Page 20 of Bloody Black

Yet, we can’t catch him or The Concorde . Especially not when missing something so crucial as a functional sail, goddamn it.

… Or can we?

“Aye, Holly,” I turn to her. “Call the tides. Let’s see how fast they’ll run with you chasing them. ”

“With pleasure, Captain.” She steps closer to the railing, wind tossing her fiery hair, and holds up her hands. Immediately, the ocean swells. It courses toward us, and the ship lurches under our feet.

No questions asked, Samson vaults off the stern, his purple skin flashing in the sun. He’s going to swim under The Concorde , crawl up the other side, and drop their anchor. This will make it much easier to board them.

When we finally catch up, the schooner doesn’t flee, but neither does it open fire.

There is no panic in its movements, no scrambling of men across its decks.

Odd. I scan the ship, noting the sharp, deliberate angle of its cannons, the lack of fluttering pennants.

The Concorde had seen us, surely, but she neither fled nor fired.

We’re still drawing closer, with no excuse. After all, the ocean is huge. They can’t possibly mistake this for anything but pursuit. “Perhaps they mean to surrender,” I mumble, doubting the words before they even leave my lips.

“Overconfidence will kill you,” Teach mutters.

Prudence grins. “Not if I kill them first—”

BOOM.

A single cannon roars from her stern, and our world tilts.

The Flying Rose shudders, my crew cursing as the blast echoes over the water. The first cannonball rips through the sea just off our port bow, close enough that the spray lashes our decks like a whip. The message is clear: Stay away .

It’s a warning, not a miss. A little reminder that The Concorde could easily sink us.

I wipe sweat from my face and bare my teeth. “Now that’s more like it.”

Rokhur, carved from rotting body parts and clinging to our bow, lifts her head with a demonic grin.

Crimson mist begins to leak from her open mouth, slow and swirling, curling over the deck like red fog. Stretching toward The Concorde .

“Hell yeah,” Prudence shouts.

“Load the cannons!” I vault up onto the rail, holding my hat high. “King William has sent us a ship!”

Hearing our rallying cry, the men down on the main deck raise their swords and cheer.

“Idiots,” Holly mutters from behind the quarterdeck, frowning as she concentrates on the tides. “You’re going to get us all killed.” She’s gripping the railing a little too tightly, knuckles white with nerves.

I don’t need to hear the rest to know she’s scared. Holly only gets critical when she’s worried about the rest of us.

“Nah.” Domino laughs, pale braid whipping in the wind. “Besides, whatever doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger.”

“Whatever doesn’t kill me better start fucking running.” Prudence sticks out her tongue and draws her sword.

We draw closer, closer, closer. Until finally we’re within range.

“Ready?” I shout, then look over my shoulder .

Samson is cramming handfuls of cutlery into our cannons. Prudence loads arrowheads and buckshot, other bits of random metal. Domino totes over a bucket of seashells. Seashells.

“They’re going to think we’re crazy!” Teach says to me.

“We should have bought cannonballs in port.”

“We’re running low on funds. Besides, silverware is cheaper! Aim!”

Our ship slips into position, steered alongside by Teach. But we’re not done yet, not by far.

“Anchors!” I shout, and simultaneously, six anchors etched with rusted runes, plunge from the starboard rail. There’s a breathless moment as they fall, down and down, until they catch and hold on the seabed.

The sailors on The Concorde stare at us, trying to figure out what in the hell we’re doing. Why haven’t we fired again? Why don’t we have any cannonballs? Do we not care if they sink us? Why aren’t we sinking them?

Every face I can see is clearly confused by the chain of events.

Just then, The Flying Rose lurches right, jerking hard toward the ocean. Lifting the western side of the boat.

“Fire!” I drop my arm, and all of the cannons erupt simultaneously.

We hear screaming immediately. Clearly some of those forks found their mark.

There are also mixed shouts of disbelief.

Instead of targeting their ship, which is what most pirates would do, we’re targeting the crew.

Dropping the anchors changes the angle of the cannons fundamentally, letting us fire right over their railing—

And directly into their faces.

