by Tom Abrahams
“She knows the poem,” Lucius reiterated, head sinking into his palms. “I left her alone. I left her to face those heartless pirates on her own.”
Zeke’s hardened expression softened. He shook his head. “I don’t know about that. You had no way of knowing Desmond Branch would kill you, and you have no way of knowing he took your daughter. That’s a leap, isn’t it?”
Uriel laughed humorlessly. “Like when you left your girlfriend and you had no way of knowing the bad guys would go grab her, torture her, imprison—”
“Not the same thing,” Zeke bristled. “I knew what I was doing. I paid for it.”
Lucius didn’t know the history, but this development made him second-guess his previous assessment of Zeke and Uriel’s relationship. The tension was palpable, thick in the humid air. Zeke unfolded his arms and put a hand on Lucius’s shoulder.
“It’s not the same,” he said. “You can’t take the blame for this. We’ll find your daughter.”
“Thank you,” said Lucius, “but it is my fault. I left her to fend for herself. I have to make it right.”
Uriel sighed. “Doesn’t matter whether you knew what you were doing or not. We’re here. In your world. Water world. It’s like a bad movie.”
Lucius tilted his head to one side. “What’s a movie?”
“Sheesh.” Uriel brushed past him, her shoulder bumping into his. She slid into the captain’s chair and motioned for him to find a seat. “Buckle up, buttercup. Let’s go find some toil and trouble.”
Chapter Fourteen
Adaliah Bancroft stared at herself in the mirror. She didn’t recognize the reflection. Her bronze skin was sallow. Her lifeless eyes looked back as if they belonged to a stranger. Her hair lacked luster.
There was something ethereal about her appearance. She couldn’t put her finger on it. It was like someone had drained the light from her, leaving her as a shadow of her former self.
She ran her fingers along her chest, down the center of her bosom. The faint remnant of adhesive stuck to her skin. Her skin, however, was smooth. No healing wound. No scar. No puncture.
The phantom pain of the gunshot was there sometimes. Flashes of a hot, burning bullet stealing the life from her.
Worse than the specter of physical pain was the very real emotional hurt. It was relentless. Debilitating. Mind numbing. It was what kept her in this room so many days since her arrival…wherever she was.
The man who put that bullet into her was the love of her life. Or she thought he was.
Against all odds, despite her deception and his betrayal, they loved each other. They had loved each other. Then he pressed the barrel of a gun against her and pulled the trigger.
Ezekiel Watson. Charmer. Protector. Lover. Bootlegger. Killer.
Li glanced past her reflection at the unmade bed on the opposite end of the sparsely decorated room. She pictured Zeke sitting on the edge of the mattress after she’d first arrived, trying to explain why he’d done it.
“I love you,” he’d said. “This was the only way.”
The only way. Right.
True. They were together. In some boardinghouse in the middle of nowhere that smelled of dust, sweat, and cheap liquor. Music filtered from the bar below. Faint laughter punctuated the hum of strings and thump of percussion.
She thought about the sadness in Zeke’s eyes as he spun his excuses. Others had stood at the foot of the bed, supporting Zeke. If they were supposed to help make his case, it hadn’t worked.
There was the curly-haired man with the bowler, who scratched his beard and nodded in agreement with everything Zeke said. He didn’t even look like he wanted to be there. Like someone had ordered him.
The other man, the one with the ironic tattoo on his neck, was stoic. But his body language told Li he too agreed with Zeke’s choices. His name was Phil, she thought.
Yes. Phil. He was sincere. Perhaps.
There was the woman too. The one with the mohawk pompadour, the leather, the ink, and the attitude. Li remembered her. Uriel. She was as dry and caustic as unrelenting grains of sand.
Li’s jaw tightened at the thought of the tattooed ingénue who she knew was interested in her man. It was obvious. The way she looked at him. The way her lips moved when he spoke, like she was communicating with him telepathically.
Li closed her eyes, angry at herself for caring. Why did it matter? Zeke wasn’t hers. She didn’t want him. Let the harpy have him.
