Page 66 of Bloody Black

I t’s so quick that neither of us anticipates it, so fast that my brain barely registers the movement.

William’s sword slices into Robb in one smooth motion, missing his heart by a finger length.

His blade sinks deep, and for a frozen heartbeat I hear only Robb’s strangled inhale, and the thud of steel hitting bone.

“Too bad, friend,” William purrs, yanking him forward so their noses nearly touch. “You’re almost as slow as she is.” When he shoves Robb aside, Robb stumbles and falls, landing on his knees with a dull crack.

Oh gods. My mind blanks, a hollow roar filling my ears.

William, treacherously indifferent, doesn’t even watch. Instead he grasps me and drags me away from Robb. “Best out of three, Blackbeard. We’ll fight for it.” His voice slithers across my skin, smooth and cold as an eel .

For a moment, I gape. “You want to have a duel?” My tone rings with disbelief, and I struggle to tear my gaze away from Robb.

William shoves me toward a corner. “Focus. Forget him, and fight me. Let’s see how much better you’ve gotten, Annie .”

In some ways, he’s offering a golden opportunity.

Warily, I stare down at the cutlass in my hands.

This one belongs to Domino; I can tell by the red leather wrapped around the grip.

So I post up, my stance wide, sword raised and at the ready.

Surely, William hasn’t been practicing. He’s too busy being king, isn’t he?

“If I win, will you let them go?” I ask, glancing over at my crew.

“No.” William doesn’t even pretend to consider it.

My eyes flick toward the bed. The bed, the one where I lost my virginity. Its carved posts loom like gallows, sheets ghost-white and pristine.

Never one to miss an opening, William moves. In the briefest of spaces, when I am momentarily distracted, his blade flashes. I meet him with Domino’s sword in hand, and steel sings. My wrist nearly snaps from the impact. William’s form is whistle clean, efficient.

“I learned how to fight in close combat,” he says, conversationally. “Instead of in a garden. With a tutor.” He stabs at me as he says each word, punctuating the point.

This is definitely not a practice sparring round amongst the roses.

His blade swings down in a decisive arc, and when I parry, there are sparks.

Sparks. As much as I’ve practiced, as much as William looks like he’s been lazing about…

he’s strong. Disciplined. As any man who has a lifelong vendetta would be.

And in the past, I won because he let me.

Not because I was st ronger, nor because I deserved it, but because he allowed it.

Three years ago, when I’d faced him, William was better than me. Not just at fighting, but at strategy.William beat Princess Anne soundly, fair and square. But he’s never faced Blackbeard.

Fire lights in my chest, burning away the fear. The weight of Domino’s cutlass steadies me. This is more than a duel, it is his reckoning. Because this time, William isn’t better than me.

I fight back, hold my own, meeting him blade to blade. This time the tables have turned; I know how he moves. I have studied William from afar, had my spies in his house for years. Just as he once watched me, I have watched him.

What would Blackbeard do?

My eyes scan the room, mapping every move that I might make. Robb’s dagger is almost within reach. William wears both a dagger and sword. My crew’s weapons are in a pile across the room. My sword is near the tall, stained-glass windows. One of the guards has taken my gun; I’ve lost track of it.

One by one, I skim through potential weapons, calculating the odds of success.

“Give up, Anne. You never even wanted to be queen. You will never be my equal. Never be as quick or clever as me.”

He’s full of shit, and we both know it. I am just as quick. Just as clever.

“I’m a good king, far better than your father. My people—”

“ Your people ?” I scoff. “In five years, no one will even know your name.”

He laughs. “And I suppose you think they’ll know you, Blackbeard?”

Robb’s words come back to me. He has nothing to lose.

I disagree. William has at least one thing he cares about: his life.

And that’s one thing I don’t have. One small, but critical, difference between us.

Neither of us are here to play games; both of us want this to be done.

But I am dead, and he isn’t. I have already been through the worst thing that can happen.

“I suppose I should thank you,” I grunt, defending myself against his blade. “After your men killed me, I made several new friends.”

“Killed you?” William scoffs. “You’re standing right here.”

“They took my life, but I still had a soul to trade.” I smile at him, sinister and sweet, and then I let go.

I relinquish my hold on Rokhur’s bargains, her terrible magic that keeps me young, beautiful, and unmarred.

I drop every bit of my grip on her gift, and allow the beautiful visage of me to melt away.

It starts at the top of my head—a pulling.

My hair lifts, floats, whitens from black to bone.

Strands drift free, disintegrate mid-air.

My scalp burns. My skin cracks. The fine lines of my face emerge as flesh recedes, taut and grey and leathery.

Dull, gray. White, glassy eyes. Matted, tangled hair.

My body is riddled with stab wounds, bullet holes, and bruises.

Dead… Long dead.

A nightmare and a ghoul. As such, my grin is riddled with gaps, missing teeth, a half shredded lip. William is so horrified he scrambles backward, knocking into the gilded bed. Suddenly, he’s quite eager to get away from me .

“You want me under you, husband? Let us try it.” I stalk toward him, tossing down my sword.

“Stay away!” his voice cracks. For the first time, William is afraid.

His fear fills me with glee. At long last, the man who thought himself untouchable is shrinking from me. I lean in, inhaling the scent of his sweat. Heady. Euphoric.

He moves to shove me away, and I slap him across the face, my palm cracking across his cheekbone. He falls into the wall, and presses his back against it.

When he attempts to rear back, to pull away, I duck under his arm, grab the hilt of the jeweled dagger at his hip… flip it… And drive his own knife into his stomach.

William gasps. Grunts as the dagger bites deep. Shock widens his pale eyes; for the first time, he imagines something other than victory.

