of blinding morning light, I blink, shielding my eyes, and I see that the pirates are already assembled. Several of them stand naked with their bound hands stretched above their heads, the ropes fastened to the crossbeam of the mainmast. Captain Neelan himself is nude, tied to the mainmast like I was tied to the foremast last night. Gorm and Tir lie naked on deck as well. It’s odd and sickening to see them helpless like this, with their parts hanging soft and exposed. I suppose it’s justice, but so far I’m not enjoying it.

“Gents, I’m here to announce my claim on this woman.” Locke’s voice booms with command and power. “She’s to be my bedmate, well-paid and under my protection. Not a prisoner, and therefore exempt from the law about female captives, savvy? No one is to touch her but me.”

“Aye, Captain,” the men shout. There’s an appreciative whistle from someone, and several murmurs that I thankfully can’t decipher.

“And now,” says Locke. “As the Pirate King, you all know that I allow my captains freedom to do as they like. They have access to the freshest information, the most luscious cargo, the best accommodations at every port that’s friendly to such as we, and even some that aren’t. Every man jack of you knows you’ll always have a home and work in Ravensbeck, for as long as the sea is salt. We are a merry fellowship, a hearty nation of buccaneers, a glorious brotherhood. Aye?”

“Aye!” roar the men.

“Lads, in return for these graces and protections I have a few laws—only a few, such as are intended to keep us true of heart, though pirates we be. When we take a ship, we leave the women adrift on the bosom of Mother Ocean. To the men who surrender, we offer a place in our company. We do not molest unwilling bodies, whether they be man, woman, or other. We never betray the location of Ravensbeck, or the names of our brothers under the Crowned Skull.”

A shout of assent rises from the gathered crewmen, but it wavers a little. The men are nervous. Most of them participated in the killing of the merchant sailors and soldiers who surrendered yesterday.

“I’ve a mind to pardon those who aided in the killing of the crew of the Lady Marcella,” says Locke, and a whispered rush of relief slithers through the crowd. “And I’m also minded to excuse the sailors of the Wending Willow, who kept quiet about the secret our cabin boy Nick has been keeping. But I cannot pardon the captain who led you to murder men who had surrendered. Nor can I excuse those of you who were all too eager to take your pleasure on a woman without her word of assent.”

The naked men bound to the crossbeam look truly terrified. I’m not sure what they’ve heard of the Pirate King’s judgments, but it can’t have been anything good.

“Since I cannot trust your good hearts to guide you,” says Locke, “each of you will bear a new tattoo, one that ensures you cannot take a body without consent. You will speak the vow while I mark you. For their instigation of last night’s events, Gorm and Tir will each receive five lashes, as well as the tattoo. And as for Captain Neelan—I will not take his ship or his command, but he will answer to me for the rest of the voyage and pay twice the usual percentage of his haul into the coffers of the Pirate King’s fleet. What say you, gents? Is the judgment sound?”

“The judgment is sound,” echo the men.

Locke glances aside at Dez, who is huddled near Cook. “Boy, bring a chair for my whore.”

Dez races to obey, and I’m soon ensconced in the chair, much too close to the naked men for my comfort. As Dez is about to scurry away, I grip his wrist.

“I’m the same Nick,” I whisper urgently. He stares at me, alarmed at first—but when I grin at him, a small answering smile emerges and he nods.

“How old are you really?” he whispers.

“Twenty,” I whisper back. “Six years older than you.”

He nods again. “You’re pretty.” And he scuttles back to Cook.

Hiding a smile, I turn back to watch the punishments. And I’m horrified to discover that Locke is prepping the first man for the tattoo—by stretching the pirate’s flaccid penis across the top of a small wooden table. A second pirate holds the flesh in place while Locke prepares his needles and ink.

He’s going to tattoo the cock of every man who showed eagerness at the idea of molesting me.

42

The first pirate in the line whines and cringes as Locke poises the needle over his skin. “Repeat the vow after me,” says Locke, in a calm voice edged with irrefutable command. “I will take no one who is not willing. I will never force myself on a living soul.”

The pirate repeats the words, his voice trembling at first, then shrilling to a scream as Locke begins the tattoo.

“Hold still,” says Locke coolly. “Or this will look even worse than it feels.”

The needle he’s using sparks as it pierces, and a wisp of colored smoke rises, curling around his fingers. Magic is at work here, not just artistry.

When Locke is done, the pirate has a beautifully delineated swordfish on his dick. The man gasps, heaving, sweat shining on his body.

The next pirate in line whimpers and begs for mercy, but Locke doesn’t grant it. “Repeat the vow,” he says, and he marks that pirate with the ribboning shape of an eel. He needs no stencil, no guiding marks—he inks each pirate free-hand, leaving them with beautiful images printed in swollen red flesh—unbreakable vows bonded to their bodies.

It’s a punishment equal in pain to a whipping, I’d guess—though I can’t be sure, since I have never received a tattoo anywhere, much less in such a sensitive place. I’m disgusted and horrified, but I can’t help admiring the terrible justice of it all.

Locke takes the longest time tattooing Gorm, Tir, and Captain Neelan. Their tattoos spiral around their shafts, serpents with jaws open and tongues traveling onto the very head of their dicks. Judging by the screams, the sensitive head is the worst place to receive a tattoo.

“Believe it or not, men have paid me enormous sums to decorate their cocks with my art,” Locke says casually over Captain Neelan’s keening shriek. “You should be grateful.”

The execution of the punishment takes hours, and by the time the tattoos are done, everyone else aboard ship is grateful they didn’t have to endure such agony. Captain Neelan will have to pay a higher tribute to the Pirate King, so all their shares from the voyage will be less. It’s a group punishment for everyone involved in the attack on the Lady Marcella, but no one complains, because they witnessed a far worse retribution at the Pirate King’s hand.

The best part is that none of the tattooed men will ever be able to hurt a woman the way they planned to hurt me.

While I watch Tir and Gorm take their lashes, I try to reconcile what I know of Locke in my mind. There are so many fragments and pieces of him—I’m having trouble keeping them all distinct, especially since they’re mixed up with my own emotions.

He nearly tipped me into the ocean and let me drown on that first day. But then he remarked on the boots I’d stolen from the Wending Willow’s captain. Did he know that his off-hand comment would pique Neelan’s interest and prompt the captain to spare me?

Locke stood guard for me when I wanted to bathe, though he could easily have taken advantage of the situation and tried to blackmail me with what he knew of my gender. That’s what Jinks did. It’s a mark of Locke’s character that he kept my identity secret for so long without asking anything in return.

He took a whipping for me. Spared me from having to bare myself before the crew. He probably saved my life that day.

And after he told me that he knew my secret, our physical joining was a mutual thing. I didn’t feel pressured or forced. I didn’t fear that he would betray me if I stopped sleeping with him.

When we fought aboard the Lady Marcella, he did everything he could to protect me. And he saved my life again last night—revealed his identity and risked the censure of his men so he could keep me safe.

But does all of that make him a good man? He isn’t just a simple pirate, a victim of chance and circumstance and a few bad choices. No, he’s the damn Pirate King, a man who built his degenerate empire on purpose. He rules over a vast fleet of pirate ships, an immense network of hideouts and havens.

I’ve never liked or listened to politics much, but back home in Ivris I heard enough courtly gossip to know that the seven kings hate and fear the Pirate King. Before his ascent to power, those seven rulers would bribe various pirate clans to attack an enemy kingdom’s ships. The pirates were just tools, mercenaries really, to be used by one kingdom or another. But the Pirate King has taken all those tools and coordinated them into a sprawling, interconnected latticework all across the oceans. In a way, he commands an army larger than that of any one kingdom—possibly larger than the military might of a few kingdoms combined.

Locke’s ships are responsible for more deaths than I can imagine. His bands of buccaneers wreak havoc, pain, terror, and loss all across the Shorn Seas, and even in the safer coastal waters. The Pirate King might not condone rape, but he encourages theft and permits murder. And it’s all committed in his name, under his flag.

At the thought, my fingers tighten around the edges of my chair. My mouth feels dry, my tongue thick and cottony.

What am I doing here, playing the whore to such a powerful man? How did I get so far off course?

I have to remember my goal. I’m doing all of this so I can locate my brother. Before I ran away to sea, I had nightmares about where Mordan might be, about the atrocities he might be committing without me to hold him back, to soothe and dissuade him. Since I was taken aboard the Ardent, I’ve been too dead tired to dream much, so I’ve been granted a blessed reprieve from those horrific nightmares. But that doesn’t change the urgency of my mission.

43

At last, the final lashes fall, and the disciplinary session is complete. The men who were punished are released from duty for an hour—not long to recover, but I suppose Locke doesn’t want to appear weak. If his goal was to make the men fear him and think twice about touching me, he has certainly accomplished that.

Even though he has promised not to hurt me, even though he seems to favor me, I find myself shrinking inside as he approaches me. He reaches out his hands—hands that just moments ago were touching the privates of some not-so-clean pirates—but to my relief, Dez steps forward and holds out a tray with a bowl of water and a sliver of soap.

“The things you asked for, Your Majesty,” quavers Dez.

“No need for that title, boy,” says Locke. “‘Sir’ will do. Or Captain, since I’ll be acting captain until we make port in Ravensbeck.” While slathering his fingers with soap, he calls out to Neelan’s first mate Shem, as well as the navigator Dolomon and the crewman Hanschel. Hanschel is the one who whipped Locke on Neelan’s order, and he looks very nervous about being summoned.

“I beg your pardon for those lashes, sir,” he says, bobbing his head submissively. “It was you who commanded me to whip you, sir.”

“I did.” Locke claps him on the shoulder. “I knew you’d recognize the tattoo, so I had to reveal myself to you and trust you to proceed as if I were any other man before the mast. And you performed admirably, which is why I’m promoting you. You’ll serve as one of my first officers aboard ship.”

“Yes, sir.” Hanschel’s voice is hoarse with gratitude. “Thankee, sir.”

“Now what’s this news about a mysterious storm that sucks in ships?” Locke inquires. “I heard a rumor of it when we left the Wierling Isles, but I was only a lowly sailor then and I could get no further information. What have you heard?”

Dolomon shuffles his boots nervously. “Captain Neelan’s the one who heard the report from the islanders, sir.”

“Neelan is resting,” says Locke coolly. “I’m asking you, Dolomon, and you, Shem. What do you know?”

Shem clears his throat. “Not much, sir. It’s a great maelstrom, they say, but it doesn’t move like a hurricane. Stays in one spot, it does, and the winds push ships into it. It’s not far from here, about three days west, from what the islanders told Neelan. And they heard of it from one of our sister vessels under the Crowned Skull, the Jasmine Ray. She and her crew barely escaped the pull of the storm, sir. We’d best make straight for Ravensbeck, as Captain Neelan planned, and find safe harbor there.”

“I agree,” says Locke. “Perhaps we may hear more news of this anomaly and its source when we arrive in Ravensbeck. But we’ll be making a stop first, at the Scarab Archipelago.”

The men exchange uncertain looks. “Why there, Captain, if I may be so bold?” asks Dolomon. “It’s a poor place to set in. Nothing but shanty towns and fish. There’s naught there in the way of loot, provisions, or entertainment.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Locke’s voice is a low purr. “You think I’m not intimately familiar with the population, terrain, and exports of every single land mass, large or small, from the Algid Chains in the north to the Nine Pearls in the south?”

“Yes, Captain. I mean, no, Captain, sir, Lord King.”

“There’s an extra tribute to be paid from the Ardent’s hold,” Locke continues. “And my coffers in Ravensbeck are full to bursting. I’ve no need of the surplus swag. So I’ll make Neelan himself hand it over to the good people of the Scarab Archipelago. They’ll find good use for the windfall, I’ve no doubt.”

“But the storm, Captain—”

“The storm will wait. It’s not on our route to the archipelago, nor does it threaten our return to Ravensbeck.” Locke wipes his fingers on his pants and jerks his head to dismiss Dez. “Set a course, Mr. Dolomon, and let’s hear no more questions. I’ve had a difficult morning, and I’m ready to enjoy a little time with my woman.”

I’ve been so immersed in the conversation that I don’t have time to react. Locke’s long fingers close around my neck, stroking upward along the column of my throat until he cups my jaw. Bending low, he jerks my face up, a possessive gesture that brings my mouth nearly to his.

For a burning moment he holds my gaze, a faint smile playing over his mouth, a challenge in his eyes. Is he daring me to rebel against our ruse, or daring me to go along with it?

Any game you play, I can play better, I murmur inwardly.

I lower my eyes, lashes dipping seductively, and then I dart an adoring glance up at him. My lips part, and I trail my tongue over them slowly while my body relaxes, swaying forward.

The Pirate King catches my wrist and hauls me up, out of the chair. “Come with me.”

44

Locke practically shoves me across the deck and into the cabin. The instant the door closes, he whirls on me, frowning thunderously. “What the hell was that?”

“Um—I was playing the part of your happy little whore. Did I do it wrong?”

“You did it a little too well.” He eyes me suspiciously. “Are you sure you’re the daughter of some stuffy noble?”

“I’m from a high-born family in Ivris.”

“Why should I believe you? You were a little too good at playing the skittish, raspy-voiced cabin boy, and now you’re sliding into the role of wanton seductress far too easily.”

“I’ve had practice with seduction,” I mutter. “You didn’t think I was a virgin, did you?”

“Gods no. I know the difference between a virgin and a woman who’s had men before.”

“And how do you think I got the men?” I clasp my hands in front of me, arms straight, shoulders lifted slightly. I know from the mirror that the pose exaggerates my collarbones and breasts. Tilting my head aside, I curve my lips in a sensual smile.

So far I haven’t needed to ply these temptress’s tricks on Locke. But I won’t lie—it’s fun doing it now—a heady, terrifying, exhilarating kind of fun, because I know exactly who he is and how much power he wields.

Maybe I’m doing this to steal a little of that power for myself. Perhaps that’s why I’m letting my feline nature out to play.

And Locke’s inner predator responds. His chest dips and rises rapidly, and his fingers flex at his sides. “How many men have you been with?”

“How many women have you bedded?” I retort.

“I—I’m not sure.”

“You know the number.” I narrow the distance between our bodies, taking deep breaths that make my breasts swell and bulge against my neckline. With every inhale, my chest brushes his. “You just don’t want to say it. A man like you keeps track of everything in exacting detail. Isn’t that right?”

“You’re an actress,” he hisses. “A spy. Is that your power, your magical ability? You can slip from one role into another and persuade men of whatever you like? You’re some kind of siren, maybe—that would explain how quickly you gained a hold over me.”

My heart jumps with delight at his admission. “Wrong. I’m no siren.”

“But you can persuade or control men. Are you controlling me right now? Have you been controlling me since the beginning?” Locke grips my upper arms, his fingers spastic and painfully tight. His expression darkens, gaining the savage, bloody edge that I saw in him during the fight aboard the Lady Marcella.

The truth jars me like a spike of lightning. The Pirate King is actually afraid of me. Now that he has dealt with the crew and the immediate danger, he’s circling back to me, wondering what threat I might pose. He’s remembering how I forced the Lady Marcella’s sailors to surrender.

I should explain my power to him. But I’m so ashamed of it—it’s disgusting, unnatural—I’ve hidden it for so long—

When I don’t answer immediately, Locke shoves me against the cabin wall. “Damn you, Nick—I asked you a question.” He’s a shade paler under his tan, and his throat works as he swallows. He’s so beautiful and vulnerable like this, scared and dangerous.

I shouldn’t play with the cornered beast, but I want to put off the truth a little longer. “What if I have been controlling you since the first day?”

Instantly I regret the question, because something in his eyes breaks—cracks and shatters into a thousand pained shards as I watch.

His right hand abandons my arm and clasps my throat—no playful hold this time. “No one takes my will from me,” he says hoarsely. “I’m my own master. My choices are mine. My body is mine, and if you took it, while making me think it was my choice—”

“No, Locke,” I cry out, unable to watch his torment. “No, it doesn’t work like that. I can control people, but only for a few seconds, and only if I taste their blood. And they always remember it, so if I’d done it to you, you’d know.”

His grip at my throat tightens. “Why should I believe you?”

I suck a frantic breath through my shrinking airway. “Locke, please.”

“Everything I did today—it was for me, but it was also for you.” His mouth puffs hot breath against mine. “Stories will be told of this day, of the things I did to those men. My legend will grow and change because of it. Can you tell me honestly that you did not influence my decisions?”

He’s pressing against me, every hard plane of his magnificent body molded to my curves, and I feel a spike of tingling arousal, heightened by my peril. Staring into his eyes, I whisper, “I’ve never controlled you. But if you don’t let me go, I will. I’ll bite you until I taste a drop of your blood, and then you’ll be helpless to my command for a few precious seconds.” I struggle for breath, and he loosens his hold slightly. “I haven’t controlled your men either. Only Jinks, a sailor from the Wending Willow, when he threatened me. And you saw me control the men on the Lady Marcella. I convinced them to surrender.”

Locke’s fingers slacken a bit more, and his gaze dips to my mouth. “And the people you control—they remember it?”

“Yes.”

“So do it to me, right now,” he says through gritted teeth. “It’s the only way I can be sure you’re telling the truth.”

“What?” I gasp. “But—you’ll hate me for doing that.”

“Not if I’m the one asking you to. It’s the only way for me to be sure you’re not lying. Do it.”

Admiration for him rushes through my soul, synchronized with the growing heat in my core. He’s right—experiencing and remembering my control is the only way for him to be sure I’m not lying about my powers.

“Kiss me,” I whisper.

His lips twitch back in a snarl, showing his clenched teeth, but then he lunges for my mouth and kisses me, grinding his hips, his whole body against me with a ferocity that inflames my skin. I hardly have enough sense left to remember what I’m supposed to do. I clamp the thick flesh of his lower lip between my teeth and punch through the soft skin. His blood pulses over my lips and tongue, a salty dark swirl.

I lean back, giving myself enough space to speak. “Tell me your real name.”

45

Locke’s eyes glaze slightly as my control over his will kicks in. His response to my question is immediate. “My name is Ruen Hemlock Embergast.”

“Let me go, and kneel before me,” I order. “And give me your scarf.”

He backs away, hands over the scarf, and sinks down to his knees, bare-chested, bowing so low I glimpse the crowned-moth tattoo across his shoulder blades.

The taste of his blood is already fading from my tongue, and I swipe the rest off my lips with my thumb.

Locke looks up at me again, his brow knotted, his eyes refocusing as my control dissipates. “You compelled me. I didn’t even have the chance or desire to resist.” He rises, and I shift a step away from him. I understand his fear, but I don’t want to be choked anymore.

“You could still be lying,” he says. “You might have the power to disguise memories of the control, and you just omitted using them on me. You could be allowing me to remember, so I’ll trust you.”

“But that’s not true,” I reply. “I don’t know how else to convince you.” My hand drifts to my aching throat, and his eyes follow the movement.

His frown deepens. “I hurt you. Frightened you.”

“I understand why,” I say quietly. “My power is obscene. Disgusting. I hate it. That’s why I only use it in the very worst circumstances, when I have no other choice. And I’ve never gone beyond tasting a few drops of blood.”

“So you don’t know what might happen if you ingest more than that?” He crosses his arms, examining me.

“No.”

“And this is how you controlled your brother?”

“I helped him with his temper,” I admit. “I calmed him until he could restrain himself. I kept him from hurting people—sometimes. I wasn’t always fast enough.”

Locke’s gaze presses against me like a physical touch, though he’s a few steps away. “It’s a great burden, being the conscience for others.”

Cautiously I look up, and the link between us snaps into place again, a molten thread growing tighter and brighter by the second. He understands me, because he acts as a sort of conscience for his captains. A murderous, malformed conscience, perhaps—but a conscience nonetheless.

“I dislike magic in others, because I know the horrible power of my own,” he says. “You must think me inconsistent, since I’m so suspicious of your control over the will of others when I bear a similar power myself. Believe me, I’m careful with my work, and I only take choices from people after careful thought, when not doing so would put others in danger.”

“Why do you care what I think of you?” I retort. “I’m only the captain’s whore.”

His mouth tightens. “In name only. You’ve made it clear you want nothing more from me. You hate me for lying and pretending, though you do the same thing. You despise who I am and what I do, while I am proud of what I’ve accomplished. I came from less than nothing, Veronica, from a place of helpless, hopeless darkness, and now I am the power of the seas.”

I’m not sure how he expects me to answer, so I stay huddled against the wall.

With a sigh Locke goes to one of Neelan’s cabinets and withdraws an amber bottle and a pair of glasses. He unstoppers the bottle and pours brown liquid into each glass. “Have a drink with me, Nick.”

“You keep calling me Nick, and then Veronica,” I say, edging closer to the table. “Which one am I?”

“Nick is my friend and companion, the one I secretly craved when I couldn’t show it.” Locke picks up his glass, swirling the liquid within. “Veronica—she’s the beautiful girl I’ve had the pleasure of bedding. As changeful and dangerous and meddlesome as the Mother Ocean.” He lifts the glass toward me and drinks deeply.

Cautiously I take the other glass and sip. The liquor is sharp and caustic, and it burns my tender throat on the way down. I cough and grimace, and Locke flashes a smile at my discomfort.

“I can’t stay in here long,” he says. “By this time, I should have already had my way with you, and I’d be back to my duties as acting captain.”

I take another cautious sip. “I suppose you are rather quick to your pleasure. Poor stamina for such a famed king of the sea.” It’s not entirely true, but I haven’t forgiven him for choking me or forcing me to reveal my ability.

Locke downs the rest of the alcohol and slams the glass onto the table. “I have stamina.”

I snort and drink again. The liquor is strong, and I’m already feeling its warm burn along my nerves.

“You and I haven’t had time for extended periods of love-making,” he says, frowning. “We’ve had to be quick. Trust me, I can last much longer.”

It’s supremely funny to me how seriously he’s taking my jab at his manhood. “I don’t suppose you’ll ever have the chance to prove it.” I shrug coquettishly at him.

He stares at me, his eyes burning, his long limbs stiff with tension. His control is a tangible thing, vibrating in the air, so taut I could pluck it and hear it sing. What would it take to make that control snap?

Some sick part of me wants to see how far I can push him before he forgets his promise not to take me by force. He’s a pirate, after all, and a king, and I’m playing the role of his whore—there is absolutely nothing to stop him from doing anything he likes to me. Nothing except his word, his personal law, the line he refuses to cross.

If I could push him over that line, I’d be free to hate him. I wouldn’t feel this sweet, painful tug in my soul whenever he looks at me, whenever he’s nearby. I wouldn’t be so torn over my affinity for the infamous Pirate King.

I tug my lower lip between my teeth and move along the edge of the table, nearer to him. My fingertips slide along the neckline of my corset, over the curves of my breasts. “I liked the simple pirate Locke, the one who protected me and took a whipping for me,” I murmur. “But the Pirate King—Ruen Hemlock Embergast—he’s a bloodthirsty brigand, a sadistic fiend, and despicable thief. I don’t want him. And I won’t bed him, not ever again.”

Locke’s chest is at my eye level, and I note the quick intake of his breath. Then he goes very still, solid as a stone. “How perfectly convenient,” he says evenly. “Because I liked the simple cabin boy Nick, and the runaway girl with the stunning green eyes—but this coquettish minx, with her sly ways and bloody magic—I don’t want her.”

And he strides out of the cabin, leaving me stunned and deflated.

46

Locke and I don’t interact for the rest of the day. At first I’m not sure if I’m allowed to leave the captain’s cabin, or if I should stay in there like a good little kept woman—but at last I bolster my courage and stalk boldly out onto the deck. I walk to the railing and grip it with both hands, relishing the familiar grain of the wood and the rush of salty sea air over my face. My scanty clothes whip around my body, and I can feel the eyes of the crew on me, even as they work. But none of them dare cast more than a passing glance my way. They fear Locke’s wrath too much.

The Pirate King’s power is a wall around me, a protection both comforting and confining. I can’t deny that it’s a relief to be a woman again, openly, without fear of death or assault. But I wish it didn’t have to be on their terms. It seems I’m doomed to operate always within the lines that men have drawn for me, and I hate it.

After an hour or so of walking the deck, I descend below and enter the galley, my daily refuge and workplace for so many weeks. The familiar smells and sounds entwine me—grease spitting and sizzling in a cast-iron pan, the aromatic sting of spices, the raw earthen scent of freshly chopped potatoes.

In the corner stands the big washtub—the one we use for the largest pots, the one Locke and I bathed in. That night feels like so long ago.

Beside the tub, Dez hunches miserably over a pile of potatoes, chipping away at their peels. Cook is poking at something in the sizzling pan, droning a sea shanty in his off-key rasp.

When Dez sees me, his eyes flare wide with a comical mix of shock, delight, and fear. I press a finger to my lips and sneak behind Cook’s back, plucking an extra paring knife from the block and seating myself on the floor beside Dez. I begin working on the potatoes with him, slivering long coils of skin off the starchy flesh, tucking each naked potato into the bowl of water that sits between me and Dez.

Though we don’t speak, the quiet familiarity of the shared work seems to relax Dez. His eyes keep sliding to my gartered thigh, bared by the scant length of my lacy skirts. I even catch him sneaking a look at my breasts. But to his credit, he doesn’t glance at them again, and whenever I look at him, he keeps his eyes firmly on my face. When the potatoes are done, I wink at him, he gives me a conspiratorial grin.

“All finished, Cook,” he says innocently. “What else can I do?”

“By the powers—finished already?” Cook turns around, his bristly eyebrows sky-high. “How did you—” And then he sees me sitting beside Dez. His thin face settles into lines of awareness and caution. “Well. Avast there, Nick. Aren’t you meant to be elsewhere?”

My shoulders and my smile stiffen. “The captain doesn’t have need of my services at the moment, so I thought I’d make myself useful in other ways.”

“I see.” Cook points a long finger at Dez. “Go up and swab the quarterdeck.”

“But I already—”

“Now, lad, or you’ll get a beating you won’t soon forget.”

Dez scrambles to obey, disappearing moments later with the mop and bucket. I’ve never seen Cook dole out one of his oft-threatened beatings, but the mere mention of them has always been enough to keep Dez in line.

I get to my feet, bracing easily against the sway of the ship. Despite the sunshine, the sea is choppy today. I barely notice anymore, and I don’t have to consciously work for balance. My body has adapted to life on the ocean.

Cook approaches me, scratching his brow beneath the greasy rag that holds back his straggly hair. His forehead creases, and there’s an unusual softness in his eyes. I’ve seen hints of that softness before, but it’s stronger now—a concern that’s almost fatherly. Suddenly I feel ashamed of the way I’m dressed—how much of my breasts and legs are exposed.

“So then, Nick.” Cook clears his throat. “Or is there another name I should be calling you?”

“Nick is fine. Or Veronica.”

“Veronica. You were a good cabin boy. I’m sorry to lose you.”

“I’d like to keep helping out.”

“And what’ll the Pirate King be saying to that?”

I shrug. “If he’s busy elsewhere, I see no reason why I shouldn’t keep myself occupied. Outside his cabin, what I do with my time is my choice.”

Cook rubs a hand across his jaw. “About that, lad—I mean, lass—are you—is he—I wouldn’t want to see a woman come to harm, you know. He kept the men from hurtin’ you, but if he’s putting you through the same pain—”

Realization pierces me, sweet and warm. He’s asking if Locke is bedding me against my will. Cook is offering to help me, even if it means going against the indomitable Pirate King.

“He hasn’t hurt me in that way,” I say. “Anything he’s taken has been freely given.”

“Aye then.” Cook gives me a curt nod and turns to the table, busily rearranging the utensils and spice jars.

“Thank you,” I say quietly. “You might be the best soul on this ship.”

“That’s a load of whale-shit, lad,” he grunts. “Now do ye want a job to do or what?”

47

My return to the comforting zone of the galley lasts until sunset, when Cook sends Dez and me up on deck with bowls of stew for the evening meal. Tonight’s fare is fish, leeks, and potatoes in a creamy broth, and it smells divine. My stomach growls as I climb the ladder carefully in my new high-heeled boots.

