Freeport was a bustling place: ships in the harbour—at least some of them fellow pirates sailing under false colours to do a bit of trade—warehouses, taverns and shops circling the bay, houses tucked into the hills above. As its name suggested, it was a free port, dealing with both lawful and unlawful transactions. Elisabeth surveyed the assembled vessels, pleased that none of them had been at Skull Island. She wasn’t keen to encounter the captains who had witnessed her forced obeisance, not so soon after the event, not without shoring up her power.

  Their sojourn in town was intended to be short—a quick re-supply of both provisions and crew, the latter more difficult to gain in a proper town. Any of this business was easier in a pirate haven, but the adage said: any port in a storm. At least in her role as captain, bartering for provender and recruiting new sailors weren’t part of her responsibilities. They were the domain of the quartermaster, the cook, the treasurer, and the doctor, for the outfits lucky enough to have the full compliment. Doctors, or healers, were prized possessions. A functional ship had a crew full of specialists that all came together for a common purpose and abdicated their powers in battle. The Silence was a fortunate ship—its crew had a full complement of experts. And all of these esteemed members were getting ready to find all the provisions they could in the town.

  Elisabeth turned her attention from the harbour, to the deck of her ship. The women who had chosen to leave were packing their belongings and their share of the loot, carefully latching their satchels into the longboats. Next to them, Moira loaded a few bags of gold, and spoke quiet instructions to a handful of her most trusted sailors. Experience told Elisabeth that she was giving them lists of needed items—sweet water, oranges or lemons or limes, hard tack, rum—the things that kept a ship alive through sun and storm, smooth seas and rough. In the bay, a soft breeze took the edge off the rising midday heat. This was no time to work, in the captain’s opinion, and confident in her crew’s ability to procure what was needed, she turned her back on the preparations, and returned to her cabin.

  Their next destination was clear. They were going to Hag's Rock, but Elisabeth still didn’t know how to approach her sisters, or how to gain their assistance. When they parted ways a decade ago, it was on bad terms. She grimaced at the memory, unwilling to pull it to the forefront of her mind, instead forcing it away to focus on the problems of the present. A sacrifice or two would smooth the way for at least a conversation, she suspected. But for them to actually help her find the Atlas Stone? That required more than a bit of flesh and blood. A flash of memory caught her off-guard and she was back in the caverns of Hag's Rock before she had a chance to shove the recollection aside.

  The walls were wet with condensation. Grinning skulls looked down on them from their vantage points around the room. Every bit of rock was covered in gleaming bone. A partially charred ribcage sat on a stone table. Emilia dug through the still bubbling lungs, her gnarled hands reaching for the heart—the most prized delicacy among the cannibals. Elisabeth watched, teeth clenched against the nausea her sisters’ feasting always created.

  “Fuck.” She pushed the repulsive memory away, disciplining her thoughts to the problem of gaining the assistance of the hags. Dwelling on the reasons she left was not going to help her overcome her present difficulties. She was loath to confront their strange appetites again, but she saw no other way than to feed them. It was rare for the She-Wolf to be able to claim the moral high-ground, but in this instance, she was standing atop a mountain. Sacrifices would be made. Participating in the aftermath was not part of the plan. And yet, she suspected that her sisters would demand she partake. Her gullet rose at the mere thought. Strange to find a line that she still refused to cross, even after a decade of malicious deeds.

  Elisabeth sat at her desk, put her feet up on the worn wood, and pulled a partially drunk bottle of rum from a drawer. She took a long swallow, letting the liquid burn in her throat. It wasn’t likely to settle her stomach, but at least the edge of anxiety that was beginning to form would soften. Ruminating on the problem of her sisters, she glared at the chest full of talismans she’d brought from the Hideout. A few of the pieces were rare, baubles so full of power that they might appeal to the hags. She wasn’t keen on parting with them, but she might not have a choice.

  In hindsight, she should have taken scales from the siren, instead of dissolving it into the muck. Then again, even tamed, the spirit of the creature lurked in her periphery, haunting her in a way that hadn’t happened since she was a very young necromancer. Having pieces of the creature in her possession would have enhanced its powers too much. Some things were best left to decay. She hummed an off-key tune under her breath, hoping it irritated the ghost, and took another swig of rum.

  A soft knock on her door drew her attention away from the problems of the future and brought it back to the problems of the present—eight members of her crew were leaving with the boats headed to Freeport.

  “Come in.” She swung her feet to the floor as the door opened.

  “Captain,” Moira stepped into the room. “The accounts are settled. And I’m ready to head into town for provisions. Are you joining us?”