A knock at her door startled her. Li exhaled. “Who’s there?”
“It’s Pedro. I thought you might like something to eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“A drink, then?”
She padded across the floor and stopped two feet from the door. Her eyes fixated on the patinated brass handle. The barkeep’s presence hung on the other side of the door. She felt it.
Saying nothing, she turned the handle and pulled the door into the room. Pedro stood with two sweating glasses in his hands.
“May I come in?” he asked.
Li pulled the door wider and stepped away from the entry. She motioned into the room with a wave of her arm.
Pedro’s footsteps thumped against the wood planks. He crossed the room to the tall dresser pressed against an exterior wall. Wide, multipaned windows framed the dresser. Thin white sheers muted the sunlight, which lit the space in a warm yellow hue.
He set the glasses on a silver tray atop the dresser. “I chose something light. Vodka tonic. On the rocks. Slice of lime.”
Li released the handle. “Ice?”
A smile broadened across Pedro’s face, stretching the heavy beard that covered his jaw and neck. White tendrils reached onto his cheeks and he scratched at them. She noticed then his eyes were bright blue, almost electric in color.
He picked up a glass and offered it to her. “Zeke told me it’s a delicacy where you’re from. Very little water, let alone ice.”
She moved to the barkeep and took the glass. She ran her thumb across the cool condensation and drew it to her lips.
The drink hit her throat and burned. How long had it been since she’d imbibed? Weeks? Months? It was hard to know. Li swallowed and motioned toward the dresser with the glass. The ice clinked.
“You offered me food, but didn’t bring any,” she said.
Pedro eyed the silver tray, the untouched second drink. “Observant. Zeke said you were smart. He said you were worthy of this place.”
She took another sip. This time it didn’t burn. But she felt the liquor in her otherwise empty gut.
“I wouldn’t trust everything Zeke tells you,” she said.
The barkeep rapped his fingers on the dresser. He was studying her. Or he was waiting for her to say something else. She bit.
“I don’t know what this place is, let alone why I’m here. The only thing I know is that Zeke put a bullet in my chest. He killed me.”
Pedro stopped rapping. He arched an eyebrow. “You remember him doing that?”
“Doing what?”
“Killing you. Putting a bullet in your chest.” Pedro tapped his chest with his fore and middle finger.
Li took another drink. Loose ice cubes hit her face. She shook her head.
“No,” she said. “I don’t remember it.”
“Then how do you know that’s what happened?”
She swirled the glass. The melting ice spun around the bottom. “He told me.”
“Ezekiel?”
“Yes.” Li took one last swig. The liquid was cold and mostly water now. A thread of lime pulp stuck to the roof of her mouth. She sucked it free with her tongue.
Pedro picked up the other glass. He offered it to her but didn’t move from the dresser. Li moved toward him to retrieve it, her fingers gripped around the rim of the first one like a claw. Before he handed her the refill, he hesitated.
His eyes locked onto her hers. “It was a selfless act.”
She took the glass from his hand. “What was selfless? Killing me?”
She laughed. Toasted him. Took a long draw. The vodka was cold on her teeth, in her throat. No burn. And no buzz. Not really. Not what she’d expect from a second glass on an empty stomach. Li licked her lips and looked away from his unnerving gaze.
Pedro leaned an elbow on the dresser and rested his bearded chin in his hand. Despite the dresser’s height, Pedro towered over it.
He was a big man. Tall and broad, he would have made a good soldier back home. She could picture him in black tactical gear, patrolling and enforcing the totalitarian rule that governed her previous life. She’d worked for those autocrats as a spy. That was how she’d met the selfless Zeke Watson. What a joke.
“He killed himself too,” Pedro said. “He put a bullet in his head. It was the only way to be with you.”
Now the alcohol hit her. A dizzying shock buzzed through her head and sparked into her extremities. She staggered back two steps and searched for a place to sit.