I walk the main deck, handing out the steaming food like I’ve done countless times as Nick the cabin boy. Cook wasn’t sure about letting me do this, but I insisted. It’s my way of showing the crew that I’m the same freckled boy they teased and bumped shoulders with for weeks. I’m the same person who prepared their food, cleaned their quarters, and shared the perils of storms and the pleasures of the Wierling Isles with them.

Maybe it’s also a small act of defiance against the Pirate King and the new role I’ve been forced into.

As I serve the men and return their subdued words of thanks with a gracious nod, I cast a glance up at the quarterdeck. Locke stands at the helm, one hand on the ship’s wheel while Dolomon and Neelan flank him. They’re discussing some papers that Dolomon holds out—charts or maps of some kind.

I keep moving from pirate to pirate, handing out the food, and still Locke hasn’t noticed me. I want him to notice, but I refuse to make a scene and beg for his attention.

I’ve got two bowls remaining when his head finally lifts. Even though we’re far from each other, a buzz of awareness zings through my body.

He saw me. He knows what I’m doing.

I hand out the last two bowls, and I return below to get the officers’ portions. My heart is fluttering wild in my chest. It’s all I can do to keep my face smooth and calm as I climb the ladder again and mount the steps to the quarterdeck.

The wind is stronger up here, and it disengages strands of my auburn hair from its carefully pinned arrangement. My skirts fly up briefly, revealing the saucy black pantalettes I wear underneath.

Locke isn’t standing at the helm anymore—Neelan is steering under Dolomon’s supervision, while Locke lounges in an ornate, high-backed chair with scarlet cushions. I noticed it in the hold days ago—it was probably on its way to the dining hall of some noble’s mansion before the pirates claimed it. Here on the Ardent, in this setting of weather-beaten wood and salty wind, it should look out of place—but with Locke’s taut, muscled torso and long black legs draped over it, the chair somehow fits. It’s throne-like, indulgent, and his careless sprawl across the seat is both sexy and commanding.

“Put the officers’ food in there, Nick,” Locke says, jerking his thumb toward the navigator’s cabin. “And then bring my portion to me.”

I duck into the cabin and set the food in the recessed surface of the table. There’s no officers’ mess on the Ardent as there would be on a merchant or military vessel; and though I’m used to it by now, it has always felt odd to me that everyone eats where they may, including those of the upper ranks. Back in Ivris, meals were a stately, regimented affair, with entire rooms devoted to the ceremony of dining. Occasionally I was allowed a tray in my room if I was feeling ill, but for most meals I had to be impeccably dressed and seated in my chair at the appointed time, and I wasn’t allowed to leave my seat until my mother or the lady hosting the meal dismissed the table.

What would my mother say if she could see me now, wearing scandalous clothes, preparing to serve dinner to the Pirate King where he lounges on a stolen throne in the open air?

The thought of my mother pains me more than it should. She and my father were exacting household rulers and strict disciplinarians, quick to catch their children behaving against social norms, yet oblivious to the horror unfolding right under their noses. When they punished Mordan and me for small social infractions, whipped us for embarrassing the family in petty ways, they had no idea of the vast pile of dark secrets we kept hidden from them. They didn’t know about the shack where I discovered Mordan’s latest playthings, or the mounds of fresh dirt at the back of our property. They thought I followed Mordan around with a little sister’s loving devotion, when in reality I stayed close to him so I could watch for his moods, sense their onslaught, and intervene before things got bloody.

I wasn’t able to prevent the incident with his fiancée and her family, and I’ve never forgiven myself for that. The deaths were Mordan’s doing—I know that—but I can’t help feeling responsible, too. When my brother ran away to sea at the tender age of seventeen, my resentment for my parents and my own guilt spread poisonous roots through my soul—roots I can feel even now.

The curtains in the navigator’s cabin are drawn, and the gloom of the space reminds me how my mother kept me in dark rooms away from the sun so as not to make my freckles worse. She forced me into lemon baths and coated my face with acidic pastes or whitening potions every night. Once I turned fifteen, she ordered the maids to paint my face thickly and powder my arms each day, and she would parade me around at soirees and luncheons, pushing me at various eligible bachelors.

I hated all of it, until I discovered a secret way of defying her, of ruining all her hopes that I’d make a respectable match. I conquered the men one by one on my terms, behind drapes, in privies, on sofas and against walls. On my knees or on my back, I ruined my prospects for years—until the day my parents announced my betrothal to the dull, near-sighted Duke of Throsen, and I had to acknowledge myself outwitted. Not entirely choiceless, though. I was twenty by then, old enough to get away. Old enough to search for the brother who haunted my nightmares.

Why should I care what my mother would think of me now? She has never cared to know me—she only cared about me as a chesspiece, a pawn on the family board, an asset to be skillfully employed for the advancement of our name and rank.

Picking up Locke’s bowl, I shove the memory of her aside and leave her ghost in the gloom of the navigator’s cabin where it belongs.

48

With the Pirate King’s dinner in hand, I return to the quarterdeck again. I hold out the dish to Locke, but he doesn’t move to take it.

A cunning grin spreads across his mouth, but his eyes are like blades of ice. “Come and feed me, Veronica.”

My teeth clench. Up here, just above the steps to the quarterdeck, he and I are in full view of anyone who isn’t belowdecks.

“Come,” he repeats, stretching out an imperious hand. Something flashes on his smallest finger—a ring I recognize. The family ring I dropped when Gorm and Tir attacked and undressed me. He must have found it.

Instinctively I move toward him. “That’s mine.”

“This?” He lifts the finger with the ring. “I thought as much. A little large for you, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” I grit out. “But I still want it back.”

“You’ll have to earn it.” He grins at me, vengeful and dark.

So that’s how we’re playing it now. Enemies, the two of us, pretending to be lovers. A sick game, to be sure.

I step toward him, and Locke catches me by the waist and pulls me onto his left thigh. His legs are splayed wide, rakish and reckless. He keeps his left arm around my waist, with his hand spread across my hip. His right hand slides between my knees, nudging them slightly apart.

“What are you doing?” I hiss.

“Enjoying the company I pay for,” he says. “Feed me, love.”

“With pleasure.” I scoop a generous spoonful from the steaming bowl and when he opens his mouth, I shove it straight in. I hope it scalds his tongue.

If it does, he doesn’t react. “I had the chair brought up this afternoon,” he says. “Do you like it?”

“It’s ostentatious,” I say. “Perfect for you. More stew?”

“Please.”

This time I shove the spoon so far back in his mouth that he almost gags. Fire leaps into his gaze, and he slides the hand between my knees a little farther along my inner thigh. “Easy, darling,” he mutters when he’s done chewing. “I could make you gag, too.”

A treacherous flare of heat rushes through my body at the image. I’m rather good at the act he’s suggesting—or so I was told by several of the most eligible bachelors in Ivris.

“I don’t gag, milord,” I murmur, placing another spoonful in his mouth. “I swallow. Everything.”

He chokes on the stew, and I smirk with satisfaction.

“I think we should discuss the matter of my compensation,” I say primly, while he coughs and splutters. “Dolomon, what’s the going rate for pleasurable company?”

The navigator turns around. His doleful expression makes it clear he’d rather not be dragged into this conversation. “I wouldn’t know, milady.”

“Oh please,” I say. “You’re a pirate. Captain Neelan must know—or is it just ‘Mr. Neelan’ now?”

Neelan doesn’t turn from his place near the helm, but he replies, “The price depends on the woman, and the port you’re in.” He names a few cities I’ve never heard of, and a price to go with each. “Mind you, that’s for a lady of your caliber, serving a pirate captain and not a king.”

He’s trying to control himself in Locke’s presence, but venom leaks into his tone. I’m fairly sure that by “a lady of your caliber” he means someone ugly and distasteful. I don’t challenge him, though. I mull the numbers he quoted in my head, wondering what services are included in those prices. Since I left my family and lost everything I’d brought aboard the Wending Willow, I’ve had no money of my own. The prospect of earning some is a tempting one, especially if I don’t have to do anything but pretend to be the Pirate King’s woman.

Locke seems to have recovered from his choking episode, and he grips my inner thigh, sliding his hand up so sharply that I gasp. His fingers stop right at the edge of the little black pantalettes, and despite my rejection of him earlier, lascivious warmth wakes in the tender space between my legs.

The two men at the helm are talking about a slight course correction now, ignoring me and Locke, though I’m conscious that anyone on the decks or in the rigging can look over anytime and see me, perched in the Pirate King’s lap, feeding him his dinner, enjoying—I mean, enduring his touch.

Locke leans forward, his lips at my ear, his breath stirring the loosened strands of my hair. “Seems unfair,” he murmurs. “I’m saving your life, and I must pay you for benefits I don’t receive.”

“It was your idea,” I breathe. The planes of his warm, solid chest are so temptingly close, bathed in sunshine, so hot and smooth—just the right amount of dark hair in the right places. His lips look soft, pliable, damp and salty from the stew—they part, revealing his white teeth as he smiles.

My skin flushes all over. I can’t keep my breath and my pulse from quickening when Locke rubs his thumb over my inner thigh.

I almost squirm, but I manage to distract myself by thinking up new epithets for him. “You’re a detestable outlaw,” I whisper, while he keeps stroking my leg. “You’re a stinking, dastardly, loathsome eel. A ruffian with a rancid heart.”

He slides his warm palm down to my knee and back up again. Why does that firm caress feel so good? I ache to press my legs together, or to press his fingers against me—

“So I’m to pay for pleasurable company, and receive verbal abuse instead, is that it?” he murmurs.

“Sounds about right.” I’m nearly shaking now. How does he do this to me? I try to summon my boldness from earlier, when I thrust the spoon against the back of his throat—but I can’t, I can’t, because his knuckles are grazing the inside of my other leg now, and he’s not touching me anywhere illicit but he’s looking at me with eyes of frosty moonlight, and I’m a scorching furnace of desire only he can quench.

I want to ask him to stop, but that would mean admitting the effect he has on me, after I claimed I didn’t want him.

He said he didn’t want me either. I have to remember that this is all part of the ruse, part of showing the crew that I’m his prize, that he hasn’t gone soft, that he’s merely a king taking his rightful share of the available spoils. I’m the damn spoils—oh gods—he’s nuzzling my cheek, brushing soft lips against my earlobe.

“Locke,” I whisper. “Can I still call you Locke? Or is it Ruen? Or—milord—” I gasp as he kisses the sensitive skin right below the corner of my jaw.

“Stop talking, Nick. And stop clutching that bowl so hard, or it will break.” He takes the bowl from me and sets it down on the deck. Which is terrible, because now I have nothing to occupy my hands, and all they want to do is run themselves over his skin. My hands don’t care that he’s a murderous ruler of pirates with a cruel streak to his sense of justice.

I lace my fingers together in my lap, but Locke shakes his head. “Relax, love. Women who are paid to be pleasant to men should look as if they’re enjoying it. Lean into me, or kiss me—but no blood magic.” He adds the last bit in a lower tone, while caution flares in his eyes.

“I won’t do that to you unless I have to protect myself,” I whisper, relaxing my body. I hate that my shape fits so perfectly against his chest. I hate that I feel a sense of calm and peace washing over me as my form aligns with his.

My arousal doesn’t dissipate, but it changes from a feverish panic to a soothing silken lust. I want to ease his length out and slip it inside me right now, right here. I want to glide over him and draw him into gentle waves of bliss with me, here on the sunlit deck.

Without meaning to, I sigh against him and relax even more deeply.

Locke abandons the teasing along my thigh and wraps me in both arms, folding me against himself. It’s cherishing, intimate—something more than sexual. I thrill at the speed of the heartbeat I can feel through his chest.

49

For a few seconds we stay like that, locked together in an embrace far too tender for what we’re supposed to be to each other.

Then I tilt my face up and whisper in Locke’s ear. “This doesn’t feel like something a whore would do with her employer.”

He sighs. “You might be right. I may be out of practice.”

“So let me go back to the galley, while you eat your dinner.”

“You can’t be a cabin boy anymore, Veronica.” The commanding tone creeps back into his voice. “I have claimed you.”

“So I’m to sit in your cabin and go mad with boredom?” I lurch free of his arms before he can stop me. “I can’t do that. My mother used to shut me away in the dark—I won’t be that girl again.”

His eyes widen as if I struck him. “She shut you away in the dark?”

He rises suddenly, striding away from me across the quarterdeck. He leans both forearms on the railing and his head bends, black hair falling around his face.

Black hair with one white streak.

I’ve heard that people’s hair can turn white from terror or trauma.

Was Locke born with that strip of white, or did something happen to him?

He told me once that he came from “somewhere dark and deep.” I sensed then that he didn’t want to discuss it. But now I desperately want to know about his past, and it’s not just an idle curiosity like I might feel about Cook’s past, or Dez’s past. I need to know everything about Locke. I must know what events and people transformed him into this person—this powerful, savage, thieving killer—this passionate, principled, intelligent man.

I follow him to the railing. We’re far enough from the helm that we can speak at normal volume without being overheard, but I still keep my voice low, because the things I want to discuss with him are private, and sensitive.

“I wasn’t completely in the dark,” I say. “I had lamps, of course. But no sun. As a small child my mother let me run around outside, but the older I got and the thicker my freckles grew, the more she fussed about bonnets and hats to keep the sun off my skin. It was too late, of course. These spots are part of me.” I rub a finger across the mottled skin of my arm. “The more comments people made, the more frantic she grew about it. When I was around fifteen I was forbidden to leave the house except for social promenades, and even then I had to cover every inch of skin and wear a huge hat and gloves. And I had to carry a parasol, too. Every night the maids put me through a treatment regimen to lighten the freckles. They tried to scrub and sear them off, treat them with acid—thankfully they tried most of the remedies on my arms first, not my face. I still have a few scars though.” I point to the shiny, slightly wrinkled patches just above my elbow.

“Why in the goddamn hell would they do all that to you?” Locke growls.

“A woman’s unblemished skin is highly prized in Ivris,” I explain. “No matter what the shade of skin, dark or light or in-between, flawlessness is considered a mark of high breeding. My face has always been that of a common farm girl. Which means the good matches my mother wanted for me never materialized. That’s why I started taking pleasure from the men she pushed at me. I knew they wouldn’t propose, so I had my fun where I could.”

His forearms are still propped on the railing, and as I speak, the sinews harden while his fingers curl into fists. His knuckles glow white through his tanned skin. “Those men used you.”

“No, I used them.”

“I’d like to rip the dick off every bastard who was stupid enough to reject you.”

I scoff lightly. “Weren’t you the one who said you didn’t want the sly minx with the bloody magic? No one ever wants me, not once they learn more about me. To be honest, you know more of my secrets than anyone else. And I know so little of you.” I edge closer to him, till my bare arm brushes his. “You told me once that you come from somewhere dark. Will you tell me about it?”

He draws a long, shuddering breath. “It’s a wretched tale.”

“I’d like to hear it.”

His pale eyes flash up to mine. “Why?”

“Because…” I hesitate, looking away from him, past the foam-crested swells below us and out into the sparkling distance. “Because I think telling it might lighten your heart.”

“I don’t talk about it.” He shoves himself away from the railing. “Not to anyone. And if we’re parsing words, Veronica—you claimed you didn’t want me first. And I don’t blame you. If I told you my past, you’d want me even less.”

He strides back to his seat and gobbles the cold stew quickly. When Dez comes up to check on me, Locke hands the bowl off to him.

“Veronica will no longer be serving in the galley,” Locke announces coolly. “Please inform Cook that he is not to assign her any work. If he does, he will answer to me.”

“Yes, my lord.” Dez bows and skitters away. He seems rather more energized and less lazy since the regime change aboard ship. Since his cousin is no longer captain, Dez is probably eager to make himself useful and amenable to the Pirate King. His new attitude reminds me of how I felt during my first weeks as cabin boy.

Maybe Locke expects me to protest his ban on galley work, but I have no more spirit to spar with him today. I wander back to the captain’s cabin and amuse myself with a couple of Neelan’s books. After an hour or so, I hunt through his shelves and cupboards for more reading material, and I find a sheaf of pages poorly sewn together, depicting people in various stages of coupling. In every pairing, one of the partners wears an anguished expression, as if the joining is a forcible thing. My stomach hollows out with sick dread at the images. I carry the papers out on deck and drop them into the sea.

Night has fallen, and the men have gathered around a bonfire, built in a sand barrel to prevent accidents. Locke has apparently broken out the best rum, because everyone is shouting and laughing heartily, swaying and jostling each other the way men do when their heads are hazy with drink. A roaring song begins, packed with vile words, and they belt it out with matchless gusto.

Shaking my head, I return to the cabin. It’s a smart move of Locke’s, breaking out the drink. He punished the crew, and now he’s soothing the sting, showing himself to be a benevolent ruler. Against my will, I admire his manipulative genius.

I don’t expect him to come in until very late, so I lock the cabin door and take advantage of the time to strip down and give myself a thorough cleaning at the washstand.

I’m just about to put on the flimsy nightgown Locke brought up with the other clothes, when the cabin lock snaps under a full-body blow, and the door pops open.

50

I snatch the sheet from the bed and hold it to my chest as Locke stumbles into the room, bottle in hand. He’s still shirtless, but his chest gleams as if he spilled liquor down it while drinking. He kicks the door shut behind him. “You locked me out, Nick.”

“I was bathing,” I say haughtily, tucking the sheet under my arms. “And you’ve been drinking. More than you should, I’d say. What’s wrong with you? You never drank this much at the Wierling Isles.”

“Thinking about the past, Veronica.” He pronounces my name with bitter emphasis. “Thanks to you. When the past comes to play in my head, I drink.” He sets his mouth to the neck of the bottle and chugs more rum.

“I think you’ve had enough.” Knotting the sheet in place, I approach him cautiously, wary of the kind of drunk he might be—but he lets me take the bottle. There’s a wet, desperate shine to his pale eyes tonight, a pain he’s trying to drown.

“It’s all still here,” he says plaintively, pointing to his temple. “Can’t wash it out, can’t beat it out. Can’t rutting forget it. Gods.”

He sways, and I hurry to brace him with my body. “You should lie down before you fall over.”

His hands close over my shoulders, hot and callused. “Veronica.” My name rolls from his lips again, a rich caress this time. “Veronica, you are beautiful.”

I squelch the smile that wants to creep over my lips. “And you’re drunk.”

“You were drunk once,” he says. “You asked me to undress you, and I wouldn’t. But I wanted to.” His hands cup my neck, and I instinctively cringe away, a flicker of pain reminding me of the choking incident earlier.

Even in his inebriated state, Locke looks mortified by my reaction. “You hate me,” he says dolefully.

“No, no,” I reassure him. “Well—yes. But sometimes I like you a little bit.” Thank the gods he came in here instead of staying out on deck and making a fool of himself. He can’t get this drunk and expect to retain his authority as the Pirate King, can he? He’s always so cunning, so controlled—except when he’s plunging into me, stirring us both into a frenzy of pleasure—

I push the tantalizing image away and shove Locke toward the bunk. “To bed with you.”

He falls onto the mattress, stomach-down, head turned aside on the pillow. His long legs hang off the edge, and I crouch, tugging at the boots. Every time I look at these boots I remember the broken chest cavity of the Wending Willow’s captain, and a surge of bile rises in my throat. I ache to wash it down with something strong.

Once I manage to pull the boots off, I turn back to the table where I set Locke’s bottle, and I take a swig myself. Immediately I choke and spray it out of my mouth. It’s strong, that’s for sure. No wonder he got drunk so fast.

The story he didn’t want to tell me must have triggered this episode of unusual carelessness on his part. And it’s my job to see him through it. The last thing I need is for Neelan or any other disgruntled sailors to realize that Locke isn’t himself right now. They might decide to mutiny, and damn whatever consequences they’d face for killing him. Neelan looked completely sapped of his will to fight after the tattoo session, but on the quarterdeck earlier I got a different vibe from him—a simmering, vengeful energy. It’s to be expected after Locke deposed and shamed him.

Locke moans against the pillow, and I step nearer, still clad in my sheet. The strand of snow-white hair has drifted over his face, and it shifts and flutters with every breath. Carefully I tuck it behind his ear.

I’m glad he doesn’t wear the bandana and eye-patch anymore. I like his hair, and I like to see his whole face. I like the subtle indentations and bunched muscles along the planes of his broad back. I like the dip at the base of his spine, right at the low-slung band of his pants, and I like the swell of his butt. I like his long, powerful legs.

“Nick,” he whimpers. “Nick, I can’t stop remembering.”

I kneel by the bed, uncertain at first, unsure how to help. On impulse I touch his face, following the slant of his strong cheekbone, tracing the sharp angle of his jaw, stroking the dark scruff along it. His eyes are closed, and he seems to be relaxing. But when I touch his mouth, he winces, and a shudder runs over his body.

My heart throbs with tender pain. I can’t see the Pirate King in this moment. I only see Locke, my protector and secret-keeper.

“Tell me who hurt you,” I whisper.

His eyes flare open, and his lips twitch back over his clenched teeth. For a few moments he stares at me, silent and glassy-eyed.

“I grew up on Caligo,” he says.

I’ve heard of Caligo. That chain of islands is always mentioned with a distasteful grimace among the Ivrian nobility. Caligo provides large quantities of basic minerals to the seven kingdoms, but it’s a horrible place, a wasteland of black mountains, smoking crevices, and hot, ashen air. Or so I’ve been told. Judging from Locke’s reluctance to discuss his past, it must be even worse than I heard.

“I worked in the mines,” he continues. “Everyone did. When a boy turned seven, it was the mines for him. Few men lived past forty or fifty. Many died much younger.”

I slip my hands around his large one, and I hold on tight while he speaks.

“I spent my days in the dark, far underground, with a foggy lamp and a few tools. I worked from dawn to dusk and never saw the sun. The overseers made the skinny boys do the dangerous work in the tightest tunnels, and since I was both thin and strong, I was put into the most hazardous places. Can’t even count the number of times I was pinned and thought I’d die locked between two slabs of rock. And that wasn’t even the worst of it.”

I grip his hand tighter. I can feel it coming, the terrible confession, the thing he’s been holding back.

“Miners who worked too long in the deepest parts lost themselves—lost their humanity,” Locke says. He’s staring past me, tears leaking unheeded out of his glazed eyes. “A few of them did things to us boys. Twisted things, in dark tunnels where no one could see, and no one could hear.”

I press my forehead to his shoulder and close my eyes, letting my own tears slip down my cheeks.

“I got out, though,” he says hoarsely. “My father—he was a good man. He’d saved and stolen everything he could for years, and finally he bought a tiny scrap of land, a bit of brittle rock that no one thought was worth anything. But he knew better. He understood rock and earth and ore, you see. Once he bought the land, I left the big mines and worked for him instead. We cut a shaft straight down, and there we found black diamonds, some as big as your fist, Nick. We chipped them out quietly, not telling a soul, and we used one to buy a ship. A whole ship. Ratty thing she was, and small, but to my father and my mother and me, she looked like a king’s crown. We sneaked our haul of diamonds aboard and we left that place behind.”

He swallows and clears his throat. “That was my very first ship. The Raven’s Frenzy. My parents bought a cottage on a pretty little island where they could live out their days in peace, but I couldn’t stay there. I wanted to do more. I hated the seven kingdoms for taking all the resources of Caligo yet paying such ridiculously low prices for its minerals. The people in those kingdoms used our exports without caring how the prices were kept so low, without a thought to the working conditions of the miners. I was sixteen then, an idealist, and I thought I could change the world in my own way. So with the Raven’s Frenzy and a handful of my father’s diamonds, I hired a crew, and I began to make the merchants of the seven kingdoms hurt, one ship at a time.”

“You built a pirate empire from just one ship,” I murmur.

“One ship, and a heart full of bitter hate.” Locke’s voice is thickening, the alcohol overcoming him at last. His eyes drift shut, and I watch his face smooth into sleep. My heart pulses with pity and admiration and something else, something hot and tender and violent. An emotion so strong I can barely contain it, much less name it.

Trembling, my cheeks still damp, I press a light kiss to his forehead.

He rewards me with a rumbling snore.

51

In the middle of the night I wake to dampness and discomfort. After Locke fell asleep I squeezed myself onto the bed between the wall and his splayed body, and for a second I have a very horrible notion of what the wetness I’m lying in might be. Perhaps he pissed himself after all that rum.

And then I feel the telltale ache in my lower belly, the cramping I endure every month around the same time.

Oh gods no.

And also, thanks be to the gods that I am not pregnant with the Pirate King’s baby.

I lie still, pressing a hand to my abdomen, deeply and woefully embarrassed. Back on the Wending Willow, when I had my bleeding, I was able to take care of it quietly. It was an unpleasant experience—always has been, even at home—but at least back in Ivris I had maids, and hot water, and as many supplies as I needed. I brought some supplies with me on the Wending Willow, but they’re gone. Now I have nothing.

I can’t simply lie here. I have to do something. I have to take care of this.

I put out the light before climbing in bed, so it’s pitch black in the cabin. Awkwardly I clamber out of the bed and fumble for the lamp. As I’m lighting it, my elbow knocks one of the books I was reading off the table, and it slams to the floor.

The lamplight flares up as Locke springs out of bed, his hair mussed and his eyes wild. “What? What is it?” He rubs a wrist across his face, then stares at my bloodied nightdress. “Gods, Nick, are you hurt? Who did this to you?” He rushes to me, taking my hand, which has a bit of blood smeared along the wrist. Curse my clumsiness.

Locke catches my chin and forces me to look at him. His eyes are white with rage. “Tell me who hurt you. I’ll kill him, I swear—I’ll hang his guts from the rigging and make him watch the gulls peck at them.”

“Ugh, Locke.” I shudder. “Nobody hurt me. It’s—it’s my monthly bleeding.”

He stares. “Your what?”

“You know—how most women—they bleed once a month—it’s a fertility thing—” My face is burning hotter by the second.

“I know how it works.” I could swear he’s flushing too, though it’s difficult to tell in the guttering yellow light of the lamp. “Um—” He runs a broad hand through his black hair and looks from the stained bedsheets to me. “What should I do?”

“I need some cloths,” I murmur. “The thicker and cleaner, the better. Lots of them.”

“Cloths,” he repeats.

“And something else to wear. With more coverage than the things you brought me earlier.”

He nods. “Anything else?”

I wince, pressing my hand to my belly, wishing for the herbal tonic one of the maids used to make for me each month. “No, nothing else.” My eyes are prickling, tears swelling in spite of my efforts to control myself. I was taught to keep my bleeding time hidden and secret as much as possible, not to speak of it or let anyone know it was happening. That guidance is still with me, and it’s beyond humiliating to suffer this indignity of bleeding in front of the Pirate King, the man who rules a thousand ships across the seas.

Locke peers curiously at me. “Does it hurt?”

“Yes,” I seethe. “And it’s embarrassing.”

He voices a breathless laugh. “I’ll admit, you scared me at first. But it’s only a little blood, love. I’ll take care of it.”

Barefoot he strides out of the cabin, while I strip the soiled sheets from the bed and try to clean the mattress beneath. The mattress has seen a number of questionable stains already, including some that are brown like old blood, so I don’t feel too bad about adding to the mess. But I hate the idea that I’ve been sleeping on the disgusting thing. I want my comfortable bed at home, with my pillows and my own comfortable nightdresses and underthings, and my scented soaps, my perfumes—

When Locke returns with his arms full, I’m sitting on the floor, on top of the pile of dirty sheets, with my knees tucked up and my face buried in my hands, sobbing quietly.

“Do you want some liquor to help with the pain?” he asks.

“It’s not the pain,” I sniff. “It’s this horrible mattress, and this cabin, and everything. I want to get off this blasted ship, Locke—I can’t—can’t stand it—anymore.” A fresh wave of sobs overcomes me.

Locke kneels in front of me and pulls my head to his chest. I don’t even care what I said to him yesterday, or what he said to me, or what we’ve been fighting about—I throw my arms around him and cry.

When I’m done weeping, he makes the bed with the fresh sheets he brought, keeping his back turned while I clean myself up and make use of the supplies and fresh clothes. Afterward he disappears with the bloody sheets and the nightgown.

