Bring Me the Horizon (8 page)

“I take offense,” she bristled, “as I have not left my cabin. How could I when you keep me locked up inside. Richard comes to me.”

Lucid eyes narrowed, as if he hadn’t heard correctly. Cutler bent closer. “Comes to you? When?”

“When I am to sup.”

“Hobbs doesn’t bring your food?”

“Nay.”

“Does he use a key to gain entrance?”

“Nay. He comes through your cabin.”

“Does he,” Cutler seethed.

Admittance might be doing Richard harm. She didn’t want to be responsible for a hostile clash between the friends. “He comes only to talk...and pray,” she sputtered all too quickly.

“Pray,” Cutler snorted. His hand moved to his cutlass, kneading the hilt. The gesture seemed instinctual, as his eyes lost focus on some spot on the other side of the deck, unwavering even with the constant motion of the crew milling about. “What’s his game?” he growled under his breath. “Defying orders, stealing into her cabin, lying—not like him at all.”

“Capt’n.” Kipp tread forward with a black tricorn hat. “The longboat is ready to take ya to shore.”

Cutler snapped out of his trance. He took the hat and nodded. “Have Cocklyn and Robin seal up the door betwixt mine and Miss DuBois’s cabins.”

“Sir?”

“No one will use that door ever again. Make smart with it. I’ll be along,” he said by way of dismissal.

Kipp glanced over his captain’s shoulder at her, expression pinched with worry, before spinning on his heel, back to the waiting boat.

Angry lines etched his face as Cutler turned to her in a slow, calculating measure to face her. “You will stay on this ship. ’Tis my order.” He plopped his hat firmly on his head. “No argument.”

No argument indeed. No matter her strong opinion, she would not change his mind. He was impenetrable. She bowed her head a fraction in deference.

His taut mien loosened ever so slightly. “For your safety, turtle.”

Gracie’s heart squeezed with his sentiment. But when he lifted her chin with a crooked finger, she stumbled into his sincere blue crystals. Heaven above, she was losing herself to him.

“I will bring back Sarah, I will.”

If only she could believe it. Satisfied with the smile Gracie mustered up, Cutler pecked her forehead. “To your cabin, lass.” He strode away and addressed the nearest jack. “Fetch me Monk. I have words for him.”

She headed for the hatch, but for appearances only. ’Twould be tricky, but she had other plans to see through.

Cutler sat at the rear of the dusty tavern, as always, his back to the wall. He had chosen the table carefully, running off a couple of locals for the prime spot close to the foot of the stairwell leading to the bawdy rooms above.

Just as the sun rises and sets, Cutler knew one thing about Carrion. Wherever the wretch found land, he dropped his anchor into the port whores.

He was nearly finished with his bottle of liquor when he heard the boisterous man. “Keep it warm, Emma, you saucy pearl.”

Heavy footsteps descended the stairs and slowed as he neared the bottom. Cutler pushed back his hat and met Carrion’s cold stare. For most, Carrion’s appearance was frightening—long shaggy hair black and greasy as pitch, eyes wild with death, wide girth and an evil smile that did nothing to soften the scars on his ugly mug. Cutler wasn’t most. All the same, he’d keep an eye on the man’s weapons strapped on his belt.

Carrion was a calculating man and his methods of pirating and terror effective. But he was a leper amongst the brethren. ’Twas certain the brethren were pirates to their core. Nevertheless, their brotherhood had a decree to show mercy to women, children and the elderly. Carrion rarely heeded the brethren rules. He went beyond striking fear, beyond the pirate codex, beyond the pillaging, plundering, and the like. The man thrived on torture—cruel and unnecessary—giving pirates a bad reputation. Well...a
worse
reputation. Unfortunately, no one ever survived long enough to bring allegations against the scum to the brethren court.

Carrion’s upper lip protruded as he rolled his tongue over crooked teeth, no doubt assessing the threat. Cutler pointed to the open chair at his table. “Join me, friend.”

“Friend,” Carrion spat. “Ain’t no friend here.”

Cutler waved to the serving girl for more liquor. “Bring another cup, sweetling.”

Carrion eased himself into the chair. “Ya must want somethin’ to offer me spirit.”

“Aye.”

“And with little bloodshed.”

Cutler smirked. “’Twould be your choice, of course. As well as your two lackeys at the bar.” Though they made no movements, the men’s bodies stiffened once Carrion took his seat at Cutler’s table, and their glances more frequent. Funny, they didn’t notice Kipp sat at the other end of the bar watching them.

