Page 9 of Of Magic and Rum
Omar’s eyes bulge, and he blinks rapidly.
Holding my open palm behind my back, I call a pearl from the depths, and soon it rests against my skin. I offer it to him, and his face visibly brightens. “It’s a genuine black pearl.”
“Merde,” Omar whispers, taking the petite beauty between two fingers.
“Will that be sufficient?”
Omar nods while staring at the pearl. “And then some. Are you sure you wish to part with it?”
I wrap his hand around it as reassurance. “It’s all yours, Omar.”
“Let’s turn you into a lad then, shall we?”
Taking a deep breath, I follow him to the trunk. Several moments later, I’m wearing baggy-fitting trousers in a more durable cloth, a loose, flowy cream tunic shirt that goes well past my hands, a jacket, and leather boots. He adds a red scarf around my neck for extra protection from the sun after I ask for as much skin coverage as possible, using the excuse of the sun and my pale skin, but in reality—I’m bound for a ship surrounded by water, sea mist, and rain for months.
“And finally, your hair. I don’t think there’s a need to chop off those beautiful tresses, but—” Omar pulls out sections of my hair to give the illusion of a bob cut. “That should work. But keep an eye out for long strands that might fall out. And on extra windy days, use the scarf to secure it on your head,oui?”
“Thanks, Omar. Truly.” I shake his hand again before turning for the door but stop with my hand on the iron handle. “You called him Calico Jack. Why?”
“Captain Rackham’s nickname. Some say it’s because of the Indian cotton he prefers to wear, unlike most captains. Others say it’s his Calico cat.” Omar snorts and peeks at the black pearl on his nightstand.
“He has—a cat?”
Omar giggles. “Mmhm. And it’s a cranky little thing, too. Lives on the ship.”
Perhaps I’ve lucked out after all. What kind of ruthless pirate captain owns a feline?
“Take care, Omar,” I finish before making way for the docks.
The crew is busily loading supplies onto the sloop of war Omar called The Revenge. I stare at the mast extending to the skies, the sails still rolled, waiting to be set free for the next voyage. A man carrying several burlap sacks on each shoulder bumps my elbow.
“Stop your gawking and get a move on, boy,” the man barks.
Boy. It’s working. Hiding a satisfied smile, I pick up the first supply item I see, a short and thin crate, and get in line behind several other men carrying things on deck. A dirtied man wearing only a gray vest and trousers sprints down the ramp, a crate filled with sloshing bottles of rum held above his head. He’s cackling into the wind until Jack appears on deck, flintlock raised, and he pulls the hammer back. One shot takes the man down, the bullet lodged into the back of the thief’s skull. The man lands in a slump near my feet, the crate crashing to the ground and breaking most of the bottles.
The smoke clears from Jack’s pistol, and he stands unfazed and ruthless, a scowl distorting his features. “Salvage the unbroken bottles and throw this piece of shit tothe hammerheads,” Jack barks before disappearing into the shadows of The Revenge.
I’ve seen plenty of death throughout my hundreds of years, and I, too, remain undaunted by it. I’ve grown to accept it as both a cycle of life and necessary for survival. But what has a chill creeping up my spine after witnessing the glint in Captain Rackham’s gaze as I willingly make my way up the ramp, a shark into the wolves’ den, are the bartender’s parting words.
Be. Safe.
“We—” I peel the banana in my hand and take a bite before propping my booted feet atop my desk. “—have a stowaway on board.”
Ragnar has just walked into my cabin, more than likely to tell me we’re close to shoving off, and I didn’t let him get a word in edgewise before spilling that little gem.
“Well, shit.” Ragnar eyes me quizzically, no doubt confused by my nonchalance.
With my boots crossed at the ankle, I bounce the top one, eating another bite of banana and smiling. “And I’m fairly certain—it’s a woman.”
“Twice the shit. Want me to find them? Toss them off the ship before we set sail?” Ragnar juts a thumb behind him.
“You’ll do no such thing.” I stand and swipe the small bottle of milk I procured for Truffles, snatching his pewter saucer from a desk drawer.
Truffles scurries from his pillow, not caring if Ragnar is in his presence. The cat’s eyes grow feral at the sound of metal hitting wood.
“What would you do with her then? Especially if she’s a woman?” Ragnar’s narrow eyes squint, making one wonder how he sees out of them like that.
Squatting, I set the saucer filled with milk on the floor at Truffles’ feet—a coveted snack he gets when we’re in port and only enough to last a day because we don’t have the means to keep it from spoiling. “Let them stay. They’ll be desperate to keep up appearances, so they’ll do the chores none of the crew likes doing. If they cause trouble, we toss them overboard. Simple as that.” I slap my hands on my knees and rise, grinning like a damn jackal. “But I dosohope it’s a woman.”