  Elisabeth thought about the question for a long moment, the first hints of a rum-haze slowing her down. The last time she visited a town, she almost ended up burned at the stake. Best not risk that again so soon. She had enough problems.

  “I’ll let you do your work. You’re recruiting at the taverns tonight?”

  “Aye.”

  “Good.”

  “Having you there might help. Anyone who signs up with you glowering at them should be brave enough to sail with us,” the quartermaster’s expression was dour, when Captain Wolf didn’t bother to respond to the request. “I’ll be on my way, then.” She sighed, shook her head, and turned to leave. The door shut behind her, and Elisabeth was left the chuckle to herself—her reputation was enough to discourage any casual applicants. One more swig from the bottle of rum, and she replaced the cork, and shoved it back in its drawer. She needed to keep her wits about her—she didn’t trust that the evening was going to be a smooth one. With a soft groan, she pulled out the captain’s logbook, quill, and ink. The plan for how to coerce her sisters into giving her information about the Atlas Stone wasn’t forming. As punishment for her failure, she got to work on her least favourite task as captain—it was time to update the ship’s records.

  Elisabeth opened the book, took a moment to organize her spinning thoughts, and began to write out minimal descriptions of recent events. While it was an honest account, it didn’t require details or emotions, just facts, allowing her a reprieve from the challenges that lay ahead and the billowing dread that threatened to overwhelm her every time she thought of the enormity of the Skeleton King’s errand. Maintaining the logbook was tedious work, but a necessary task for any captain. The rum warmed her, and softened the edges of her tension, the gentle lapping of the sea against the hull was a soothing lullaby, and before she realized it was going to happen, her head drooped, rubbing ink into her cheek, and she fell asleep, the quill dripping next to her hand.

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  She stood at the rail of a ship, its bulk heaving in a violent, storm-tossed sea.

  “Even a cold heart can betray you,” he growled in her ear, and she shivered, enjoying the sensation of his breath against her skin. “Beware.”

  Henry Mortimer stood at her back, his body a line of heat behind her, and she wished that he would wrap his strong arms around her waist. Beneath her feet, the ship rolled, moving up and down in the waves, a comforting motion, even in the tempest-fueled swell. Her gaze remained on the horizon, where a line of darkness spread toward her like spilling ink. The shiver spread through her limbs and settled into her flesh like a layer of deep frost, pleasure turned to discomfort in the blink of an eye. Pain bloomed in her chest. She looked down to see the tip of a dagger protruding from her breast, sharp and gore-slicked.

  “You never did want to listen, did you?” His hand rested on her hip now. She wanted to turn to him, but the knife and the horror of the ink-stain horizon held her in place. “Don’t look away now. You need to see this through.”

  The darkness coalesced. Its tendrils reached for her, wrapping around her arms, her legs, twining up and around her limbs like vines, until they reached her center, gaining entry through the hole in her chest. Its touch burned with glacial cold and she gasped.

  “Almost there, darlin,” he purred, the words misting in the frigid air. As the blackness spread over her body, she felt her knees go weak. Her vision blurred. His arms finally wrapped around her as she began to slip to the deck and he cradled her there, blood pooling beneath them and soaking into the wood.

  “This isn’t the end.”

  “I know, but you’re going in the ground, now.”

  “We’re at sea,” she could only whisper.

  “Not anymore. Try to see.” The words jarred her into forcing open her drooping eyelids. When she was able to focus, they were in the jungle, sprawled beside an open grave. “Your heart, cold as it may be, betrayed you.”

  “No.”

  Mortimer sighed and rolled her off his lap into the hole in the ground. She was too weak to resist, too weak even to protest, and she landed with a thud and a crunch as her arm broke beneath the weight of her body.

  “I’ll see you soon, love.” And in the way of dreams she was suddenly on her back, looking up at a sky full to bursting with stars. Henry’s face was lit by torchlight as he smiled down at her. He began to push dirt into the grave, shoving at it with his hands until the weight crushed what little breath remained in her lungs. Darkness returned. Silence pooled within her mind and was broken only by the loud, drum-like beating of her heart.

  Elisabeth woke up with a gasp, breath hitching, and heart hammering. A cold sweat coated her skin and her mouth was dry with fear, the taste of old rum vile on her tongue. She scrubbed a shaking hand over her ink-stained cheek. Beneath the terror of the nightmare, lay a warm, cloying sensation—the memory of Henry Mortimer’s hands wrapped around her wrists, the scent of lightning in her nose. She didn’t believe in dreams as premonitions—her gifts lay elsewhere—but this felt like a warning.

