The Sea Wolves (34 page)

“Hello, Louis,” Jack said.

It brayed like a hyena and then transformed further, grunting as it resumed the illusion of humanity. Louis stood naked on the
Charon
's deck.

“Jack,” he said, “you are one crazy fool, but I'm happy to see you alive.”

“Happy to
be
alive.”

Louis started to laugh, but then his eyes narrowed and he spun to defend himself. Too late, as the huge gray werewolf, soaked in blood and rain, plowed into him. The two crashed to the deck, and for a moment Jack thought Ghost would tear out Louis's throat. But the captain snarled and snapped, shoved Louis to one side almost dismissively, and turned his heavy head to glare at Jack.

With a cry that began as an animal's howl and built into a human roar, Ghost transformed. Breathing hard, teeth bared, he looked more bestial and barbaric as a man than he ever had as a wolf.

“I had plans for you, Mr. London,” Ghost rasped.

“And I have plans for you. That's why I set you free. But I make my own destiny, Ghost. Always have.”

One corner of Ghost's mouth lifted in a knife-edge smile. “Not today you don't.”

As the other sea wolves transformed into the familiar figures of Tree, Vukovich, and Maurilio, Ghost began to move toward Jack. Any other time, the sailors' brash nakedness might have seemed awkward, but painted with their enemies' blood and with rain slashing down at the deck, they only appeared more savage. Somehow they managed to be both wild and unnatural at the same time, neither man nor animal. They were things that nature would never permit, no matter what Ghost might say.

“You betrayed me,” Ghost said, moving closer, his fingers hooked into claws. “You took the witch off my ship before I could make her pay for turning on me. You could have been so much more than you are, Jack. So much more than a weak bit of bone and gristle.”

“Cruelty and an appetite don't make you strong,” Jack said, unflinching.

Louis and the other sea wolves—no longer a crew but still part of Ghost's pack—circled warily.

Ghost moved swiftly, wrapping one huge hand around Jack's throat and slamming him against the railing. He shoved, bending him backward so that Jack's upper body hung over the storm-tossed sea, the ship rolling on the strengthening waves.

“Murder
makes me strong!” Ghost roared, spittle striking Jack's face. “Taking lives, eating flesh, drinking blood! I will destroy you with my bare hands as I should have done the first moment I saw you, before I suffered the disappointment of knowing you.
That
makes me strong, Jack. I am your master, and I'll hear you say it before I end your life.”

“That's never going to happen,” Jack croaked, barely able to draw breath. “I am my own … and only … master.”

“You little bastard!” Ghost screamed. He began to change again, but only enough for his jaws to open wider and his fangs to grow longer. Then he bent forward, jaws gaping to sink his teeth into Jack's face.

Tree's massive fist struck Ghost so hard in the face that two of his fangs snapped off and were lost on the rain-swirled deck. With Ghost surprised by the attack and stunned from the impact, Louis and Maurilio were able to haul him back for Tree to hit him again. Vukovich grabbed a fistful of his former captain's hair and yanked back, exposing his throat, and the four sea wolves had Ghost at their mercy.

“That'd just be bad form, Captain,” Louis said. “You can't kill Mr. London after he came out here to free us.”

Jack exhaled. He'd been prepared to die, and recovering from that required a moment to collect himself. He watched as Ghost struggled against them and then paused, nodded once, and was released.

“I'll have you,” Ghost snarled at Jack, quieter now.

“Maybe,” Jack agreed. “But your brother will have heard the explosion. There are a dozen of them and only five of you, and they'll be on their way back to the beach by now. I'm not afraid of you or of dying, but I'd rather avoid both if possible. And for all your talk, I suspect you'd rather not die either, Ghost. I've gambled on you being the lesser of two evils, on there still being a shred of honor and humanity in you, despite all your efforts to expunge them. If you want to live, we have to work together.”

“Why bother, Jack?” Vukovich said. “We've got the ship now. We'll leave Death Nilsson and his crew behind. It's a big ship, but the six of us can get it under way, I'm sure.”

“Haven't you noticed how it's listing?” Jack said.

“The ship's damaged,” Louis said. “Death's gone ashore to see if there's anything he can use for repairs.”

“And he saw my campfire and went to investigate,” Jack replied.

“There's no avoiding this fight,” Tree said in his deep, rumbling voice.

“The odds are not in your favor,” Jack said. “But you don't have to face them alone.”

Ghost laughed. “You're one man, Jack. Clever, I'll grant you, but still near enough to being a boy that I'm sure you remember childhood all too well. What can you do to help even the odds against Death and his curs?”

Jack took a breath and let it out. Of all the risks he had taken since waking this morning, this was the one that most terrified him.

“It's not just me. Sabine—”

“Of course the sea witch is with you,” Ghost snarled. “You fell in love. The two of you escaped together into some romantic dream. But she isn't here, which means you left her on the island. Death will have feasted on her heart by now, you fool. And even if he hasn't, what good is she? We know where my brother and his bootlicks are.”