Pedro, perhaps seeing this, hurried from the dresser and took her by the elbow. He guided her to the overstuffed club chair in the corner across from the bed. He lowered her onto the cushion and took the drink from her.
Li sank into the chair. The room spun on its axis. Pedro talked, but she didn’t hear him. Instead, she focused on what she could remember, what her mind told her had happened without the benefit of Zeke’s explanation.
She could taste the dust in her mouth, the ache in her gut, the exhaustion in her legs and lower back.
“You saved me,” she’d said that night. “I don’t care about the rest. Just stay with me.”
Zeke had stepped back from her. She’d sensed his reluctance, the conflict in his eyes.
He motioned toward the transports. “I don’t think I can. There should be plenty of fuel among those trucks to get you to wherever it is you want to go. You’ll—”
Then he’d glanced at her and his expression shifted. Concern replaced hesitation. His mouth opened and closed before he spoke. The confidence in his voice was gone.
“You’re hurt,” he said. “You’re bleeding.”
Bleeding? She followed his gaze to her stomach. Her hands touched the slick, viscous liquid on her black uniform. When she pulled them away, her trembling fingers were bright red. A wave a nausea washed through her, bringing with it a deep chill. Her vision blurred with tears and she sank into Zeke’s body. He was so warm against her.
Her mouth was dry, but she spoke. “I want to be with you.”
Zeke took another deep breath. He exhaled. His breath was sweet and hot. She was so cold.
He looked straight into her eyes. “There is only one way we can stay together, and I don’t know if it’ll work.”
She swallowed again. “Just tell me. I’ll do anything.”
Anything, she’d said. She would do anything.
Zeke held her up. Her weight rested on him as he whispered, “Do you trust me?”
It took everything in her to mouth the words, to force air from her lungs. “More than I did a day ago. I know I shouldn’t, but I do.”
Zeke had mumbled something she didn’t understand. Then she was here. Racing from a horde of demons who chased her with a ferocity she’d not seen from the worst of people.
Somehow, despite the wounds to her body, she fought them off. She beat them to the oasis in the middle of nowhere. Pedro picked her up from the porch steps and carried her across the threshold in his strong hands…
She studied those hands now. They were laced together in front of him. His thumbs rubbed back and forth across each other.
Li folded her arms and rubbed them. Her skin was cold. The memory chilled her. She lifted her gaze to meet Pedro’s.
“I was hurt already,” she said softly. “Zeke pulled the trigger, but I was already going to…”
She couldn’t say it. She couldn’t finish the sentence.
Pedro said nothing. He bent down and picked up shards of glass from the floor. She’d dropped it and not realized it until then.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. Though, as she said the words, she wasn’t sure for what she was apologizing. Was it the glass? Was it Zeke?
Her eyelids were heavy. She wanted to sleep despite not feeling tired. She wanted to crawl inside herself and shut out the world, as she’d done since arriving at this place.
Pedro squatted, balancing himself on the balls of his booted feet. One hand held shards of glass; the other palmed a melting glob of ice.
He put on a warm smile. “It’s okay,” he said. “You’ll be okay. Soon enough everything will make sense and you’ll begin the next part of your journey.”
She wrung her hands. “Where’s Zeke? I need to—”
“Zeke’s not here,” Pedro said.
“Where is he?”
“On the next part of his journey.”
Chapter Fifteen
Anaxi watched the sun burn along the horizon from the bow. Another day was dying, another night in its infancy. The Saladin plowed through the calm seas, the crests of the wake peeling off the sides the only real visible movement along the undulating surface.
The ocean was abnormally calm. Almost impossibly calm. If the legend was true, they were getting close. Anaxi steadied herself along the railing. It was time.
She turned toward the ship’s rear. They headed south, though they’d slowed considerably from the lack of wind. Anaxi was surprised Branch hadn’t come to her sooner, asking about the change in conditions.
