The Devil's Fire (34 page)

"He's got a point there, mate," Farley said, grabbing the bottle.

"I don't mean to kill her," Bart replied, blinking at the fat, blurry blob that had just spoken. "Maybe I'll just teach her a lesson."

Harrow tittered. "From the look of her, I'll wager she's learned many lessons."

"None so hard as mine," Bart said, and swiftly pivoted on his heels and made for the exit before bravado could flee him.

"No stopping him now," he heard Francois say.

"I'm not about to try," Farley muttered.

Bart shouldered through many crates, which seemed to be sliding in on him. The walkway was far more cramped and difficult to navigate than when he had come in. A chicken scurried about his feet, flapping its wings and squawking. He kicked it violently, propelling the bird into a crate. The chicken landed flat, one wing twitching spastically. "Might want to cook this one now," Bart called back. "I tendered her up for you."

He found the ladder and climbed up, raking his nose against a rung. He cursed, shaking the dizziness from his head. Halfway up, he glanced over his shoulder. The crewman stared after him from their distant patch of light. Farley waved, his face bright red as though he was ready to burst out laughing. Bart spat at them and continued climbing.

His hand slipped on the next rung, leaving a smear of blood. A massive splinter was jutting from his knuckle, blood seeping between his fingers. He tore the splinter free with his teeth, feeling no pain, and wiped his hand on his pants.

He slapped both arms on the deck and wrenched himself upward. He stood, invigorated by the cool fresh air. He scanned the deck, his eyes blurring in and out of focus. Pirates were scattered everywhere, sleeping soundly. He looked to the bow, but didn't see anyone. Had she run to her captain at last, fearing the inevitable?

He looked to the captain's cabin, set in a stairway carved in the deck. The door was shut. Bart started toward it. They were pirates again, after all, and the captain's quarters on a pirate ship was not exclusive to the captain. Bart would barge in and take what was rightfully his, and there was nothing Hornigold could do about it.

Something stirred above the cabin on the aft deck, a slender shadow. Her hair was unmistakable. Bart sprinted up the three steps to the deck. No pirates were sleeping here tonight; it was just him and her. She moved slowly to the aft bulwark, tossing a smirk over her shoulder. She set the bottle of rum at her feet and faced him, framed by the black storm clouds in the distance, ever vigilant on the horizon. "What took you so long?" she said.

"I knew you wanted me to follow you," Bart slurred.

"Picked up on that, did you? And here I thought myself subtle."

Bart moved closer, wobbling on unsteady legs. He had overdone it with the rum, but that never seemed to damage his libido.

"The others wouldn't have picked up on it," he said.

"You're smarter than them," she replied knowingly. She placed her elbows on the bulwark behind her, stretching her shirt across her chest, nipples pressing against the fabric. Bart's heart thumped in his chest as he advanced.

"You were right, you know," she said. Her voice was wincingly raspy, almost masculine, as though she had screamed too many times.

"About what?" Bart said, pausing.

"About ghosts," she replied.

"What about ghosts?" he said, trying to sound casual. The ocean was moving slowly away from the ship, the sails billowing with all the haste of a snail struggling through molasses. If Bart didn't get to his business soon, he would pass out.

"When ghosts disappear, no one notices," she said, running her tongue across her upper lip.

He frowned, gradually recalling his conversation with Bastion. "You were listening in?"

She laughed. It was a harsh sound, like pebbles grinding. "I was passing by and overheard."

"You have good ears."

"I only have the one, you see." She trailed a finger across her left temple, drawing back her hair to reveal a garbled mess where her right ear had been. Bart flinched. What had happened to this woman? "Don't look too disappointed," she chuckled. "It's only an ear. I have a spare."

He swallowed his revulsion, pushing the unsettling image from his mind. She was still very attractive, two ears or one. It was fortunate that her hair concealed the mutilation. He supposed he could get past it.

She curled a finger, beckoning him closer. "You'd better hurry," she said, glancing downward, "before the spirit absconds."

He moved fast, crushing her against the bulwark. His hands fumbled at her waist, sliding down and around to cup her ass. She gasped as he squeezed her. Her wet lips grazed his cheek, her breath hot on his face. Fingernails dug into his ribs. He smashed his chest against hers, her nipples piercing his pecks. Her hair smelled like salt and sand. He licked her neck and struggled to untuck her shirt from her pants. She seized his arms and shifted her weight, turning him around so that he was between her and the bulwark. Her foot kicked the bottle of rum as she moved, and it clinked noisily as it rolled onto its side.

"Oh dear!" she said, giggling lightly. "It's spilling. Can't have that." She held up a finger, halting him, and bent down to retrieve the bottle. She stumbled, her fingers grazing the neck of the bottle. It rolled behind his leg. "Raise your foot," she said. He did as instructed, and she reached under him. Her gaze lifted suddenly, glaring at him through the red tresses of hair that had spilled over her face.

"What are you . . . ?" he started, scowling. Everything was moving so slowly.

She pushed upward, her shoulder catching the underside of his foot. Her left hand shot into his stomach, knocking the wind out of him, and when she withdrew it, something flashed silver and red. She summoned all of her weight to shove him up and over the bulwark. The ship tumbled out of view, his legs flailed in the air, and every notch of his spine grated against the rail as he slid off. The world spun end over end, sea and ship swirling in a dizzying blur. And then he saw her looking down on him, hair burning crimson in the moonlight, face eclipsed in darkness.

Bart's back slapped the water.

He struggled to stay afloat as the ship sailed away from him at startling velocity; faster than he realized it had been moving. He opened his mouth to scream and sucked water into his lungs. He hacked, ejecting something dark and faintly red into the water, where it expanded in a black cloud around him. He continued to cough, grains of salt scraping his esophagus on their way out. He thrashed his arms, slapping at the rolling waves, and pain shot through his torso like a bolt of lightning. His legs started to sink, as though gripped by invisible hands. The water rose above his nose and he thrust himself upward, but the pain in his stomach was paralyzing him. The muscles in his arms were quickly growing numb and stiff.

The ship moved quietly into the horizon, and the woman remained a shadow at the stern, watching him sink. The last thing Bart heard was a crack of distant thunder from the storm somewhere behind him.