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Prologue: 1592 Dartmouth Harbor, England

Gillian

“Well, this is a pickle, and no mistake.”

Gillian spun around, one hand on the ladder and the other clutching a wand. The section of the great ship that her party had descended into was dark, although the lantern that one of her compatriots held splashed it with dim light. But a score of torches lining the place wouldn’t have helped any better.

There was nothing to see, just weathered boards and darkness.

Until a woman stepped out of thin air, dropping the cloaking spell she had been using and staring up at Gillian, a wand in her fist but a smile on her lips.

She was young, perhaps mid-twenties, with the kind of face that promised to run to fat in middle age but was pretty enough now. Broad and meant to be round, it was currently thin and gaunt, as those of so many of their kind were these days. There were also faint lines etched into her skin of worry, pain, and anger, and the blue eyes were hard.

But the lips still smiled, and she hadn’t tried to curse anyone yet. So, Gillian likewise refrained. The last thing she wanted was a battle in such close quarters. Or a battle at all, for her work depended on secrecy.

“Sister,” Gillian said cautiously. “What brings thee hither, on such a night?”

The wind echoed her question, howling around the huge ship like an entire army of banshees. It was pissing down rain besides, although it was hard to hear it this far below decks. But the gale was enough to rock the ship slightly, even in port.

Gillian clung to the ladder, her people above her doing likewise. By now, they had weapons in their hands and were awaiting her signal. But if the witch had been cloaked, she likely had a group of her own, concealed by magic or the darkness in the passages that branched off from the little room.

Passages that supposedly led to a storehouse of riches.

The witch laughed, apparently reading Gillian’s face, despite the poor lighting. “Aye, my clan’s w’ me as I assume yours is w’ you?”

“What’s left of it.” Gillian couldn’t keep the bitterness out of her voice, but it was a fortunate lapse, as the woman’s expression changed. From forced good humor and hard, cold eyes, to . . . perhaps not compassion, but understanding. They had all suffered. They had all known the same, bone deep pain.

“Aye, what’s left of it,” she agreed. “And no need for there to be any more losses this night, if we can make a bargain?”

“What kind of bargain?” Gillian asked, her eyes narrowing. This treasure ship, the greatest ever brought to English shores, meant the difference between life and death to her small band. If the compromise was them leaving empty handed, then they would fight, no matter how little she wanted that.

“One where we all win,” the witch told her, taking off her cap and letting a mass of dark hair tumble free.

It was less curly than Gillian bright red locks, but no less thick. She threw the piece of wool aside, along with the linen coif that lay underneath it. And shook out the waves, as if in relief.

“After tonight, no more hiding. No more attempting to blend in. After tonight, we make our own rules, go where we will, and live how we choose!”

Gillian felt her throat clench in hope, because that was all she wanted. Although it galled her to have to leave her own land, her country and that of her coven for time out of mind. But if it was that or watch even more of them die, she would do what she must.

“We’re here for jewels,” she told the woman shortly. “We care for nothing else.”

“Ah, we may have no quarrel, then,” the woman told her. “We’re here for silks.”

Behind her, a small group stepped out of the darkness. They looked like Gillian’s own tattered band of once proud witches and wizards, in old clothes, scuffed and patched boots, and cloaks no self-respecting beggar would have had. But wands were in their hands, and despite everything, Gillian was glad to see them.

She felt her eyes sting at the sign that more of her brothers and sisters had survived the cataclysm of their time, and were still fighting. And fighting hard by the look of them. One was missing half an arm, with the acid-etched stump evidence that a potion bomb had hit its mark. Another had a patch over one eye and a cascade of scars dribbling down his cheek. And a third was hunched over as if he’d suffered a spinal injury and could no longer stand upright.

Yet they were here, they were alive, and they were fighting to stay that way. And the same pride that swelled her heart must have spread, because, suddenly, the mood shifted. Smiles broke out, just as they might have at a gathering of the covens, where these same people would once have met as friends under a full moon, and now came together on a storm-tossed night.

The black-haired woman held up a hand, however, stopping her band from surging forward as they looked apt to do. “We have an understanding, then?” she demanded.

“Take all the silks you want, sister, and anything else not covered in jewels,” Gillian said. “We are leaving these shores, and want small and portable items.”

“And the gold? We’ve heard tales of coins as well as bars—”

“Heaps o’ them,” one of her boys said, his eyes shining. “May have to enchant summat to carry it all!”

“We’ll have some of it,” Gillian said carefully. “Halves for each of us?”