I settle back onto the bed, curled on my side with my legs pulled up, trying to find some relief from the twisting ache inside me.

Locke enters the cabin again, carrying a steaming cup. “Tea,” he says.

My mouth opens, but I cannot form words.

The Pirate King brought me tea.

With the same hands that printed tattoos onto the dicks of several agonized pirates.

He put clean sheets on the bunk with the same fingers that swung a sword and sliced a man’s throat open.

With the hands that choked off my breath, he stroked my hair while I cried. And he made me tea.

It’s wrong to love a thief and a murderer. But I’m so very afraid that I do.

52

Locke settles back on his side of the bed while I sit against a pillow and drink my tea. It’s not a large bunk, but it is captain-sized, wider than most aboard ship—just enough to accommodate two people with a sliver of space in-between.

While he drowses beside me, I ponder the revelation of my own heart.

I suppose I’ve loved a murderer before. In a different way, of course. And Mordan’s brand of murder was a nauseating horror to my soul, while Locke’s killings are open, bold—honest? Clean? It seems wrong to apply those two words to killing, but Locke only kills men in a fair fight, or as punishment for breaking the law of the Crowned Skull.

Mordan killed slowly, despicably, secretly, preying on the innocent. Stealing the air from their throats, flattening their lungs. Sucking them inside out.

The teacup shakes in my hands, and I prop my wrists against my knees to steady them.

I told Locke Mordan wasn’t precise with his air magic. But truth be told—he could be. Lethally precise.

I shouldn’t have made excuses for him, lied for him, or helped him hide the bodies. I should have told someone.

I was a child. I didn’t understand what I was doing.

But I understood enough. Enough to know it was wrong. Enough that I should have stopped him, said something, asked for help.

He always wept and promised he wouldn’t do it again. And then, when I let my guard down, when I played with my friends instead of wandering the hills and lanes with him—when I slept instead of being watchful—he would kill again. Animals at first, and then a small girl, daughter of servants on a neighboring estate. Everyone assumed she fell into the river, because it was swollen with runoff from melting snow. They never found her body.

But I know where it is.

There were others too. Four others. Not counting the ones Mordan killed the day he sent the tornados to his fiancée’s family estate.

I didn’t kill those people with my own hand, but in a way I’m as guilty of their deaths as Mordan is. If I’d spoken out after the first time, maybe the other deaths wouldn’t have happened. But I didn’t want to lose him. I thought I could fix him, given enough time and enough magic.

When I close my eyes I can still hear his voice in my head. “Bite me, Veronica. Make me calm. Make me stop.” He would cut into his own skin and force me to take the blood. He even gave me a knife to use on him—or against him—if I ever needed it. That knife is still somewhere in the sleeping quarters, belowdecks. I don’t think I ever want to see it again.

I curl up tighter, cupping my tea. Why am I even looking for my brother? Because I love him? Maybe—and because I fear him, too. I fear what he will do if he’s left unchecked, and I fear what he may have already done. He left Ivris when he was seventeen and I was twelve. It’s been eight years. What has he been doing all this time? Why did I ever think I had a chance of finding him?

Maybe I never expected or wanted to find him. Perhaps I concocted this search because I needed a goal to spur me into action and give me strength to leave home.

And yet—if I don’t find Mordan and settle this dread in my stomach once and for all, I will keep wondering where he is. I will bear a thousand phantom bloodstains from his past and future victims. I’ll carry all of that amorphous guilt because I was too stupid, too weak, too loving to do what needed to be done.

If I couldn’t help him, I should have found someone who could. And failing that, I should have killed him myself, years ago.

The instant the thought coalesces in my mind, my stomach revolts, twisting with pain and nausea. I close my eyes and breathe through the queasiness.

It’s not as if I haven’t entertained the thought before. But I can’t let myself dwell on it too long. My brother, my own brother.

I force myself to drink the rest of the tea, and then I tuck the cup near my pillow and slide down into the bed. It can’t be long until sunrise, and then Locke will be out on deck again. He’ll be in his role of captain and Pirate King, and this night of intimacy will be over. I’ll have to strut and simper, while he treats me with the fierce possessiveness he displayed today. Not that I mind so much, if I’m honest. Something about the way he grabs me when he’s in that mood is more intoxicating than rum.

The next day I spend most of the time in the captain’s cabin, reading and resting, until the cramps fade and I’m able to walk around the deck. Locke is up in the rigging, shirtless again, helping the crewmen with a problematic bit of sail. Apparently now that he doesn’t have to hide his tattoo, he avoids shirts like the plague. I don’t mind, because that means I get an eyeful of his gleaming skin and sinewy torso whenever I look up at the ropes.

Locke hasn’t been wearing his crown either. It still sits on the desk in the captain’s cabin. I suppose it’s not a comfortable thing to wear when you’re working. How often does he wear it in Ravensbeck? He must go shirtless a lot there, too, if people would know him by his tattoo. The arrogant bastard probably thinks everyone’s dying for a chance to ogle those abs, those luscious abs shining with sweat…

Biting my lip, I tear my gaze away.

My dress is longer today, with a bit more coverage for my legs, but the neckline is just as low. When Neelan passes me on his way to the fore-peak, he takes a long, deliberate look at my breasts. Let him stare. Thanks to his new tattoo, he can’t forcibly take me or anyone else for the rest of his life.

I allow myself a defiant smile in return, and Neelan’s leer darkens to a scowl before he strides away.

Bored, I wander to the navigator’s cabin, where Dolomon stands at his worktable with the door wide open to the sea breezes.

“Would you mind showing me our route?” I ask.

He hesitates, then nods. “Of course, milady. Come, take a look here.” He points to several tiny landforms sketched on the map. “Here’s where we’re headed, the Scarab Archipelago. An impoverished set of islands, not much in the way of resources, and the soil’s mostly too rocky for farming. They do a bit of trade, but it’s mostly fishing and such. We should make port there sometime tomorrow.”

“And then to Ravensbeck?”

“Yes, milady.”

I scan the map, my eyes skipping from port to port. I had no idea there were so many islands in the Shorn Seas. “I don’t see Ravensbeck.”

“That’s because we ain’t allowed to mark it on any map,” Dolomon says. “In case a spy of some king happens to lay hands on one. And I can’t show you where it is, either, because of my tattoo. You’ll be marked as well, once we reach Ravensbeck.”

Startled, I frown. “You think the Pirate King is going to tattoo me?”

“Those that don’t want the tattoo must stay in Ravensbeck. So if you’re looking to leave for elsewhere at some point, you’ll be marked, same as the rest of us.”

“And the mark keeps me from saying anything about Ravensbeck’s location?”

“That’s right.” Dolomon holds out a dark brown hand. Around his wrist I can make out a chain of metal links and leaves inked onto his skin. “You can’t talk about it, write about it, lead someone to it, nothing. And if you try to push through the magic, or break it, you die.”

“Gods.” I inspect the tattoo more closely. “Does Locke—I mean, does the Pirate King choose the design?”

“Usually each person chooses their own tattoo,” Dolomon explains. “There are two other tattooists besides the Pirate King, but no one knows who they are. All tattoo mages wear masks when they work, you see, to protect their identity. A tattooist who places a magical tattoo can also remove it, or so I’ve heard.”

“Is it common knowledge that the Pirate King is a tattoo mage?”

“I believe most know of it, and if they didn’t before, they will after this voyage.”

“But there’s still no telling who inked each man aboard with his allegiance mark,” I say. “And without knowing the tattooist’s identity, no one can force the removal of the mark.”

“Exactly, milady.”

Mentally I assemble what I know of tattoo magic so far. Locke—and presumably the other tattooists in his employ—can control people through tattoos, in a limited way. He can bind someone to a specific vow through the mark. It seems as if he can control the strength or intensity of the vow, as well. Some vows carry a penalty of death—like the vow to protect the location of Ravensbeck. But other vows, like the promise of allegiance to the Pirate King—Locke said that could be overcome without penalty. The pirates still have free will in that respect. An important distinction, and one that comforts me a little when I start to panic inwardly about the power Locke wields.

“So how long until we reach Ravensbeck?” I ask in my sweetest tone.

“A few days after we leave the Scarab Archipelago,” Dolomon replies.

Quickly I scan the landmarks around the Scarab Archipelago, trying to gauge approximate distances and guess where Ravensbeck might be. I don’t plan to betray Locke, ever, but knowledge is a precious and powerful currency. I might need the information someday.

My stomach thrills because in less than a week, I’ll be setting foot in the secret pirate haven that seven kings would pay a ransom to find.

53

The Scarab Archipelago is a string of rocky islands bared to the blistering sun. Shanties made of driftwood and limestone cluster between boulders along its coastline. Instead of pure sands flecked with white shells, the island on which we land has clumps of yellow foam and sickly-looking growths dotting its gray beaches. The air reeks of dead fish, and something more—something raw, seeping, sickening.

“What happened here?” I murmur.

Hanschel is poling the skiff that I’m sitting in, urging it closer to shore, and he replies in a quiet, factual tone. “Used to be a lot nicer. Trees and such. These islands were famed for gildwood, a beautiful golden lumber. Looked very fine as furniture in rich folks’ mansions. I remember back when it was first discovered, when everyone in all the seven kingdoms was hungry for gildwood. Ships full of lumberjacks would dock here and cut down great chunks of the forests at once. I’m shamed to say I was aboard one of ’em.”

The creases across Hanschel’s brown forehead deepen as I watch him, and his weathered lips tighten. Pirate though he is, he feels guilty about what happened here, and his part in it.

“Wasn’t right,” he growls. “I knew it then, but I told myself it weren’t my problem. I was just gettin’ paid, savvy? Just doin’ my job. But men like me—we stripped these islands for the rich bastards on the mainland. Stripped ’em naked. The faster we stripped, the higher the price of gildwood went and the more tree-hunters came roarin’ into port with their saws and axes. Nothin’ the islanders could do to stop it, ye see. They had no weapons and little technology. We took the trees and paid the islanders with worthless scrap, like the robbers we were.” Hanschel rubs gnarled fingers across his forehead. “Afore we knew it, we’d taken the last gildwood tree from the last island.”

“But what about seeds? Can they replant the trees?”

“Takes a hundred years for a gildwood tree to reach maturity,” says Hanschel. “I’ve heard that the islanders have started a couple new groves, but they won’t tell no one where. ’Fraid of more poachers nabbin’ the baby trees while they’re still tender. And when those trees are full grown, I’ve no doubt the gildwood frenzy’ll happen all over again. Humans don’t learn, ye see.”

He drives the pole into the bank and picks up a board we brought, tilting it from the edge of the skiff to the dry sand. He helps me up and I walk the board gingerly until I reach the foul-smelling sand.

“What’s all the yellow foam?” I ask.

“Some of the tree-hunters would cut and cure the wood right here before taking it aboard,” Hanschel replies. “They used chemical scrubs to prepare the wood and keep it fine for their buyers. The runoff went straight into the sea, and it still hasn’t cleared from the waters. Most of the creatures along the coast are befouled with it. The islanders have to go out beyond to reefs to get clean fish.”

I refrain from asking him any more questions, because he and the other pirates are busy unloading the stores that Locke plans to give to the islanders. Locke himself is already ashore with Neelan—they’re somewhere in the shanty town ahead, talking with the island leaders. I was supposed to stay on board the Ardent and rest, but since my cramps are long gone, I chose to come ashore. Locke doesn’t expect me, which gives me a pleasant sense of freedom and mischief.

Sea air shouldn’t burn the nostrils and sear the lungs, but this air does. I pick my way hurriedly across the reeking sand, cupping my fingers to shield my mouth and nose from the foul miasma crawling into my airway. When I reach the dunes, I can breathe a little easier.

The shanty town starts among the rocks along the beach and extends through the dunes, sprawling beyond them in a flat, sun-baked jumble of seared white roofs. Some of the buildings are clearly from a long-ago time of greater prosperity—they’re larger, better constructed. But even those buildings have fallen into disrepair. Sun and storms have blasted this place until it’s little more than a bone-yard of limestone and bleached branches, assembled into haphazard shelters.

The islanders are just as sun-seared and faded as their buildings. Their clothes and faces lack the color and vibrancy of the Wierling Isles’ inhabitants. Here in the Scarab Archipelago, the people are pale shadows, hunched beside racks of drying fish, bent over pots of eel soup. A child crouches by a bowl, grinding shells into a fine powder and then mixing them with a gelatinous substance to make a paste that I really hope isn’t for eating.

I’m wearing a long, silky skirt today—deep green embroidered with gold and tiny twinkling gems. I hold handfuls of the material so it doesn’t brush the chalky ground. My corset only covers my breasts, leaving my belly and lower back exposed, but I’m draped in a gauzy, glittery scarf that offers a little extra coverage. My hair is still short, but it looks less choppy now, and it clusters in loose auburn waves over my head and around my face.

I can’t help feeling self-conscious because my appearance contrasts so starkly with my surroundings. When stick-thin children begin to emerge from the shacks and stare at me, I feel even worse. I knew this was a place of poverty—why didn’t I bring something to give these people?

Of course, I have nothing of my own to offer. Everything on the ship belongs to Locke, including me. He hasn’t paid me in real coin yet, and I haven’t pressed for it. A very thin line separates me from these destitute folk—a line held in place by Locke’s affection for me. Without him, I’d be dead or destitute. And as grateful as I am, maybe I resent him a little for being my savior.

The children creep nearer to me as I walk the sandy path through the shanty town. “It’s the Pirate King’s queen,” one of them says boldly to the others.

That sounds so much nicer than “the Pirate King’s whore.” I smile at the girl who spoke, and she ventures nearer.

“What’s your name?” she asks.

“I’m Veronica.” I pause, smiling at her.

“Do you have any food?”

My heart twists. “I don’t, but the Pirate King’s men are bringing some ashore, along with other things—clothes, lamp oil, candles, fabric—I’m not sure what else. What do you need here?”

“Everything,” says a hollow-eyed boy. “We need everything.”

His words are like a punch to my gut. Impulsively I strip the glittery gauze wrap from my torso and hold it out to the girl. She looks about fifteen, able to appreciate and care for something fine. “For you.”

Her eyes brighten, and she leaps to snatch the garment. She runs the fabric through her fingers with a soft sigh of delight.

“And you.” I nod to the boy, while my fingers latch onto one of the gems sewn to my skirt. They’re not diamonds, but they’re real semi-precious stones, worth something. Maybe not immediately useful to these hungry kids, but it’s all I have. I hold out the gem to the boy, and he accepts it eagerly, rolling it in his palm.

More children cluster around me, and I rip more of the twinkling jewels from my clothing, handing them out until I have no more to give. The once-beautiful skirt is now spattered with small holes where I ripped the jewels free, and the embroidery threads hang loose and broken in places, but I don’t care, because the children around me are laughing, delighted.

“I like your spots,” says a tiny girl shyly, touching the freckles clustering thickly over my arm.

“Thank you. I like your hair.” Lightly I stroke the feathery blonde wisps that halo her small face.

The pirates from the skiff pass me, carrying barrels and crates, so with a nod to the children I follow them. They enter a big building that must once have been very fine. Its inner walls appear to have been paneled once, perhaps with gildwood—but all the planks have been ripped away and replaced with ill-fitting strips of driftwood.

In a large room outfitted with a massive table and rickety chairs, Locke and Neelan stand amid a knot of islanders. Locke is wearing his black crown today, and a long black coat, but there’s no shirt beneath it, so he looks impossibly sexy.

“Ah, here is the next installment,” he says, spreading a hand toward the supplies his men are carrying in. Then his gaze latches onto me, in my ruined skirt with my barely-there corset. Several of the children have followed me inside, and they cluster around me, examining the jewels I gave them, clutching my skirts, inspecting the freckles on my arms and fingers. I smile helplessly at Locke, and he gives me a sudden, magnificent grin that turns my heart inside-out.

54

For another hour Locke speaks with the island leader, a gaunt, earnest woman with graying hair. Meanwhile the pirates bring in more gifts and supplies—more, I suspect, than the share Locke originally intended to provide. For a pirate, he’s shockingly generous, and the realization warms me all over.

While I chat with the children, I’m half-listening to Locke’s conversation with the island leader, hearing his insistence that the bounty be shared with the settlements on the other islands in the archipelago. The woman readily agrees, and offers their meager hospitality for the night.

“We’ve not much to offer the Pirate King,” she says. “But what we have is yours, with our deepest thanks. And if you are ever in need of a place to lie quiet while a storm passes by, we can provide that haven.”

“I thank you,” he says. “My people will dine and sleep aboard ship tonight, but perhaps my woman and I and my first officers could stay here?”

“I’ll have rooms prepared,” says the woman eagerly.

Again I admire Locke’s handling of the situation. To impose the entire crew on these people would be a hardship, but to refuse their hospitality outright would hurt their pride. He has skillfully arranged a compromise between the two. And he’s keeping Neelan on land with us, so there’s no chance for him to attempt a midnight mutiny.

Also I get to sleep in a bed that’s not on a ship.

The other pirates return to the Ardent, while Neelan, Dolomon, Shem, and Hanschel remain on the island with Locke and me. We arrived late in the afternoon, and veils of purple darkness are already falling across the island, softening the harshness of its edges. But the sourness in the air remains, saturating my clothing and my very pores, it seems. I struggle to eat a respectable amount of the fish stew and brittle bread we’re served—but Locke consumes it all with enough gusto for both of us, and he polishes off my portion as well.

Afterward we move out of the big building into the street, where a bonfire has been lit. The children I met earlier seem fascinated with the size of the fire. Perhaps the villagers don’t indulge in a bonfire often, since their island has scarcely any trees. The gildwood trees must have been the primary species, or perhaps their existence was entwined with that of the other trees on the island, because I’ve seen nothing taller than a scrubby prickle-bush about my height.

At Locke’s urging, Neelan agrees to join him in a song. Despite his significant failings, the former captain has a stunning tenor voice. Blended with Locke’s satiny baritone and Hanschel’s gravelly bass, the effect is no less than brilliant. The islanders listen enraptured, and I’m just as entranced, sitting amid the swarm of children who seem to consider me their dearest friend.

At last, when the darkness has thickened, Locke rises and bids everyone good night. He jerks his head to me, a brusque summons that he might give to any woman who is paid to share his bed. Sighing, I disentangle myself from the children and follow him.

The room we’ve been given is on the first floor of the building, near the back. Like everything else on this island, it smells of fish and sour mold, but the islanders have filled a vase with strongly-scented herbs. I suppose they have few flowers here—I’ve seen none, though the weather is warm.

In a small adjoining room, there’s a beaten copper tub filled with lukewarm water. I let Locke use it first, so he won’t have to sit in blood-tinged water. When he’s done, I wash up quickly. I’ve never liked to bathe during my bleeding time, though I do prefer to stay as clean as possible.

When I return to the bedroom, Locke is sprawled face-down on the coarse sheets, entirely naked. His crown sits on a side table, and his clothes are puddled on the floor. I don’t blame him for luxuriating; the bed is twice as large as the bunk we’ve been sharing in Neelan’s cabin.

The sight of all Locke’s flesh at once triggers a vibrating heat in my throat and chest, spreading to lower parts of me. He has such a magnificent back, so beautifully tattooed with that crowned moth, and the spray of knives. And his ass is well-muscled but just soft enough—I desperately want to smooth both my palms over it, or maybe—maybe sink my teeth into that firm curve of man-flesh—

He turns his head to face me. I’m wearing a virginal-looking nightdress with buttons from the floor-length hem to the ruffled collar.

“You have too many clothes on,” Locke says disapprovingly. “No self-respecting whore would wear something like that.”

“It’s borrowed from one of the islanders,” I tell him.

“At least undo a few of the buttons.”

“I’m not sure you heard what you just said,” I retort. “ ‘Self-respecting whore?’ Is there such a creature?”

He props himself on his elbows. “I don’t think you realize that some people provide services for money because they enjoy sex, and they’re good at it. Like anyone else with a talent, they want to share it.”

“I’m good at it, but I don’t go around giving it to everyone—” But I stop myself, because I did give it to everyone, back home, when I was obsessed with defying my mother.

Locke lifts an eyebrow. “And there it is, love. You gave it away, and you didn’t even get paid for it. Nor did you get a husband out of the deal, or any lasting affection from a devoted partner. I only hope you got some pleasure.”

“Most of the time,” I say grudgingly. “Not always.”

“Hm.” He tosses a hand through his wavy hair. “Perhaps you aren’t the expert you claim to be. Maybe the men felt cheated and decided not to take any further trouble with you.”

“Asshole,” I snarl, settling cross-legged onto the bed beside him. “I’m damn good at it. You certainly seemed to think so.”

“I’ve only sampled a few of your talents.” He smirks. “To render a fair judgment I’d have to try a broader sampling.”

“So that’s what this is about. You’re trying to manipulate me into pleasuring you, after you said I wouldn’t have to render any such services—”

“Not unless you want to.” His smirk broadens, but his eyes are hooded, lustful and playful at the same time.

I smack his ass cheek sharply, and he barks, “Gods, Nick! That hurt.”

“Surely the whipping you took for me hurt more.” That flash of his hot skin against my palm was a moment too much. It’s all I can do not to touch him again. “I don’t see any scars, though.”

“As I told you, I heal faster than most. A family trait.”

“So your abilities are inherited? Does anyone else in your family have the tattoo magic?”

“No. And I didn’t discover it until my parents and I had left Caligo. The first port we stopped in had an ambiance reader, someone who can discern a person’s powers. She was doing readings for two bits a head, so I stopped into her booth. She nearly keeled over off her chair when she read mine. She said most people who came to her had no powers at all, so to encounter someone with an ability as rare as mine was a shock.”

“And she taught you about tattoo magic?”

“She gave me a pamphlet on it, and told me about another tattoo mage who lived on a different island. I was already planning to turn pirate then, but when I was running the Raven’s Frenzy around that area, I’d stop in every few months and take lessons from the tattoo mage. He works for me in Ravensbeck now.”

“Did he tattoo your back?”

“He did. He helped me craft the spell for dissolving the crown into my skin when I need to.”

“And is there a vow attached to this?” I sweep my fingertips along the moth that spreads over his shoulder blades.

“No,” he says. “I’ve always liked moths—night creatures who are also lovers of light.”

“They’re soft,” I reply. “And fragile.” My palm settles against his spine.

“Some people are afraid of them,” he answers.

“What about the braided tattoo around your ankle? When you were pretending to be a regular pirate, you told me it was your allegiance tattoo, the one that prevents you from telling where Ravensbeck is. Were you lying, or is that true?”

“I was lying.” He admits it blandly, without a hint of guilt. “It’s just a tattoo. I haven’t bound myself to secrecy like the others. I’m probably the only person in the world who can verbalize the location of Ravensbeck or point to it on a map.”

“Will you show me where it is?”

He scrutinizes my face. “Why do you want to know? Are you planning to betray me?”

“No.” I hold his gaze, unflinching. “I just want to know. And I could make you tell me.”

“You would make such an excellent spy,” he murmurs. “The king of Ivris had no idea what a treasure was trotting about among the sons of the nobility, fucking them senseless. Tell me, love, did you bite them and take their blood and their secrets along with their seed?”

“Crude bastard,” I seethe, my face blazing. “I hate you.”

“Do you hate me, or yourself?” He sits up suddenly, and I don’t miss the hard length curved up between his legs, nearly touching his belly. He drags the sheet over himself with an angry jerk, as if his own reaction to me infuriates him. “Stop ogling me and listen. You have more pain and darkness inside you than you want to admit. You pretend to be standing on some moral high ground from which you judge me—from which you judge everyone, pirates and prostitutes and all others—but the truth, Veronica, is that you are just as jaded and guilty as the rest of us. And I can’t trust you until you shatter that moral platform of yours and come down here to meet me in the blood and the grime where you belong.”

55

The violence of being perceived so completely by him—it tears me open inside, slices into all the layers I’ve spread over my truth.

I don’t want to face any of it. I don’t want to tell him about the sickening darkness that was my life before Mordan left, or the raw ache of never being enough that drove me into the arms of man after man. I don’t want him to see that part of me, ever.

“You don’t know me,” I whisper, harsh and hoarse.

“I bared everything to you,” Locke says. “My deepest shame and pain. Because you asked it of me. Why can’t you do the same?”

“What do you care?” I leap off the bed and walk away from him to the shuttered window. I throw it open and immediately regret it, because the stench grows stronger. I’m too flustered to back out now, so I leave it open and grip the low sill. “We had a pleasant time, and then we realized we’re too different. We can’t—I don’t want—”

“You won’t admit what you want.”

Because I don’t know what you’re offering, I want to scream. Because even if you offered me that title—Pirate Queen—I wouldn’t know what to do with it, or how to act, or who to be, or what it meant.

And this is what I do when I want things I can’t have, like my mother’s love and acceptance, or my brother’s sanity and kindness, or my father’s attention. This is what I do when I’m so full of nothing that I can’t think.

I whirl from the window and tackle Locke, full out, shoving him down onto the bed, brutalizing his mouth with mine, driving my tongue between his teeth, pouring all my savage wanting into a hundred starved kisses. He snarls and crooks his fingers into my short hair, nails grating against my skull. With my body flush to his chest, I grind my teeth and lips against his. Then I slide lower, raking my fingernails down his chest, leaving long pale scratches against his tanned skin. His belly hardens, concave with want, as I move lower still, as my hands brace his thighs apart.

“Nick,” he pants. “Don’t bite me there.”

I look up, licking my bruised lips. “Trust me,” I hiss through a smile. And then I take him in my mouth, and he shouts, a keen sharp sound that thrills me from top to tail. I’ve never been the kind to have sex while I’m on my monthly bleeding, but this is an acceptable substitute. When I’m manipulating him like this, swirling with my tongue and scraping lightly with my teeth, he can’t be saying incisive, insightful things to me. He can only gasp, taut with impending pleasure, his limbs rigid and the most delicious male groans breaking from his throat.

Faster I work, and then slower again, tending to every bit of him with languid, luxurious relish. He tastes fresh and clean from the bath, salty and warm—I love it. I love the shape of his shaft, the sensitivity of the tip. I love the way he claws at the sheets and tips his head back, and then looks down again to watch me sucking on him. I love—I love him.

No, this act was supposed to drive all those pesky emotions into the background where they belong. I take him deeper, deeper and when he breaks with a fierce cry, I don’t release him until he’s completely spent.

The Pirate King is limp and sweating and beautiful, spread out under my hands. No more talk from him. I run a finger across his lips, satisfied.

“You can put away that smug smile, Nick. We are not done discussing this,” he says, breathless.

I clamp my hand across his mouth. “I’ll expect my first payment tomorrow. Fair recompense for services rendered.”

His eyes flicker with hurt, then harden. He grips my hand and moves it away from his lips. “If that’s all you want, that’s what you’ll get.” Then he turns his back to me, drawing the sheet over his body again.

I should be happy that I succeeded in shutting him up, but after putting out the candles I lie awake, heartsore because I hurt him. Why do I have to perpetuate this agonizing cycle of intimate moments and caustic arguments? Why can’t I just yield to him? Why can’t he express exactly what he wants from me? Does he merely want my body, my friendship—or something deeper and long-lasting?

My eyes are finally drifting shut, despite the odor of fish and mildew, when a dark shadow blots out most of the open window.

Through slitted lids I watch, half-asleep, half-certain I’m dreaming.

No, I’m not dreaming. The shadow is a person, climbing through the opening into our room. A person with a glittering blade in hand.

My entire body tenses. I’m on my back, and Locke is on his stomach again, his face turned away from me. I need to wake him—

But the figure with the knife has already darted to the bedside, arm upraised. Moonlight flashes on the knife as it descends toward Locke’s spine.

I spring up, catching the intruder’s arm in both my hands and crunching my teeth deep into the flesh of the forearm, until my eyetooth grinds against bone. Hot blood floods my mouth as the murderer cries out in pain.

“Stab yourself in the stomach,” I order, and the figure plunges the knife into their own gut.

