Zander stifled the urge to chuckle and looked at the horizon again. He hoped Theo could convince someone to let him out of the brig before they docked. If not, they’d have to sneak him above deck before making their escape.
Later, as they approached the narrow peninsula on the Spanish coast that was their destination, Theo emerged from below deck, his eyes squinting against the sun as it sank low in the sky. He gave Zander a quick nod, subtly patting the pocket of his jacket and the bulge beneath—one of the three grenadiers. Zander and Yarrow had been carrying theirs all day; he wondered how Yarrow’s clothes hadn’t gotten heavy enough to fall off by now, with all the things they’d commandeered since that morning.
The captain, whom Zander had seen very little of since their capture, was directing several men as they carried heavy-looking crates from his quarters onto deck. The men strained under the weight of the boxes, walking carefully under the threat of the captain to cut their ears off if they damaged the goods inside.
The shore loomed. Zander could see a swath of whitewashed buildings in the distance. A single, long wooden dock sat unused on the shore, allowing the large ship to make berth and open the gangway. There were no other ships, only a company of men and several carriages waiting on the beach. Zander could see a rough path on which the carriages had traveled, leading up over rolling hills, largely bare of trees. In one spot, large boulders broke up the beach, leading away from the water and providing the only potential cover for their escape.
Zander thanked his lucky stars it was nearing evening, providing them the additional cover of darkness in the relatively open plain beyond the shore.
He was veering toward the port side of the ship, where Yarrow stood. Theo was making his way there as well, casually drifting behind a thick crowd of sailors, when the captain called out.
“You there!”
Zander didn’t turn around, though he knew somehow the call was directed toward him. A hand gripped his shoulder, turning him roughly around to face the captain, who was pointing at him.
“You,” he said again, “and your friends. Seems I’ve a use for you after all. You’ll carry these crates to shore when we dock and bring back the payment. Chuckles here will go with you.” He gestured to a large man wearing a menacing snarl on his pockmarked face, who Zander presumed to be Chuckles.
Zander nodded mutely and walked forward. Theo and Yarrow approached as well, careful not to look at one another. Zander could almost feel the relief of the men who’d carried the crates out of the captain’s quarters at not having to carry them any further. Whether that was because of their weight or the several dozen armed men waiting for them on shore as they docked was unclear.
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.
