Nassau Docks, Just Before Dawn
The sky was bruised purple, fading toward grey along the eastern horizon. Gulls wheeled overhead, restless and loud, their cries echoing off the warehouse walls. The streets were too quiet for dawn, as if the city itself was holding its breath, waiting for something to snap.
Thomas crept along the edge of a warehouse wall. His boots were careful on the damp cobblestones, each step placed to avoid loose gravel. His breath was tight in his chest. The wound on his side had been cleaned with stale water from the tannery cistern, as Celeste had ordered, and wrapped in a strip of linen torn from his shirt. It still throbbed with every heartbeat, a dull reminder of Malvery's bullet, but the bleeding had stopped. The fresh bandage was white against his tan skin.
Behind him, Jonah kept pace, muttering under his breath.
"Tell me again why we are sneaking through the docks like wanted men?"
"Because," Thomas whispered, not looking back, "we are."
"Right. Just checking. I wanted to make sure I had not missed a more pleasant option. Perhaps a nice holiday in the countryside. Somewhere with no assassins, no Navy patrols, and no one trying to bleed me for my bloodline."
"You do not have a bloodline."
"Yet. Give Blackbeard time."
Ahead, Celeste moved like smoke. Her cloak was drawn tight around her shoulders, and her steps made no sound on the salt warped planks. She paused at every alley mouth, every flicker of lantern light, her head cocked to listen. Word had spread fast. Royal Navy soldiers were sweeping the outer piers, asking about someone named Vance. Someone who had left a dead man in a rum house and a trail of questions behind.
Thomas heard them two blocks back. Boots on cobblestones. An officer with a voice like gravel. The name Vance carried on the damp air like a curse.
They hugged the shadows, slipping between crates and skiffs, until the end of the pier came into view.
The Witch's Wrath.
She was not much to look at. A mid-sized sloop with patched sails and a hull that looked like it had survived cannon fire, heartbreak, and maybe one or two sea curses. Her rigging creaked softly in the breeze, a sound like old bones settling. Her name was barely legible on the stern, half swallowed by salt and time. The wood was dark with age, and a thin layer of morning dew glistened on the rail.
Jonah stared. "Charming vessel. This is exactly the sort of vessel you want for a suicidal run to Tortuga."
"Afloat is good enough," Thomas muttered. He could smell the tar on the ropes, the brine on the hull, the faint must of a hold that had seen better decades. He pressed a hand to his bandaged side. The linen was dry, at least.
"Tortuga," Jonah repeated, as if tasting the word for poison. "You know what they say about Tortuga. It is not a port. It is a crime scene with a beach."
"Then you will fit right in."
"I am a card sharp, not a murderer. There is a difference."
"Tell that to the merchant you cleaned out last month."
Jonah placed a hand over his heart. "I prefer to think of it as wealth redistribution."
"I've heard that, way too many times."
Celeste was already on the dock, speaking in low tones with a hunched, thick shouldered man who looked like he had been hanged once and decided to keep going anyway. He had a grey beard like knotted rope, each strand coarse and uneven. A limp clicked faintly on the planks when he shifted his weight. His voice was soaked in rum and smoke, the kind of voice that had been yelling into the wind for thirty years.
Beside him sat a massive, smoke grey cat. One ear was missing, torn off in some long-ago fight. Its eyes were the colour of broken glass, pale and unblinking. It stared at Jonah with fixed, predatory disdain, its tail curling slowly.
Jonah whispered, "Why is it looking at me like that?"
The cat hissed. A low, rattling sound.
"I did not do anything!"
Celeste turned. "Captain Maddox, this is Thomas Vance. And Jonah is along for the ride."
Jonah lifted a hand. "Still standing right here. Still capable of hearing you talk about me."
Maddox grunted. He looked Thomas up and down with the same cold assessment a butcher might give a side of beef. His eyes paused on the bandaged side.
"Your boy hurt?"
"Just a graze," Thomas said. "It is clean."
Maddox snorted. "Good. I do not carry a doctor. You get an infection; I throw you overboard. Nothing personal."
"Charming," Jonah muttered.
"Tell your fool to keep his mouth shut, or I will lock him in the bilge with Smoke. He eats better."
The cat let out a low, gravelly growl that seemed to come from somewhere deep in its chest.
Jonah stiffened. "That thing is possessed. I am certain of it. Look at its eyes."
