Page 3 of Wicked Tides #1

Vidar

Agony makes a dead man or a dreaded man.

The dreaded man knows the devil and the devil fears him.

~Unknown

A man could not appreciate a hot bath the way a hunter fresh off the stormy sea could.

I had gotten a room to myself for the night and most of my men were quick to take what they were owed so they could throw it away on good rum and women.

I had plans to pamper myself in a tub with a platter of bread and grapes to keep me company.

I tossed my salt-crusted clothes over a chair, leaning my cutlass against the bedpost. Just before stepping into the tub, I unbuckled the leather vambrace on my right forearm and slid it off.

The thing took two wooden fingers covered in leather with it.

I’d gotten used to not having a pinky and ring finger on my right hand since they’d been bitten clean off at the second knuckle.

And Gus was good enough to engineer multiple gloves to fit my hand over the years.

He was a good man. Sometimes too good. He’d been trying his best to look after me since I was a boy, even if it had almost killed him more than once.

I sunk into the warm water with a relieved groan, letting the heat blanket my tired limbs.

Downstairs, the tavern was bustling. My ship wasn’t the only one recently returned from the savage seas and there were plenty of men seeking the company of women and drink.

I needed neither. My mind was full of conflict.

The governor’s words rang in my head and it was a sour tone.

Imagining myself joining the ranks of those filthy skin traders made my teeth grind.

Before I could fall too far into that sickening train of thought, there was an insistent knock on my door followed by someone barging in.

I rolled my eyes toward the intruder to see a short, busty woman in a cream-colored dress sliding into the room.

Her red curls were piled on her head and held up with a thin scarf.

Her eyes scanned the room for a second before catching me by the fire soaking in the tub.

“Vidar,” she huffed, stomping further into the room and closing the door behind her.

She was quick to start picking up my clothes and draping each item over one arm.

“I had to hear the Burning Rose had docked from Janessa,” she complained. “You can’t even be bothered to come home?”

“It’s not my home, Agnes,” I sighed, splashing my face. “I gave it to you.”

“It is your home. You can’t just live in taverns and brothels.”

“It seems to be working out quite well, actually.”

She dragged a chair near my tub, letting the legs scrape obnoxiously on the floor, and dropped the bundle of my clothes in her lap with a sigh.

“David is asking about you. Says he’s anxious to be part of your crew.”

“We’ve talked about this.”

“If he doesn’t start working on the Burning Rose, he’ll enlist with one of the other crews and you know it. I’d rather he go out there with you than one of those scum crews that brings back those witches alive.”

I turned to look at her, leaning my head back against the edge of my bath .

“Suppose it’s a bad time to tell you that Whitton is demanding I start farming them rather than hunting them.”

Her already pale, freckled face went paler. “What?”

“Says he won’t pay for dead ones anymore.”

“But… bring them here? To Treson?”

“Here. Inland. Doesn’t matter. He has a plan to make Treson Harbor rich off them.”

Saying it out loud made my skin crawl.

“Well… that’s just ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous,” I lifted my head to look at her, brows raised. “And it means David isn’t joining my crew. Have Sean take him under his wing. Blacksmithing is a good trade.”

“He wants to be on the sea,” she sighed, dipping one of my scarves into the water to begin scrubbing my shoulders. “Like his father.”

“His father died on the sea.”

“He knows. But you didn’t. You’re his hero and I curse you for it.

” She moved her hand slowly along the side of my neck, nudging tendrils of dark-blond dreadlocks out of the way.

“You’ve taken good care of us. Too good.

And I know you spared me too many details of what happened that day. To you and to my Jack.”

“Jack was my father’s best friend.”

She went silent, her fingers caressing the back of my ear. The soft crackling of the fire and the muffled noise of the tavern were all that filled the space. I stared across the room at the wall, watching the firelight and shadows mingle on the wood.

Agnes was a sorrowful woman. Her husband was dead…

and I’d been the one to carve up his corpse for the bitches that ate him.