  For a moment, she wallowed in self-pity, wishing for a return to the simple life she’d led before the Skeleton King’s summons. The only thing she had worried about was capturing prizes to pay her crew their due, and chasing after the trinkets that gave her power. She loved nothing more than adding talismans to her hoard of treasure. Every bauble gained increased her sense of security in the world. Now, all of that was shattered, its fragments cutting at her confidence, her sense of self. She closed the logbook with a snarl of disgust at her increasingly irritating inner monologue.

  Every impulse in her screamed for action. As soon as they left Freeport, they were taking a prize. A bit of decent piracy might wash the sour taste from her mouth, and remind her, again, of who she truly was—pirate, necromancer, mistress of her own fate. For now, she gathered her cutlass and hat, and made her way up to the deck.

  “Get me a boat,” she ordered the nearest sailor, and watched as the bare-bones crew sprang into action to obey. Caution be damned, she was heading into town. A new plan was crystalizing as the longboat took her into the harbour. She chewed on her lip, anxious to pull Moira from whatever tavern she sat in and get them back to sea. They were done here. The recruits they needed for her sisters could be found on a captured ship. Coming here was a mistake. She felt that in her bones as soon as her feet touched the wood of the quay. They were wasting time.

  Cressia waited for her at the end of the pier.

  “How did you know that I was coming?” Elisabeth asked, always amazed at the bodyguard’s uncanny ability to predict her movements.

  “My secret, captain.” Her eyes crinkled at the corners, hinting at the smile that sat beneath her veil. She seamlessly fell into step as Elisabeth walked onto the muddy streets of Freeport.

  “Where’s Moira?”

  “At the Whale’s Tail.”

  “Alright, take me there.”

  The walk through the town was uncomfortable for Elisabeth. Civilized folk weren’t out at this late hour, so they met few people, but those that did cross their path greeted them with wary looks. Shuttered shops lined the street, and a few lamps burned to light their way as twilight deepened. The smell of rain was in the air, overpowering the scent of the retreating tide. The further they got from the Silence, the more her skin crawled. Around them, the town changed from marketspace, to warehouses, and finally to taverns and inns. All of the establishments were clustered between a landward gate and a second, larger quay—the main trade port. Strange for Moira to have chosen a respectable looking tavern, instead of one that dealt with rougher clientele, but Elisabeth trusted the quartermaster to know her business.

  She stepped inside the tavern and scanned its interior, eyes adjusting to the brightness of candles and a roaring fire. Moira sat at a table in a corner, a sheaf of papers in front of her, a tankard at her elbow, and her hook displayed proudly on the wood next to the contracts. The attempt to find three young men to take aboard as an offering to her sisters was clearly not going well for the quartermaster. Elisabeth made her way across the tavern, feeling every eye on her as she settled at the table next to Moira’s. She made a show of sitting so her back was to the wall, her sightlines clear to all of the doors. She tipped her chair onto its back legs, and settled into glowering at the room. Cressia stayed near the door, guarding the exit.

  “I’m not certain you’re helping, Captain,” Moira grumbled, as a sailor gave them a wide berth, gaze not straying from Elisabeth until he was at the bar, surrounded by his compatriots.

  “It’s a good thing that I’ve changed the plan,” Elisabeth shot her quartermaster an amused look and a flash of her most mischievous grin. “You can put those away.” She gestured at the unsigned contracts.

  “Oh, thank the water lords,” Moira exclaimed and shoved the papers away, glad to be done with the irksome task.

  “We’re heading back to sea. We’ll get what we need from a prize.” The other woman let out a bark of laughter that drew the attention of the sailors near them. Elisabeth let her chair drop back to the ground and stood. “Shall we, quartermaster?”

  “Let’s go.” The two women walked out of the tavern, Cressia their shadow. Their steps were lighter than when they arrived, both of them buoyed by the knowledge that they were going to be proper pirates as soon as they put this place in their wake. Elisabeth whistled a tune as they sauntered back to the harbour, a renewed sense of purpose chasing away the heaviness that sat on her like a boulder since the meeting with Skeleton King and the imposition of his errand. The sensation was like weather—clouds clearing and returning at a fickle wind’s whim. Banishing it completely meant fulfilling the task, or succeeding in killing the king—both impossible, both necessary. Captain Wolf pushed these thoughts aside, and focused on the sensation of the sea breeze on her skin, the sickle of the moon shining down on them, while a sliver of crimson still lingered on the horizon. The Silence would sail when the tide turned again, taking them to sea by sunrise, and to a good distance for a hunt within a few days.