Page 19 of Bloody Black

E xactly as Xandretta forecasted, The Concorde slips out of her hiding spot just after sunrise, her hull cutting through sea-green waters with inhuman grace, leaving barely a ripple in her wake.

Constructed of the finest oak and ironwood, each mast is tipped with gold.

With three massive decks, she is the finest ship in the royal fleet.

We stand in a row, watching her go, studying the way her sails unfurl like storm clouds. Xandretta runs her forked tongue over her lips. “Ach, she moves with a bone in her teeth. What a ship.”

“How’d you like to steal it?” Holly asks, voice sweet as sugarcane.

“I’d rather burn it,” Prudence growls.

“You would.” Domino flicks her platinum hair over one shoulder. “What say you, Captain? What shall we do with The Concorde and her merry men?”

I haven’t yet decided. Both ideas have their appeal.

A memory stirs from the depths of my mind, tales told in shadowed taverns, of how William’s fleet was constructed by witches.

Built to dance along the surface of the sea, eluding any who dare pursue it.

Standing there, watching her carve through the sea like a knife, I almost believe them.

Truth or rumor, we shall see.

Teach stands ready at the helm, wearing a brown tricorn hat. “I have a sneaking suspicion they’ll fight rather than flee.” He’s still pretending to be Blackbeard, just until we’re back out to sea. In case anyone’s eyes are on us.

Down on the dock, Samson unties The Flying Rose quickly and efficiently, his capable hands hardened by sun and time.

“I don’t want to keep the men,” Mercy says suddenly, wiping at her damp forehead. She’ll be heading up to the crow’s nest shortly, but for now, she is where she always is. Standing next to Prudence.

“Don’t worry. They won’t live long.” Prudence presses protectively against her sister. “We’ll make sure of that.”

Anyone looking on would think we are in no hurry. Our cannons remain hidden, our knives sheathed, our flintlocks and muskets tucked under blankets. The few who wear weapons keep their hands busy. Domino waves to no one in particular, falsely friendly.

The Concorde glides past, her crew scanning us in that idle, passing way of men who don’t expect trouble.

More than a hundred pairs of eyes, and not one lingers.

We’re just another ship in port, another weary crew, in a knocked-around old freighter…

nothing worth a second glance. Meanwhile, their deck gleams, newly waxed.

There’s barely a barnacle on its hull. Everything is new, shiny .

I kneel on the deck to adjust my boot lace. Not that it needs tightening, but just in case.

“Their lieutenant seems sharp,” Xandretta mutters to the top of my head.

“I’ll bet he is,” Domino says, tying off the last of the ropes.

William’s lieutenants are the best sailors and soldiers in the realm, and as such, they are paid a king’s ransom, provided posh living accommodations, and all expenses paid.

All are complete bastards, forked-tongued slavers who rape and pillage.

One once beat a woman in a brothel so badly she was unrecognizable.

He won’t be doing that again.

After they pull clear, heading out into the breakwater, Mercy scales the mast, Teach angles the wheel, and our ivory sails unfurl. Full of wrinkles and patches and stitching. By some miracle, none of them rip. Thankfully, the wind fills them without incident.

“Steady as she goes. North by northwest.” Off to my right, the sunrise is weak and pale, threaded with pink. “Keep The Concorde in range. We don’t want her getting too far ahead.”

“You think we could take her without cannons?” Prudence asks the group.

“No.” Xandretta’s answer is quick and curt. “And we’ll be lucky if they don’t take us.”

We have a much smaller crew and not nearly enough ammunition. We rely on the element of surprise; they don’t expect any ship, or any crew, to attack them. Most of the time, their cannons aren’t loaded… and never have been. By the time they realize our plans and get organized, it will be too late .

Once we are out of sight of the port, Teach steps aside. I take the wheel without comment, our routine requiring no thanks or explanation. The Flying Rose cuts through the waves, the benefit of our lessons learned about keeping the ship lightweight.

The Concorde ’ s gleaming stern is just ahead, her figurehead a bird woman with her arms outstretched, her hair tangled in wind and seafoam.

“Closer. Come on now.” My hands are steady on the wheel, my focus absolute.

Here, the sea is shallow and the channel too narrow, littered with jagged reefs that could tear through a hull like paper.

The Concorde’s captain will have to navigate carefully, slowing just enough for us to close the gap.

Hopefully, he doesn’t know these waters as well as we do.