A throaty chuckle erupted from the vile man’s blistered lips. “Given choices, I prefer the thick cries of red.”

“As do I when an enemy needs eradicating.

Cutler and Carrion stared in silence at one another until Carrion’s mug was filled and the serving wench gone.

“I won’t wheedle you with polite words of rubbish,” Cutler finally said.

“What do ya want, Cutler?”

“The woman.”

Another chuckle. “Emma is all yours. But watch your coins. She’s a nippin’ thief.”

“Not the mutton. Sarah DuBois.”

Carrion’s brow deepened. “I know no Sarah.”

“The woman you nabbed in your carnage at Santo Domingo in search for the Bobadilla nugget.”

“The witch?” He idly took a swig from his mug, wiping his cracked lips upon his sleeve. “That useless bunter knew nothin’.”

“Where is she?”

He shrugged. “Feedin’ the worms, I suppose.”

Cutler leaned forward. “Come again?”

“’Tis costly to chase a myth. And I weren’t in no mood to have the bitch spit in me eye. So, I killed her.”

Carrion’s confession slammed into Cutler, damn near causing him to react. Instead, confusion and anger swarmed within him like a raging hurricane. He desperately grappled to understand.

“She’s dead.” It wasn’t a question.

“Put up a right good fight, too. Might’ve spared herself had she not tried to protect her wee sister.” Carrion clucked and sighed, swirling his drink around in his mug. “Alas, that little witch got away.”

Burn and sink me.
Gracie
knew
her sister was dead. And yet, she sent him after Carrion. She lied to him.
Lied!
His gut clenched. He was wrong about her. She was no better than Antonia. He wished it weren’t true. God, he wished it weren’t true. She had cleaved her way into his heart, his every thought, his every breath. Had him dreaming of a better life with her.

He was through. Whatever her designs, it didn’t matter. Soon as he got back to
Rissa
, he’d throw her arse off his ship. With the anger bleeding from every pore and his heart blackening once again,
that
was showing her clemency.

“Well then, Carrion, if the lass is dead, there is nothing more to discuss.”

Carrion’s weathered eye squinted in skepticism. “Have you whereabouts of the nugget?”

“Nay. Only the girl.” Let the wretch believe he was after the same treasure. ’Twould keep him overly suspicious. “I’ve wasted enough time on this pointless venture.” That was a true word.

Cutler rose slowly from his seat as to not startle the dolts at the bar. “Enjoy your liquor, mate.”

“Here’s to a bloody shirt and plenty of tight scuts,” Carrion said.

Cutler sidled up to the bar beside Kipp. “Take your leisure, mate. This mission is over.” Before Kipp could answer or question why, Cutler grabbed a fresh bottle of tobacco rum from the tavern keep, nodded to Carrion’s lackeys, and stole out the door. He needed to clear his head of Gracie and cloud his reasoning with anger before heading back to the ship. ’Twas a glorious thing to get completely mauled and be blind by rum.

The air in the dark alley was so thick, dank and musty, Gracie could taste the shadows on her tongue. And the smell of urine clogged her nose. She swallowed again and again to keep from vomiting.

It had been nearly two hours since she convinced Richard to row her to shore. Actually, he didn’t need convincing at all. After his apparent scolding from Cutler, Richard was eager to spurn any directive his captain gave him. She then gave him the slip at the docks as he tied the boat to the pier cleat.

Now here she stood, wedged behind the empty crates and barrels behind a tavern. ’Twasn’t hard to find Carrion. She simply meandered down the streets, asking port residents where she might find the nearest tavern frequented by seamen, until she spotted Cutler ducking inside the one she hovered behind. All she had to do was wait.

Moments ago, he left, pulling hard on a bottle of rum. Without Carrion. No previous sounds of a brawl. No gunshots. Was Carrion inside?

Patience. She needed to hold on to her patience a little longer before going inside.

Just as she resolved to step out into the sunlight beaming down on the street, a door slammed open in the back of the alley.

Carrion.

Gracie flattened herself to the damp wall, daring not to breathe, praying the scoundrel didn’t see her cowering in the murk. She shoved her hand into her bag and grasped the hilt of her dagger.

He swayed and sauntered toward her with a confidence all his own, humming some long ago tune. Hate ignited within her, burning into a raging inferno. How dare he wear that grin. How dare he be in high spirits. How dare he breathe when Sarah was dead.
The bastard.
Her hate flared.