Maddox scratched the cat behind its ragged ear. The animal leaned into the touch, still staring at Jonah.
"He has got taste. And you have got a loudmouth."
"I prefer to think of it as conversational enthusiasm."
Maddox ignored him and turned back to Celeste. "This is the one. The Vance boy?"
Celeste nodded. "He is."
"You sure? He looks like he should be fixing hulls, not running from Blackbeard."
Thomas stepped forward, ignoring the cat. "I am right here, Captain. And I did not ask to run from anyone. But here we are."
Maddox gave him a long look, like he was checking for weak seams in a hull. His eyes were pale blue, watery but sharp.
"You are Vance's boy?"
Thomas flinched. Just slightly. His hand moved toward his side, where the bandage pulled tight.
"Did not know the name still echoed."
"It does not." Maddox spat over the side of the dock. The spittle hit the dark water and vanished. "Celeste does. I owe her. Not you."
Jonah leaned in. "Exactly how many people has she saved? I am starting to feel inadequate."
Celeste did not look back. "Enough."
Maddox snorted. "She pulled me out of Port Charles with a knife in one hand, a fire behind us, and two steps ahead of a hanging. That favour is spent. You get clear across the reef; I am clear of my debt."
Thomas frowned. "Port Charles? That is Navy territory. What were you doing there?"
Maddox's jaw tightened. "That is my business. The question is, what are you doing on my dock with a bullet graze and a Navy patrol on your heels?"
Thomas glanced at Celeste. She gave a small nod.
"Blackbeard sent an assassin. The assassin is dead. Now the Navy is asking questions I cannot answer."
Maddox's eyes narrowed. "Blackbeard. The Revenge herself?"
"Yes."
"And here you are still breathing?"
"Barely."
Maddox let out a low whistle. "You have got a talent for making powerful enemies, boy."
"I did not choose any of this."
"Does not matter. The sea does not care about choices. It only cares about blood." He jabbed a thumb toward the gangplank. "Get aboard. We cast off before the Navy gets curious."
Jonah muttered, "Too late for that."
Thomas hesitated. "Captain. One more thing. Why are you really doing this? A debt is a debt, but Tortuga is a long way. And you do not strike me as a man who takes unnecessary risks."
Maddox was quiet for a moment. The cat rubbed against his leg.
"Because I knew your father," Maddox said finally. "Not well. But I knew him. And whatever happened on that ship, it was not just a storm. Something went wrong. Something that should have stayed at the bottom." He looked at Celeste. "She has been chasing answers for ten years. I figure if anyone deserves to find them, it is her."
Thomas looked at Celeste. She did not meet his eyes.
"Answers to what?" he asked.
Celeste boarded the ship without answering.
Maddox shrugged. "You will have to ask her yourself. Good luck with that."
The crew moved in shadows along the deck. Three men and a boy, all quiet, all armed, all sharp eyed. They wore cutlasses at their hips and knives in their boots. Not sailors. Not dockhands. The kind of crew you hired when the job got ugly and the law got close.
Jonah watched them. "Are we sure this is a ship and not a floating prison?"
"It is a ship," Maddox said. "The prison is optional. Keep talking and I will show you."
Thomas lingered on the dock. The city behind them was beginning to stir. Torchlight flickered in alleys. A dog barked somewhere in the distance. A trio of Royal soldiers moved two blocks up, their red coats visible between the buildings, shouting orders that echoed off the walls.
Jonah followed his gaze. "They are looking for us."
Thomas nodded.
"You want to turn back?"
He did not answer. He could feel the weight of the decision pressing on his chest, heavier than the wound. The bandage pulled with each breath, a small anchor of pain. Behind him, the sea whispered against the pilings. Ahead, Tortuga waited, and Celeste waited, and whatever answers she had been chasing for ten years waited with her.
"If I turn back," Thomas said quietly, "what happens? I go back to fixing ships? I wait for the next knife?"
"You could leave Nassau. Disappear. Start over somewhere else."
"With what? My father's name follows me. Blackbeard follows me. The Navy follows me." He shook his head. "There is no starting over. There is only running or fighting."
Jonah sighed. "And you want to fight."
"I want to know why my father died. I want to know why Blackbeard wants my blood. And I want to know what Celeste is not telling me."
"Three very good reasons to get on a very ugly ship." Jonah adjusted his pack on his shoulder. "Fine. But if we die, I am haunting you."
"I would expect nothing less."
