Page 26 of Crossbones

Page List

Font Size:

“Why did I do what?” I ask.

Blackwell finally looks over at me and I revel in the annoyance I see in his eyes. “You know what I’m talking about.”

“Why did you stop that man from killing me?” I counter.

His frown deepens. “I asked you first,” he grumbles.

I lock eyes with him for a beat, seeing genuine curiosity that cuts off the quip on my tongue. He’s not asking about this recent near death experience. He’s asking something deeper.

“He was afraid of drowning.” I look out the window at the dark sea just beyond, but something pulls me back to him. “Besides, no one should die alone.”

Blackwell blinks like what I’ve just told him is not what he’s expecting at all. He throws back the rest of the rum and walks over to the bookshelf, staring at the titles. When he doesn’t respond, I sigh loudly and am rewarded when his shoulders stiffen.

“Your turn,” I press.

Instead of answering he pulls a book from the shelf, flipping through it before snapping it shut almost violently.

“Not the classics.” He tosses the book at my chest and I quickly slap my hand on it to keep it from falling. “And when that time comes, your blood will be onmyhands, no one else’s.”

I watch Blackwell walk out of the room, then look down at the book he tossed to me.

I go deathly still and my breath stalls in my throat.

Every time I think I have a handle on the situation—every time I think I know who Blackwell is—he does something to throw my perfectly crafted stories out the window. The thought brings a half-cocked smile to my face because I’m forced to admit I might just be as intrigued by this pirate captain as he is with me. Because yeah, it’s not the classics I’m holding in my hand—no, this one is of death and blood and monsters that ride the tides of darkness.

And a book I’m painfully familiar with.

The pain of the past settles in with the nostalgia that tags along with it as I nestle into the cushions and flip to the first page. Despite the nightmare I’d been forced to relive not even twenty-four hours ago, my memories aren’t all bad and I let the words sink under my skin and take me back in time. Back to when the world could be reduced to nothing more than a child’s idea of innocently passing time.

“What are you reading?” A small feminine voice pulls me from the book open on my lap.

“You wouldn’t like it,” I answer.

I look up to see my little sister lingering at the edge of the willow I’m reading under. She approaches and tilts her head, still trying to see the title.

“And why not?” I can see the pout beginning to form on her face.

I try to hide my smile but fail miserably, as I usually do when I’m around her.

“Because it has monsters in it,” I say.

She plops down next to me in the grass and those big blue eyes of hers lock onto mine.

“Monsters don’t scare me.” Her tone is dripping with all the false bravado of an eight-year-old. We both know it’s a lie but I don’t say anything. She peers at the page I’m on and her brow furrows in confusion. “Why does the story look like that?”

“Because it’s a book of poetry.”

“About monsters?”

I nod. “Monsters and death and darkness—you don’t need to be reading about that stuff.”

“Why do you read about it then?”

I close the book and throw my arm around her small shoulders. “So I’m prepared if one ever decides to take up residence under your bed.”

She giggles. I press my lips against her soft hair so similar to mine except hers has so much gold streaking through it she sometimes seems to glow in the sunlight. She smells like spring—I stand up and pull her with me.

“Come on, let’s go pester Aldric into a game of hide and seek.”