Page 9 of Captive of the Pirate King
But he’s shaking his head, crowding me against the boxes.
If I fight him, the noise could draw unwanted attention.
I could use my magic. It would be quiet, and deadly. But I’d rather not go that far if I have any other choice. I hate what my power does to me—what it turns me into. It’s the very last resort.
“Give us a kiss, love.” Jinks’ hot foul breath sears my lips, and his bristly mustache scrapes my nose. His hands circle my hips.
Last resort it is, then.
I part my lips and accept his kiss, and the slither of his tongue.
Then I bite. I pinch the slippery muscle between my teeth until blood pulses hot and bitter in my mouth.
Jinks yelps and tries to pull back, but I have him by the tongue, and I hold him tight for another second, until his blood has coated my inner cheeks and my teeth. I try not to think about the diseases he might be carrying.
When I release him, he sways backward, whimpering. “What was that for?” Then rage sparks in his eye. “You bitch. Now you’ll pay.”
“No,” I say softly. “You will. Jump overboard.”
Immediately he turns, grips the railing, and vaults over it into the sea. He doesn’t scream. The rushing waves and hissing rain drown any splash he made.
I sag against the crates, my soul hollowing out. I can practically feel it growing a shade darker.
When I was five my brother scraped his knee down to the bone. I tried to kiss it better, and some of his blood got into my mouth. When I begged him to stop crying, he did, with a suddenness that startled me. Curious, I tried a few more commands, all of which he obeyed.
That’s when I discovered I can control people through their blood. With the taste of it on my tongue, I can make them do anything I want. The control only lasts for a minute, so it’s impractical as a long-term solution. I couldn’t have made Jinks keep my secret indefinitely. Which meant that a quick and quiet murder was my only option.
He was a creep and a would-be rapist. The world is better off without him.
So why do I feel so horribly dirty and wretched?
I’ve wondered if I could extend the control by drinking a greater quantity of someone’s blood. But I haven’t had the opportunity to test that theory, nor do I want to. The very idea of a person’s blood sloshing around in my stomach, fueling my perverse power, makes me sick.
Tears rise along with my nausea, and I grip the railing as the ship bucks over an especially large wave.
I have to get the taste of Jinks out of my mouth. I need a very strong drink.
But as I stagger out from behind the boxes, the rain increases in intensity, each drop stinging my flesh. I careen across the shiny wet deck, heading for the door that leads belowdecks.
Another violent heave of the sea, and the ship rolls sideways. I slide terrifyingly fast across the deck, clenching my teeth to keep my scream inside. I’m heading for the railing—I’m going to be pitched right over it—
A large hand clamps around my arm, yanking my shoulder painfully. “What are you still doing up here?” Locke shouts. “Get below, or tie yourself to something!”
I scrape wet clumps of my hair out of my eyes and nod.
He lets me go, and this time I make it to the door just as a mighty crack of thunder splits the sky. I nearly jump out of my skin and scamper below like a wet rat.
The storm lasts for hours. I help Cook secure things in the kitchen, and then he dismisses me to the sleeping quarters—two long rooms outfitted with bunks and hammocks. One of the sailors points me to a hammock and I climb into it, wet and miserable, my bones aching and my teeth chattering. I’m soul-sick, terrified, and exhausted.
Though I don’t expect to sleep, somehow I manage to doze off and on, half-woken every few minutes by another bellow of thunder. I suppose when you’re tired enough, you can sleep anywhere.
Sometime later I rouse halfway—I’m just conscious enough to realize that someone threw a blanket over me. The ship isn’t rocking as hard, and there’s no more thunder.
We made it through the storm. Thank the gods.
It feels like I’ve barely fallen asleep again when Cook pinches me awake. “Get up, Nick, you worthless lug. There’s work to be done.”
Grimy, damp, and blurry-eyed, I tumble out of the hammock and follow him.
