Page 7 of The Sea Witch (Salt & Sorcery #1)

Alys tucked herself into a ball. She surrounded herself with a cocoon of protective energy, hit the ground, and rolled. Even

with the shield of her magic, the impact jolted the breath from her body.

She leapt to her feet and took off at a full run, down the road and toward her ship. The rutted dirt path threatened to trip

her, but she fought to stay upright and moving forward. She ran straight through puddles of unknown origin, splashing herself

and anyone who happened to be unluckily nearby, ignoring their cries of outrage.

She risked a glance over her shoulder.

“Fuck.” The naval officer chased after her, and it was a damn shame that he was so well-conditioned, because he wasn’t more

than a dozen yards behind. His long legs were far too quick.

She leapt over a cart holding jugs of wine, then paused long enough to summon energy to knock over the heavy cart. Clay shattered

and wine spilled everywhere, filling the air with the sharp smell of cheap alcohol.

Taking off again, she chanced a quick look back, to see the naval officer vaulting over the mayhem before continuing in his

pursuit.

The town was a maze, winding and snaking in confusing disorder, leading to dead ends. Yet no matter how many twists she took, he stayed close on her tail. There wasn’t time or focus to summon a spell to hide her from his sight. If she paused long enough to call forth a shadow, he’d be upon her.

She couldn’t veer into the woods. They were full of jumbies—spirits of the dead—and drunken pirates who wandered into the

forest were often never heard from again.

She had to get to her ship, and the fastest way there was a tricky one, but she’d no choice.

Instead of making for the quay, she sped along a slick, uneven cobbled path toward the cliffs at the very edge of town. Buildings

thinned out as she neared the village’s perimeter. She dodged the few drunkards and surly dockworkers that staggered along

the lane. Moments later, she reached the bluffs.

She gulped. The bluffs soared above the water. A fall from them meant shattering your body on the pointed rocks below, where

waves hammered against stone.

The naval man drew closer, leaving her no choice.

She reached her hands toward the crashing water below, stirring it higher and higher. The breeze rose up from the now towering

waves. The wind transformed—from gusts of air into powerful swells of energy so strong they buffeted Alys as she stood upon

the rock.

She took a breath, and then stepped out into nothingness.

A terrifying moment passed as she fell through space. Her stomach pitched into her throat in the freefall.

Half a second later, the gusts lifted her, as if she was sea-foam spinning upon the breeze. She half tumbled, half danced

atop the air, high above the water. A startled laugh leapt from her. This wasn’t exactly flight, but it was damned close,

and it was wondrous.

Hell. Her elation crashed as she spotted a naval ship. It hadn’t been there when the Sea Witch had dropped anchor. Cannons bristled from its decks, and the man-o’-war was nearly twice the size of her own vessel. It lay

between her and the Sea Witch .

Worse, it was the Jupiter . The navy’s flagship.

Teeming with guns and armed seamen, the flagship struck terror into the hearts of every pirate, and, seeing it for the first time, she was no exception. If she’d thought she’d

left the danger behind on land, she was dead wrong.

Sea air magic couldn’t carry her far enough to the Sea Witch , anchored hundreds of feet away. Beside the Royal Navy ship, the horrifying, slithering shape of a leviathan shadowed beneath

the water.

Ice flooded her. Never before had she caught a glimpse of the leviathan. The beast was as long as the Jupiter , and glassy emerald scales covered its shifting muscles. Teeth the size of a human’s forearm glinted in its maw. Landing

in the water meant those teeth would be waiting for her to stain the sea with her blood.

Using the wind, she flew toward the Jupiter ’s foremast before dropping onto the yardarm. The wood was heavy and solid beneath her feet. She gripped the yardarm until

she was secure enough to scramble toward the mast. Confused sailors ran back and forth across the upper deck thirty feet below,

pointing up at her. Only one marine had enough presence of mind to aim a musket in her direction. She ducked just as the weapon

fired with a loud crack.

The bullet slammed into the mast, narrowly missing her shoulder.

In the silence that followed the musket firing, a creaking noise caught her attention. The crane upon the bluffs turned in

her direction.

The pursuing naval officer clung to a rope at the end of the crane as the loading device rotated its full reach toward the

Jupiter . He swung on the rope, the skirt of his coat billowing behind him, his hair pulling loose from its queue.