I imagine that it must be pretty painful.

“Another round?” Teach holds the helm firm, while the tide is pushing hard against the side of the ship. It’s only a matter of time before the ropes snap; only a matter of time until we lose the anchors.

We might as well make the most of it.

“Fire at will!” I shout again.

A puff of smoke rises from The Concorde ; a flash of light like lightning in a cloud—

“Gunfire!” yells Prudence over toward me.

Smoke fills the sky, and The Concorde finally returns cannon fire. The Flying Rose is close enough that we’re nigh impossible to miss… but thankfully, each of the iron balls that strike us is far enough above the waterline to not make any difference.

My father always said that winning battles is not about firepower, it’s about strategy.

When you have very few men, each must do the work of two or ten.

He claimed he’d seen boys half my age hold the line with nothing but courage.

In every skirmish we’ve ever had, my crew has been overwhelmed, a fraction of the group we’re facing.

Yet, we always win. That’s because, simply put, we’re experts at distracting them.

“Yoo hoo!” calls Holly, standing on the rail, flashing her breasts. “Hello!”

Approximately half of the sailors on The Concorde perk up, their faces poking over the rail.

Prudence, asshole that she is, is laughing as she fires the cannons one more time. Domino runs down the side of the ship, cutting the ropes, and the entire boat bobs up into the water, leveling.

This is the point where the sailors from The Concorde breathe a sigh of relief. They are so busy removing forks and knives from their bodies that they honestly don’t seem to notice that we’ve started towing their ship closer.

Grappling hooks, ten in all, now connect The Flying Rose to them. Latched on as tight as a flea, all via fantastical machinery. Our iron wenches are reeling them in. Like a fish on a hook, they can no longer escape me.

Silent as a cat, I leap from rail to rail, across the churning sea. Boarding The Concorde is shockingly easy, and my feet land with a thud on its decking.

Their crew reacts quickly—as our first wave of boarders begins to land, they draw their swords, trying to hack through the thick ropes connecting our ships. But there are so many, they can only get three before they are overwhelmed by a swarm of fighting.

Pirates pour over the rails, howling like the damned, hacking through men clad in blue. Very quickly, The Concorde becomes a storm of bodies and steel, fists and shouting.

“No quarter! No mercy!” Prudence bellows, cutting through a knot of sailors.

They scatter, but their movements are too coordinated, too precise. No rabble, this. These men are well-trained, and they fight like they have a plan. Bodies pile higher, the air a choking haze of smoke and copper.

Domino and Holly are at my back, their swords keeping me safe through the chaos .

No one emerges to bark orders, no figure stands out among the sailors we slaughter. They fight as one, their purpose sharp as the edge of my sword… yet there is no leader.

“Where’s their bloody captain?” Domino shouts above the fray. “Why hasn’t he surrendered?”

“Probably already dead!” Holly says.

I scan the carnage, leaping atop a crate for better vantage. The schooner’s defenders fall like wheat under a scythe, but still, I cannot see him. He’s probably huddled in the hold. Worthless coward.

Unfortunately, amid the fray, there’s also no Roger. My quarry is nowhere to be found. And there are so many men, so much fighting, I’m honestly not sure if I would spot him.

“Where’s Roger?” I demand, jumping down and grabbing a sailor by the collar. “Tell me!”

“I don’t know who that is!”

“Too bad then.” My cutlass spears through his chest and he crumples to the deck.

Holly waves to me. “Captain! There’s a group of men below decks. Maybe they’re protecting something.”

Or someone.

The downstairs of The Concorde is not like anything you’d expect.

Instead of low, the ceilings are high. The rosewood floors are wide and clean.

There are rows of portholes down either side, which brightens everything.

It’s pristine, clearly well taken care of—which speaks well of its dead captain, who must make his crew tidy up regularly.

Everything about it pleases me. As the rightful queen, The Concorde is officially part of my fleet.

“It smells new,” Domino says, wiping a smear of red from her cheek. She’s used to having men bleed on her. In fact, Domino has probably carved up more men than I.

