As they released the gangway, the armed men formed a path leading to a central carriage, where a man waited next to a single wooden chest. Zander couldn’t help but feel expendable as he leaned down and took one side of a crate across from Yarrow; Theo and Chuckles picked up the other. He walked sideways down the gangway, on to the dock, and toward the two lines of guns pointed at them, using every modicum of self-control he had.

His eyes scanned the landscape as he walked. This shouldn’t be happening. They should be escaping right now. The entire crew stood motionless on the ship, watching this scene play out. They could be climbing down the ratlines on the other side of the ship, unnoticed, to run for the rocky shore. Instead, every set of eyes on land and sea were glued to them as they carried god-knows-what at gunpoint through a tunnel of fierce-looking men.

When they reached the end of the line, the man nodded silently toward the ground, indicating they should set the crates down in the sand. Instantly, they were surrounded by people as the crates were pried open and the insides inspected. Once he was seemingly satisfied with the contents, the man gestured for the lids to be closed again and the swarm of men parted, allowing Theo and Zander to lift a chest containing payment and carry it back up the dock, to the gangway, and onto the ship.

The sun was just above the horizon now, threatening to set on the day and on their chance of escape. All eyes remained glued to Zander and Theo as they walked on deck and brought the chest directly to the captain’s quarters. He looked around briefly when they entered. It was a disgustingly extravagant room.

When they emerged, the gangway was being removed, and the pirates eagerly prepared to set sail under the captain’s promise to break out a new barrel of rum once they were on open water.

Zander’s body threatened to crumble under his emotions, frustration begging to brim over in the form of tears, or a guttural scream. He held it inside, scanning the ship for any sign of a chance to bail without being noticed. Yarrow had been pulled aside by a group of jollier-than-normal pirates jeering about that rum punch they promised, one of their arms around Yarrow’s neck in a firm but friendly grip. Theo was being prodded back toward the brig—he protested that he needed to piss before he went, his eyes scanning the ship for an escape, but to no avail.

They were sailing south. South. The worst direction they could possibly go, away from Ace, away from Spain, across open water and toward another continent entirely. Zander stood, frozen. He was unsure of how long he simply stared at the land shrinking in the distance before he was making his way to a deserted corner of the forecastle. He needed to do something, anything, now.

Reaching the corner, he tore off his jacket and hung it on one shoulder, using it to shield his hands as he dug the grenadier and the flint and steel from his pockets. His hands shook as he positioned the grenadier between his boots, bending to strike the flint against steel, willing the sparks to catch on the exposed fuse.

His logic screamed at him to stop what he was doing and think for a moment. He’d never handled an explosive before, not in this life. He would likely kill himself doing this, or kill his friends, or blow off his hand at the very least. He wasn’t Theo the expert marksman, or Yarrow the inventor, or Ace the fierce pirate captain.

But if there’s one thing that’s true about Z, it is the power of his persistence. This would not be the first nor the last time he surprised himself with his tendency to find a way when there seemed to be none.

And right now, the woman he loved was in trouble. In fact, she may already be dead. And he was out of options. It was with a sudden rush of excruciating clarity that he realized the simple choice that lay before him. He would make this ship turn around, and he would find Ace, or he would die.

Perhaps, he needed to die… or at least appear to.

The fuse lit. Zander straightened, suddenly and painfully aware of the danger he was in. His coat fell from his shoulder, landing on the ground nearby. He held the hissing explosive before him.

Now what?

Zander rushed across the forecastle and toward the other side of the ship, as far from Yarrow as he could manage and away from the general area of the brig. He stayed as close as he could to the railing, holding the lit bomb awkwardly at his side, trying to obscure it from view as he rushed past pirates who looked after him in confusion, their nostrils flaring. He counted under his breath, praying Yarrow was right about their estimate of the time they’d have between lighting the fuse and the modest explosion—about thirty seconds.

“Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen…” He ran into the redheaded sailor with Ace’s knife, knocking him off balance, and continued to rush onward, his eyes glued in front of him. He started leaping over obstacles, stepping on feet in his haste. “Twenty one, twenty two…”

He made it to the upper deck, climbed atop the railing, and turned around to look at the crowd of pirates before him. Yarrow’s gaze was fixed on him from the other side of the ship, their eyes wide in shock. A few of the pirates stopped to notice him. The sparks from the fuse burned his hand, and as he brought the grenadier in front of him to see the fuse nearly burnt to its end, realization dawned on several men nearby and they sprinted away from the now-visible flare.

Zander took one deep breath, knowing it may be his last, and looked out at the crowd of men he’d grown to hate in so little a time.

“You’re all a bunch of fucking assholes,” he said, and dropped the bomb on deck just as the fuse burnt down to the gunpowder inside.

By some miraculous stroke of luck, Zander’s feet slipped on the damp railing just as the grenadier exploded. He had meant to say more—that he hated their guts, that he would curse them from beyond the grave so their socks would always be wet and their ale always turn sour, but he slipped before he could say them, the words swallowed in a gasp as he fell backward at just the right moment, avoiding the impact of the blast.

He hit the water feet first, his body straightening into an arrow on instinct as he fell (he did a lot of falling into the water his first month on The Valerian). He sunk below the depths, the murky darkness surrounding him in a cold embrace.

He sank, his arms unfurling from his chest and opening wide to the water. He surrendered to it, and the sea cradled him like a mother holding her child.

And then he heard it. A small voice, whispering in a language he didn’t know, a sound he heard more with his chest than his ears. Time seemed to slow as the water whispered to him, wrapping around his heart in a familiar tug. He knew then that Ace was alive, as sure as he knew the sky was blue. And he was going to find her.

He swam, propelling himself upward until he reached the hull of the ship. He emerged near the stern, careful not to gasp too loudly for air, and grabbed for a straggling rope just before it drifted out of reach. He clung to the rotting ratline and waited. His companions were likely scanning the water for signs of his body, but in the growing darkness they would quickly give him up for dead and move on—which is just what he wanted.

The ship was drifting steadily south, moving slowly in the light breeze. Still, Zander’s legs threatened to flail behind him as he clung to the rope. He reached for a nearby ratline, this one still securely attached. His arm strained, his muscles stretching, freezing water splashing in his face. His fingers finally found purchase, and with great effort he pulled himself forward against the force of the water, tucking his arm inside the interconnected ropes, hoisting himself out of the water, and holding on for dear life.

He wiggled his right foot, which rested precariously on a shot plug jutting from the hull, feeling his remaining dagger still tucked securely in his right boot. His other boot jutted awkwardly out to the side, the measure of canvas and the needle inside pressed against his heel.

The darkness deepened with every breath. He just needed to hold on for a little while longer, and then he was going to turn this goddamned ship around.

16

Zander clung to the side of the ship for nearly an hour, his limbs tucked behind sections of rigging to take the pressure off his aching muscles. The sounds of a celebration drifted from the upper deck, laughter mixing with the clash of swords and merry singing.

Zander wanted to kill them all.

He was still wet, for despite the bit of air rushing past him as the ship slowly moved across the water, it splashed high enough to soak him again before he dried. He was freezing, every muscle in his body tensed to avoid falling, his right arm and shoulder numb from the rope cutting off his circulation.

For the first thirty minutes he clung to the rope, his ears strained to hear a gunshot, a splash, something indicating he’d doomed his friends to the depths in his haste to escape the ship. He hoped their feigned hatred of him gave them some protection, yet he ruminated on their possible deaths anyway, anxious and filled with preemptive rage.

By the time he decided to move, he wasn’t sure if his ears had simply grown accustomed to the noise, or if it really was getting quieter above deck. Deciding he couldn’t hold on any longer without overfatiguing his muscles, he began to climb.