Locke is up, swearing, slamming a broad hand around the invader’s throat, bearing them down to the floor. I leap out of bed and light a candle with shaking fingers. My lips are wet, and my tongue is slick with coppery blood.

The man on the floor is Captain Neelan. His eyes are squeezed tight with pain, and his mouth is a wretched grimace.

“Tell us why you did this,” I say. “Why tonight?”

“I thought I could do it quiet-like and blame it on the islanders,” he chokes. “I liked you, Locke, when you were a pirate, but I hate you as the Pirate King.” Blood dribbles from the corner of his mouth. “I won’t serve someone like you—weak, spineless. You chain everyone to your stringent code. Being a pirate is about blasting all the damn codes to hell. We do what we want, take what we crave, and fuck the consequences. You have no idea what it means to be a true pirate. Your rule has ruined the Shorn Seas. You’ve stolen our way of life, you insipid fool—” He coughs up more blood. “And what is she? Blood mage?”

“Is that what it’s called?” I say desperately. “I don’t know.”

“I thought she was just a hole to wet your piece in,” Neelan rasps. “If you can even get it up like a man—and take her like a whore should be taken—” His hands flutter over his bleeding stomach. “Gods’ bones, she gutted me. You’ve got to find me some help. The men won’t stand for this—they’ll think you murdered me—”

“I guess they won’t think I’m so soft then, eh?” Locke says quietly. His eyes are cold and pitiless. “Too bad you don’t like weak, spineless traits like mercy. Tell you what, Neelan—I’ll grant your wish and give you the Pirate King you want and deserve.”

He picks up the dagger Neelan dropped. Gripping Neelan’s chin, he tilts the man’s head back, exposing his throat. Locke shoves the point of the dagger through Neelan’s skin, puncturing it right under the left corner of his jaw. Slowly he begins to drag the knife through the flesh and cartilage of Neelan’s throat. Blood spurts, jewel-red, flecking Neelan’s shirt, splattering Locke’s bare chest.

I can’t watch.

I race to the window, bend over the sill, and vomit onto the earth outside.

56

The Pirate King and I barely trade words after the incident with Neelan. In the morning, Locke apologizes to the islanders for the body in the bedroom, and they assure him that they’ll dispose of it—all but the head, which he keeps in hand. The stump of Neelan’s neck drips scarlet onto the chalky road as we leave the shanty town.

I couldn’t eat anything the islanders offered, not after what happened, and my stomach gurgles as I try to smile and say my goodbyes to the children.

Finally I’m in the skiff with Locke and the other pirates. And Neelan’s head.

“The children made me promise to come back sometime,” I tell Locke in an undertone.

“Did they?” he says blandly. “And what makes you think you’ll be sailing back this way?”

“I don’t know.” I look down at my hands, cupped in the lap of my tattered skirt. “I suppose I never will.”

I don’t look at him, but out of the corner of my eye I see his face turn toward me. After a moment he shifts on the wooden seat of the skiff, blowing out a restless sigh. His hip bumps mine. But he doesn’t say anything comforting.

He hasn’t thanked me for saving him. Maybe he resents the use of my bloody, disgusting brand of magic. Blood mage, Neelan called me, so there must be others like me somewhere. I know next to nothing about my cursed ability, since I’ve kept it hidden all these years. Perhaps I should learn more about it. Living out here on the Shorn Seas, I’ve already been forced to use it more than I’d like. After Mordan left, I hoped I’d never have to use it again. In fact, I vowed to Nehalennia that I never would. I hope the goddess is forgiving to oath-breakers.

When we reach the Ardent, Locke hangs Captain Neelan’s severed head from the prow of the ship. The Ardent has no figurehead, only a bit of decorative ebony carving—and it looks grim indeed with its new embellishment.

Locke’s full explanation of what happened seems to satisfy the men. They all knew Neelan—some sailed with him before this voyage—and they understand the kind of man he was. None of them seem to doubt that he would try to murder the Pirate King. The few remaining crew of the Wending Willow had the easiest time switching their shaky allegiance from Neelan to Locke, and by this point they seem to practically worship him. An awed reverence glows in their eyes when he gives them orders.

It’s a somber day at sea, but at the end of it Locke surprises everyone by opening a barrel of sweets from the hold and bringing out more rum. The men clamor for a song, and he obliges them, standing with his feet braced on two barrels while everyone stamps a rowdy rhythm.

I sit with Dez in the shadows a little way from the merriment. The cabin boy is sniffing quietly, saddened by the loss of his cousin.

“He wasn’t a good man, I know it,” he mutters to me, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “But he was the only family I had left. What will become of me now? I’m lazy and useless. They’re going to give this ship to someone else, and the new captain probably won’t want to bother with me.”

“Nonsense.” I rub his shoulder. “You’ve been working so hard lately! I’ve noticed.”

“You’ll put in a good word for me?” Dez looks up hopefully. His nose is red and running, and tears shine on his round cheeks.

“I don’t know how much pull I have with the Pirate King,” I say. “But I’ll try.”

“The Pirate King really likes you.” Dez nudges me. “I mean, I know he beds you, and I’m sure he likes that part, but—he likes you.”

“What do you know about it?” I shove him back. “You’re fourteen.”

“He watches you when you’re not looking. All the time. And he gets this look—like he’d jump overboard if you asked him to.”

I splutter into my mug of tea. “Yes, he probably would.” But only if I bit him and tasted his blood first.

At that moment Locke’s eyes latch with mine across the shadowed span of the deck. He’s still standing on the barrels in his fine boots, uplit by the dancing light of the fire in the sand barrel. His black crown is cocked rakishly across his brow. A single gold chain bounces against his bare chest as he moves to the music. On his finger glitters my family ring. He still hasn’t given it back to me.

Holding my gaze, Locke tips up the thick brown bottle in his hand and chugs more rum. When he finishes the entire bottle, he lifts it high and roars in triumph, lips wet and shining. The men roar with him.

He leaps down from the barrels, plants himself atop one of them with his legs braced apart, and beckons to me.

I sigh, getting to my feet and handing my tea to Dez. “Here, someone should enjoy it. And you shouldn’t be drinking that.” I jerk my head toward the keg of ale from which the pirates are filling great foamy mugs.

“I’m nearly grown,” he protests.

I stoop to kiss his forehead, and he flushes beneath the tearstains.

Straightening, I walk as gracefully as I can toward Locke. The sea is calm tonight, and I’m confident in my sea-legs, so I put a little extra sway into my hips. The men whistle and cheer, clearing my path to the Pirate King.

His eyes shine like white stars flecked with firelit gold, and though he wears a cocky smile, tension hardens his jaw and temples. I can’t tell what he’s thinking. Is he angry with me, or…

He pulls me in, settling me on his thigh. I’m angled toward the crew, and that means part of my rear is pressed to his crotch. Under the black pants, there’s a roll of hard flesh that I’ve come to know all too well.

So… not angry then.

“Rum in my belly and a beautiful woman between my legs,” he crows to the men. “What could be better? Let’s have another song! Dolomon, what was that ballad you were singing yesterday?”

As Dolomon begins the song, the men provide a humming murmur by way of background music, and the Pirate King pulls me tighter against his body.

He collects the loose strands of my hair with one hand, drawing them away from my ear, and he whispers, “I haven’t forgotten what I owe you. I’ll pay you tonight, once we’re alone, along with a bonus for saving my life.”

“Good.” I hold my head high, keeping my back straight and not allowing a bit of it to touch his chest. “I was beginning to think you weren’t grateful.”

His large hand slides across my exposed belly, between the corset and the band of my skirt, and my flesh quivers in response. His low chuckle turns my face hot as the fire.

“And how would you like your payment?” he purrs, stroking the bare skin of my stomach and side. “Gold coins? Silver coins? Jewels? Which kingdom currency best suits you? Perhaps I should give you Ivrian currency, so you can return home and buy yourself a prim noble husband, since you couldn’t secure such a stable prospect before.”

“For your information, I had such a stable prospect. A duke, if you must know. Very respectable.”

“By the gods,” he gasps in mock surprise. “There was someone you hadn’t bedded yet?”

“I didn’t want to bed him,” I grit out. “He was much older than me—very plain and dull. Our betrothal was one reason I ran away.”

“You’re betrothed? I’ve been sowing my seed in another man’s garden? How shocking.”

“I don’t belong to anyone but myself,” I retort.

“You’re wrong there, love. You belong to me.” The Pirate King’s hand slides up my ribs and cups my breast—boldly, openly. He’s fondling me here, where the whole crew can see. Tingling heat races over my skin, but it’s not shame, exactly. There’s a tender ache between my legs, a quick flutter of my pulse. Can it be that I enjoy this—being claimed so blatantly in front of this ship full of pirates?

Maybe I’m not here only out of duty, or to save myself. After all, if I’d been truly desperate to get away, I could have asked Locke to leave me on the Scarab Archipelago, impoverished and wretched though the place is—and he might have done it. But I only entertained the idea for a fleeting second, and I never asked him about it. Maybe because I didn’t want to live in such conditions—or maybe because I want to be here, relishing the rough warmth of Locke’s calloused hand and the press of his hardness against my curves, with the deep purr of his voice in my ear.

57

Locke keeps touching me while the men drink themselves into a stupor. A few of them stay more or less sober at Locke’s request, since the Ardent must be kept on course. But the rest grow slower and louder, their voices slurred and silly.

Locke sweeps a broad hand across my breasts, squeezing lightly, and then tilts my face toward him. His mouth claims mine, tangy with salt and alcohol, and raw need spikes at my core. I can’t help squirming, pressing my legs together while he kisses me, plunging his tongue into the hot recesses of my mouth. When his hand travels to my chest again, I open my eyes a sliver, just to see the crew’s reaction to us.

Most of them are busy arguing and shoving each other or downing more drink, but a few watch us hungrily. And then my gaze locks onto one of Neelan’s original crew, a slovenly, hairy man. He stands outside the firelight circle, foam and glistening rum streaking his beard. His hand is in his pants, and he’s moving it quickly, staring at us.

I react instinctively, my body hardening, my lips breaking from Locke’s. He frowns slightly, confused by my reaction—and then he sees the drunken pirate pleasuring himself in the shadows.

He sets me down and strides over to the man. The chatter from the rest of the crew fades as they realize what’s happening.

What is Locke going to do? I press my fingers across my mouth, torn inside because maybe I should say something, intercede on the man’s behalf—

Locke seizes the man by the throat and shoves him against the railing. The bearded pirate’s spine curves backward, over the dark waves below. He whimpers and gibbers a half-distinguishable apology.

Locke’s boot slams into the pirate’s crotch, and the man screams. Locke lets him fall forward, cupping himself. Then another kick to the pirate’s ribs, and a third to his ass.

“She’s not for your pleasure,” Locke snarls, with another kick. “Tell me you understand.”

“I understand, my lord,” sobs the man.

“Good. Some of you take this lout to the brig.” Locke strides back to me and picks me up bodily before I can protest. He carries me into the captain’s cabin and tumbles me onto the bed, then kicks the door shut.

From a small chest in a cupboard he extracts a handful of gold, which he tosses onto the bed beside me in a gleaming shower of coins. “Your payment, as I promised.”

My family ring flashes on his hand as he gestures toward the money.

“Wait,” I say, sitting up. “I’ve thought of a different form of payment. Give me my family ring instead.”

“Why?” he snaps. “You don’t love them. They never treated you well. You haven’t told me much about your brother, but I know you’re not hunting him solely out of affectionate motives. Why crave this memento of people who never valued you?”

“I still love them, even if they don’t deserve it. And I haven’t seen my brother in eight years. Who knows if he’ll recognize me?”

“You’re fairly recognizable, Veronica.”

I touch my face, conscious of my freckles. “I suppose.”

“So why this attachment to the ring?”

“Why are you so eager to keep it?” I counter.

Locke flashes me a wicked smile. “Because it bothers you.”

“And you live to plague and unsettle me.” I rise from the bed, sucked toward him like flotsam to the center of a whirlpool.

“Plaguing you is my dearest delight. I’ve enjoyed it since the day I swung you across from the Wending Willow to the Ardent, when I felt those two perfect little breasts of yours pinned down under all that fabric. I’ll never forget the way you reacted when I showed you how to use that rope, when I asked you if you’d ever handled anything that long and thick. Of course now I know the answer to that question is yes.” His grin fades, fury sparkling in his pale eyes. “And I wish I could slice the balls off any man who ever touched you.” He steps toward me, taking my face in his hand. “When I think of them inserting themselves into this beautiful mouth—or here—” He cups between my legs, suddenly, savagely—I can feel the press of his fingers through the cloth pad I’m wearing. “When I picture that, I think I might go mad with rage.”

“You told me once that if you could tattoo a vow on me, you’d make me unable to take pleasure from any man but you,” I whisper. “Did you mean that? Did you want me all to yourself?”

“Yes,” he hisses.

“And now that you know about my blood magic?”

Locke’s profile grazes mine, his mouth a quivering breath from my lips. “I want you.”

“But for how long, and in what role?” I whisper, trembling as our foreheads touch. “I can’t be your whore forever. And I’m not sure I want to be part of this life you lead. It’s brutal and wicked. You shock me, every day, sometimes in good ways and sometimes in bad. I don’t know if I can bear this, the constant guilt and concern over what you’re doing.”

“Let the guilt go,” he murmurs. “That’s what I do. I release every choice once it’s made, and I don’t circle back to re-evaluate my actions.”

“Must be nice.” I swallow hard, thinking of the hidden graves on my family’s property.

“It’s necessary.”

“You keep talking about all the men I’ve been with,” I say slowly. “Do you really view me as a whore? Contaminated somehow, and dirty?”

“You’re certainly dirty.” The ghost of a smirk.

“I’m being serious, Locke. Since I told you about it, you changed toward me. You keep bringing it up, sometimes in jest, but I think there’s more to it.”

He pulls back, a muscle ticking at his temple. “I suppose… you’re not who I thought you were. I thought perhaps you’d had a fling or two, but from what you’ve told me, it was a lot of men.”

“But I didn’t care about them. They had the parts I required—nothing more. Not like—” I bite my lips, but his eyes flash up to mine, brimming with the awareness of what I was about to say.

Not like you.

“It’s not fair for you to disdain me,” I whisper, tears stinging my eyes. “I did what I had to do to survive. You don’t know how empty I felt, how hopeless—”

“You think I don’t understand hopelessness?” Locke seethes. “Do you know how many times I thought of ending my life? I did things and suffered things just to survive, too, and my circumstances were much darker and more wretched than your life of parties and promenades in fucking Ivris. So your mother mistreated you—at least you didn’t have to endure—”

He breaks off, grimacing, and whirls away from me.

Pain and regret and anger swell inside me until I’m afraid I might burst. “You had a terrible childhood, I know. You were horribly abused. But I lived with a sadist and a murderer, one who had magical powers. For several years I barely slept because I was so afraid Mordan would sneak out of the house to kill someone. I can’t even count how many times I followed him and stopped him just in time. He was addicted to killing, and he was addicted to the sensation of biting and blood-letting. He liked it when I tasted his blood and took control of his mind for a handful of seconds. He enjoyed pain, his own and that of others.”

I’m shaking, fists tight, my breath spasming through my chest. “I saw my brother suck someone inside out once, with his magic. He pulled all her entrails out through her throat. I was running, trying to get to him in time, but I was too late. Another time I saw him collapse a man’s lungs. I watched him spin people in midair until they vomited. Once he exploded a squirrel’s eyeballs with a focused blast of air.”

My voice is a hoarse undertone, strained because even as I spill my darkest truths, I’m trying to hold them back. “You can’t imagine the stress of living with someone like that, terrified they’ll give themselves away to the world, dreading the day they finally decide to turn on their own family. When he left I was relieved, but I felt so wretchedly guilty over the lives he’d taken and the ones he would take in the future—I still could barely eat or sleep. So if I stole a little pleasure for myself, if I used other people with their consent, to help myself feel better—who are you to judge me?”

Locke doesn’t touch me—a good thing, because I feel so brittle right now—on the verge of shattering.

He takes off my family ring, steps around me, and lays it on the pillow.

“I was wrong to compare our pain in that way,” he says quietly. “Your suffering is your own to endure, not mine to judge. Forgive me.”

He moves to the door. “Keep the coin and the ring. I’ll be in later.”

58

The rest of our voyage to Ravensbeck is uneventful. Locke and I share a bed, but both of us sidestep any sensitive topics, and he only touches me in a brief performative way when we’re on deck. Perhaps he’s afraid of making me feel too much like a whore. Perhaps I don’t trust myself not to behave like one when we’re alone together—so I keep my distance whenever we’re sharing space in the captain’s cabin.

The ship practically vibrates with the eagerness of everyone aboard as we near the pirate haven. On the final day of our approach, I stay out on deck, watching for any sign of land. My freckles will probably thicken even more under the blazing sun, but I don’t care. Locke likes my skin, and his opinion is the only one that matters, besides my own.

Around noon, the lookout warns, “Approaching the reefs,” and the pirates begin to scurry about the deck and rigging, shouting excitedly to one another. Dolomon manages the helm, taking us through the reefs, though I still can’t see any land yet.

An hour later, another shout from the crow’s nest sends my heart into my throat. “Land ho!” cries the lookout.

I press myself to the forecastle railing and squint into the sunny distance. Within moments I can see it—three distinct mountain peaks, like the central fingers of a giant hand. As we draw nearer, lower hills emerge into view, spreading out from those three mountains. It’s a big island, from what I can tell, cliff-bound and rocky.

It’s a good thing Dolomon is an excellent steersman, because the maze of reefs around the island is studded with partial shipwrecks in varying stages of decay. I suppose they’re sort of helpful as landposts, so he can navigate through the especially dangerous parts.

Ahead there’s a wall—a massive construction partly hewn from the natural rock protecting the cove, built higher with great stone blocks. It’s weathered and sun-beaten at the top, encrusted with barnacles and slick green seaweed along the bottom, splashed dark by the whip of the waves.

Hanschel aims for the single opening in that gigantic wall—a space large enough for two ships the size of the Ardent to pass abreast. The gate is flanked by towers bristling with guns, each topped with the enormous ebony statue of a crowned raven.

Locke appears at my side, resplendent in a black coat with gold embroidery, wearing his crown. Scarlet ruffles peek from the collar of his coat.

“You put on a shirt,” I say.

He keeps looking straight ahead, but his mouth tweaks. “I did.”

I glance at my hand on the railing, where my family ring shines on my right thumb. “I thought you might slink back into Ravensbeck in disguise, and tell the men of the Ardent to keep quiet. Then no one would ever know you were gone, and they wouldn’t suspect you’d left a double in charge.”

“I thought of that,” he said. “And I thought of having you dress as a boy again, to avoid any difficult questions. But then there would have been the matter of explaining why Captain Neelan was killed—and after thinking on it, I decided the truth was best.”

“But this means it’ll be harder for you to sneak aboard other ships and spy on their captains.”

“Yes. But my presence on this ship has had a significant effect. For a time, the story of what happened on the Ardent should be enough to keep my other captains in line. If any of them have considered breaking my laws, they’ll be more cautious about it for a while.”

“Must be exhausting, keeping up with such a large kingdom.” I’m only half-listening to him, half-conscious of what I’m saying, because the immensity of the towers is so breathtaking. They’re on either side of the ship now, raking the sky, dwarfing even a vessel as massive and glorious as the Ardent. The tips of the ravens’ beaks gleam in the bright sun.

“Impressed?” Locke sounds pleased. “I have a stone mage in my employ. He has worked for me for years, and he’s responsible for much of the wall, and for those ravens.”

“Magic is rare in Ivris,” I reply. “It’s rare in all the mainland kingdoms. But in Ivris it’s rather frowned upon, because gods forbid anyone should step beyond the neatly drawn lines of society.” I shake my head. “Out here in the Shorn Seas, it seems a bit more common. Accepted.”

“I wouldn’t say it’s common, and many still fear those with magical abilities. As you know, I tend to be suspicious of other mages myself. That’s why, when I hire them, I keep them with me in Ravensbeck, not running about on the sea in ships. A few of the ships flying my flag do have mages aboard, but their powers are limited, and they’re usually helpful to the voyage. There’s one man who can shift currents—not strongly, mind you, but just enough to give a ship a nudge in the right direction when there’s no wind to be had.”

“Where do people learn how to use their abilities?” I ask. “Is there a central place, or do they have to find individual tutors, like the man you studied with?”

“I’ve heard rumors of a school for people with powers like ours, but I’m not sure if they’re accurate.” Locke clears his throat. “We can talk more of this later. For now, I need to ask something of you.” He finally looks at me, surveying the scarlet-and-black dress I’m wearing. My bleeding time is over now, so I chose something scandalously short and paired it with boots that stretch all the way up to mid-thigh. There are innumerable buckles, but I like the effect. The dress offers the bare minimum of coverage for my breasts and leaves my shoulders bare.

“The people here love me, but they have a healthy fear of me, too.” Locke’s voice is low, almost caressing. “I may have to handle you carelessly at first, in front of them. They’ll have to be convinced that you’re not someone I spared out of mercy, but simply a toy to make my journey more pleasant.”

“Just like we convinced the crew.” I nod, but I don’t tell him about what Dez said the other night—how he noticed Locke watching me. I’m sure some of the crew believe that Locke kept my secret only so he could take advantage of me, and then claimed me as his hired girl because he couldn’t resist his own lust. But others may suspect I mean more to the Pirate King than that.

I do mean more to him, don’t I? He wouldn’t have divulged his darkest secrets to just anyone. The things he has said to me—he can’t have spoken them to other women he has bedded.

I have to believe I’m different. Special. Chosen, and claimed.

“I’ll go along with whatever you need to do,” I tell him. “If it’s to keep us both safe.”

“You may have to—fondle me a bit. Moon over me, play with my hair, things like that.”

“If I must.”

He lifts his eyes from my cleavage to my face, and I smirk at him. Desire flares in his gaze, and something else, too—longing, maybe. Or perhaps that’s my own vanity, casting the hue I want to see over his expression.

“What you did that night in the Scarab Archipelago—was it only for payment?” he whispers. “It did seem as though you enjoyed it, just a little.”

I pucker my lips and release them again, and his eyes follow the movement. Slowly I drift nearer to him. “Are you asking if I enjoyed sucking you?” I murmur. “If I liked the taste of you in my mouth?”

He inhales raggedly. “I never know what to expect from you. The cautious runaway, the bitter girl with blood magic, the sly temptress, the moral judge.”

“And I never know what to expect from you,” I retort. “The kind sailor Locke, the brutal Pirate King, the drunken captain who gropes me in front of his crew, or the gentle man who took care of me when I was in pain. Which is your truest form? Or maybe none of them are.”

Locke reaches out, cupping the side of my neck with one warm hand. His thumb brushes my collarbone, stroking lightly. “Perhaps our real faces will appear in Ravensbeck, love. Until then, you are the beauty I claimed because I needed someone to service my untameable lust.”

“Agreed.”

He kisses my mouth softly, much too briefly, and then he’s gone, off to his captainly duties.

I clutch the railing tighter and stare, awestruck, as the coastline of Ravensbeck fills my sight.

59

Ravensbeck is no ramshackle village. It’s a bustling town, with a sprawl of sturdy docks cluttered with casks, trunks, and crates. Besides the Ardent, three other ships are in port. A small, light vessel, birdlike and quick, floats near a heavy galleon. The third vessel looks like a merchant ship, commandeered by pirates and refitted to suit its new buccaneer captain.

Thanks to the depth of the bay, the Ardent is able to move right up to one of the docks—a high platform with a mechanical contraption for lowering the gangplank. The presence of Captain Neelan’s head on the prow has already drawn some interest, and the minute the gathering crowd catches sight of Locke in all his glory, they begin to shout and cheer. More people come at a run—buxom women in loose ruffled blouses, swarthy men in leather vests or open shirts, and a few children. Everyone looks healthy—nothing like the gaunt starved folk of the Scarab Archipelago. Gold hoops and jewels glitter at throats and along ears, and the clothing of the townspeople is well-made, if a little grubby.

As the gangplank is latched into place, Locke’s fingers glide around my neck, and I feel cool metal brushing my skin. “Only for show,” he whispers, and then he moves forward. There’s a tug as he moves—he fastened a thin band around my throat, attached to a slim golden chain that he holds in his hand.

So I’m to be led into Ravensbeck like a possession. His pretty pet on a leash.

Gritting my teeth, I hold my head high and follow Locke across the plank to the dock. The few items I possess will be brought along later, to whatever palatial residence the Pirate King occupies. Firmly I hold the concept of a hot bath and a soft bed in my mind. Whatever indignities await me, I can suffer them all if I’m treated to a bath at the end of the day. I crave hot water like I crave the broad-shouldered man who strides in front of me, clasping hands with people, clapping the shoulders of men, kissing the knuckles of women.

They’re all clearly shocked that he was aboard the Ardent, but despite the blazing curiosity in their eyes, none of them question him openly. Locke makes some sweeping promise of a gala to be hosted tomorrow at his residence, where all questions will be answered. But I’ve no doubt the pirates of the Ardent will have passed the tale along by then. By nightfall the taverns and inns of Ravensbeck will be buzzing with the story of the Pirate King’s secret voyage and the execution of the rebellious Captain Neelan.

The other pirates remain behind to unload, and Locke gives a brief order for the former crew of the Wending Willow to report to Riddle Street for their tattoo sessions later that evening.

Surrounded by the eager crowd, the Pirate King and I pass through the cluttered dock area and move toward the nearest street. Ravensbeck towers high above me—rows upon rows of tall buildings, each four or five stories high. Colored pennants flutter from lines stretched window to window, and wooden shop signs creak in the brisk salty wind—signs mostly advertising various types of ale, rum, and mead at bargain prices. There are cobblers, leather-workers, woodcarvers, and mapmakers—shops that sell sextants and star charts, signs advertising tarring and weather-proofing services for ships. One shop offers intricately designed lanterns and lamps of all sizes. I can’t see the wares as clearly as I’d like, because of the crowd and also because Locke keeps tugging lightly at my chain whenever I don’t hurry after him.

With a start I realize that there are guards flanking us now—six of them, three on each side. I have no idea where they came from. They’re all dressed differently, save for one common element of clothing—thick vests of black leather, imprinted with the Crowned Skull-and-Bones in gold across the back.

These are Pirate King’s men. They’re here to protect him with their lives. My stomach thrills at the realization of the power he wields, the authority he commands.

Ravensbeck isn’t nearly as dirty or wild as I expected, though judging by the number of taverns and brothels I’m seeing, it might become so at night. There’s a heavy odor of alcohol in the air, but it’s mingled with the scent of woodsmoke and the rich aroma of baked bread and fried seafood. From one open doorway floods a warm, sugary scent, while another shop issues an herbal smell, tangy and fresh, corroborating its window placard advertising soaps and tinctures.

The cobbles beneath my feet are neatly placed, if well-worn, and there are ditches and grates for the drainage of rainwater and offal. Merry shouts, beery voices, snatches of song, the clang of metal, and the rattle of wheels—all the sounds testify to a town that’s as healthy and thriving as its people. Vices they may have, and I’ve no doubt blood runs into the drains occasionally—but Ravensbeck has a hearty, irresistible energy that almost makes me forget I’m being led through its streets like a captive.

A captive I am, I suppose—though Locke rarely makes me feel like one. Especially when we’re alone, he treats me with a respect that’s unheard-of from a pirate—or from men in general.

So when he mounts the step into a waiting carriage and jerks on the chain to hurry me along, I don’t spring forward and smack him, even though I want to. I flounce into the carriage after him, languidly draping myself against his shoulder.

There are horses waiting for the Pirate King’s guards, and they mount quickly, flanking the carriage as we begin to move up the street. The carriage is an open affair, drawn by a pair of glossy black mares, so we’re on display to everyone we pass.

“Where did this carriage come from?” I mutter aside to Locke. “They didn’t know you were arriving on the Ardent.”

“I’m the damn king, love,” he says, collecting my hand. “My people are devoted to me. When I need something, they make it happen—sometimes before I ask.”

“And the guards?”

