Page 99 of Captive of the Pirate King
I reach up to him, tucking my hands behind his neck, careful not to nick him with the blade of my brother’s knife. I can’t taste Locke through the afterburn of the rum in my mouth, but I can feel the deep desperation in the press of his lips, in the grip of his hands on my shoulders.
“I’ll be back,” I whisper against his mouth.
And then, before I can think better of it, I turn and walk quickly inland, through the waving saltgrass.
There’s a track through the field—not a path, exactly, but a sign of someone passing here before. Along the way lie a few trunks, opened, nearly empty, as if someone tired of dragging or carrying them and decided to remove what he wanted and leave the rest to rot.
The ground becomes steeper, and great boulders jut out from beneath the turf. There are scraggly trees, too, with jaundiced leaves hanging limp from their boughs. Between two great banks of rock trickles a rivulet of water, widening to a stream and snaking away through the grass. I sip a little of the water from my palm—fresh, not a hint of salt.
Upward I climb, my limbs trembling with exhaustion. The sharp breeze scours away my sweat, kicking up my hair and clothes, ruffling through the grass and scouring the rocks.
I pull myself over the lip of one massive boulder and there, in the side of the hill, is a cave. More of a generous hollow beneath and between the rocks, but it’s a sizable space. Its walls are lined with planks from wrecked ships, and there’s a jumble of stolen stores—barrels, casks, and trunks. On a table stand jars and bottles, along with tins of biscuit and bags of something lumpy—potatoes, maybe. Piles of clothing fill one corner of the space, and a jumble of glittering weapons lies under the table.
On a makeshift bed piled with scavenged blankets lies a figure with a head of curly auburn hair.
Mordan.
Even though he’s facing the wall, I know it’s him—I recognize the way he’s sleeping, on his right side with one arm curled around his head. He’s resting, recharging his energy before winding the storm to new heights again. It’s incredible that the air currents are still whirling while he’s asleep. They’re less forceful, but still dangerous.
Knife in hand, I sidle nearer to the bed.
What he’s done can’t be undone, or forgiven. I have to end this.
I can’t think about the act. I simply have todo it.
I suck in a breath, steeling myself—
—or I try to suck in a breath, but my lungs—
My lungs are frozen. They simply won’t work.
Panic sears my nerves, but I have just enough presence of mind to tuck the knife into the back of my pants, where the flat of its cold blade shifts against my rear.
“Did you think I was asleep?” A cold voice, void of sympathy.
The figure on the bed rises slowly, fluidly, and faces me.
He looks so much older. Taller. A raw-boned, red-bearded man with manic purpose in his eyes.
My brother.
I am speechless, my vocal cords paralyzed by lack of air, but I hold out my family ring.
Mordan doesn’t even look at it. He’s scanning my face, my body, his eyes widening. “Veronica?”
Suddenly I can breathe again, and I inhale gratefully.
“How are you here? Are you alone?” Mordan steps past me, peering down the hillside. I can only hope Locke and the other pirates had the good sense to wait far away from here, under cover. If Mordan sees them, they’ll be dead men.
“I’m alone,” I say, catching his sleeve and tugging him back to face me. “I was on a ship that got caught in the storm—your storm. I’ve been looking for you, Mordan. I’ve missed you.”
It’s easy to lie to him. It’s a habit born from years of practice, one I can’t unlearn. Lies blended with truth, the poison with which I tempered his murderous exploits. I was so foolish to think I could handle him alone back then. So foolish, so wrong, so cruel to myself and to him. The pain of it nearly chokes me as Locke’s words echo in my mind.
You have more pain and darkness inside you than you want to admit…the truth, Veronica, is that you are just as jaded and guilty as the rest of us. Come down here and meet me in the blood and the grime where you belong.
Mordan is still staring at me. He takes a step nearer, then lurches forward, binding me in a hug that smells of sweat and alcohol. “I can’t believe you’re here. What if you’d died in the wreckage—gods, Veronica! You should be more careful!”
I almost laugh. Not a bit of guilt, not the barest hint of an apology for any parthemight have had in my ship being wrecked. NotI’m sorry my magic almost killed you,butYou should be more careful.