He jabbed a finger toward the island. Through the waving veils of rain, Jack could see the rowboats making their way out from the beach.

“There they are!” Ghost said. “No witchery required, Jack!”

Jack smiled, hating him more fiercely than ever.

“For all the books you've read and all the philosophy you've butchered in your monster's brain, you're not as bright as you think you are, Ghost. Or whatever your real name is.” Jack raised his voice to be heard over the wind. He wiped rain from his eyes. “You never felt her testing you. Never wondered about sudden changes in the weather, or questioned decisions that might have surprised you. Sabine made this storm! She summoned it, because she has power you have not even begun to imagine!”

The look of confusion, and then hatred, on Ghost's face was like a gift.

“If you all want to survive, you're going to need our help,” Jack said. “And to get it, Sabine and I require promises. A truce, and a bargain. You won't kill us. You won't lay another hand on either of us, for any reason. And Ghost, you will not attempt to punish the rest of your pack for their mutiny. We all live together or we all die together. But you'll die alone unless you agree to our terms.”

Louis and Tree both nodded in approval. Jack saw Vukovich and Maurilio regarding him with new respect and interest. He had linked them all into this bargain, made their forgiveness one of the terms of the deal. They could not help but see how all their fates were intertwined, and that Jack and Sabine were more concerned with their welfare than Ghost had ever been.

Jack offered his hand. “Do you accept the terms, Captain?”

Ghost looked revolted, his eyes full of loathing.

But he shook Jack's hand.

T
hunder rolled across the Pacific sky. Lightning danced in the clouds as if the gods of war were crafting their weapons … and it was weapons that Jack and the sea wolves required. The odds were against them, and even with Sabine's help they would need luck and ferocity to survive to see the sun again, or bay at the moon. Three rowboats were crossing the rain-lashed sea, and they brought a terrible storm with them.

Ghost led the way below, checking the
Charon
for guns and knives, and Jack knew that they were all hoping to find something silver. As Maurilio and Vukovich ransacked the crew's quarters, Louis headed down to the stores in the hold while Ghost and Tree searched the rest of the ship for some kind of armory.

Jack volunteered to check the galley for blades that might be useful. A butcher knife would not kill a werewolf, but the right wound—or a great many of them—might slow one of Death's crew enough for Jack to get the upper hand. But as he moved through the aft cabin, he passed an ornate door, from which wafted an animal musk so powerful that it could only belong to the captain.

With a quick glance over his shoulder, Jack pushed open the door, twisting his face away as if that would protect him from the stench. It was horrific, reaching inside to scorch his nostrils and rake claws across the back of his throat. But what he saw in that cabin was even worse. Death Nilsson was a more vicious pirate than his brother, and far more of an animal.

In the corner of the chamber was a large, carved wooden furnishing that might have been an infant's cradle if not for its size. The woman folded half-eaten into the cradle had been dead for perhaps three days, but Jack had seen no sign of other prisoners on board the
Charon. She must have been the last
, he thought.
The captain's private stock
.

Bile burned at the back of his throat, and he concentrated to keep himself from vomiting. He breathed through his mouth so that the stink of death and Death would not push him over the edge. Ghost might appear in the doorway at any moment, and Jack wanted to search Death's cabin without that hateful bastard looking over his shoulder. So he forced himself into action, moving swiftly, searching the cabinets and beneath the small dining table and behind the bunk. A bookless shelf against one wall was laden instead with charts and maps, a leather-and-brass telescope, and an antique sextant that Jack imagined Death had retained as a souvenir from some great captain. On the top shelf was a sword in its scabbard, and Jack plucked it down and drew out the blade—a Spanish naval officer's sword, engraved with a message.

Is mejor morir con honor que vivir sin ella
.

Jack sneered with derision.
It's better to die with honor than to live without it
. What would Death Nilsson know of honor?

He sheathed the sword but had no intention of using it himself. His skills at swordplay were amateur at best, and it might be more of a hindrance than an aid in fighting werewolves. He glanced once more at the top shelf and had already begun to turn away when he realized there was something else there. He reached into the shadowy space and retrieved a carved cherrywood box. It felt heavy and almost warm in his hands, and he stared at the lock on it for a moment or two before dashing it against the corner of the shelf. Once, twice, and with the third impact the hasp tore away from the wood and the box flipped open.

The revolver thunked to the floor, and bullets rained down around it. Silver! They gleamed even in the wan light filtering through the salt-grimed window, a chance at salvation.

With a furtive glance at the door, Jack dropped and began picking up bullets, shoving them into his pockets. A quick tally gave him a count of nearly twenty, and his heart swelled with the meaning of that number. More bullets than sea wolves. That didn't mean each one would find its target, especially if he was shooting while trying to avoid attack, but it gave him a way to fight them. It gave him a chance.