“They’re my private force here in Ravensbeck. They’re called—”

“Oh, let me guess,” I say dryly. “The Ravens.”

Locke’s mouth twists. “The King’s Ravens, actually.”

“Delightfully original and such a surprise, considering the theme you have going here,” I murmur, stroking my fingers along his throat, down into the nest of crisp ruffles at his breastbone. “I’m surprised you didn’t go with a moth motif.”

“As you said, most people think moths are soft and weak. I needed something bolder, sharper. Besides, my first ship was called the Raven’s Frenzy. The motif chose me, I suppose.” He shifts, curling an arm around my bare shoulders. “What do you think of the place?” He glances away from me as he poses the question, but not before I glimpse the bright anxiety in his eyes. He wants to impress me.

60

The Pirate King wants to impress me.

Warmth suffuses my heart, my very bones. I nudge my hand deeper under Locke’s shirt, until my nail grazes his nipple. He goes completely still as I circle the bud with my fingertip.

“Ravensbeck is a delightful surprise,” I tell him. “I expected a messy jumble of poorly constructed buildings pasted together with saltwater taffy and kelp.”

He laughs, sudden and relieved, with a breathless edge of desire in the sound. “I’m glad it pleases you. Though I must confess, things are far wilder and messier at night.”

“I suspected as much. Orgies in the streets, drainpipes flowing with rum, that sort of thing?”

“No orgies in the streets that I know of,” he says, unsmiling. “But we could arrange one, perhaps. Wouldn’t want to disappoint you.”

I giggle in spite of myself, and then I gasp as he jerks the chain around my neck, hauling my face to his. The kiss he plants on my mouth is a ferocious claim, reinforced by bold sweeps of his tongue. He imprints his ownership on my lips several more times before he lets me go. I fall back, dizzy and flushed, my sex throbbing with need.

Locke surveys me, an arrogant smirk curving his mouth. “I like you this way. Chained and blushing and craving me. Speechless. No lies or denials.”

I cast a look toward the carriage driver. He doesn’t seem to be paying attention to us, but I know from my life in Ivris that carriage drivers hear all the gossip.

“Of course I crave you, milord,” I say in my most sugary tones, while I pinch Locke’s thigh as a vindictive warning. “I am here to serve you in all things.”

Locke’s face tightens with the pain of my twisting fingers, but he keeps grinning brilliantly. Mischievous intent sparks in his eyes, and he slides a palm across my waist, up my ribs to my breast. He dips two fingers into the neckline of my dress, finds my nipple, and pinches it sharply.

It hurts, but a buzz of pleasure courses along my spine too, pooling in my lower belly. My eyes flick up to his before I can hide my reaction.

With a smug grin, he releases me and turns to wave at some women who are hanging out of windows, their assets on full display as they call greetings to him. The building they’re in has no sign except a painted scarlet slipper dangling from an ornate bracket.

“You have friends there?” I ask.

“I’ve been there a few times, yes. I have needs, you know.”

“So why not sleep with women you don’t have to pay? I’m sure there are plenty around here who would gladly go to your bed for free.”

“Yes, and those women would expect more than I can offer. They would want a relationship, a future I can’t give them. That’s why I choose to offer my patronage to the amorous establishments of Ravensbeck. Every working woman I sleep with becomes more popular with clients and can charge higher rates as a result.”

“So you’re doing them a favor.” My tone is dry as sand. “How kind of you. And also—amorous establishments? When did a miner’s son learn to speak like you do?”

“Lower your voice, darling,” Locke grits out through his smile, still waving at the townspeople. “My mother was noble-born, the daughter of some lord who conspired against one of the seven kings and was exiled to Caligo. She taught me everything she could when we weren’t both working. And after we left Caligo, I studied on my own. On every voyage I made sure to bring along some dejected scholar or impoverished professor to tutor me. You can achieve anything with enough money.”

“You believe that money can get you whatever you want?” I say softly.

Locke glances my way, holding my gaze for a moment. I blink my lashes at him, slowly.

“Almost anything,” he replies.

61

The town sprawls far inland, past the coastline, where the tall stacks of shops give way to larger homes, as well as massive buildings surrounded by walls and gates and guards—storehouses for the loot the pirates bring back.

“I have secret places for the most valuable items,” Locke says.

A bit farther on he points to distant, rambling structures that issue smoke and steam from their chimney-stacks—factories and engineering facilities, he calls them. Apparently he funds a number of different inventors and their ongoing work.

There’s a library as well, and a school. A vast market teeming with activity and colorful wares. A public garden that occupies several blocks.

“How old are you?” I eye him keenly, trying to guess his age.

“Nearing my twenty-seventh year.”

“You went from sixteen-year-old buccaneer to Pirate King in ten years.” I shake my head. “Impossible.”

“Not if you hire the right people.” He grins. “Much of the infrastructure was already here, but the town had fallen into disrepair before I found it. During my voyages I collected people—architects, city managers, mages to speed the creation of stonework and the construction of new buildings, military experts to help with the defenses. With enough treasure, you can recruit anyone. All of this—” he spreads his hands toward the buildings around us— “is funded by the seven kings. Their inadvertent generosity has made this place possible.”

My gaze travels over a sprawl of well-tended grass where a few women and their children have gathered. “There are more women here than I expected.”

“Some of these families have lived here since before I took over,” Locke says. “And when captains arrive to take my flag and vow their allegiance, women are sometimes aboard their ships. Those women must also be tattooed, and they are given a choice to remain here or be taken to the nearest port where they can fend for themselves.”

“So you don’t imprison them here, or dump them into the Mother Ocean immediately,” I say dryly.

He shoots me a rebuking look. “I’m not a heartless monster, love. I can see reason, and I make exceptions as needed. Truthfully, most of the women decide to stay and live here under my protection while their men are out sailing aboard my ships.”

“What if women want to be pirates too, or captains?” I give his thigh another pinch. “Your laws are antiquated and foolish.”

“Says the woman who was to be married off to a Duke with no say in the matter, who was kept in dark rooms so her skin would be flawless for the husband who would own her, body and soul.” Locke’s eyes pierce mine like shards of ice, like the pain of the truth he speaks. “Our world is not perfect. It is changing, but until some great transformation occurs, I must set the course I believe is right.”

“And that course prevents women from serving under the Crowned Skull.”

“You know my reasons. I won’t belabor the point with you.”

I no longer care if the driver is listening, because this blind spot of Locke’s poses the greatest threat to my happiness with him. I’ve heard his reasoning, and while it makes a kind of sense, I’m not sure I could ever condone his policy.

“Couldn’t you give all your pirates tattoos that prevent them from raping others?” I ask, low. “It could be part of the tattoo that ensures their secrecy and encourages their allegiance.”

“And what’s next? Shall I tattoo each of my pirates with the moral guidelines I believe to be right? Where does that end, Nick? I won’t be god and conscience to everyone.”

“But you tattooed Neelan, Gorm, Tir, and those others—”

“Their tattoos were a punishment for a crime they were intent on committing, whose plotting I witnessed myself. I won’t inscribe preventative moral tattoos on every man who serves beneath my flag.” His cheeks are flaming under his tan, and a muscle along his temple flexes. I’ve worked him into a lather over this.

“You aren’t challenged very often, are you?” I ask quietly.

He huffs out a frustrated breath. “I make the best choices I can, Veronica. I try to do right by my captains and their crews, by the people of Ravensbeck, by all the islanders we interact with. But I’m not perfect. You can’t expect that of me. I told you I’m twisted, bent, dark inside. You have to understand that I won’t always do things the way you believe I should. This web I’ve woven has its black tunnels and sticky parts. It’s messy and tangled. If you can’t live with that, maybe I should drop you off at the nearest port myself. I won’t be a kept man, letting you dictate all my future decisions by your own moral code.”

He’s not exactly shouting, but he’s being very loud, and he doesn’t seem to care if the driver hears him. At least now we’re not surrounded by curious crowds. We’re rolling through some sort of lush garden—probably the grounds of his residence. I was so absorbed in our argument that I missed the moment we passed through the gate.

“You don’t want to be a kept man, yet you expect me to be your kept woman,” I snap. “And you talk as if you think I’m going to live here in Ravensbeck with you for a long time.”

He stares into my eyes. “Aren’t you, though?”

I suck in a quick breath, my gaze averting from his. “I—you know I have to find my brother.”

“But after that. What will you do? Where will you go?” He shifts in his seat, seeking my gaze again, but I turn my face away.

“Veronica,” he murmurs.

“I don’t know,” I gasp. “Stop. Just stop. You’ve made it clear you can’t offer me anything—what you said earlier about the women in town—you can’t offer me a relationship or a future with you. There’s nothing more to discuss. I won’t stay here and play the whore for you indefinitely.”

62

Locke tugs at the chain around my neck, pulling me around to face him. I seethe through my clenched teeth, fighting the tears that are trying to flood my eyes.

“I could force you to stay, you know,” he says softly. “You can’t leave without my permission.”

“And you love that,” I hiss. “The control.”

“I do love control. I love power, and wealth, and beauty, and influence. Whoever says they don’t appreciate such things is lying.” His hot breath puffs against my lips.

The carriage has stopped now, and I’m dimly aware of some great wall of white stone and towers and windows on my right. But my world is Locke’s tense face and his pale, penetrating eyes.

“My Lord,” says a cool, polite voice. A female voice.

Locke slackens the chain and turns to face the speaker—a tall woman with steel gray hair and blue eyes. Her bone structure is incredible—a lasting beauty though she’s probably well into her sixties.

“Madam Thora,” says Locke. “You look well.”

“As do you, sir. We are glad for your return.” Her voice dips low. “Your substitute has been growing rather frantic. Things are usually quiet when you’re gone on these little voyages, but not this time, I’m afraid. There are matters you must deal with. Things he can’t handle.”

“I’ll see him at once. Oh, and Thora—this is my whore. I claimed her from a ship we conquered on the voyage. She’ll need rooms near mine so I can summon her at my pleasure.”

“Very good, sir,” says Thora, but her gray eyebrows rise significantly.

“For now, she’ll come with me, until the rooms are ready,” Locke continues. “Have all the reports, labor documents, manifests, and trade lists sent to my study at once. I’ll need to review them tonight. Oh, and I’ll want a horse after nightfall, so I can make a trip over to Riddle Street. I’ll take dinner in my room after that. I’ve promised the people a gala tomorrow evening—dancing, feasting—we can have it in the back gardens. Make it big, Thora. The grandest party yet.”

“As you wish, my Lord,” replies Thora smoothly.

Before we leave the carriage, Locke presses several gold pieces into the driver’s hand. “For your silence,” he says.

“My Lord.” The driver bows deeply.

Hopefully he’ll keep the argument he overheard to himself. If he doesn’t, the little ruse Locke and I have employed will be over all too quickly. Here in Ravensbeck, it’s less likely that his authority would be unseated because of a merciful act—but his decision to spare my life would still be viewed as weakness, an inconsistency, a failure to follow his own laws. And a king who thinks himself above the law is sure to inspire more resentment than respect.

Locke grips my arm above the elbow and hustles me into the house, across a broad entry hall, through the arch between two curved staircases, into a long room where clusters of people chatter quietly. We hesitate in the doorway, and I sway lightly against Locke because I still have my sea-legs.

Before us, a long stretch of black carpet leads up to a dozen steps. At the top of the steps, on a high platform, a man lounges on an ebony throne. From the back of the throne splays a burst of black carven spikes, and on one central spike a gold skull is impaled.

The man on the throne is shirtless, wearing black pants, a black scarf, and a black crown resembling the one currently perched on Locke’s head. His dark wavy hair bears a white streak.

He sits up straight as we pause in the doorway of the throne room. Locke gives a quick side jerk of his head, a signal to his double, and then he hurries me to a door in the corner of the room. We traverse a narrow, gloomy hallway and then step into a study lined with bookcases. Its main feature is the glossy chestnut-brown desk in its center.

A door opposite us bursts open, and the man from the throne rushes in. He’s much closer now, yet his resemblance to Locke is still startling.

“Thank the gods,” he gasps. “You’re back! We have problems, Ruen—big problems. Not here in Ravensbeck—everything’s fine here, and I followed your orders to the letter—doled out some lashes, settled the trade dispute with the Garnin privateers, handled the refitting of Pier Seven—but out there things are bad, out at sea. Ships have gone missing, Locke—there are reports of them being sucked into some churning asshole of a storm. The people are very unsettled. Some of them have lost loved ones—others aren’t sure if their men are dead or alive, because about half a dozen of the usual ships haven’t been here in weeks. People keep asking me what I’m going to do about it and I don’t know what to tell them! And I’m so tired of painting this lock of my hair white, keeping my distance from everyone, and having your tattoo drawn on my back every day. Promise me you’re not planning to leave again for a long, long time.”

“Veronica,” says Locke, “this is Puckley, one of the original crew members of the Raven’s Frenzy. Despite all appearances, he’s actually quite intelligent.”

“And what he lacks in wisdom, we supply,” adds another voice, as two more men enter the room.

One of the men is tall and thin, dressed in a sleek black coat and a black top-hat. His snow-white skin is tattooed black around the eyes and across the lips. The tip of his nose and the hollows of his cheeks are tattooed as well, giving him the rictus grin of a skeleton. His eyes shine the brightest blue I’ve ever seen.

The other man’s hair falls in a dark sweep over one eye. He tosses it back as I watch, and a flicker of red dances across his fingers. Magic of some kind. He wears a dark suit in a style unfamiliar to me, all crisp edges and triangular lapels. And his eyes glow scarlet, like the energy fluttering visibly around his fingers.

“Kardon.” Locke nods to the man with the scarlet eyes. “And Cyprus.” Another nod to the tattooed skeletal man. “These three handle everything when I’m away.”

“He’s the face,” Kardon says, pointing to Puckley. “I’m the brains, and Cy here—well, he brings the pain when it’s needed.”

Cyprus bares narrow white teeth at me. “And who are you, sweetness? I don’t recognize you, and I know everyone in Ravensbeck. Never forget a face. It’s a curse.” He elongates his “s” sounds, like the predatory hiss of a snake.

“She’s no one,” Locke says. “I got bored, so I claimed a woman from a ship we took. Captain’s rights and all that. She’s well paid for her services.”

He says it brusquely, like he’s daring them to challenge him. But these men have known him for a decade. Hell, I’ve known him for a much shorter time and it’s obvious to me that he’s lying. His tone, the taut lines of his jaw, the tension along his shoulders—he might excel at lying to strangers, but to the three men in this room, and to me, he’s an open book.

Kardon steps forward, surveying me. He’s handsome in an odd asymmetrical way—long slanted cheekbones—a large nose, slightly bent—a round chin and a full mouth. He’s leaner and slightly shorter than Locke, slim and graceful as a cat on the prowl. “Your hired woman, is she?” He glances at Locke.

Puckley, the Pirate King’s double, is busy scraping flecks of white paint from his hair. He casts me a fleeting glance, and I notice that his eyes, though shockingly pale like Locke’s, are slightly greener. “Looks like a whore to me. Spotty one, though. Didn’t they have anyone better on the ship?”

Locke’s grip on my upper arm tightens.

“Careful there, Puck,” says Kardon, his eyes on Locke’s face. “Watch yourself.”

I reach over and cup my fingers over Locke’s, a gentle pressure. After a moment his grip relaxes, and a little of the tension seems to ease from his body. He releases my arm and lets the thin gold chain dangle unattached from the collar around my neck.

“What you were saying earlier, Puck, about the storm,” he says. “I’ve heard the rumors, too. Unnatural winds that push ships into one whirling murderous cloud. Sounds like a mage’s work to me.”

A blaze of cold shock paralyzes my body.

Why I didn’t see it before, I’ll never know. Perhaps some deep, uneasy part of me already knew—maybe I was forcing myself not to think about it, not to see the parallels, not to face the truth.

But when Locke puts those words together in those two sentences, I know.

Whirling, murderous winds. A mage’s work.

Not just any mage.

My brother.

63

For a heavy moment I’m floating, untethered in a dizzying whirl of darkness. It’s as if my heart, my lungs, and my brain all stopped at once—and then began slowly functioning again.

I drag in a weighted breath.

“Did you know it was him?” My strained voice cuts through Puckley’s account of the lost ships.

All four men turn to look at me, but I only see one pair of eyes—eyes like starlight on frosty trees. Eyes shining with awareness and sympathy.

“I suspected,” Locke says quietly. “Not at first—but later.”

“Suspected what?” Puckley asks, his voice shrilling. “My nerves are thin already. Please don’t play games with us, Locke—if you know who’s responsible for this, say so.”

I sink to the ground, heedless of them all, and I press both hands to my eyes. “This isn’t happening,” I whisper. “This can’t be true.”

“Ruen, I think you’d better tell us everything,” says Kardon, with a faint emphasis on the last word.

After a moment’s hesitation, Locke unfolds the entire story, starting with my disguise as the cabin boy and his knowledge of it. He makes a vague reference to our relationship aboard the Ardent, then details the events leading to the shedding of his disguise and Neelan’s death. He touches briefly on my family history and my brother’s power, smoothing the truth out of deference to me—but I speak up and fill in the pieces, my voice cracked and shaking as I tell these strangers about the people Mordan killed, about my blood magic and how I used it to restrain him.

Just weeks ago I would never have dreamed of sharing my darkest truths with anyone. But my life aboard the Ardent, my time with Locke—they’ve loosened those chains of shame and guilt that burdened me. Somehow I know these men won’t judge me. They might not even understand why Mordan’s penchant for murder bothers me so much—after all, they’ve killed people—probably dozens of people.

I can’t bring myself to care what anyone thinks right now. A fragile hope deep inside me has fractured, and I’m seeping invisible blood through my tears. Part of me wanted to believe that wherever Mordan was, he’d found happiness and peace. Clearly that isn’t true.

Locke doesn’t comfort me. He stands with feet braced and arms crossed, until we’ve laid everything bare before his three friends.

Puckley takes a seat on the floor near me, inching closer like he wants to offer comfort—but when Locke rumbles low in his chest, Puck scoots away a bit. “Sorry I called you a whore,” he says, with an apologetic wince.

I shrug. “That’s what he calls me.” I throw Locke a baleful glance.

“No one besides us needs to know any of this,” says Kardon. “Do you understand, Puck?”

“Why are you telling me?” Puck says indignantly. “I’m the acting Pirate King when Ruen isn’t here. He wouldn’t trust me with that role if I were as stupid as you seem to think I am.”

“He only trusts you like that because we’re here,” mutters Kardon.

“You have a plan, my Lord?” asks Cyprus, pacing slowly behind Locke.

“Don’t I always?” Locke extends a hand to me, and I take it grudgingly, pulling myself to my feet. “We take a ship to the spot where this storm is circling, and we enter it.”

“So it’s death, then,” says Puck. “The plan is death. What a truly inventive plan, my Lord. You go and get yourself killed, and then I’ll be stuck here playing you until my skin withers and my joints ache. Delightful.”

“We’ll take precautions,” Locke says. “There must be an island at the center of the maelstrom. And the storm cannot be constantly active, or Mordan would run out of energy. Instead of trying to avoid it and being sucked in, unwary, we will circle and observe, and then we’ll go in when it quiets. I saw the Rebellion in port—is Vesser still among that crew?”

“Yes,” replies Kardon. “You want to take him along?”

“To counter Mordan’s magic until we can get close enough—yes.”

“Close enough for what?” Puck asks.

“Close enough for me to speak to him.” I meet Locke’s eyes. “That’s what you want, isn’t it? For me to calm him down and distract him so you can kill him?”

“We’re not going to kill your brother, love. But I am going to mark him with a vow.”

64

Madam Thora knocks and enters the study shortly after Locke’s statement. “The lady’s room is ready,” she announces. “I’ll see her there and get her settled, and then I have a few questions for you, my lord, about the gala tomorrow night.”

Quickly I rub my thumbs under my eyes to clear away the tears. It won’t do to walk the Pirate King’s halls looking unhappy. I’m supposed to be the privileged whore—lucky to be spared, luckier to be paid for my services rather than forced to perform them.

Before I leave the room, Locke unlatches the collar around my neck. “It has served its purpose,” is all he says by way of explanation. I suppose he wanted a visual aid for everyone who saw us disembark—a mark of his ownership of me. Demeaning though it was, I couldn’t help feeling slightly titillated when Locke pulled me close with that golden chain.

Shoving the memory aside, I follow Thora into the hallway.

“You’ve met Lord Puckley and the others, I see,” Thora says in her cool, even tones as she leads me upstairs. I’m used to wealth and luxurious surroundings, but after weeks at sea, I’m awed by the lush furnishings of the Pirate King’s mansion. Statues and art from every known kingdom and beyond grace the walls and alcoves—pieces no doubt earmarked for the private collections of earls and dukes and rich merchants. It gives me a perverse pleasure to know that Locke owns and displays them now. Or perhaps I should begin calling him Ruen, both aloud and in my mind. His friends seem to know him as Ruen.

Friends. Strange—he was friendly with everyone aboard the Ardent, even before he was revealed as the Pirate King—so it shouldn’t surprise me that he has friends, the tried-and-true kind. But it does surprise me. If I’m honest, I’m a little jealous of them for knowing him so much longer than I have. They have so many memories together—night watches, sea battles, long sunny days of sailing, drinks and games and lewd stories. I crave all of those memories, and more.

“Yes,” I say, conscious that I’ve been walking in silence without answering Thora’s question. “I met them. Tell me, does the Pirate King always sit on that throne?”

“Oh, no, lass,” she says. “He does that for an hour each day, in case anyone needs to speak to him on some matter. Usually he’s out on the island somewhere, or in his study, or in meetings with the captains or the guild leaders. That’s when he’s not sailing his own ship or taking a jaunt aboard some other vessel in disguise.”

“How many people know that he sneaks onto ships in disguise?”

“Close friends, the household servants, and a few others. He always used to sneak back in without a fuss and switch places with Lord Puck quietly—never showed his hand this way before. I suppose this will put an end to his secret voyages. Can’t say I’m sad about it—I always thought it was too risky.” Thora side-eyes me. “Pays you well, does he?”

“Yes.” I don’t offer any further explanation, and she doesn’t pry.

She leads me along a hallway richly carpeted with red and gold. “That’s the master’s door, there. He’ll be busy tonight—lots of paperwork, and the errand to Riddle Street. I wouldn’t disturb him. If he needs tending, he’ll summon you.” She sweeps past an alcove with three arched windows, glassless, un-shuttered, open to the breeze. Salt-fresh air wafts through, stirring the scarlet curtains and their gold tassels, and I fight the urge to curl up on the bench in that alcove and lean out one of those windows. Beyond the sill, palm fronds toss and flutter in the wind, while gulls glide in white flashes across the purple evening sky.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

I glance at Thora, and she’s smiling. Just a bit. Just enough to make me like her.

“It is beautiful.” I smile back.

“This is your room.” She extends a hand toward the door. It’s a well-worn hand, the hand of a woman who works hard, despite the hints of elegant breeding in her posture and speech. And I like her still more because of it.

I open the door she’s indicating. Beyond is a room with more arched windows. These are fitted with leaded glass and hinged so I can open them and enjoy the air. There are blue-patterned curtains, indigo carpets, and touches of vivid emerald-green in the beading of the pillows and in the enameled vases. More enameled artwork decorates the walls—mosaics of green frogs and blue flowers, verdant leaves and azure moths. Lanterns paneled with cerulean glass stand on small tables at either side of the enormous bed.

And the bed—it’s an avalanche of downy pillows and soft blankets. I can’t help an intake of delighted breath when I see it.

“The bathing room is through there.” Thora nods to another door. “I trust you’ll be comfortable?”

“More than comfortable,” I breathe.

She hesitates in the doorway for so long that I turn and look at her inquiringly.

“He has never done this before. Saved a woman, brought her here. In fact, I can’t remember the last time he had a female guest. He usually goes out for his pleasure.”

“I see.” My cheeks warm. I’m not sure what to say, or why she’s telling me this.

“Wherever you’ve been and whatever horrors you’ve seen—you can trust him,” Thora says. “He can be cruel to the malignant, brutal to the vicious, and he’s hesitant to show mercy when others can see it, lest they think him weak. But he has a good heart.”

Biting my lip, I nod.

“Above all, the Pirate King prizes his own strength and power. And he has risked a bit of that for you, I think.” She nods, a tiny smile floating on her lips, a spark in her eye. “I believe this could be a good thing for him.”

“I’m his to command,” is all I reply. She seems to be a trusted manager of the house, but I’m not sure how open Locke would want me to be with her about our relationship. Not that there’s anything to tell. We seem to be caught in an eternal push and pull, with neither of us quite willing to yield entirely.

“If you need anything, come find me or one of the maids,” says Thora. “I’ve set out everything you might need for a bath, and there are a few clothes that may suit you in the chifferobe.”

“You are a goddess,” I tell her fervently, and she smiles again as she leaves the room.

The Pirate King’s mansion has running water, heated through magic or mechanics—I don’t care which. I fill the tub and strip hastily before immersing myself in the glorious hot liquid.

All I want is to luxuriate in a pleasant haze of warmth and fragrant soap bubbles—but now that I’m alone, reality crawls back into my brain, dark and sickening.

The storm is Mordan. Birthed by him, controlled by him. He’s killing people with it.

Unless it isn’t really him—in which case there is still hope…

But I fear that it’s him. I know in my gut that it’s him, even though I have no real proof.

If it’s him, and if we can make it to the island he’s on without being smashed to bits, and if I can talk Mordan into a calmer mood—then Locke can tattoo him, and prevent him from hurting anyone else with his powers.

That kind of enforced good would be like a living prison, like invisible shackles. It would keep my brother from doing further harm during his rages.

But it wouldn’t punish him for the lives he has taken. And he should pay. He’s my brother, and I love him as only a little sister can—but my sense of justice runs too deep and true to be denied.

He needs to pay for the death and destruction he has caused.

Tears are coming again, but I blink them away and focus on bathing and grooming myself in a way I haven’t been able to since I left Ivris. Among the implements Thora provided is a small pair of scissors, which I use to neaten my choppy hairstyle. There are creams and powders, perfumes and cosmetics laid out in small pots along the vanity in the bedroom. How Thora readied everything so quickly, I’ll never know. She must be an excellent manager with an adept staff of servants.

When I’ve groomed, polished, and perfumed myself, I stand naked before the large mirror and admire the effect. Of course I’m as speckled as ever, but I’ve lined my eyes and lashes, painted my lips, and dusted pink powder across my cheeks. My skin is smoother and softer, and my hair clusters in silky waves around my face.

Best of all, I distracted myself for a handful of precious minutes.

The chifferobe shelves hold a few pairs of underthings, ranging from plain to silken, and a couple of corsets. I’m pleased to see a pair of plain dark trousers as well. On the bar hang a few tunics and dresses—nothing too fancy, probably items hastily gathered to suit my size. I select the silkiest pair of drawers and the most daring corset, paired with a deep green tunic and the dark pants. The tunic I leave unlaced so my cleavage shows to full advantage, decorated by the black lace of the corset. Locke will probably protest that the outfit is too simple, not salacious and garish enough. Then again, he’ll probably be too busy to bother with me tonight. He has all his paperwork to manage, and then that outing to Riddle Street…

An idea forms in my mind—a way that I might be able to get Locke alone and talk more about the situation with my brother.

Locke won’t like my plan, of course. But that’s part of the fun.

65

I emerge from my room in my fresh clothes, with my thigh-high boots laced on over the dark pants. My plan is to find a servant or someone of the household who can show me around. But the first person I see when I reach the end of the hallway isn’t a servant—it’s Puckley.

He looks drastically different now. Instead of the black clothing and black crown, he wears a flamboyant scarlet coat with a blue ruffled shirt, open at the throat. A jingling, sparkling array of lockets, medallions, and chains cover his chest, and his fingers are laced with rings. There’s a gem in his nose, and more gemstones drip from the lobes of his ears.

The sight of him eases me. The luxury here—the honorifics and the throne room, the servants and the well-spoken friends of Locke’s—it all reminded me too much of home, and I was beginning to feel anxious and trapped, as if I’d never escaped that world of social norms and niceties. But Puckley’s outfit is so garish, so outrageously pirate. He’s a thief dripping with his own loot, and I can’t help a giggle, despite the gnawing ache in my heart.