She’s right about the smell, too. The scent of The Concorde is warm wood and lemon, coffee, and oranges. It’s nothing like The Flying Rose , which smells of rot and mildew, old boots, and cat piss.

It’s so brightly lit and nice that I can’t figure out where a man would hide. There aren’t nearly enough dark corners for someone to be lurking.

In one of the rooms, I spot a body. Red-headed, lanky. Striding over, I flip the male onto his back.

It isn’t Roger. My memory of that night is crystal clear, and even if it wasn’t, I have years of seeing his face before then… and this isn’t him. I kneel over the redhead, desperately hoping I’m wrong. But this is not his nose. Not his jaw. Not the cruel, curled lip.

“Son of a bitch,” I hiss, kicking the corpse aside. Whoever this dead man is, he is profoundly not Roger.

A whisper of movement, and Prudence shouts. “Captain!”

Prudence shoves me hard, and I stumble. Her fist flashes, driving into the gut of a man who’d jumped from behind a corner.

His blade never lands.

With a grunt, she lifts her boot and stomps on his face. Once, twice, three times… I lose count. When she’s done, his skull is crushed, and he lies there twitching. Blood pooling on the floor.

I hop back onto my feet. “Next time, let him have a bit longer. I could use the exercise.”

“Sorry.” She’s barely winded. “Should have thought of that. ”

Hmph. I purse my lips. Prudence and I are both strike first, ask questions later women, which has served us well. We’re always saving each other, one way or another. No thanks needed.

“Don’t look so glum,” Prudence chides me, as we walk back toward the stairs. “We took control of The Concorde , the fastest ship in the king’s fleet.”

“Aye,” I agree, but mentally, I’m dissatisfied. I have the ship, but not him. That bastard Roger has eluded me again.

When we return to the main deck, what remains of The Concorde’s defenders have surrendered, their weapons in a pile on the blood-slick boards. Kneeling and bound, they are now ours, to kill or conscript as Blackbeard sees fit.

Smoke from the cannons still hangs thick in the air. My crew shouts their victory, a cacophony of whoops and cheers, and I join in… despite the disappointment plaguing me.

Every clue pointed to The Concorde . The spies. The ship manifest. Roger simply has to be here. Unless someone warned them. Unless William is somehow a step ahead.

My eyes drop to Prudence’s bleeding hand. “Wrap that. You’ll need it again before this is over.”

She cradles her knuckles, winces as blood leaks through her fingers. “It’s just a nick. It bleeds more than it hurts.”

It bleeds more than it hurts. The exact words I once said to Ben… and most assuredly a bad omen. I glance left and right, expecting a threat. A tidal wave, a sudden hurricane, something. I’m not exactly superstitious, but I’m no fool.

Samson strides toward me, his purple face streaked with blood, his axe resting casually over one shoulder. “She’s ours, Captain,” he announces with grim satisfaction. “Every man remaining has surrendered.”

“And Roger?” I ask.

“Still haven’t found him, sorry.” He’s apologetic, knowing full well what this means to me.

“Comb every cabin. Check every level. Hell, pry open the barrels. Make sure no one–no one–is hiding.”

“Aye, sir. We will.”

Xandretta leans in. “What if he’s no longer aboard? What if they left him behind in port? Or what if he’s already dead?”

“That would deprive me of the great pleasure of torturing him.” My tongue runs over my teeth. Although, even dead, I’d still take my souvenir.

I glance at the mast of the ship. The Concorde’s crew has a cracked compass nailed to it, pointing north. North, to Celestia. To my home. To my throne. The throne that bastard Roger helped steal.

I lower my blade but don’t sheath it. “What about their Captain? Did we find him?”

“I’m right here,” says a deep, male voice.

Domino has a man on his knees, hands bound behind his back.

His fine coat is stretched across his muscles, white shirt stained with blood.

And even though his head is bowed, there is something vaguely familiar about him.

It’s only when I come closer, when he lifts his chin, that I realize why that is.