Rocking back on my heels, I study him, drinking in the stunned look on his face. Blood seeps between his fingers where the blade went in, bright red.

“You know,” I say slowly, “watching you bleed out will be so much more satisfying than our wedding night.”

I drag my grayed, rotting hand down his chest, black nails digging furrows into his skin.

A sound cuts through the haze. Not a word. A wet, choking breath. Robb’s alive, he’s crawled to me, and he places his hand on my boot. Reassuring. Anchoring. That single touch drags me back from the edge, steadies me. Even broken and bleeding, my beloved finds his way to me .

I look down and our eyes meet. Now, he will understand the reason I can never be with him. Why I was so secretive. Yet, he doesn’t seem horrified or scared, not really. He doesn’t even seem surprised.

“It doesn’t make any difference,” he announces. “Nothing has changed.”

His words settle into the holes in my heart. It’s ridiculous, impossible, which is, I suppose, his specialty.

“She’s dead and you’re still trying to help her ? ” William holds his stomach wound together. “Unbelievable.”

Still.

William lurches toward me, his arms banding around my body like a cage. We crash to the floor together, his blood pooling with mine, the two of us tangled like we were always destined to be—lovers, traitors, killers, king and queen, two people obsessed with revenge.

My shoulder slams into the floor, a burst of white pain exploding through my back like a lightning strike.

The blood vessels in his right eye have burst, and it’s full of blood and blue as he glares down at me. William is between my thighs, bearing down with all his considerable weight and size.

“What now, Blackbeard?” William presses the heel of his palm into my throat. “What do you plan to do?”

I claw at his hands, but cannot budge him.

“Now, you’re right where you belong.” William laughs, harsh and cruel. “Where you always wanted to be: you on your back, me on top.”

His grip tightens. My body writhes as stars bloom across my vision. Don’t touch me. Don’t touch me. Everything burns, and the room seems to shrink around me, and it seems as if I’m suddenly back in that moment, on our wedding night.

I need a weapon. I need to get free. I need something . Even a splinter of wood would do.

“Why won’t you just die?” he hisses, looking directly into my eyes.

“Because you already killed her,” says Genevieve. Her voice slices through the haze, cool and certain. Silent as a ghost, she’s crept into the room and is standing right behind him.

She has my gun pointed at his head.

“Darling! What are you doing? Our wedding—”

“Won’t be happening.”

Much to his surprise, his darling Genevieve pulls the trigger.

William falls forward, half his face missing. His body presses me into the floor, a solid weight upon my chest. Disgusted, I shove him away, off to the side, sputtering pieces of his skull out of my mouth.

Meanwhile, Genevieve stands ramrod straight, shoulders squared, eyes closed as she takes several deliberate breaths. Blood has spattered across her white gown, and the faintest tremble of her chin is the only indication of her feelings. The phrase pillar of strength comes to mind.

There’s a faint clinking as one of the guards staggers to his feet .

“Kindly leave.” Genevieve addresses him, as cold as marble.

“Your Grace,” he stammers, bowing so low his dented helmet knocks against the marble. “Please.”

“Start walking and don’t stop until you reach the castle gate, or I will have you hanged for treason. Is that clear?” She presses her fingers along the outside of her thigh, the only sign that she might not be completely calm.

The soldier all but flees, his footfalls echoing off the high ceiling, clanking as he hurries from the room.

For a moment, I almost pity him, then I remember that he and his fellow soldiers were completely willing to kill me, even though from the conversation they must have at least guessed who I was.

“You received my letter.”

“Tucked inside one of the wedding gifts. My favorite book, actually.”

Sable, that sneaky bitch, had come through. As to how she’d discovered Genevieve’s favorite book, who knew, but she’d managed to reach the princess and royal bride-to-be. I’d have to reward her later. She’d planned everything so carefully.

Robb curls toward me, still lying on the marble floor. His eyes—fierce even through exhaustion—find mine. We are dark rafts, lost in a sea of William’s blood.

This time, I crawl to him, seeking his warmth.

“You won,” he rasps, as I brush his lips.

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

Every score is settled. Vengeance is mine. I have the decisive victory I wanted, though it was at a much higher cost than I ever thought it would be .

Genevieve unties what’s left of my crew, Samson, Domino, and Tremaine. They’re wrecked, beaten, and wounded but alive.

Domino limps toward us, her lovely silver dress tattered. “Aye, Captain! We survived.”

I give them all a weak smile. “Barely.”

“Sometimes barely is a miracle,” Samson says.

As for Genevieve? She’s put the gun aside, face white as a sheet. Now that William’s dead, all her adrenaline has faded, and she’s left with the realization that she’s just killed somebody.

I’m not exactly the right person to comfort her. I was never particularly good at being her sister. I’m long dead, and my level of sympathy for William is absolutely none. However, I do realize that I’ve just destroyed her wedding day. That this all must be very horrifying.

With a quick shake of my head, I reach for the magic in my bones, the veil that masks who I truly am. The entire room stares as my face returns to normal, as the wounds on my skin seal.

Tremaine slings an arm around Domino. “Now what?”

“We should have a coronation,” Genevieve says shakily. “An announcement of your victory.”

I gape at her. “You still want me to be queen?” There’s no malice in the words, only curiosity.

“I do.” Genevieve gazes down at me. “You are all I have left. My only family. If you want the crown, I won’t fight you for it. Having everyone you love be murdered changes things, don’t you think?” Genevieve extends her palm to me. Her pale, perfect, feminine hand is steady .

Too fragile to lead. That’s what people once said about my father’s illegitimate daughter. The daughter of a maid in the castle. Genevieve’s graceful fingers grasp mine, and unhesitatingly, my half-sister hauls me to my feet.