“I see we’ve both been getting cleaned up and comfortable.” Puck grins brightly back at me. “I had to wash that damned fake tattoo off my back. Did you know I maintain a strict regimen of training and exercise just to keep my physique comparable to Locke’s? When I’d much rather lounge about on couches and eat sweets with a few lovely ladies. Throw a man in there, too—I won’t complain.”

“Would you give me a tour of this place, Lord Puckley?” I ask. “It’s so lovely. I’d like to see everything.”

“Lord Puckley? Who the devil told you to call me that?”

“That’s what Thora called you.”

“Oh, Thora—she’s from Ivris. Used to serve in a noble house there, until she poisoned the whole family. They had it coming, don’t worry. Anyway, they’re a damned stuffy lot, Ivrians, and she’s still got a bit of the stilted manners from those days. Hell of a manager she is, though. Ruen pays her like a queen.”

My brain is still fluttering over the revelation that Thora poisoned an entire noble family—an Ivrian family no less. The story digs at my mind, like I’ve heard it somewhere before.

Puckley peers at me. “It’s the poisoning thing, isn’t it? Don’t worry, she only poisons the occasional enemy of Ruen’s now, and only at his request. Well…usually. Once in a while she’ll decide someone else needs to go, but I wouldn’t worry. She likes you, I can tell.”

“Gods,” I mutter. “Anyone else you need to warn me about?”

“Cyprus excels at torture techniques—the extraction of information. Though he doesn’t like to kill unless he has to. When he does kill, he does it fast, usually by some odd method like a silver spike through the eardrum into the brain. Love him like a brother, but he’s a strange one.”

Puck beckons me down the next hallway. We leave it by a pair of swinging doors and traverse a long balcony furnished with small tables and chairs, dotted with feathery plants in urns. “This is the dull wing of the house, so we’ll get it out of the way first. The Pirate King’s private study is there, right across the hall—it’s a bit cozier than the one by the throne room. There are meeting rooms behind those doors, and a library at the end. We’ll take these stairs. The floor right below us is much more interesting. Wine, gambling, darts—Locke likes to punish pirates who don’t respect him by tying them to the dart board naked, and then we see how close we can get without drawing blood.”

If I hadn’t witnessed Locke calmly tattooing the dicks of disobedient pirates, I wouldn’t have believed Puck’s violent tale of him. But at this point, I’m barely surprised. “And Kardon? What’s he like?”

“Kardon is smart. Smarter than Locke, in his own way. And he’s a mage with some rather unique abilities.” Puck casts me a smirk. “I won’t spoil the surprise, though. Maybe he’ll tell you himself someday.”

Puck shows me rooms for gambling, rooms for target practice and training, rooms for drinking and dining. There’s a lengthy room with numerous curtained alcoves that’s apparently for guests who want a moment with a lover or two, away from whatever drunken revel might be going on.

“All these rooms and love-holes will be filled tomorrow night,” Puck says slyly.

“Love-holes—filled—very funny,” I murmur. “You’re the jokester of the group, I suppose.”

“Jokester, pickpocket, sleight-of-hand expert, master of disguise.” He gives me a sweeping bow. “And I can imitate voices. Watch.” He treats me to shockingly good imitations of Locke’s voice, Cyprus’s voice, and Thora’s voice.

“You should be on the stage,” I tell him.

A shadow flickers across his face—a hint of anguish. “I was.” The corners of his mouth kick up again, but this time the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Come, I’ll show you the gardens.”

“And the stables,” I urge.

“The stables, too.”

I’ve always loved horses. When I was younger I would ride my pony while Mordan rode his horse—until he returned on foot after riding alone one day and claimed the horse had fallen and broken its leg, and he’d had to put it out of its misery. I never believed it, but I also never saw the horse’s body anywhere on our property. I still have no idea what he did to it.

After Mordan left, I rode by myself whenever my mother would allow it. I preferred galloping hatless across the moors, with the sun on my face and the wind streaming through my hair—but my mother’s idea of ladies riding was a sedate amble along carefully pruned garden paths or neat orchard lanes.

Locke’s stables are airy, rambling, spacious structures. Most of the stalls are empty, but there are half a dozen beautiful animals in residence. My favorite is the restive blue roan in the far stall. The stallion’s smoky-gray coat is spattered in tiny black flecks, with lighter gray highlights along his shoulders and withers. He tosses his dark mane and shifts a step back from me at first, but when I speak low, with my palm outstretched, he creeps nearer and bumps my hand with his nose.

“That’s Ruen’s horse, Caliper,” Puck says, a soft admiration in his voice. “He doesn’t let anyone but Ruen and the groom touch him.”

“Ruen,” I repeat quietly. “It feels strange to call him that. I know him as Locke.”

Puck shifts, his fine boots rustling through the straw. “He’s a man of many faces.”

“Hmm.” I stroke Caliper’s nose, feeling the flutter and thrum of his heavy breath. It’s so calming to be on firm ground again, and in a stable. The strong animal scent, the shudder of the horse’s skin to banish the flies, the stamp of ponderous hooves—I love it all.

“I’d like to stay a while, if you don’t mind,” I tell Puck.

He puckers his lips. “You’re not planning to steal a horse and run off, are you?”

“Where would I go?” I give him a smile that probably looks as wistful as I feel right now.

“Fair point. I’ll leave you, then. This isn’t my scene.” He wrinkles his nose. “I’m off to the Slippery Frog tonight.”

“The Slippery Frog?”

“My favorite tavern. Loud women, louder music, and mugs so deep you’re drunk before you hit the bottom.” He gives me a brief salute and saunters out.

That was much easier than I thought. Now all I have to do is lie in wait until Locke comes to the stables.

66

The groom arrives a short while later. He’s a stout boy with a pleasant face and a shock of spiky pale hair. He nods curiously to me, and I tell him I’m a guest of the Pirate King. The boy doesn’t question me any further, but prepares the horse as Locke requested. Caliper protests the saddle and bridle with loud chuffs and restless shakes of his head, but eventually the job is done. When the groom leaves, I resume my place at the stall door, and Caliper nudges my arm until I stroke his nose again.

A few moments later, Locke himself arrives.

Or at least, I’m guessing it’s Locke. The man is swathed in a cloak of heavy dark material, and he wears a hood and a silver mask etched with black markings. His boots are plain, serviceable leather. Across his chest is a leather strap, attached to a large flat satchel at his hip. I’m guessing it contains his tattooing supplies.

When the masked man enters the barn, his steps falter for a second. Locke’s baritone issues from the mouth-slit of the mask. “Nick? What are you doing here?”

I continue stroking Caliper’s nose. “Making friends with your horse.”

Locke advances until he’s a step away from me. His mask’s eye sockets are so deep and shadowed that I can’t discern his eye color, even when I’m standing this close.

“I want you to take me along,” I tell him. “I want to see Ravensbeck at night.”

“You can’t handle Ravensbeck at night, love.” He reaches for Caliper, and the horse moves to him immediately, eagerly. Locke smooths the stallion’s broad, blue-gray cheek.

“You like speckled things,” I say, nodding at the roan’s coat.

Locke’s mask tilts. “I suppose I do.”

Closer I sway, brushing my body lightly against his. “Take me with you.”

“It’s dangerous at night,” he warns. “Wild, noisy, messy. You’ll have to leave your judgment behind—or at least put it away for a while.”

“I can do that.”

“It’ll be a quick outing. I’ve been away too long, and I’ll have to sail again soon to deal with this mage and his storms. I have piles of work to get done before then.”

“I understand. I’ll be quiet. You won’t even know I’m here.”

He chuckles, a low, delicious ripple of male merriment. “Oh, Nick. I doubt that very much.”

Opening the stall door, he leads Caliper out and gestures to the saddle. “Up you get, love.”

“Don’t I get my own horse?”

“Gods no. You’d be lost in the crowds, or someone would pull you off the horse and whirl you into some mad debauchery. I can’t be turning back to yell directions at you, either. You’ll ride with me, or not at all.”

Pinching my lips together, I set my foot in the stirrup and pull. I’m stronger than I used to be, so mounting a horse of Caliper’s size isn’t the strain as it once might have been. I settle astride and take my foot out of the stirrup, holding myself as far toward the front of the saddle as I can.

Locke swings up behind me, his thighs pressing mine. He’s a solid wall at my back, draped in that thick cloak.

“What did you say before?” Locke murmurs. “I believe it was something like, ‘You won’t even know I’m here,’ wasn’t it? What do you think now, Veronica? Do you think I can forget your presence?” His thighs squeeze inward slightly. I shift my rear against his crotch, relishing the decadent tingle that races along my nerves. I can already feel him growing hard through the front of his pants.

“I can see how it might be hard,” I murmur, “to forget I’m here.”

He hums low in his throat and slides one hand across my belly while the other gathers the reins. “Stay quiet, if you can. I need to go mostly unnoticed.”

“Your guards aren’t coming with us?”

“No.”

He urges Caliper forward and we ride out of the stables along a path through the gardens. We leave the estate by a narrow back entrance, and the guard there opens the gate for us without comment or question.

After a jaunt through the finer streets of Ravensbeck, we descend toward the noisier, more densely packed area of town, which spreads outward from the port.

As Caliper picks his way skillfully down a narrow sloping alley, I wrinkle my nose against the stench of fish, grease, and garbage. The alley is a dark tunnel, long and blue-shadowed, with a crack of star-flecked sky overhead—but at the end where it cuts into a main street, there’s orange light sliced with quick-moving shadows. Drums boom through the earth, an unceasing rhythm, and I can hear the faint hectic whine of fiddles and the shrill of pipes. My heartbeat quickens with anticipation.

“Excited?” Locke murmurs.

“How could you tell?”

“Your breathing. I’m intimately familiar with its cadence, you know.” His fingertips nudge at the waistband of my pants, a wordless question, and my pulse throbs harder, in my throat and between my legs.

“Here?” I whisper.

“Why not?”

He slows Caliper to a shambling walk and tucks his fingers deeper into my clothing, skimming along the soft skin of my lower belly and down, down, until he encounters the tender folds of me, the tiny bud that’s already trembling for his attention.

“And how am I to pay you for this?” I say hoarsely.

“I should pay for the pleasure of touching you,” he responds, with a long slow sweep through the crease and a massaging circle at the top.

I arch back against him, and his finger slips inside me. “I hate you for being so skilled at this.” I angle my hips slightly to give him better access.

“Always such a good girl for me, Veronica,” he croons in my ear. “You ride my hand like you need me. Yet you resist me, always—you fight me and turn from me.”

“Because we have different moral codes,” I gasp. “You can be so terribly cruel—”

He withdraws his hand completely, and I whine, empty and quivering with want. I reach down to finish myself, but he grips my wrist. “No.”

I squirm against him, vengefully determined to make him as mad with desire as he’s making me. His breathing quickens, and the hardness at my rear becomes more pronounced. “Gods,” he barks out. “You’re just as cruel as I am, you little vixen.” He drops my wrist and plunges his fingers into my pants again, cupping me and using the leverage to grind my ass backward against himself. Two fingers enter me, exploring, thrusting, and I arch into the friction.

“What do you want from me, Locke?” My thighs are shaking as he pumps harder and quicker inside, then slides out and swirls over me, circling faster and faster.

“I already told you,” he says. “I want to be the only man to touch you like this, for as long as you live.”

“But what does that mean? Am I to be your whore forever, or is there—something more—” But my thoughts are fracturing, slivering into glittering shards of ecstasy. “Locke—milord—” I grip his thighs, pressing backward against him as my nerves flutter and clench. He dips into me, grinding the heel of his hand just where I need it, and I convulse around him. Somehow I manage to let only the tiniest whimpers escape my lips. Locke keeps his hand in my pants, cupping me with a possessive pressure while I pant through the slowing waves of bliss.

We’re nearly at the end of the alley now. Drunken shouts, snatches of song, and the occasional crash or clatter fill the night, a counterpoint to the drums and fiddles.

“There’s no time to discuss it now,” Locke says, drawing his fingers out of my clothes. There’s a rustle of his cloak, and then he wipes his hands on a cloth he took from some inner pocket. “Give me one more night. Tomorrow at the gala, I will tell you exactly what I require of you.” He kisses the side of my neck, and then we break out of the alley into the street.

67

Ravensbeck at night is a glorious cacophony—the glug of rum and ale flowing from barrels into cups, the raucous laughter of revelers, the hails of nighttime peddlers and shop owners hawking their wares. Songs of the bawdiest kind assail my ears as Locke steers the horse through the wild crowd. Some people are dancing, mugs in hand and clothes flapping, while others paw and grind each other against buildings. Drunks and gamblers spill from tavern doorways, clapping each other’s backs or throwing punches. The acrid stench of vomit wafts from an alley, but it’s quickly blotted out by the fatty rich scent of roasting meat from somewhere ahead. Ravensbeck at night is burnt sugar and pipe smoke, hazy lamps and rattling dice, streets glistening wet with splashed rum and bodies undulating to the omnipresent rhythm.

When we turn into Riddle Street, I’m even more entranced. There are shops for piercings and body modifications, shops filled with beads, feathers, wigs, and scarves. Colorful smoke puffs from storefronts advertising magical supplies—love potions, cure-alls, energy restoratives. We pass a sword-swallower, a fire-breather, a knife-juggler, and a woman who can practically tie her body in a knot. One man spins a board that advertises magically enhanced orgasms at “Madam Leonay’s Maidens.”

“Ever been there?” I point to the board.

Locke scoffs. “It’s a trick to lure gullible pirates. I’ve never heard of a mage who could heighten pleasure in that way.”

A jerky motion in a shadowed alley catches my attention. It’s a man, rutting another person against the wall of a tavern—I can’t tell the gender of the second individual, but the globes of their ass glow pale in the light from the street.

“Right there in the open,” I murmur.

“I knew you couldn’t handle it,” Locke mutters.

Rebellion flames through my heart. I’m no virginal simpering girl—I’m the runaway blood mage from Ivris who let him plow me on the prow of the Ardent at night. I reach behind me, between my rear and his crotch, and I palm the bulge in his pants. He’s softer now, but as I begin to rub him, he hardens again.

“Veronica,” he hisses warningly, but he doesn’t actually tell me to stop. My hand is mostly hidden by our bodies and his cloak, so I keep rubbing him, giddy at the licentious nature of what I’m doing. When I teased men back in Ivris, I had to be subtle when we were in public—the tiniest touches and the most furtive looks, until I got them alone. I loved the thrill of the process, the risk of getting caught—but after the act I always felt let down, because I cared about those men as much as they cared about me—not at all.

With Locke, it’s different. The hiss of his breath through his gritted teeth, the tension of his body, the single soft groan that slips through his control—I savor it all.

“Fuck,” he says hoarsely. Abruptly he steers Caliper aside into an alley. There are a few bodies knotted together halfway along it, but we pass them and move deeper into shadow.

Locke swings from the horse and drags me off as well. He takes a minute to tie Caliper to an iron bar protruding from the wall, and he removes his mask, tucking it into the satchel at his side.

Then he shoves me into a dank recess and grabs my face, his hot mouth searing mine. I respond eagerly, desperately, releasing a whimper over his tongue as my body ignites into roaring heat.

The fierce lash of his tongue through my mouth turns my insides molten, and I slam my lips against his, meeting him with equal savagery until he finally breaks the kiss. His breath comes in harsh bursts, and his eyes scorch my soul with white fire.

He’s yanking down my trousers. Dislodging his length from his own pants. With a broad, commanding hand on my shoulder he turns me around, slides his palm between my shoulder blades, and bends me over.

“Stop me,” he grits out. “Last chance.”

My pulse is kicking high and frantic, blood throbbing in my ears, and my body has never felt so alive. “I don’t want to stop you.”

With a string of swears, he grips my waist and sheathes himself inside me. He pumps ferociously, each sucking thrust so powerful I have to brace my hands against the wall. The friction, the illicit nature of this moment—it ratchets up my own desire until I can’t bear it. I use one hand to work myself while he slams into me.

“More, harder,” I cry softly. “Oh gods, Ruen—”

A harsh huff of surprise from him, and at the sound of his first name his warmth jets through my body. He pulls me tight into him, pulsing deep inside me, and I fracture again, pleasure rolling through my belly.

When we separate I’m trembling, fragile with ecstasy. I fix my clothing while Locke does the same—and then he takes my face again and pulls me close for one more kiss before putting on his mask.

We don’t discuss what just happened, or what it means. But I’m giddy inside, terrified and thrilled because we’ve broken through a barrier we erected days ago, aboard the Ardent. It’s the first time we’ve been together like this, knowing the full truth about each other. And though I still have reservations, I can’t help admitting to myself that our joining felt deeply, refreshingly right.

68

As I ride in front of Locke to the end of Riddle Street, I relish the sensation of sated warmth that permeates my body. I feel loose and relaxed, both from the bath earlier and from my interlude with Locke in the alley. There’s a pleasant ache between my legs, a phantom fullness from when he was inside me. I lean back against him, and he shifts the reins to one hand so he can enfold me with his other arm.

He said he wants me for a long time—for the rest of my life. And I want him. If we commit to each other, I’ve no doubt we’d have our share of fierce arguments. We’d fight constantly about his decisions and life choices—either that, or I would have to learn to pick my battles. But in between those fights we would have this—the heights of feral passion and the moments of contented peace, together.

Would those moments be enough?

Locke turns down yet another narrow side street and circles to the back of a large building. There’s a square of muck and paving stones, hemmed in by the surrounding buildings. I dismount when he does, and after securing the horse in a tiny shed, he unlocks the back door with an ornate key from his pocket.

“Is this where you perform the tattoo magic?” I whisper.

“Yes, and you can’t go into the tattoo room with me. No pirate can know which mage inks them, and your presence would give me away. You understand, right? The secrecy protects me and the other mages from being threatened or tortured into removing a tattoo we’ve placed.”

“I understand.”

“Good. There’s a back room where you can observe the process.”

He leads me inside and closes the door behind us, locking it again. The room we’ve entered has a single guttering lamp, and it’s plastered with sketches of elaborate tattoos. Threadbare cushioned chairs surround a heavy table, where an array of masks stare blankly at the ceiling. Along one wall hangs a row of cloaks, and a shelf holds pairs of thin gloves.

Locke switches out his mask and cloak for different ones, and then he tugs the rings from his fingers. “Hold onto these for me, would you, Nick?”

I accept the tumble of jewelry he pours into my hands, and I stuff the rings into my pants pockets. Locke’s tanned hands show bands of white wherever the rings were. He pulls on a pair of thin gloves to cover the telltale marks.

With that done, he pulls open another door, leading to a hallway so narrow I can barely walk it without turning sideways. “Go down to the third door and enter that room,” he orders. “There’s a panel on the wall. You’ll be able to see through the painted glass.”

I squeeze along the passage until I reach the room he indicated. It’s little more than a closet with a cushioned chair, but when I shift aside the panel halfway up the far wall, it reveals a pane of dark glass. Through it, I can see another room, well-lit by a bright lamp. The shelves along the walls hold pots of colored ink and trays of needles. There are other bottles, too—potions, maybe, or magical ingredients necessary to the inking of vows, or to magic like the crown tattoo on Locke’s back.

In the center of the room, sitting on a table of yellow polished wood, is one of the sailors from the Wending Willow. He’s a scrawny man with a patchy beard and a crooked nose. His work-worn hands twist together and his knee jiggles as he waits.

The door to the tattoo room opens, and a masked figure sweeps in. I recognize the replacement mask Locke chose, and I lean closer to the spy-hole. The sailor’s voice is blurred by the glass and the walls, but I can make out his words.

“They told me you wouldn’t speak—that I should tell you the tattoo I want and repeat the vow on this paper.” The sailor taps a piece of paper on the table beside him.

Locke bows his masked head once.

“I’d like a water-lily.” The sailor swallows hard. “My wife’s favorite flower. On my wrist, here.” He points to the inner side of his right arm.

Again Locke nods. He lays out several tools and a bottle of ink on a tray near the man. Before beginning his work, he swabs the area with liquid. Then the needle flashes, and Locke begins the design, while magic sparks around his gloved fingers. The sailor winces at the pain, but Locke only jerks his head toward the paper where the vow of allegiance is written.

Shakily the pirate repeats the words. “I vow never to betray the location of Ravensbeck to anyone, through any method, or may my heart stop and my soul leave my body. I swear my allegiance to the Pirate King, and to the Crowned Skull-and-Bones.”

A simple vow. Concise and effective.

More wincing and whimpering from the sailor as the tattoo is completed, and then Locke lifts the man’s arm, inspecting his work. Satisfied, he stands up, a clear signal that the session is over.

“A fine job,” says the sailor. “And now that I’ve been sworn to secrecy, I’ll be free to visit my home again, and see my wife?”

Locke doesn’t answer.

“I suppose that’ll be up to the captain of whatever ship I join,” the man falters.

Again, Locke doesn’t reply, but he waves the man toward the door.

With his fingers on the handle, the man turns back. “I don’t know if you’re the Pirate King or one of the other mages,” he says. “But if you’re the Pirate King—Locke as I knew him—I just want to say that you’re a decent sort. You were kind to me when I came onto the Ardent, and I won’t forget it. I didn’t set out to turn pirate, but I didn’t much like serving them greedy merchants and their kings, neither. Whatever happens, I’ve got my life and some protection, and a place to seek refuge if I need it. That means something to me. So I guess I’m sayin’ thanks.”

When Locke doesn’t move or respond, the pirate ducks his head with a satisfied finality and walks out.

69

Locke tattoos three more of the Wending Willow’s former crew, and then turns to the observation window, motioning for me to meet him in the back room again. I close the panel and return along the cramped hallway to the room with the masks and cloaks.

But when I step inside, there’s another man present. He has ebony skin and a close-cropped gray beard, and his eyes are pale yellow, like sunshine gleaming through honey. He holds a blue porcelain mask set with mother-of-pearl.

“Well then,” he says in a deep, rich bass. “Who might you be?”

“I came here with, um—” I’m not sure I’m supposed to say it, but I’m saved from the decision as Locke sweeps into the room. He removes his mask at once, and the two men clasp forearms and give each other a quick half-hug.

“You’re back safely, though not without blood and scandal, I’ve heard.” The older man smiles indulgently at Locke. “I’m guessing she is part of the scandal?”

“She is. Veronica, this is my mentor, Daerani,” Locke says.

“A pleasure to meet you.” I dip into a courtly curtsy.

Daerani gives me a quick bow in return. “Such nice manners. I like her. We’ll talk soon, yes?”

“We will,” Locke assures him. “Thank you for taking this shift. I have a mountain of work to do.”

Daerani nods acknowledgement and sets his mask in place, tying it at the back of his skull.

When he leaves the room, Locke hesitates, looking down at the tray of tattoo supplies he’s holding. “Nick, you know I’ve already broken my laws for you. But there’s one I can’t break without putting all my people in danger. I can’t let you be the exception.”

I draw in a long breath. “You mean you have to tattoo me as well.”

“I was going to do it tomorrow, but—we’re here now.”

“And I have to swear allegiance to you.”

“We can leave out that part, if you like. There are some privateers who trade here but don’t want to join my fleet, and they only receive the vow of secrecy, not the oath of allegiance. But I do need to ensure that you’d never tell the location of this place, not even if you were tortured, not even if someone threatened everything you love.”

“Everything I love?” I scoff lightly. “That’s a short list.”

He catches my gaze. In his handsome face there’s so much uncertainty and naked longing—it steals my breath.

“You’re on the list,” I tell him impulsively.

Oh gods. Why did I say that? What possessed me to release those words, the words that make me vulnerable, the ones that show my hand, expose what I really want—

Locke sets aside the tray. His eyes are wide and fierce, his face tense. “Do you mean that?”

I open my mouth to recant, to withdraw the confession—but then he smiles, and it’s like he has never really smiled before because this expression is bright enough to shed morning over the entire island—the entire ocean.

“I don’t want to be your whore,” I whisper. “But I know you can’t offer me anything else.”

“I said I couldn’t offer other women anything else,” he says. “I didn’t want a relationship or a future with anyone until I met you, and learned you. Now I can’t imagine an existence that doesn’t include you at my side—you, my thorny darling, my exasperating conscience, my beguiling ruination.”

“Such lovely names,” I murmur. “I have some for you as well. They’re not as nice.”

“I can imagine.” His lips brush mine, velvet-soft. “Tonight I will ink my magic into your skin, and tomorrow night I will ask you a question before all my people. And you may answer it however you like. No allegiance or obligation.”

With my heart in my throat, I nod, tipping my mouth to his. He cups my face in both his large hands and yields to the kiss with a hum of primal satisfaction. I flick my tongue along the seam of his lips, questing until he opens for me. He is warm slick sweetness tinged with salt. I could twine my tongue with his forever; I could die from the exquisite taste of him, the way the spice of his mouth thrills my soul and my body.

But we have to breathe, and when we separate he says, “Would you trust me to choose your tattoo and its placement?”

I hesitate. Are love and trust the same? I suspect in our case they might not be—not quite yet. I already trust him to protect me, not to hurt me. It’s his actions against others that I don’t always trust. But if I’m going to make this work between us, I need to sink further into that trusting space.

“I’ll let you choose,” I tell him. “But nothing horrible, or embarrassing. Please.”

He clucks his tongue. “Nick, when have I ever embarrassed you?”

I snort, and he flashes me a grin. “Have a seat, and we’ll begin.”

70

That night in my enormous empty bed, I touch the tender skin on my left side, at my waist. I close my eyes, remembering the gentle pressure of Locke’s fingers against my flesh, the sting of the needle, and the hum of his magic as I vowed never to betray Ravensbeck.

Now I have two small moths inked on my skin, one the mirror image of the other. Between them is a black crown, flanked by a row of tiny moons in phases ranging from waxing gibbous to waning crescent. It’s a beautiful mark, and it feels like a vow from him as well as from me.

I don’t see much of him the next day, but I enjoy breakfast on the balcony with Puck and two girls he apparently brought here last night. While we eat, Cyprus lingers in the dappled shadows along the balcony’s edge, nibbling a piece of bacon.

For the rest of the day I spend time with Puck and the girls, because they’re fun and I’m finally back on land, and I need something to take my mind off the dark cloud in the back of my brain, the revolving storm of murder and magic that is my brother. I can’t do anything about it, not now, though the itch to go, go, go to him is as strong as it was when he lived at home. There’s a panicked, learned response inside me: Mordan’s been out of my sight too long—I have to find him, to check on him, to stop him. That innate need has been crawling through my veins for weeks, months, years. Ever since he left. And now that I know or suspect where he is, I can hardly bear it.

So I force myself to smile, and I play games on the garden lawns while a couple of Locke’s guards lurk nearby, probably for my protection. There’s a late luncheon during which Puck drinks far too much wine, after which his two girls strip to the waist, rubbing their soft unblemished skin over his chest while the warm sun drenches them all, limning them in golden light. They trade languid kisses while I watch, entranced—but when Puck invites me to join in, I decline and retreat to my room.

As the sun is setting, Thora brings in several gowns for the gala. They’re not quite what I expected. Instead of stuffy, over-starched monstrosities packed with hoops and petticoats, she presents me with wide swirling dresses that can actually move, dresses I can dance in. I select a dark blue one with cutouts at both sides of the waist, to show off my new tattoo. It has a swishy skirt and a bodice that’s daring but secure, so I won’t risk popping out of it when I dance.

Back in Ivris, the dances were just as staid and proper as the dinners. They involved barely any physical contact between parties, and their regimented steps and careful blocking made me want to scream. I suspect the dancing at the Pirate King’s gala will be quite different.

“The Pirate King asks that you wait in your rooms until he calls for you,” Thora tells me.

Reluctantly I comply, though I’m itching to descend to the floors below or run out onto the back balcony. Through my open windows I can hear the musicians tuning their instruments, and voices passing along the paths as the cooks and servants set up for the party.