She made her way by taut lines and men hustling to work the deck. The diminished crew was busier than before, each man responsible for the work of three. Anaxi watched one sailor swab the deck with a large mop. The water in the aged wooden bucket was brown, and a matching stain on the wooden planks wasn’t disappearing. Blood had a way of leaving its mark.
The sailor peered at her through the strain on his face, sweat dripping from his chin. He said nothing as he drove the mop across the deck, as if driving a spade into dirt.
She reached the helm and found Le Grand at his post. Anaxi wondered if the man ever slept. Both his hands rested on the wheel’s felloe, on either side of a handle. The water was so calm he needn’t do more than gently guide the Saladin on its course.
Anaxi slid next to him. “Where’s Branch?”
Le Grand was dismissive. “Eating dinner.”
“It’s time.”
She kept her eyes forward, looking south, and felt Le Grand’s gaze on her. He said nothing. He didn’t need to speak. Anaxi sensed his body tense. His hands moved to a pair of adjacent handles on the wheel.
“What’s the next challenge?” he asked. There was purpose in his voice now. Or was it fear?
“I’ll wait for Branch,” she replied.
Le Grand motioned toward the closest deckhand. The boy, who wasn’t much older than Anaxi, was coiling the end of a line.
“You, go get the captain!” Le Grand barked. “Now. The girl needs him.”
The boy dropped the line, unraveling his work, and scurried across the deck like a rat.
Le Grand took one hand from the wheel and wiped his brow with the back of his forearm. “How is it you know where the sword is?”
“How is it you don’t?” Anaxi said.
The pilot laughed. It was genuine. “You’re a quick one. Clever. Too clever.”
Anaxi turned toward him, an eyebrow raised mischievously. “Can anyone be too clever?”
He laughed again. “Have you met Desmond Branch?”
She smirked along with him, then motioned toward the starboard catapult. “Tell me about those.”
“What about them?”
“Why catapults? Aren’t the cannons enough?”
Le Grand lifted his chin and scratched his neck. “You can’t ever be too careful. We like to have options.”
“For killing people?”
“Defense too.”
“What do the catapults do? I’ve never seen them on a ship before. Are they common?”
The truth was she’d
never seen a pirate ship of any kind. There were ill-intended seafarers who’d visit her village from time to time. But none as fiercely vile as Desmond Branch, his people, and the Saladin. For all she knew, catapults were typical for marauders.
Le Grand shook his head. “No. They’re not common. They were Desmond’s idea. He wanted a way to send alternative forms of punishment. Cannonballs are too direct sometimes.”
Anaxi studied the mechanism. The bucket was held in place at the end of an arm that connected to a cantilever-type spring. She didn’t know the names for the parts of the catapult, but looking at them and how they fit together, she innately understood how they worked.
“What does that mean?” she asked.
Le Grand chuckled. “It means Desmond is creative. Sometimes, he likes to hurl surprises at the enemy. We’ve launched all sorts of goodness from those machines. Keeps people off-balance. They expect the cannons. They don’t expect…other things.”
She didn’t even want to imagine what he referred to. Instead, she turned on him. “Why do you work for him?”
Le Grand shifted his weight without lifting his feet. His hands gripped the wheel handles again. He swallowed hard enough his Adam’s apple bobbed, and as he opened his mouth to speak, Branch appeared on deck.
The pirate captain pointed at Anaxi as he marched, face red. A piece of cloth was tucked into his collar. It was stained with whatever Branch had been eating.
“This’d better be good,” he grumbled. “For more than a day we’re basically floating. I finally sit down to eat, and now you call me here?”
Anaxi didn’t look at him. Instead, she closed her eyes and recalled the words her father had taught her.
Across the sea, through sun and shower
There is a sword of heavenly power
Its blade honed sharp, its grip is true,
in the hand of the righteous, its strength glows blue
Many shall seek, one shall find
This gift and curse, this fruit and rind.
Branch held up a hand to stop her. “I’ve heard this. Fruit and rind and whatever. We’ve passed the first test. We survived the storm and the beasts. What now?”