Page 81 of Captive of the Pirate King
“She’s no one,” Locke says. “I got bored, so I claimed a woman from a ship we took. Captain’s rights and all that. She’s well paid for her services.”
He says it brusquely, like he’s daring them to challenge him. But these men have known him for a decade. Hell, I’ve known him for a much shorter time and it’s obvious tomethat he’s lying. His tone, the taut lines of his jaw, the tension along his shoulders—he might excel at lying to strangers, but to the three men in this room, and to me, he’s an open book.
Kardon steps forward, surveying me. He’s handsome in an odd asymmetrical way—long slanted cheekbones—a large nose, slightly bent—a round chin and a full mouth. He’s leaner and slightly shorter than Locke, slim and graceful as a cat on the prowl. “Your hired woman, is she?” He glances at Locke.
Puckley, the Pirate King’s double, is busy scraping flecks of white paint from his hair. He casts me a fleeting glance, and I notice that his eyes, though shockingly pale like Locke’s, are slightly greener. “Looks like a whore to me. Spotty one, though. Didn’t they have anyone better on the ship?”
Locke’s grip on my upper arm tightens.
“Careful there, Puck,” says Kardon, his eyes on Locke’s face. “Watch yourself.”
I reach over and cup my fingers over Locke’s, a gentle pressure. After a moment his grip relaxes, and a little of the tension seems to ease from his body. He releases my arm and lets the thin gold chain dangle unattached from the collar around my neck.
“What you were saying earlier, Puck, about the storm,” he says. “I’ve heard the rumors, too. Unnatural winds that push ships into one whirling murderous cloud. Sounds like a mage’s work to me.”
A blaze of cold shock paralyzes my body.
Why I didn’t see it before, I’ll never know. Perhaps some deep, uneasy part of me already knew—maybe I was forcing myself not to think about it, not to see the parallels, not to face the truth.
But when Locke puts those words together in those two sentences, Iknow.
Whirling, murderous winds. A mage’s work.
Not just any mage.
My brother.
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For a heavy moment I’m floating, untethered in a dizzying whirl of darkness. It’s as if my heart, my lungs, and my brain all stopped at once—and then began slowly functioning again.
I drag in a weighted breath.
“Did you know it was him?” My strained voice cuts through Puckley’s account of the lost ships.
All four men turn to look at me, but I only see one pair of eyes—eyes like starlight on frosty trees. Eyes shining with awareness and sympathy.
“I suspected,” Locke says quietly. “Not at first—but later.”
“Suspected what?” Puckley asks, his voice shrilling. “My nerves are thin already. Please don’t play games with us, Locke—if you know who’s responsible for this, say so.”
I sink to the ground, heedless of them all, and I press both hands to my eyes. “This isn’t happening,” I whisper. “This can’t be true.”
“Ruen, I think you’d better tell us everything,” says Kardon, with a faint emphasis on the last word.
After a moment’s hesitation, Locke unfolds the entire story, starting with my disguise as the cabin boy and his knowledge of it. He makes a vague reference to our relationship aboard theArdent, then details the events leading to the shedding of his disguise and Neelan’s death. He touches briefly on my family history and my brother’s power, smoothing the truth out of deference to me—but I speak up and fill in the pieces, my voice cracked and shaking as I tell these strangers about the people Mordan killed, about my blood magic and how I used it to restrain him.
Just weeks ago I would never have dreamed of sharing my darkest truths with anyone. But my life aboard theArdent, my time with Locke—they’ve loosened those chains of shame and guilt that burdened me. Somehow I know these men won’t judge me. They might not even understand why Mordan’s penchant for murder bothers me so much—after all, they’ve killed people—probably dozens of people.
I can’t bring myself to care what anyone thinks right now. A fragile hope deep inside me has fractured, and I’m seeping invisible blood through my tears. Part of me wanted to believe that wherever Mordan was, he’d found happiness and peace. Clearly that isn’t true.
Locke doesn’t comfort me. He stands with feet braced and arms crossed, until we’ve laid everything bare before his three friends.
Puckley takes a seat on the floor near me, inching closer like he wants to offer comfort—but when Locke rumbles low in his chest, Puck scoots away a bit. “Sorry I called you a whore,” he says, with an apologetic wince.
I shrug. “That’s whathecalls me.” I throw Locke a baleful glance.
“No one besides us needs to know any of this,” says Kardon. “Do you understand, Puck?”