He had left her in Treson Harbor with a round belly.

When my mother could not stand my need for vengeance and the general cloudy, gloomy town where she once lived with my father, she left.

The last I heard, she lived with my aunt in Nelson drinking tea and spending my father’s money .

I should have been bitter about that, but I wasn’t.

I didn’t enjoy the thought of my mother seeing my dad in my face or the torture of my actions in my eyes.

When I came back from that hunt, I was not the son that had left.

Perhaps she left because she realized her husband wasn’t the only man who had died at sea.

Her son, too, had become little more than a ghost of the one she knew.

When Agnes’ hand began to slide over my arm, I knew the mood she was in. I saw it from time to time, usually when I was gone a long while. Her touch traced over the hardened muscle of my shoulder and bicep and all the way down to the severed fingers.

“You are such a wounded man,” she whispered.

I kept my eyes on the wall, listening to her talk.

“Those awful creatures took everything from us and you’ve given so much to hunt them down.

” Leaning forward, she rested her cheek on the top of my head, her fingers continuing to trace across my skin.

“What can I give you, Vidar? You’ve been so long at sea. ”

When her hand started to descend into the water and wander south, I calmly took her wrist to stop her and lifted her knuckles to my lips.

Craning my head back, I caught the look on her face.

She was such a lonely woman. Despite giving her my house to raise her son, I knew she needed much more than lodging.

I was fourteen the day I came back with two fewer fingers and a figurative sword through my heart.

She was a mother… she wanted to nurture me.

Make me feel better. She wanted to help me heal.

When I turned twenty, she stopped seeing me as a boy and realized she needed healing, too.

So, two broken people found themselves in bed together seeking something different than anger, sorrow, and grief.

For her, it was fleeting bliss. For me… it was wrong.

I couldn’t be that man for her. I couldn’t be a father to her son.

I couldn’t be the man of a house I didn’t want.

My place was on the sea, the place where I would live and die.

The place where I would become a killer.

Killers couldn’t be husbands and fathers. My own father had proven that .

“Agnes,” I said softly, lifting my hand up to cup her cheek. “Take my clothes and wash them. I will come to the house tomorrow morning.”

“Will you stay?”

“For a night. In the pocket of my coat, there is coin. Take enough to make a dinner for the three of us.”

Though a bit let down, Agnes smiled with partial satisfaction and nodded.

“It will do David some good to see you.”

It didn’t do anyone good to see me.

“Now, leave me to my bath. The seas were rough.”

Her shoulder slumped a bit, but there was little to be done about it.

She had a roof over her head and that was the best I could do.

At best, one day she’d leave Treson Harbor, find a man who thought those rosy, freckled cheeks were the most beautiful thing in the world, and take her away.

At worst, she’d die waiting for me because losing Jack had taken too much of her for anyone to repair.

My bath water cooled soon after Agnes left.

I rose from the tub and threw on a fresh shirt and trousers, tying my hair into a thick bun.

I’d grown rather scruffy since being at sea.

Rather than shave completely, I trimmed up my newly formed facial hair and then made my way down into the tavern to join my men.

The music was loud and the people were even louder.

The whole place smelled like stew and ale.

Toward a back corner, I spotted Mullins, Gus, Harlow, and James.

Each of them was holding a wooden mug and boisterously talking and laughing while they shared a platter of salted fish and bread.

I made my way through the crowds, nudging a drunk Harlow out of his seat to sit down and prop my feet on the table.

Immediately, one of the barmaids leaned over me, giving me an ample view of her plump breasts as she filled a wooden mug with ale.

Gus raised his cup to me with a wink and took a big swig.

Just as the woman was walking away with her pitcher, I coiled my arm around her waist and hoisted her into my lap.

She giggled, trying not to spill. Coils of blonde hair hung over her bare shoulders and she smelled like rum and baked bread.

“Anastasia,” I greeted.

“Vidar,” she returned in that delicious accent of hers. “Back so soon. But for how long?”

My eyes skimmed my men’s. “ Not long.”