Smoke the cat watched them cross the gangplank. It sat like a furry judge at the end of the dock, its broken glass eyes unblinking, it's one ear swivelling to track their movement.
"If that thing sleeps on my chest," Jonah whispered, "I swear I am jumping overboard. Do not test me. I will do it."
Thomas stepped onto the deck. The wood was rough beneath his bare feet, worn smooth in some places and splintered in others. The ship smelled of tar and salt and something else. Something old. He touched his bandaged side again. The linen was secure.
Aboard the Witch's Wrath, the sails caught the first breath of wind. The canvas snapped once, twice, then filled with a low rumble. Maddox barked orders in short, rasped bursts, his voice carrying across the deck.
"Cast off aft! Loose the foresail! Move, you lazy sons of…"
Lines were hauled. Knots secured. The gangplank was pulled aboard and stowed. The dock slipped away behind them like a fading memory. The gap of water widened, dark and green, and the pier shrank until it was just a line of wood against the grey shore.
Nassau, with its torn taverns, crooked deals, and buried ghosts, receded into the morning mist. The sun had not yet broken the horizon, but the sky was growing lighter, the purple bleeding into pink and gold.
Thomas stood at the stern, watching his home disappear. He had lived there for ten years, ever since his mother had brought him back from nowhere, a boy with a dead father and a name that weighed more than any anchor. He had built ships there. He had bled there. He had learned to keep his head down and his mouth shut.
Now he was leaving. Not on a ship he had built. Not on his own terms. Running. The wound on his side ached in time with his pulse, a reminder of how close Malvery's bullet had come.
Jonah came up beside him, leaning on the rail. "You are brooding."
"I am thinking."
"Same thing, with you." Jonah pulled out a piece of dried bread from his pack and bit into it. "So. Celeste. Mysterious woman. Good with a pistol. Does not smile. What is her story?"
"I do not know."
"You did not ask?"
"She would not tell me."
Jonah chewed thoughtfully. "And yet you got on her ship. Following a stranger into the unknown. That is either very brave or very stupid."
"Probably both."
"Probably." Jonah offered him the bread. Thomas shook his head. "You know what I think? I think you are tired of not knowing. Tired of fixing other people's ships while your own life sits in dry dock. And I think Celeste saw that in you."
Thomas said nothing.
"That is why you are here. Not because you trust her. Because you are done waiting."
Thomas looked at his friend. "Since when did you become so wise?"
"Since I almost got shot in a rum house. Mortality is very educational." Jonah clapped him on the shoulder. "Come on. Let us go see what our mysterious captain wants."
Celeste stood at the prow, her hair tugged by the breeze. The auburn waves lifted and fell, catching the first light of dawn. Her face was unreadable; her storm grey eyes fixed on the horizon.
Thomas joined her. He stood beside her at the rail, close enough to feel the spray on his skin. The wind was cool against his bandaged side, a small relief.
"You think this ship will hold?" he asked.
"She will hold." Celeste did not look at him. "It is not the ship you should worry about."
He glanced at her profile, at the scar across her brow, at the way her jaw was set.
"Then what?"
She looked out across the horizon, where the sea met the sky in a line of grey and gold.
"Whatever is waiting in the water."
Thomas was quiet for a moment. The ship rose and fell beneath them.
"Maddox said you have been chasing answers for ten years," he said. "What answers?"
Celeste's fingers tightened on the rail. Just slightly.
"When the time comes," she said, "I will tell you. Not before."
"Why not?"
"Because some truths are heavier than anchors. And you have enough weight already."
Thomas studied her face. She was young, only a few years older than him, but her eyes belonged to someone who had seen too much too early. He recognised that look. He saw it in the mirror sometimes.
"I am not going to run," he said.
"I know."
"Then trust me."
Celeste finally turned to look at him. Her grey eyes held his.
"Trust is earned," she said. "Not given. Right now, we have a common destination. That is enough."
"And after Tortuga?"
She turned back to the horizon. "After Tortuga, we will see who is still standing."
The ship rose and fell beneath them, a steady rhythm. The wind filled the sails. The crew moved in silence. And somewhere behind them, on the disappearing dock, Smoke the cat sat watching until they were nothing but a speck on the endless sea.
Thomas pressed his palm flat against the bandage. The linen was still dry. The wound was healing. But he knew, with a certainty that had nothing to do with logic, that this was only the beginning.