He went slowly, testing each rope he clung to, his ears straining to hear any noise, his muscles protesting against his own weight. When he reached the top of the stern and peered through the gaps in the railing, he saw a single pirate standing lazily at the helm, their arm draped over it and their chin resting atop their forearm. There was a large hole in the ground near his feet where Zander’s grenade had landed, the char marks around it wet with seawater to prevent a fire from spreading. Zander held his breath as he pulled himself up and over the railing, wincing at every sound he made, until his feet landed on solid wood.

He didn’t allow his tensed muscles to relax, didn’t give himself time to take a breath. He pulled the dagger from his boot, took three great strides toward the pirate, and reached his arm around to cover his mouth as he slit his throat. He then lowered the man’s body gently to the ground.

He was marginally aware of his body starting to shake. A mix of rage and adrenaline rushed through him, screaming for him to move, to run, to kill the rest of them before he collapsed of exhaustion. He forced himself to move slowly instead, crouching behind the helm and looking down at the main deck.

It was strangely quiet for the hour, the sounds of celebration from earlier now absent. About a dozen men lay sleeping on the main deck, a normal occurrence given the number of pirates on board and the modest size of their sleeping quarters. A few were still awake at the forecastle, playing a game involving dice. Zander could tell from their slurred speech they were all quite drunk.

He pulled off his wet, sloshing boots, then his socks. He took the sailmaker’s hook from its canvas wrap and held it firmly in his left hand, the dagger still clutched in his right. He crept quietly down the stairs from the upper deck. He scanned the bodies of the sleeping pirates, then continued, crouching low as he approached the forecastle.

When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he took a deep breath and then sprinted up, taking the five men playing dice by surprise.

The first man had his back to him. Zander buried his dagger in his side as he jabbed the sailmaker’s needle into the neck of the man on his left, then pulled it swiftly free. A man to his right stood and reached for his weapon, but Zander pulled his dagger free and swung, the blade slicing across the man’s throat before he threw it straight ahead, burying it in the eye of a fourth man.

One pirate remained, a small fellow Zander had once overheard bragging about abducting a girl from her home and forcing her onto the ship. He blinked up at Zander, confusion, fear, and strong drink clouding his eyes.

Zander reached down and wrapped his hand around the man’s neck, lifting him with strength he didn’t know he had, and hurled him roughly over the edge of the ship.

He stood there for a moment, panting, his left fist coated in blood where he’d torn the sailmaker’s needle through the second man’s throat. He pulled his dagger free from the eye of the fourth man and turned around just as the red-headed sailor reached the stairs, having woken from his slumber on deck.

Zander was renewed by rage at the sight of Ace’s blade in the man’s hand, and he bent over, propelling himself into his adversary’s legs. The pirate fell forward onto his stomach, Ace’s blade slipping from his grasp. He reached for it, but Zander turned and thrust his dagger into the center of his hand, pinning it to the deck. He screamed. Zander picked up the cutlass and silenced him with a hard knock to the back of the head.

That was much louder than I planned, Zander thought, bracing himself to turn around and see the rest of the pirates waking. He was surprised to see all except one of them still asleep. The large pirate with the snake tattoo on one arm was awake, and he was charging at him, a terrifying grimace on his face.

Zander readied himself, but the man stopped suddenly, his eyes wide. He plummeted forward like a felled tree, revealing Yarrow, their hand still in position from throwing the knife now jutting from the back of his head.

Something between a laugh and a sob escaped Zander at the sight of Yarrow. He looked again at the rest of the pirates on deck, who slept on, no sign they’d heard the commotion aside from a few men sleepily rolling over or mumbling to themselves.

“What in the world’s gotten into these ones?” Zander asked.

Yarrow smiled. “Rum punch,” they said, pulling a couple of small, brown bottles Zander recognized as laudanum from their pocket.

The relief that rushed through Zander’s body brought him to his knees, and he gave himself fully over to hysterics, his body shaking with maniacal laughter. When he looked up, Yarrow stood above him, a concerned look on their face. Zander sighed, wiping stray tears from his face, and took their hand when they offered it, standing.