The darkness seemed to swirl in his wake like black fog. Her heart hammered, each thud threatening to break her ribs. The closer he came, the tighter her muscles wound. She inhaled deep through her nose. Alcohol, sweat, and a faint scent of perfume wafted in his wake—fuel she used to act.

Gracie quickly stepped from her hiding place behind Carrion and stuck her knife to his back. He froze. But no sound escaped him, no sign of surprise. This but unnerved her.

“Don’t move,” she said, her voice hoarse from impulse and fear.

A chuckle, low and deadly, rumbled from him. “You are too late if ya mean to rob me, chit. The mutton upstairs left me penniless.”

“Oh, I mean to rob you,” she hissed, “rob you of your miserable life.”

His head tilted down to glimpse her in his field of vision. The lines of his profile were chasms of severity. “And you, a tiny puss, think ya can kill me?”

“I’m holding the knife. My size is of no matter.”

“But, lass, ya’ve forgotten one important fact.”

No. She planned this carefully. There was nothing she’d forgotten. He only meant to scare her. ’Twas working, too. “I do not fear for my life.”

Carrion spun so quickly, he was nothing more than a blur. Pain shot up her arm with the twist of her wrist. She yelped and Carrion snatched the dagger from her grip.

“When you ambush yer enemy, ya don’t take the time to talk. Ya just kill.” He yanked her close and peered down, death on his putrid breath. “Otherwise ya lose yer chance.”

Tears sprung from her eyes as much from the smarting as the truth in his words. She failed. She’d pay.

“Pray tell, why would ya want me dead? Wait...” The veil of questions lifted off his weathered face. He’d recognized her. “Yer the witch’s sister.”

“You killed Sarah,” she snarled through clenched teeth.

“And, ye, a wisp of a girl, thought to seek retribution.” Carrion chortled. “Blimey. What will ya do, now?” He flicked the knife by its handle, the blade waving back and forth a mere inch from her nose. “Hmm. A better question would be what will
I
do?”

“I’ll scream.”

“Aye. I hope ya do so I can carve it from yer throat.”

Sinking panic doused her courage. Gracie struggled uselessly against his hold.

Carrion pricked the dagger’s tip at the base of her throat, not quite piercing her flesh, and skimmed it down to the middle of her breast.

Hot tears blurred her vision and left a path upon her cheeks.

“Now I’ll flay ya like I did yer bitch of a sister.”

CHAPTER 7

Another shot of anger flowed through Cutler’s veins as he swigged the rum. And if he were being truthful to himself, a healthy dose of self-pity along with the warmth. But he would turn a blind eye to that fact.

’Twas Gracie’s fault. She lied. She must have cast a spell upon him, the witch. Nay, he didn’t believe that. Though it would be easier than blaming himself for being such a fool. More so for falling for her. She still lied and betrayed his trust, the deceitful jade.

He swallowed another mouthful of liquor, closing his eyes and savoring the burn in his gut. Pushing off the cold stone wall, he headed back to the docks. He didn’t look forward to telling his crew and Zane Fox he’d been duped. Shit, he wouldn’t blame them if they lost respect for him. Such a gross mistake.

A squelched cry jerked him from his loathing. The sound he recognized. Did thinking of Gracie conjure up her voice? He was all kinds of a clod, but his feet moved of their own volition. He spun on his heel and jogged to the sound not far away, back toward the tavern. ’Twasn’t his business, but something compelled him to investigate.

Cutler rounded the corner of the alley and stopped short. A frozen lump dropped in his gut.

Carrion had Gracie pinned to the wall, a dagger flush to her neck. He was muttering in her ear, a crazed snarl on his dry, cracked lips.

Cutler took a few steps into the murk, his cutlass poised for action, his arm itching to attack. “Belay, Carrion.”

Carrion rolled his head up, his dead, menacing eyes spearing him with numbing hatred.

“Sendin’ a poppet to do what you can’t, Cutler?”

“Let the lass go,” Cutler demanded.

“Nay. ’Fraid I’m not feelin’ obligatory. You sent her to kill me.”

Cutler grunted. “Not bloody likely.”

“The lass tryin’ to gut me seems a bit too coincidental after our meetin’.”

“That’s exactly what it is.” Cutler edged closer. “We don’t have to make this ugly. She’s not worth the mess.”

Carrion leaned in and drew a deep breath from Gracie’s chestnut hair. “Mmm...maybe she is. I’d like to see her bleed.”