He leapt onto the foremast yardarm, and the wood shuddered as he landed.

“Oh, hell,” she muttered. Was there any man so cursedly persistent?

She slid down the mast, leaping the rest of the way to hit the upper deck. Yet before she could break for the gunwale, and

the longboat hanging from a davit on the ship’s stern, the naval officer landed mere feet away from her, blocking her path

to escape.

Marines massed around him. Hopefully, the naval mage she’d spotted at the tavern was still ashore and couldn’t use his powers

against her. For now, though, she was hindered by ordinary yet still challenging manpower.

Summoning the ocean air to give her flight had drained some of her magic. She had enough strength to muster the force of a

horse’s kick to knock several of the marines to the deck with a wave of her hand.

Even with the men lying stunned on their backs, there was only one route open to her: belowdecks.

Alys half fell down the companionway that led to the passageway, landing in an ungraceful heap. She struggled to her feet

before rushing down the narrow corridor, lanterns illuminating the smooth wooden floor and rows of closed doors. Her gaze

darted this way and that in search of something to provide a distraction or slow the chasing officer. His footfalls thundered

behind her.

Sailors tried to block her path, their faces set but uncertain. She shoved them and threw punches to clear her way. The hallway

was cramped, and when a quartet of sailors armed with clubs appeared at the other end, she ducked through the first open door.

A table laden with maps, weighted down with a variety of brass and wooden navigational instruments, gave her pause. There

were waggoners, too, books of bound maps. The chart room. As valuable as any chest of doubloons, her company could surely

use the maps, but now wasn’t the moment to gather them up. A distraction was needed.

She cupped her hands and whispered between her palms. Though she had little magic left, she called upon the heat of a lightning-fed wildfire. Blazing energy formed in the bowl of her hands, red and shining, and she lifted it high above her head.

“No,” came a voice behind her.

She spun to see the pursuing officer standing at the entrance to the chart room. His eyes were wide.

“My maps,” he exclaimed.

Grunting, she threw the fiery energy at the table holding the charts.

He lunged, but there was nothing he could do. The ball of flame hit the maps with a snap. In moments, crackling fire spread

across the scrolls of paper and books as thick smoke filled the room. The destruction of so much knowledge twisted in her

belly, yet she gained time as he stopped his pursuit. He grabbed a bucket of water to douse the blaze.

The porthole was too narrow for her to wriggle out, so she pushed past the frantic officer, and was once more out in the passageway.

She kicked at the chest of an advancing sailor, a man twice her size, channeling all her force into her boot. He toppled back.

Like dominoes, the seamen behind him fell, crying out in astonishment and confusion. She didn’t hesitate to step on them as

she ran to the companionway and climbed to the upper deck.

More armed marines met her, carrying bayonet-topped muskets in their callused hands. Her cutlass hissed as she drew it, and

several of the marines stepped back in alarm. She launched into an attack, holding the men back with slashes of her blade.

Three marines held short swords, and she parried their strikes, the sounds of metal against metal ringing in the air. All

the while she edged toward a longboat hanging off the side of the hull. She drew her pistol.

Drawing a deep breath, she summoned a final sputtering burst of power to pour flickering magic down the barrel of her firearm. She pointed her weapon at a cask of gunpowder on the deck and kept her arm steady as she fired.

Wooden planks splintered and the advancing sailors fell back from the explosion.

She had barely enough time to jump into the longboat and cut the gripes holding it.

As it plunged to the sea, she clung to the small boat’s sides. She shook when the vessel hit the water, but she collected

herself to grab the oars. They were thick in her hands, worn from use, and she gripped them tightly as she rowed as quickly

as she could toward the waiting Sea Witch . Her ship had already raised anchor and was sailing to intercept her, thank the stars. Still, her arms burned as she put

as much distance between herself and the naval ship.

She almost pitied the resolute sailing master who had pursued her through the town and onto the ship, since she’d destroyed

his charts and waggoners, but she’d had no choice. There was no way to stop him from coming after her. The determination in

his gaze left little doubt of that.

Cannons booming rent the air apart. She ducked. But no whizzing sounded overhead. The Jupiter wasn’t firing on her. It aimed its weapons toward a ship now sailing around the island—the Diabolique , René Fontaine’s vessel.

The Diabolique attempted to skirt past the British ship. Only a few cannons fired, a result of the man-o’-war being damaged from the explosion