Xandretta eyes them, her rows of black teeth gleaming. “They haven’t noticed us yet.”

“That’s good news.” Domino crouches near the portside rail, one eye squinting as she watches the distance shrink.

“‘Good luck,’ you mean.” Teach adds.

I interrupt them. “Never trust luck. It always runs out when you need it most.”

“Think they’ll fight fair?” Prudence asks. I can feel the bloodlust rolling off her in waves; she wants the answer to be ‘no’. If she should tremble, it wouldn’t be with fear, but with anticipation.

“Never,” I reply, my eyes fixed on the water between our ships. “Not if William had any say in their training.”

She taps her foot, as keen to kill Roger as I am.

Patience, I remind myself again, though my fingers itch to reach for the hilt of my blade .

“All hands on deck.”

“All hands,” Xandretta signs down to the rest of the crew.

Thanks to her, our entire crew learned how to sign, an unexpected advantage that means we can operate silently.

Thus, the men on the main deck, and up here on the stern, move like ghosts.

There is no tolerance for shouting, for words that might carry over the open water.

I hold up my left hand with four raised fingers. Four sails. A moment later, additional sails unfurl, immediately snapped taut by a strong wind.

With two masts, we have a total of six, plus a pair of sails that could be run out from the sides of the ship like wings. The Flying Rose is small and old, but fast. It should easily catch The Concorde .

Although, a battle between the two wouldn’t be about speed.

The wrong move, and they’d arm their cannons and sink us; the wrong move, they’d know we were coming and be armed to the teeth.

We must keep them in sight, approaching naturally, so that when we finally overtake them, it will seem entirely innocent.

What a coincidence, finding you here, all alone on the high seas!

… And then we’d massacre them.

Still, if The Concorde so much as got a whiff of pursuit and decided to use her cannons, we’d be nothing but a bad memory. A burning ship left sinking in their wake.

The wind pulls us along, the crew works in perfect synchronicity, and it feels like we might close the distance. The sea stretches before us like an endless blue promise .

Anxiety churns in my gut. I still bear the scars on my wrists from where Roger bound me— he was on that ship. My pain is a sharpened blade, ready to carve justice into bones.

I would not let him slip through my fingers now.

On the main deck, the crew holds fast, their swords tucked away. Ever watchful. Ever ready.

A loud crack splits the air as the wind shifts hard against the mainsail, whipping it taut, followed by the most terrible sound I’ve ever heard. Tearing.

“Drop sail!” Teach roars, his deep voice carrying above the sudden chaos. My crew springs into action, voices shouting and ropes hissing through calloused hands as they scramble to lower the rigging.

“Tension!” Prudence shouts, her sharp eyes cutting through the bedlam.

She’s already flung herself toward the mast, her fingers deft as she works to undo a stubborn knot.

The wind isn’t terribly strong, but a battered canvas had caught on a nail, and with horror, I watch as the main sail rips open, like a disemboweled beast.

“Gods’ bones!” Domino curses as the canvas flaps wildly overhead, the shredded edge waving to and fro.

“Get it down! Quickly now!” The crew wrestles with the thrashing sail, their bodies braced against the pull of the wind.

The ropes groan under the strain, fibers popping one by one. “Domino! Grab that line!” Teach bellows, pointing to the fraying rigging on the port side. The Fae moves with deadly precision, her silver hair undulating as if caught by a current.

Teach calls for a knife .

“Don’t bleed on my deck,” Holly mutters, and tosses it to him in a perfect arc.

Teach catches it midair, slashing through the remaining ties to free the wrecked sail before it can drag the whole mast down, or break one of our necks. The canvas collapses in a heap, heavy and soaked from sea spray.

Now we’d never keep pace with The Concorde .

The wind is still with us, but the sail hangs in tatters.

Roger was onboard, smug and safe from my blade.

The horizon glitters like fool’s gold as The Concorde pulls ahead, every minute putting them further out of my reach.

No one will say it out loud, but the truth hangs in the air like smoke.

We’re not ready. Meanwhile, Rokhur watches, ever-present and clinging to our hull like a tick.

Her red mist threads through the boards of the ship, her sulfuric smell scenting the air.

She always seems to be expecting me to fail.

Around me, a storm of activity swirls—sailors scaling the rigging, cannons loaded and checked, the murmured prayers of the superstitious.

We’ll never catch them without help. And while we could turn back, I could not, would not, let him live another day—much less the six months it would take to find him again.