Before long the music swells, bold soaring melodies much different from the chamber music of Ivris. The voices outside increase in volume and number, and I try to ignore the tantalizing mayhem while one of the maids fixes my hair and offers me a selection of jewels.

“These are from the Pirate King’s private treasury,” she says, with a knowing smile. “He doesn’t keep many such things for himself, but he said to tell you these are special, and that they’re yours.”

She holds out a red velvet cushion on which lies a stunning necklace of silver filigree, with a black diamond at its center. Beside it lie earrings with smaller black diamonds, and a bracelet encrusted with tiny chips of the same precious stone.

These are diamonds from the mine Locke dug with his father on Caligo. Precious stones carrying precious memories of escape and freedom.

Tears fill up my eyes quicker than I can blink them back.

The maid looks distressed. “If they’re not to your liking, perhaps we can find something else…”

“No, no.” I fan my wet cheeks, desperately staring up at the ceiling because she just painted black liner around my eyes and now it’s going to smear. “They’re perfect. Oh gods, can you fix this?”

“I can,” she assures me. “Just breathe, milady, and I’ll put the jewels on for you. Then we’ll tend to your eyes again.”

“You’ve seen him today?” I ask. “The Pirate King?”

“Just the once, about the jewels,” she says. “Madam Thora says he’s been in his study most of the day. He did have one meeting with Lord Kardon and a few of the captains.”

While she adds the jewelry and fixes my face, I dig my nails into my palms and try to breathe evenly. Sweet as the gift is, this isn’t what I want. I don’t want a life of wandering about the estate, amusing myself with silly things while Locke is involved with papers and meetings. If I’d wanted that, I’d have married the stuffy duke, my lawfully betrothed husband. I’ve had a taste of hard work now, and while I don’t necessarily want to be a cabin boy, there’s an honesty and a sense of accomplishment that comes with such labor. That’s what I want—to feel useful and valuable. To end the day with the confidence that my rest has been well-earned.

I don’t want to be one of Locke’s treasures, set aside until he has time for it.

Thora flings open the door to my room. “Is she ready? He’s asking for her.”

71

“She’s ready.” The maid pats my hair one last time and spritzes me with an over-sweet blast of perfume. I choke and wave away the vapors. “The scent will fade in a few moments,” she assures me.

And then Thora is hustling me into the hall, guiding me along until we reach the two wings of the grand staircase.

Locke is waiting at the head of the stairs, dressed in an ebony coat bountifully adorned with swirls of golden thread. I gave him back his rings last night after our tattoo session, and he’s wearing all of those and more, it seems. He’s also wearing a shirt, but it’s only buttoned halfway, leaving part of his chest exposed. Two golden chains lie in that V of tanned skin. His dark hair is tucked back behind one ear, and the light catches the tiny gold hoop in his ear. A velvety black hat with a sweeping scarlet feather sits at an angle on his head.

He cuts a magnificent figure as he stands there, looking over the banister at the people milling in the hall below.

Then he turns. Sees me in the gown, wearing the black diamonds.

His full lips tighten, and his jaw clamps shut. At his temple a muscle flexes, while his brows form hard, dark lines.

I almost stop walking and offer to go back and change. Then I remember his reaction to seeing me in female clothing for the first time. He froze then, too, and it took him a minute to move past the shock of it.

Smiling a little, I glide toward him, stopping an arm’s length away. “Well? What do you think?”

“It’s good,” he says tightly. “It’s right. You look—you’re—” His eyes travel to Thora, and there’s a desperate plea in them.

“Beautiful,” she prompts.

“Yes,” he breathes, relieved. “Beautiful. I’d forgotten the word. It seems too common. There should be a better word for—all of this.” He gestures to me, and then he falls silent again.

“The party,” Thora nudges.

“Yes! I have an announcement for everyone and a question—I want you to—” He clears his throat. “I need you. Come with me.”

He offers his arm, and I descend the steps with him. “Locke,” I murmur, “Before you ask whatever you’re going to ask me—I need you to know that I can’t be a useless bit of treasure who sits around waiting for you to finish working. I can’t do that. I need more. I want to work with you, to help you. And I think—I think I’m addicted to danger and excitement now. I think I need a bit of that in my life.”

He squints at me. “You’ve had one quiet day, Veronica. One. And you’re already concerned that you’ll be bored here?”

“Well—when you put it like that, it sounds a bit ridiculous.” I wince. “And maybe I need a few days’ rest. But the principle is still true.”

“So you want work?”

“Yes.”

“But you have a job.” His fingers curl around mine. “I pay you for certain services, don’t I?”

Narrowing my eyes, I smack his shoulder with my other hand. He chuckles and continues, “There’s work aplenty in Ravensbeck, more than I can ever get done, it seems. I’m sure I can find a job for you—something you’ll enjoy. I could pair you with Cyprus. You can help him with the interrogations. Imagine how much more quickly he’ll be able to get the information we need, with a little of your magic.”

I grip his arm tighter. “No.”

“I won’t demand that you use your ability,” he says. “I know you hate it. But in certain situations, when lives are at stake, would you consider it?”

I slide my arm out of his and stop, halfway down the staircase. He descends two more steps before he pauses, looking up at me.

“Is this why you want me?” I whisper. “You’re suspicious of mages, but you collect them anyway, don’t you? You bring them here to work in Ravensbeck. That’s what you’re doing with me.”

“How can you say that? I didn’t even know about your power at first.”

“But you know about it now. How can I be sure this isn’t all just a clever scheme to get a bedmate and a blood mage all wrapped into one convenient package? How do I know you’re not going to use me for my power?”

“How do I know you won’t use your power on me?” he counters, his frown darkening. “I’m taking a lot on faith too, Veronica. And if you don’t believe that I want you for more than your power, I’ll tattoo a vow for you right here, tonight. I’ll lock your magic so you can’t use it for my benefit, ever. Then maybe you’ll believe that it’s your spirit I want, your inner self.”

I hesitate, half-convinced, unsure.

“To hell with it,” Locke growls—and suddenly he’s mounting those two steps between us. His teeth are clenched, eyes snapping with purpose, and before I can react he scoops me up bodily and throws me over his shoulder, skirts and all.

“Locke!” I writhe in his grip, but he only clutches me tighter.

He charges through the house with me, sweeping past the knots of curious guests who cluster behind us, following him out to the garden.

72

My face must be redder than blood. It’s certainly hot as a furnace, and I’m lashing Locke with the foulest words I know as he totes me into the back garden. I catch a brief, bobbing glimpse of candles, shimmering green trees, wooden tables spread with hearty fare, surprised faces and wide eyes—I hear the hum of curious voices rising over the chink of cups and tableware. The music stops with a screech as the Pirate King carries me up the steps of the platform where the musicians have been playing.

Locke plunks me on my feet again. He keeps hold of my arm, just above the elbow.

“Fuck you,” I hiss at him, just as the excited chatter drops to an expectant silence. My words pierce that silence like the first star of a firework before it explodes, and I freeze, my fists curling. In Ivris, such words from a lady’s mouth would make her unwelcome in social parlors for years to come.

A heartbeat of tense quiet.

And then Locke laughs aloud, a ringing burst of joy, and all the pirates of Ravensbeck echo the sound.

“Veronica, everyone!” he says, with a sweeping gesture to me.

The crowd erupts with whistles and shouts of approval, until Locke motions for quiet.

“My friends, I wanted to make an elegant entrance tonight, to introduce someone very special, but—well—who was I fooling? We’re none of us very elegant here.”

More raucous laughter and affirmation. As my gaze sweeps the multi-colored throng of faces, my heartbeat slows and the heat in my face begins to recede. They’re not ridiculing me. These people like that I mouthed off to the Pirate King. And they like that he let me do it, without ordering my tongue cut out or dictating some other dreadful penalty for my insolence.

“You’ve likely heard rumors about the woman at my side,” Locke continues. “And about my voyage aboard the Ardent. I’m here to tell you the truth of the matter. But first—everyone grab another round! Fill your cups! This is not a tale to be told without plenty of rum in the belly!”

The crowd roars again. There’s a shuffling of feet and a gurgling of liquid, amid more enthusiastic comments and splatters of rum on stone. Amid the din I mutter aside to Locke, “Warn me before you start pawing at my breasts in front of your people. I don’t feel like playing the whore tonight.”

“And you won’t have to,” he says, staring straight ahead without looking at me. “I’m telling them everything.”

“Everything?” I jerk away from his grip on my arm. “We went through this ruse so you wouldn’t have to do that.”

Locke turns to me and sweeps a broad hand over my bare shoulder and up my neck, running a thumb along my jaw. He speaks quietly, for me alone. “I was vulnerable at sea, on the Ardent. Especially that first night when you were discovered and I revealed myself. I was—afraid. Without my men around me, it was Neelan’s authority against mine, and I took the coward’s way out instead of owning my true motives. I was afraid of losing my credibility, my men’s loyalty, my reputation. But since that night, I’ve realized there’s only one thing I cannot bear to lose.”

Thora appears at Locke’s elbow with a cup, from which she sips before handing it to him—a mark of how much they trust each other. Locke accepts the cup with a nod and lifts it high.

“What say you, you thieving wretches?” he bellows. “Are you ready for a tale of love and secrets on the high seas?”

The ensuing shouts from the crowd fade as he begins the story. He tells it with a pirate captain’s flourish, with bits exaggerated and dramatized for effect—and it works, because each person in the crowd is tethered to every sentence. He explains his motives for joining the Ardent’s crew, assures his people they were safe in the hands of his Ravens, and then shifts into an account of his first meeting with me.

Watching him work the crowd is mesmerizing. I knew he had skill with people, but I would never have guessed that the gruff sailor Locke could spin such a masterful tale, injected with bawdy humor and pulse-pounding suspense in all the right places. He tugs the heartstrings of Ravensbeck as masterfully as he pulls the ropes of a ship’s rigging—a firm hand in this spot, a little less force here, until he has them exactly where he wants them.

Well… most of them. I catch glimpses of a few disgruntled or uncertain faces. Friends of Neelan, Gorm, and Tir, perhaps—or pirates who don’t appreciate their king breaking the laws he enforces so violently on everyone else.

As Locke continues, I notice movement out of the corner of my eye. Kardon, Cyprus, and Puckley have mounted the stage and are standing behind us, a little distance away, near the musicians. Even though I don’t know them well, their presence is comforting—a sign of silent loyalty to Locke.

“You all know my laws,” the Pirate King continues. “No one under my flag takes another human—woman or not—without their consent. And because women are more likely to suffer such indignity, they may not serve beneath the Crowned Skull or take passage on one of my ships. I made this law when I first became your king, when captains brought me their abused female captives and expected me to thank them for the flesh tribute.”

Locke’s voice shakes a little—not with weakness, but with suppressed rage. “I had my reasons for the law. But I did not often have to see it enacted in person. And I hadn’t thought of every possible scenario or result—not until this voyage, and this woman. It’s important to me that you understand—I never forced her into any act she did not welcome.”

More whistles and some coarse shouts from the pirates. Locke doesn’t smile, and I don’t blush. I’m watching every shifting emotion on his face, my pulse racing as I read the tiny expressions the rest of them can’t see. The tension of his jaw, the twitch of a muscle at his temple, the flick of his tongue across his dry lips. Despite his bravado, he’s nervous, suppressing a vast gale of emotion.

“I didn’t spare Veronica so I’d have a body in my bed,” he says. “At first, I claimed her as my whore and lied about my true motives, because I was ashamed for breaking my own law, and afraid of the consequences. Who am I if I don’t abide by the guidelines I set for every man in my fleet?”

The crowd quiets, riveted by his intense tone.

“One thing came clear to me—clear as the blazing sun on the midday sea. Any law that made me ashamed of saving her life was flawed. And I was just as deeply flawed, for denying her the dignity she deserves. We’re a rough lot, we are. I may talk a fine game, but I come from as shitty a place as anyone else here. We don’t talk much of how we feel, because it’s what we do that matters—how we overcome—and what we take from those who are undeserving!”

As his voice rises, defiant and rebellious, the crowd swells with eager, assenting murmurs.

“But I am here tonight to beg my lady’s forgiveness.” The Pirate King hands off his drink to Thora and faces me, gathering my hand in his.

Then he sinks to one knee, sweeping off his feathered hat and tossing it aside.

What is he doing?

73

Shivering whispers rustle over the crowd. My palms are slick with sweat, and I’m terrified that my thundering heart might crack right through my breastbone. My head pounds with fevered heat.

What is he doing?

Locke’s pale eyes hold mine, and in them I see trepidation, wild determination, and a violent, all-consuming adoration that snatches my breath.

“Veronica, I ask your pardon,” Locke says hoarsely. “And I ask you to take your place as my Queen, my equal in everything, my partner in every work. You will write the new law for the treatment of women aboard my ships, and by god, I will see it enforced to the letter.”

My knees quake. I want desperately to wipe off the hand he’s holding—it must feel disgustingly damp to him. Though he doesn’t seem to care.

Pirate Queen.

Maker of new laws.

His equal partner in the work.

It’s everything I wouldn’t let myself admit I wanted.

This is the ultimate weakness, confessing his love for me before all these rough, weathered, gritty people. He’ll be quietly mocked for it in taverns. Some pirate captains may leave his fleet, convinced that he’s gone soft. He may lose influence, and his reputation may suffer.

Yet he’s doing this anyway, knowing what could happen. He’s doing it because I am important to him.

I am the one thing he does not want to lose.

Maybe it’s selfish of me to make this decision before everything is resolved with my brother. But somehow, I feel comforted and confident knowing that after the voyage to confront Mordan—if we survive—I’ll have a home to return to—a place and a purpose.

All of this rushes through my head in a handful of seconds. Locke’s eyes widen, uncertainty creeping into them. He’s afraid my hesitation is a denial.

He looks lost.

All rational thought sweeps from my head, like a sandcastle washed away by the tide, and all that’s left is the shimmering truth of my feelings for him.

I sink to my own knees, and I lay my palm against his cheek. “You have my pardon and my partnership.”

“What did she say?” someone shouts.

Locke leaps up, drawing me to my feet and lifting our joined hands. “She said yes!”

The explosion of cheers from the crowd rivals the boom of cannons, the thunder of storms, or the roar of the ocean. In their partly drunk state, the citizens of Ravensbeck are easy to stir into a frenzy, and they rush the platform as the musicians launch into a jubilant melody. Locke and I are separated, adrift in a whirling sea of jovial faces and shouted congratulations. And if most of the pirates choose to congratulate us in rather coarse terms, I don’t mind, because most seem genuinely pleased with the end to Locke’s story. The fallout and the complications will come later—for now, I allow myself to be whirled into the merriment and the music.

The party goes on for hours, with Locke’s household servants bringing out a seemingly endless supply of drink and food, followed by a stunning display of fireworks. Next there’s a raunchy performance by a group of talented dancers from a northern isle. The Pirate King can be cruel and vengeful, but he knows how to dazzle and indulge his subjects.

The fine shoes I’m wearing eventually rub my feet raw, and I slither out of the maelstrom of sweaty dancers. I’ve been partnered with a dozen different guildmasters, King’s Ravens, and pirate captains over the course of the past hour, and my cheeks ache from smiling and being pleasant to each one. They were all surprisingly respectful—or perhaps not so surprising, since Locke and his friends were always dancing nearby. If anyone dared disrespect me, the retribution would have been swift and merciless.

Slinking into the gardens, I find a tiny bench in an alcove, which is probably unoccupied because it isn’t really large enough for two. I ease off the offending shoes and wriggle my toes into the soft grass with a sigh of relief.

My bench is deeply shadowed, but the garden path beyond is bathed in white moonbeams, with the faintest orange tinge from the lights of the party.

As I massage my toes, my ears pick up faint voices, drawing nearer. My natural caution recedes as I realize they’re women’s voices, and I draw in a deep breath, wondering if I should speak to them.

“—no idea why,” one of them is saying. “There are plenty of women here in Ravensbeck, or in other pirate ports, for that matter. Women who understand the life, and the sea.”

“Who is she anyway?” adds another voice. “She has noble airs, but she’s not much to look at.”

“Must be magic between the legs, is all I can figure,” chortles a third woman. “She’d have to be, with those tiny tits of hers, and that spotty skin. I got my share of the sun’s kisses, to be sure, but I’ll be damned if I’ve seen skin as mottled as that wench’s face.”

They pass by without noticing me, without knowing how their words lacerated my joy and left me bleeding out on the bench.

I wrap my stomach in both arms and bend over, sucking in sharp breaths, trying not to burst into sobs.

A long shadow falls over me, cast by moonlight, and I jump, my stomach diving with dread—but it isn’t the women, or Locke.

Kardon stands on the path, eyeing me. He’s wearing a trim black coat that sweeps down to his ankles, and a loose red cravat at his throat. He could pass for any gentleman from Ivris, except for the odd cut of his clothing, the red gleam of his eyes, and the weapon-studded belt hanging from his hips. Trickles of scarlet smoke issue from his pockets, where his hands are concealed.

“Ruen sent me to keep you safe until he can come join you,” he says.

“Oh.” I try to slow my frantic breaths, but I can’t, I can’t—

“Did something happen to you?” Kardon asks, frowning.

“Just some women—saying things—it’s silly.” I bow over, my face crumpling, trying with all my might to hold in the sobs. They swell inside me, tight and painful. When Kardon crouches and holds out a handkerchief, I burst.

“I’m used to the comments,” I say through the sobs. “Honestly, I can handle it. I can. I’ve endured this kind of thing for years.”

“Doesn’t make it any less painful.” He straightens again, watching while I use the handkerchief.

“What do you think of this? Of me being Pirate Queen?” I force a broken laugh. “What does that title even mean?”

“There has never been a Pirate Queen,” says Kardon. “So it means whatever you want it to mean.”

I squint up at him. It’s difficult to read his eyes, since he’s silhouetted against the moonlight. “I can see why they call you the smart one.”

He chuckles. “Mostly they call me the annoying one.”

I giggle-snort into his handkerchief.

“Ruen came back different this time,” Kardon says, sobering. “I’m not sure if the changes will destroy his empire or strengthen it—but I think you’ll be good for him.”

“And if I’m not?”

“Well then,” he says with deadly coolness. “You and I will have another sort of conversation.”

A shiver traces my spine. “I like you.”

Kardon laughs again. “You like being threatened?”

“I like that you’re so loyal to him.”

“Ah. Well, the boys and I each have our own stories, and none of us were pirates or sailors before we met Locke. He made us. We became men together. Ropes knotted as tightly as ours rarely loosen.”

74

Locke appears moments later. My eyes and nose still feel red and puffy from crying, and he notices immediately.

He rounds on Kardon, pale eyes blazing. “Did you make her cry?”

“He didn’t,” I say quickly.

“It wasn’t me.” Kardon doesn’t back away, though Locke is taller and bigger, glowering right in his face. “Some women passed by and said things that upset her.”

“What women?” Locke spins back to me. “I’ll have them punished.”

“No, Locke. It’s nothing I haven’t heard before, and usually it wouldn’t bother me, but—I thought things were different here.”

“People are the same everywhere,” says Kardon sagely.

“Thank you, professor,” Locke growls. “Be off and find someone to warm your bed, for once.”

“You know I can’t,” Kardon says in an undertone.

“You think you can’t,” Locke retorts. “Try.”

Muttering curses, Kardon whirls and storms away through the garden, his enormous coat fluttering behind him.

“You should be nicer to him,” I say. “He was kind to me.”

“Hm,” is all Locke murmurs before gathering me against him. “Now is your chance to refuse me.” His voice vibrates through his chest into my ear. “I know you may have felt pressured to say ‘yes’ out there, with everyone watching—”

“If I wanted to say no, I’d have said it.” I nuzzle between the folds of his shirt and kiss his chest.

“You know, I really believe you would.” He chuckles and tilts my face up. His mouth descends, nipping at mine, sucking my lower lip gently, then tugging with his teeth. Tired of the teasing, I give a breathless little huff of frustration and leap for his mouth, capturing it. Our lips seam together, warm delight with a flicker of wet tongue.

In the middle of the kiss, Locke picks me up, hitching my legs around his waist, and he walks through the garden, along a shadowed narrow path to a side entrance of the house. He puts me down just long enough to open the door, and then he carries me inside, up the back stairs, all the way to the room Madam Thora pointed out as his.

I don’t see much of the room as we stumble inside, because Locke is already peeling my dress off my shoulders. My general impression of the space—what I can see by the glow of the candelabra—is glossy dark wood, gleaming brass fixtures, deep green pillows and black velvet.

Locke fumbles with the laces of my gown before swearing loudly and scraping a jeweled dagger off a nearby table. He cuts through the laces with a jerk and rips my dress down, until it’s in a billowy pile around my feet. I wasn’t wearing anything under the bodice of the dress, and my breasts peak as the cool air of the room flows over my bare skin.

The last thing covering me is a lacy pair of pantalettes. Locke surveys them, predatory, prodding his beautiful lips with the tip of the knife.

“Stand very still, darling,” he says.

With the point of the blade, he nudges my chin up. Then he traces a terrifying, exquisite line down my throat with that sharp tip.

He’s fully clothed, and I’m practically naked—and the teasing of my soft flesh with the knife is turning me into a trembling river of need. Heat pulses at my core, melting and dripping through me.

The flat of the knife smacks lightly against one of my breasts, and I shudder with panicked delight.

Locke chuckles. “Naughty girl.”

He touches the dagger to my breastbone and trails it down my quivering abdomen until he reaches the band of the pantalettes. I hold myself motionless, utterly at his mercy, and utterly trusting.

A quick tug, and a snap, and the pantalettes drift away, ruined filmy scraps.

Locke inhales slowly, his eyes fixed on the tapered spot between my legs. Delicately he teases my folds with the knifepoint, the touch as light as a moth’s feathery foot.

Then, with a suddenness that makes me gasp, he flings the knife at the wall. It sticks in the paneling, vibrating with the force of his throw, and before it has time to still, Locke picks me up and tosses me onto his bed. It’s even bigger than the one in my room, and it has pillows to spare.

Naked I lie there, arching my legs up and spreading them wide. As Locke begins to disrobe, I let my fingers glide through my folds, showing him what he does to me, how much I desire him.

“Veronica,” he rumbles. “Such a good little seductress.”

He strips everything off and plunges onto the bed, crawling between my legs and moving my hand from its tantalizing work. “Look at this,” he moans. “Look at you. Gods.” A savoring lick, and I whine, trying to arch and buck, but he splays a firm hand across my abdomen. “Shh, there’s a good girl. Let me taste you.”

His tongue travels every seam, laps every delicate fold, dips into my center. Then he begins a quick, rhythmic lapping against the tiny bit that’s so exquisitely sensitive, and I squeal, breathless, desperate with the shock of how incredible it feels.

“Locke,” I half-shriek. “Locke, you have to stop—don’t stop—gods, oh gods—”

His hands grip my thighs, kneading the flesh, and his tongue increases its quivering pace. He pauses to kiss the spot he’s tending to, and suck, and then he hums against me—

My body shatters. It’s an aching, twisting, thrilling, blinding explosion, radiating from his mouth through my belly, along both my legs. A few seconds of rigid, spine-tingling ecstasy, and then I relax, panting and boneless, while his fingers soothe me through the fading pleasure.

Locke rises to his knees, arches both my legs up, and pushes inside me. My body welcomes him, clenching and sucking him deeper. With a groan he begins to move, his hips flexing, every angle and plane of his tanned body suffused with candlelight.

He takes his time, long slow strokes while I recover from my first climax and begin the ascent to another. “You feel so perfect,” he whispers. “Like velvet and wine.”

“The Pirate King is a poet,” I breathe, reaching up and pulling him down to me. He kisses my mouth and picks up his pace, growing more urgent.

“Ruen,” I murmur, tangling my fingers in his hair.

He groans deeply, pressing his forehead to mine. His huge hands grip my body whole, and he slams us together with renewed force, rushing out and ramming in, hard, deep, violent—my skin thrills all over—every bit of me clamoring, craving, climbing—

Locke circles the pad of his thumb at the apex of my core, but he’s shaking with the effort of holding himself back.

“Stop tending to me,” I bite out. “Let me have you. Ruin me.”

He slams into me again, again, again—my body hardens and tightens around him, bucks into the building pressure—and breaks, shattering, quivering, blissful.

Locke shouts, harsh and broken, and he convulses against me, into me, coming harder than he ever has before. His palms slam against the mattress and his body drapes against mine as heavy gasps surge from him.

We collapse, delirious and sated, sinking into a haze of glorious ease. There’s a light sweat coating both of us, but we cool quickly, thanks to the breeze wafting through the open windows—

The open windows?

Whistles from somewhere outside and below reach my ears. I gasp, burying my face in Locke’s chest. “They could hear us?”

He laughs, completely unperturbed. “It’s fine, love. No one cares. They’re happy for us.”

With the fading of the bliss comes the reality of what I agreed to tonight—the overwhelming responsibility of it. I quell the excited panic in my chest. There will be time for learning my role as Pirate Queen later. First, I need to focus on the next step Locke and I must take.

Confronting my brother.

75

The storm is a soaring fortress, a wall of blended darkness shot through with flickers of purple lightning. The Raven’s Frenzy bobs on the churning sea, like a tiny fragile sea-bird facing an enormous kraken.

At the prow, the mage Vesser stands with his hands outstretched, every sinew of his arms granite-hard from effort. He’s manipulating the currents, holding the Raven’s Frenzy in place so we won’t be sucked into the storm until we’re ready.

It’s likely that when we do go in, the Raven’s Frenzy will be dashed to pieces. That’s the part I’m most nervous about, because I can’t swim. But Locke has promised to see me through the danger. I’m a key piece of this plan. Without me to distract Mordan, to speak to him, Locke has no chance of overtaking my brother and tattooing him into compliance.

My brother’s powers have grown—that much is clear. His air currents have altered the natural paths of the windstreams and siphoned the currents into a sucking whirlpool. There’s a mindless rage to the spinning cloud and racing spray—a roaring torment of pain. Something has happened to my brother, something more terrible than our dark childhood.

Locke palms the railing of the Raven’s Frenzy, smoothing it gently. He’s saying goodbye to the ship that gave him freedom and an empire.

Far away, at the edge of the horizon, there’s another ship—the Pirate King’s flagship vessel, the Lichfell. It’s a black ship with bone-white masts and dark sails, rivaling even the Ardent for power and lethal beauty. That ship, temporarily captained by Cyprus, will come and pick us up after our confrontation with Mordan.

If we survive it.

We’ve been watching the storm for several hours now. We even witnessed a hapless merchant vessel being sucked into it, and although I wanted to help, there was nothing we could do. Vesser has all he can handle just to keep the Raven’s Frenzy from careening into the maelstrom. The bones of the ship are groaning, creaking under the pull of two opposing forces. I pray to Nehalennia that it will hold together long enough.

“A lull should be coming soon,” Locke murmurs. “When was the last one?”

From his other side, Hanschel answers. “About three hours ago, Cap’n.”

“When the next one comes, we’ll go in. Tell everyone.”

“Aye, sir.”

The Raven’s Frenzy is carrying the smallest possible crew, because Locke doesn’t want to risk too many lives. Every man on deck is also a skilled fighter, hand-picked to help us subdue this threat. The ironic part is that none of them will get within striking distance of my brother unless he allows it. So it all comes down to me, and what I say to Mordan.

If it’s not Mordan behind this, Locke will have to come up with another plan, and fast.

I’ve been rehearsing what I might say to my brother, what arguments and turns of phrase I can use to open the conversation, to engage him, to calm him down. I’ve thought of childhood anecdotes I can employ to soften his heart. Years of manipulating and calming him helped me learn how his mind works—but does it still function the same way? So much could have happened to him in eight years.

Locke’s strong fingers curl around mine, and I look up at him, surprised.

“You’ll be all right,” he says. “I’ll take care of you.”

I want to protest, to announce that I can take care of myself—and that’s generally true—but here on the high seas, it’s never a bad idea to have a friend’s aid. And this particular friend of mine seems to have tied his happiness to my existence. I’m glad he has my back.

I squeeze his fingers, a wordless thanks.

