Page 16 of The Sea Witch
Anyone who claimed women were less bloodthirsty than men needed to spend ten seconds aboard theSea Witch.
He darted forward and snatched a pistol from one of the crew’s hands. Shouts rose up, outraged female voices, but before any of them could act, he raised the pistol.
And fired it into the air.
He grunted as a trio of women launched themselves at him, throwing him to the deck. His head hit the planks with a thud, and his hands were quickly pinned down. A band of glowing red energy pressed against his throat. Strangled noises escaped from him as he fought for air.
“Impossible to state how hugely stupid that was, Sailing Master.” Alys Tanner loomed over him, her hands on her hips as she shook her head. “The deck could be splattered with your blood right now, and for what? You signaled your ship so they know you’re here, but they’re busy mopping up the remains of theDiabolique. Even if the ship hadn’t unleashed their leviathan, they’re too damaged to be of any assistance to you.”
“Damaged thanks to you,” he managed to rasp.
“I don’t regret what I’ve done.”
“Neither do I.” He pressed his lips together to stop himself from blurting anything more. Provoking her wasn’t going to keep him alive.
She clicked her tongue, as ifdisappointedin him. Then she stood back. “Let him up but hold him fast.”
The energy around his throat vanished but many strong hands gripped him tightly as he struggled to his feet and faced over a score of hostile faces. Damn, hewasalone on this pirate ship. Alys Tanner could have him flayed and disemboweled, then thrown overboard, and no one would ever find his remains.
She frowned as she stared at him, her attention lingering on the backs of his hands, and then moving to the part of his neck that wasn’t covered by his neckcloth.
He couldn’t tug his cuffs down, or pull the linen at his throat up higher. She’d seen his markings now, and there wasn’t anything he could do about them until the seawater on his skin dried. Then, and only then, would the ink-dark patterns on his skin fade.
At the question in her gaze, Ben tipped up his chin. He didn’t owe this pirate an explanation.
She narrowed her eyes. “What do you know of Little George Partridge? Answer quick,” she added, curling and uncurling her fingers around the glittering beginnings of a spell, “or I’ll find new means of loosening your tongue.”
“Why would I know anything of Partridge?”
“On account of the fact that you serve aboard theJupiter, which is Admiral Strickland’s ship, and Little George was colluding with Strickland in creating the magic used to force the leviathan into serving the navy.”
Ben jolted. “What?”
Alys Tanner smirked. “This act of innocence doesn’t become you, Sailing Master.” When Ben remained silent, she continued, “A letter was read at the tavern on St. Gertrude, a letter from Partridge himself, asserting that he and Strickland had worked together to fashion the magic that binds the sea creature.”
“Doubtless, the captain knew what he was doing. A leviathan is one more weapon in the arsenal.”
There was no need to tell her about his revulsion at enslaving the sea creature. It was a weakness she could exploit.
“Yet Little George wasn’t entirely a fool,” the witch continued. “He knew the Royal Navy would stick a knife in his back. Little George made provisions for that. A fail-safe to break the spell holding the leviathan captive. And it’s hidden somewhere in these waters.”
Ben kept his expression impassive even as astonishment rocked through him.
“Tell me what you know, navy man,” she demanded. When he hesitated, she drew her cutlass and pressed its point into his chest.
“I’m as ignorant as a piece of flotsam,” he answered.
“He is not,” said one of the pirate crew, a woman with a Mediterranean accent and dark- lined eyes. “I have heard him spoken of, this Benjamin Priestley. Born and raised in the Caribbean, and he knows this territory, land and sea, better than anyone. They say he is the best navigator in the Royal Navy.”
“I have a reputation?”
The Mediterranean woman snorted. “You will develop one for false modesty.”
“We’ve need of you, Sailing Master,” Alys Tanner said.
“You sail the Caribbean, too,” he answered. “And you possess your own navigator.”
“We do,” the captain said. The tip of her blade dug into his waistcoat, through his shirt, and nicked his skin beneath. “You’re ensuring we don’t have need of you. Which makes it hard for me to stay my hand.”