At the same moment, the screaming thunder of the gale diminishes to a soft roar. The clouds slow their violent rotation, and the beams and boards of the Raven’s Frenzy cease their groans.

“A lull in the storm!” Locke shouts. “Steady, men, we’re going in!”

Vesser glances back over his shoulder and nods. He eases whatever magical pressure he’s exerting, and the Raven’s Frenzy jerks forward. I nearly fly backward, but Locke catches me, wraps me against him with one powerful arm. A flash of memory—the day he held me against him while we swung ship-to-ship, from the Wending Willow to the Ardent.

How far we’ve come from Locke the sailor and the ragged cabin boy, to the Pirate King and his Queen-to-be.

Overhead, the sails snap and crack as they’re caught in the spiraling eddies of Mordan’s magic. Cold spray dashes my face, and I screw up my eyes against the sting of the salt. Though the storm has lessened in intensity, it’s not gone. Our ship is being buffeted, shoved this way and that by the gale, nudged ever closer to the central mass of cloud, the apex of the storm. I cling to Locke, my stomach pitching and rolling with every slant of the careening ship.

If this were a normal storm at sea, we’d be tethered to the ship with ropes. But in this case, with the peril that lies ahead, ropes would be a hazard, tying us to a broken, sinking vessel. So all I can do is cling to the railing while Locke grips me tight, and we sway together in a drunken, lethal dance.

The Raven’s Frenzy is skidding sideways through the foam now, wind shrieking through the ropes. Closer to the dark billowing wall of cloud—closer—

The mainmast groans. There’s a sharp crack, and a ripping of sail.

“Eyes up and look lively!” Locke bellows. “Here she comes!”

The mast splits in two under the pressure, its top half splintering and cracking away, dragging down copious billows of sail and rope. Pirates scramble this way and that to get clear—but I can barely see through the mist and the wind, so I’m not sure if anyone was crushed. Locke and I stand with Hanschel near the front of the ship, while Dolomon mans the helm—not that any amount of steering will get us through this intact.

“Every man for himself, and we’ll gather on the shore if shore there be!” Locke roars. “It’s been an honor to sail with you! Mother Ocean guide—”

His final shout is swallowed by the hissing wind as the Raven’s Frenzy shoulders through the wall of whirling cloud.

76

The wind hits me like a fist to the face. Lashes of cold water whip my skin. I’m soaked to the bone, blind and deafened, only conscious of the solid wood of the railing under my hands and Locke’s arm around my ribcage.

“Open your eyes, Nick!” He’s shouting, almost screaming in my ear. “We have to jump!”

Is he insane? If we jump, the Raven’s Frenzy could careen into us and bear us down beneath the sea—

“It’s jump or be smashed! Come on, love—I won’t let you drown!”

I open my eyes a painful crack. With a shock I realize that the Raven’s Frenzy is keeling over, tipped nearly on her side. Locke and I are on the side nearest the water, skimming above the churning waves.

“Jump!” he roars.

A command, like the one he gave me when we boarded the Lady Marcella, when we battled her crew and he protected me. I trusted him then, and I trust him now.

With a terse nod to him, I step onto the railing, suck in a breath, and leap.

I drop like a stone into the ocean.

The water slams shut over my head, a seal I can’t break. Darkness, and the gurgle of water in my brain—I’m spinning through blackness, my mouth pinched tight against the invading force of the sea.

And then I’m bobbing up again, my head breaking the surface for a second—but there’s so much spray I can barely manage a decent inhale before I’m going down again.

A hand locks around my wrist, a manacle of determination.

I stop fighting, and I let myself be towed by that hand.

A man less tenacious and cruel might not have been able to save me. But this man has dragged himself up from the dark, clawed and killed for the future he wanted, paid for it in sweat and blood. I can trust this man with my life.

My head surges above the waves again and I snatch a breath. Locke told me not to thrash when we were in the water, so I try to relax, only kicking occasionally when I think it might help propel us forward. I have no idea if we’re heading toward land, or if there’s any land to be had. All I can do is trust, and breathe.

With a lurch, Locke changes his movements, dragging me upright. “Ground,” he says hoarsely. “Get your feet on it.”

My legs kick wildly until they contact the bottom and then I stumble forward, half-supported by Locke. We’re staggering up a bank of broken shale, slippery and sharp, scattered with indecipherable debris. Through the gray mist of the storm, I can make out ghostly shapes—lumpy masses, spires, webs—the carcasses of wrecked ships.

We clamber farther up the bank, into fields of clumpy saltgrasses. The wind is less violent here, and in the distance up ahead I can see shafts of pale, ghostly sunlight, as if we’re passing through an outer ring and entering the calm eye of the storm.

Locke stumbles, nearly throwing me off my feet. He’s covering his eyes, teeth bared, harsh breaths hissing through them.

“Locke.” I tug at his arm. “Are you all right?”

He lowers his hand, and I gasp. His eyes are red and swollen, and his lids, cheekbones, and forehead are lacerated with a dozen tiny cuts. He had to keep his eyes open and forge a path to land, while he dragged my helpless weight behind him.

“Gods, Locke,” I breathe. “I’m so sorry. Can you see?”

“Yes, but it hurts. And this eye is—” He blinks and squints. “Never mind it now. We have to keep moving. Do you see any of the others?”

Amid the tangles of destroyed ships, several silhouettes are moving slowly inland.

“Yes, I see some of them. Not sure who, but there are definitely survivors.”

“Good.”

We pick our way through the gray mist, while the eddies of the storm swirl and soften around us. Ragged sails flutter in ghostly streamers from the bones of the shipwrecks. Something crunches beneath my boot—a human ribcage, all flesh scoured away by salt and storm. The pale skull leers up at me, two rows of mute teeth and a pair of empty eye sockets.

A little farther on there are bodies—whole bodies, half-clothed or naked, some fresh and some rotting. Whether the storm or something else stole their clothes, I don’t know. I’m not sure I want to know.

The wind moans and murmurs through the cracked hulls and broken timbers, an eerie song as the surviving crew of the Raven’s Frenzy drifts nearer to us, one by one, coalescing around their king. He’s limping—one of his legs must have been injured during the escape. Guilt sours my stomach because I’m more or less whole—just bruised, wet, sandy, and sick because of what’s coming, who I have to face.

If this is Mordan’s doing, it’s unforgivable. The dead strewn across this shore aren’t just pirates, but merchants, soldiers, women, and animals.

My gaze falls on a group of bodies not far away. One woman—two children—oh gods.

The sea is no place for children, yet here they are, lying in the coarse grass, their tiny pale features upturned to the clouds.

This little family survived the wreck of their ship. I know, because their chests have been dented in, sucked concave by the force of air magic as it crushed their lungs. I’ve seen it before.

The dead woman’s tattered gown has been raked up to her waist, leaving her bare privates exposed, her legs spread—bruises on her thighs, the marks of fingers—

My stomach twists, curdles, and revolts. I stagger aside and vomit onto the grass.

Locke’s hand rests between my shoulder blades as I bend over, retching and sobbing.

“He doesn’t do this,” I gasp. “He hasn’t done that before—he’s—he needs help.”

But perhaps he has done it before, or something similar.

Once, shortly before his engagement and the tragedy that followed, Mordan tried to convince me to bite a girl he wanted, to sip her blood and make her submit to him. He suggested it laughingly, as if he were joking, but I saw the craving in his eyes. Of course I denied him, and he didn’t suggest it again. But the man who would suggest that—he might be capable of this horror.

“Weapons at the ready, men,” Locke says quietly.

I croak a laugh. “Weapons won’t do you any good against him.”

Locke’s hand travels to the sealed pouch at his side, the satchel containing his tattoo supplies. I can only hope they made it through the storm intact.

Wiping the traces of vomit from my mouth, I straighten. “I have to go to him now, alone.”

“I can’t let you do that,” Locke says evenly.

And I don’t want to do it. But if Mordan sucks out Locke’s insides, flattens his lungs—

My brother could murder Locke in a few seconds. And I might not be able to stop him.

“I have to go alone. If he sees anyone else with me, he’ll kill them.” My voice trembles, so I take a moment to breathe, to force steel into it—the steel of a Pirate Queen. “I began this journey by myself, and that’s how I have to end it.”

Locke pulls a frustrated grimace. “I hate this, Veronica.”

“I know, but it’s what I need to do.” I step nearer, gathering one of his bruised hands in mine. “Please, Locke. You’ve kept me safe so many times—let me protect you this once.”

“Damn it,” he says hoarsely. “I wish you weren’t right about this. Can you handle him?”

“I think so.”

He growls again, glancing around as if some alternative might appear. “We’ll follow you at a distance. Not more than half an hour behind you.”

I nod, biting my lower lip so it doesn’t tremble.

Hanschel breaks from the quiet circle of men around us and approaches me, holding out a small black bottle. Gratefully I take a swig, washing the acrid vomit from my mouth with the sting of the liquor. “Thank you, Hanschel.” I scan the faces of the men. Dolomon and Hanschel I know, along with several more from the Ardent. I’m not sure what happened to Gorm and Tir—I barely saw them after their tattoo session because Locke made them serve belowdecks. Last I heard, he told them to find a new ship when we landed in Ravensbeck. I’ll be glad if I never see them again.

But the rest of these men, the ones I know and the ones I don’t—they are brave, and worthy of my respect. Pirates they are, but they’re risking everything to rid the sea of this threat. If I don’t succeed in controlling Mordan, they’ll probably lose their lives to him.

“Go with the gods, milady,” says Dolomon.

“At least take this.” Locke fumbles along his belt and draws out a knife.

My knife. The one my brother gave me, the one I left aboard the Ardent. The one I used to draw his blood when we were young.

My blood chills as I reach for it.

77

A Pirate Queen wouldn’t fear a simple knife, or the memories linked to it, so I manage to keep my face calm as I accept the weapon. My family ring is on my thumb—by some miracle it wasn’t dislodged while we thrashed in the sea.

“I’ll go deal with this,” I say. “It’s what I came out here to do.”

“Kiss me first,” Locke whispers.

I reach up to him, tucking my hands behind his neck, careful not to nick him with the blade of my brother’s knife. I can’t taste Locke through the afterburn of the rum in my mouth, but I can feel the deep desperation in the press of his lips, in the grip of his hands on my shoulders.

“I’ll be back,” I whisper against his mouth.

And then, before I can think better of it, I turn and walk quickly inland, through the waving saltgrass.

There’s a track through the field—not a path, exactly, but a sign of someone passing here before. Along the way lie a few trunks, opened, nearly empty, as if someone tired of dragging or carrying them and decided to remove what he wanted and leave the rest to rot.

The ground becomes steeper, and great boulders jut out from beneath the turf. There are scraggly trees, too, with jaundiced leaves hanging limp from their boughs. Between two great banks of rock trickles a rivulet of water, widening to a stream and snaking away through the grass. I sip a little of the water from my palm—fresh, not a hint of salt.

Upward I climb, my limbs trembling with exhaustion. The sharp breeze scours away my sweat, kicking up my hair and clothes, ruffling through the grass and scouring the rocks.

I pull myself over the lip of one massive boulder and there, in the side of the hill, is a cave. More of a generous hollow beneath and between the rocks, but it’s a sizable space. Its walls are lined with planks from wrecked ships, and there’s a jumble of stolen stores—barrels, casks, and trunks. On a table stand jars and bottles, along with tins of biscuit and bags of something lumpy—potatoes, maybe. Piles of clothing fill one corner of the space, and a jumble of glittering weapons lies under the table.

On a makeshift bed piled with scavenged blankets lies a figure with a head of curly auburn hair.

Mordan.

Even though he’s facing the wall, I know it’s him—I recognize the way he’s sleeping, on his right side with one arm curled around his head. He’s resting, recharging his energy before winding the storm to new heights again. It’s incredible that the air currents are still whirling while he’s asleep. They’re less forceful, but still dangerous.

Knife in hand, I sidle nearer to the bed.

What he’s done can’t be undone, or forgiven. I have to end this.

I can’t think about the act. I simply have to do it.

I suck in a breath, steeling myself—

—or I try to suck in a breath, but my lungs—

My lungs are frozen. They simply won’t work.

Panic sears my nerves, but I have just enough presence of mind to tuck the knife into the back of my pants, where the flat of its cold blade shifts against my rear.

“Did you think I was asleep?” A cold voice, void of sympathy.

The figure on the bed rises slowly, fluidly, and faces me.

He looks so much older. Taller. A raw-boned, red-bearded man with manic purpose in his eyes.

My brother.

I am speechless, my vocal cords paralyzed by lack of air, but I hold out my family ring.

Mordan doesn’t even look at it. He’s scanning my face, my body, his eyes widening. “Veronica?”

Suddenly I can breathe again, and I inhale gratefully.

“How are you here? Are you alone?” Mordan steps past me, peering down the hillside. I can only hope Locke and the other pirates had the good sense to wait far away from here, under cover. If Mordan sees them, they’ll be dead men.

“I’m alone,” I say, catching his sleeve and tugging him back to face me. “I was on a ship that got caught in the storm—your storm. I’ve been looking for you, Mordan. I’ve missed you.”

It’s easy to lie to him. It’s a habit born from years of practice, one I can’t unlearn. Lies blended with truth, the poison with which I tempered his murderous exploits. I was so foolish to think I could handle him alone back then. So foolish, so wrong, so cruel to myself and to him. The pain of it nearly chokes me as Locke’s words echo in my mind.

You have more pain and darkness inside you than you want to admit…the truth, Veronica, is that you are just as jaded and guilty as the rest of us. Come down here and meet me in the blood and the grime where you belong.

Mordan is still staring at me. He takes a step nearer, then lurches forward, binding me in a hug that smells of sweat and alcohol. “I can’t believe you’re here. What if you’d died in the wreckage—gods, Veronica! You should be more careful!”

I almost laugh. Not a bit of guilt, not the barest hint of an apology for any part he might have had in my ship being wrecked. Not I’m sorry my magic almost killed you, but You should be more careful.

“I had to find you, Mordan. I love you.” I disengage myself from the hug and smile brightly at him. “What is all this? Your new home?”

“Yes.” He ruffles the back of his hair, sheepish and proud. “The ships bring me everything I need. This is my place now.”

“And the people on the ships?” I say carefully.

Something dark quivers in his eyes. “I don’t need them. At least—not for long.”

“So they die, or—you kill them.” I shake my head, a gentle rebuke, while my heart sickens and screams inside me. “You know how I feel about killing, Mordan.”

“I know, I know.” He tugs at his own hair. “But it has to be done. They’re a plague, I tell you. A plague. Ruination and damnation.”

“They?”

“People. All people. Except a few people, like you. And like—like Wessa and Gil.”

“Wessa and Gil?”

He sighs. “After I left home, I got a berth on a passenger ship and landed in Sahrfa. I was hired as a mage, a windrunner for a merchant vessel. They thought I’d give them a better chance to outrun pirates, and I did. For nearly eight years, I worked on that ship, and I loved it because of Gil and Wessa. Gil was a mind-mage, you see. Very weak powers, but enough. Enough to keep the voices quiet, like you used to do for me, Veronica. And Wessa, the ship’s captain—she reminded me of you. Red hair. Freckles. Beautiful. Gil and Wessa and I—we loved each other. We loved so hard—gods, we were magic in bed. I could never get enough. Could have lived like that forever.”

“What happened?” I whisper.

“Pirates,” he spits. “And the ship of some rutting king. I took ill after one port of call, and my energy was low—I was feverish, couldn’t move the air like usual. Our vessel ended up too close to a fight between a pirate ship and a military ship. Long-range cannonball blasted straight into Wessa’s cabin. Took off Gil’s head. He was tending to me, you see, while I was sick.”

I swallow. “I’m so sorry.”

“I went out on deck.” Mordan’s voice shakes, a taut cord of grief. “I went out, drenched in his blood. And I tried to help, but I was too weak. The pirates took down the king’s ship, and then they came for us. They threw Wessa into the sea. She was wounded, and the sharks got her before I could do anything.”

“Mordan.” Tears fill my eyes, tears of pain and empathy—but his eyes burn, tearless, bright and keen.

“I surrendered and joined the pirates.” His fingers writhe together, knuckles cracking with nervous energy. “But when Gil’s mind-magic wore off, and my strength returned, I paid them all back. Killed every last one, and sailed here. It’s the perfect spot—the intersection of well-traveled routes. And ever since that illness I’ve been more powerful than ever. I drag them all in, the ships of kings and pirates and Pirate Kings.” He laughs, high and shrill. “And I take the spoils.”

With a wrench of pain, I realize how much his story is like Locke’s—a tale of pain and revenge. Yet they are so very, very different.

“You’re alone here, Mordan,” I say softly. “Don’t you miss having a friend? Family?”

His smile drops. “Family never meant much to me.” He glances down at the ring I’m holding. “You, though—I’m glad to see you again. You can stay here. You can help me. Sometimes it’s all too much, and I just scream, I scream for hours—it feels good because I couldn’t do that back home, but then I can’t stop screaming, and I get so tired. I miss the peace you gave me, Veronica. Peace, and clarity.” His shoulders slump, and he bows over, sinking his forehead against my shoulder.

My heart kicks into a panicked rhythm, and it’s all I can do not to shriek and throw him off, and scuttle as far away as I can get. But I force myself to draw in a slow breath. “We can do a little blood magic now, if you like. I can help you sleep, if you need rest.”

Mordan groans, but he doesn’t let go of me. His arms snake around my torso, winding me closer to him. Nausea sours my throat at the stench of him, the wrongness. “You’ve changed, Veronica,” he mutters. “You feel different now.”

His hand slides down my back—and then stops at the hilt of the knife. Slowly he draws it out, the flat blade skimming my skin.

78

For a second my whole body sings with nervous terror as Mordan inspects the weapon. But then he smiles. “You kept this. The knife I gave you. The knife we used…” His voice trails off, and he sets the blade to his flesh, carving a long line in the top side of his arm. Blood oozes from the slit.

“Drink from me, Veronica,” he says shakily. “Drink, and command me. Soothe me, let me sleep. Help me feel something again, something sweet and pure. You were always so sweet and pure.”

I swallow hard against the bile rising in my throat, my mind clogged with images of men, men in my mouth and between my legs, men pawing at my breasts and fisting my hair. Why does Locke want me, ruined filth that I am?

Meet me in the blood and the grime…

Mordan offers his bleeding arm to me.

He suspects nothing. He doesn’t fear me. In his eyes, I’m still his anxious, loving little sister, holding him back from the edge of moral destruction. He doesn’t know that the woman before him is so much more now—a lonely, pleasure-hungry girl, a runaway, a killer, a fierce survivor, a woman promised to the Pirate King.

Can I do this? Can I murder my own flesh and blood?

Or I could put him to sleep. Reserve a little of his blood, and then drink it when the others arrive, to keep him submissive while Locke tattoos him. I could make my brother speak a vow that will shut away his magic forever. He can return to Ravensbeck with us and live there, and perhaps we can find help for his mind.

Or maybe, even if we take away his magic, he will simply find another way to kill.

The image of the half-naked woman sears my brain. Mordan did something unspeakable to her before she died, or afterward—and he killed those children.

I hold the images of the murdered family in my mind, a totem to strengthen my decision, my resolve.

Throwing Mordan the brightest smile I can manage, I seal my lips to the wound in his arm, and I drink, more deeply than I ever have from anyone. My brother’s blood fills my mouth, slides warm down my throat. Something wakens inside me, shifting and vibrating to life.

I lurch backward, swallowing convulsively, the back of my hand pressed to my lips. “Mordan.” My voice is thick with blood, my tongue slick and bitter. “I love you.”

Mordan cocks his head. “And I love you.” But like every other time he’s said it, the words echo, hollow and meaningless. This brother of mine, my first friend—he doesn’t know what love is. Maybe he did briefly, with his Wessa and Gil—but he doesn’t truly love me or anyone else now. His only love is himself, and whatever he wants in the moment—pleasure, revenge, control.

Death.

“Take the knife,” I say gently. And then I command him for the last time.

When it’s over I collapse, weak and weeping, into the blood pooling from his throat, and I press my hand to his forehead.

After everything—after the Wending Willow and the Ardent and Locke—this feels wrong. Too simple and too cruel at once. I can’t fathom that it’s over, that he’s really gone, that I don’t have to endure the eternal gnawing dread in my gut, the horror of who he might be hurting.

The relief is sharp agony, so sharp I can’t bear it—and the guilt is a matching blade piercing my heart, because I shouldn’t feel relieved.

It feels as if the air should scream with the keening wails of my soul, but instead the island is quiet. The breeze has died to a mere breath of soft sea air, tinged with salt and the sweetish stink of rot. Pale bands of sun slant over Mordan’s slumped body, and flecks of dust and pollen glimmer in those hazy shafts of light.

It is perfectly, torturously quiet.

What have I done?

What have I—

What did he make me do? Gods, what did I do?

I sit there, immobile and silent, while my heart bleeds and my power churns inside me, shifting, changing.

When the pirates clamber over the lip of the ledge and enter the cave, they stand wordlessly around me while Locke drops to his knees at my side. I’m not crying. I can’t cry. My eyes are salt and bone.

“You ended it,” Locke says quietly. “My good, brave girl. My queen.”

But I don’t feel like a queen. I feel—broken. I feel like a piece of the horror Mordan wrought lives inside me, like his blood in my stomach has poisoned me forever.

Twisting toward Locke, I hold out my wrist. “Tattoo me,” I whisper. “Keep me from ever using my magic again. Please, Locke.”

He frowns, concern and love pooling in his eyes. “Are you sure?”

“If I change my mind, you can remove it, right?”

“Only with your consent,” he says.

“Good. I’ve never wanted this power, and I’ve never liked what it does to me. I think it’s growing, and I have to stop it before I turn into someone I don’t want to be.”

He nods. I know he might be disappointed—he wanted to use my ability for questioning prisoners in Ravensbeck, and for who knows what else. I’m doing this as much for him as for me, to protect him from someday using me for my power in a way that would wreck our love. Right now, he is noble enough to do as I ask. One day, neither of us may be strong enough to resist the lure of ultimate control.

Locke cuts the weatherproof seal on his satchel and opens it. Two of the ink bottles have cracked and leaked, but the third is intact. With needles, ink, and magic, he writes my spoken vow into my skin—a vow to never use my magic again. And the pirates witness it, silently. I’m not sure how many of them knew about my ability, if Locke explained to them exactly how I’d be subduing my brother—but now they all understand. And they know I have given up this part of me, locked it away so I can truly become someone new.

When Locke is done, I have a black rose circled by thorns on the tender flesh of my inner right wrist.

79

We bury my brother in the fields of saltgrass, with my family ring on his finger and the knife he gave me tucked between his hands. The ring of clouds around the island is already clearing, and sun gilds Mordan’s placid face as the clumps of dark dirt tumble onto his skin. He looks so peaceful. More so than he ever was in life.

“Would you like me to send word to your parents?” Locke asks as we walk back toward the shore.

Now that the storm is dissipating, we have a clearer view of the destruction my brother caused. Countless ships, hundreds of bodies in various stages of decay. As the air stills, the reek intensifies, and so does my inner conviction that I did the right thing. Now that the storm is dissipating, we have a clearer view of the destruction my brother caused. Countless ships, hundreds of bodies in various stages of decay. As the air stills, the reek intensifies, and so does my inner conviction that I did the right thing. Even if Mordan had been able to change, even if he had accepted a binding vow and a tattoo, he had already killed so many people. Letting him live a pleasant life would have been a gross injustice to everyone whose bodies he dishonored, whose lives he ended. He needed to pay.

“No,” I tell Locke. “I don’t want my parents to know anything about what happened here. Let them believe their children are both sailing the high seas, defiant and reckless and full of life.”

“That will be true of you.” Locke squeezes my shoulders. “Because I’m never sailing anywhere again without my beloved whore—I mean, wife.”

I elbow him hard in the ribs, and he chuckles. He inspects my face eagerly, and when my lips twitch up at the corner, he grins.

The fool wanted to make me smile. And though I hate him for inducing a smile so soon after Mordan’s death, I’m grateful for it, too.

“How are your eyes?” I ask. “They look a bit better.”

“They feel better,” he says. “And the left one is less blurry now. I’ll admit, I was a bit worried I’d have to bring back the eye-patch.”

I slide my arm around his waist. “I’ll take you any way you come, damaged or not, as long as you’ll do the same for me.” I speak low, keeping my eyes on the ground. “When I found out who you really were, I had no right to judge you like I did.”

“You had every right. I’m a cruel wretch, and I know it.”

“But you’re not, though. And even if you are, I—” Tears pulse at the corners of my eyes. “I love you anyway.”

He stops me right there, turns me to face him, and cups my face. “Say that again.”

“I love you.”

His features tense, eyes shining painfully bright, and for a second I think he might cry.

“May I kiss you?” he says. “I know you’ve been through something terrible, and I’ll wait as long as you like before we join again, but I need to kiss you right now.”

“Please,” I whisper.

While he kisses me, tender and deep, he wipes my tears away with his thumb. “I love you, Veronica. Even more so for the choices you made today. You are stronger than I am, and though we may never agree in all things, I swear to you I will always listen, and respect your choices.”

“You always have,” I murmur. “Ever since the first day.”

He kisses me again, and a glow spreads through my body. I will grieve Mordan for years, but I refuse to let his loss suck me back into darkness. I won’t let him steal the joy and beauty of my adult life, as he stole it from my childhood.

“Tonight I may need some physical comfort,” I tell Locke, tracing his lips with my finger. “Something to help me forget.”

He pulls me to his chest, his answer rumbling through my ear. “Happy to oblige.”

“Ho there, Cap’n!” calls Dolomon from up ahead. “Gotta get to the boats and begone afore the tide changes!”

“On our way,” Locke calls back, and we continue picking through the wreckage toward the shoreline.

The Lichfell is floating a careful distance from the island, but her crew has already sent out boats for us. Within the hour we’re aboard the flagship, with our backs to that island of wind and death.

I have nothing to remind me of my family, but I need nothing from them. Everything of value that I now possess, I earned on my own, by my grit and grace—from the tall pirate with the pale eyes and the one white lock in his black hair, to the kingdom I’ll share with him. I’ll help him write new laws, sail with him, deliver tribute to the impoverished islands, and make the selfish kings pay.

A gust of wind catches the Lichfell’s sails—the natural breath of the Mother Ocean, and I inhale deeply, letting it wash me clean.

The deck tilts slightly beneath my feet, and I set my palm against the railing to brace myself. Dolphins break the foamy surface, arching their glistening backs to the sun, and a fragrance fills my nostrils—salt, and fresh air, and the spicy male scent of Locke as he approaches from behind and envelops me in his arms.

Overhead, the flag snaps in the breeze. We fly the Crowned Skull-and-Bones, the symbol of the Pirate King.

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Thank you to all the people who read this story early on Kindle Vella—there were a LOT of you, which was amazing and unexpected—and you gave me the motivation to keep going with my weird little tale of a girl and a pirate.

Thank you to Deb, Adrianne, Kelley, JJ, and Michele, who helped me catch more of those pesky typos before the book went to print!

Stay tuned, because I’m going to feature Kardon and his mysterious magic in an upcoming serial story… and I’ll probably write spin-off stories for Puckley and Cyprus as well.

The IMMORTAL WARRIORS adult fantasy romance series

The Horseman of Sleepy Hollow

Jack Frost

The Gargoyle Prince

Wendy, Darling (Neverland Fae Book 1)

Captain Pan (Neverland Fae Book 2)

Hades: God of the Dead

Apollo: God of the Sun

The PANDEMIC MONSTERS trilogy

The Vampires Will Save You

The Chimera Will Claim You

The Monster Will Rescue You

Interior Design for Demons

Lair of Thieves and Foxes

The Teeth in the Tide (Savage Seas Book 1)

The Demons in the Deep (Savage Seas Book 2)

These Wretched Wings (A Savage Seas Universe novel)

The KORRIGAN trilogy

Korrigan (Book 1), Druid (Book 2), and Samhain (Book 3)

The Monsters of Music (a gender-swapped Phantom of the Opera retelling)

Her Dreadful Will