Dynami’s Wrath

by St Clare, Kelly

  Caspian waited, watching her.

  “What did that mean?” She needed to know what was in his head.

  His smile was crooked. “It means my heart nearly stopped when I thought I’d lost you, and I thought I might never get another chance to repeat that night on the beach.”

  “That was practice,” she said. “Ye wanted a repeat?”

  “Yes, since we first kissed. But I didn’t want to scare you off.”

  That answer didn’t fit like a tunic with no sleeves. Ebba enjoyed that she’d shared her first kiss with the prince, but after the second kiss and his comment . . . she had to set matters straight between them. Or at least understand what their stolen touches meant to him.

  “Caspian,” she began after making sure her fathers weren’t moving. “What does the kissin’ mean to ye?”

  He dropped his arm from her shoulders and reached down for her hand. Bringing it to his mouth, he gently kissed the back. “You needn’t be uncomfortable, Mistress Pirate. You’ve given me no promises, and I’m fully aware of that. But kissing you ignited something within me. What I feel for you is the most real thing in my life.”

  Her chest tightened. “I ain’t sure I can give ye what ye’re lookin’ for,” she admitted. “And I don’t want to try for fear I’ll hurt ye.”

  Caspian nodded. “I see. And if I was okay with you trying, knowing you might not return my regard in the end?”

  She inhaled, at a loss of what to say.

  He smiled wryly. “Waiting is nothing new to me. I’m content to be patient. But if you figure out the answer, you know where I’ll be.” The prince gestured around the ship.

  Ebba drew her hand from his grip and nodded. She sat in the flickering light of the sleeping quarters as he returned to his hammock.

  The bilge door opened with a whoosh and Ebba was so focused on what had transpired with Caspian she jumped fully off the hammock in fright.

  Barrels, Grubby, and Plank traipsed down the ladder, shutting the door behind them.

  “What are ye doin’?” she demanded, rounding her hammock to stand before them. “The storm’s still goin’.”

  “Jagger asked for two minutes alone at the helm as reward for savin’ yer life.” Plank moved past her.

  “But the ship—” she started. One man above deck in a storm like this? That was lunacy.

  “Aye, little nymph. But ye know there’s naught to be done with the wheel cared for, unless sumpin’ bad happens. It’s only two minutes, and we honor a life debt. Surprised he didn’t ask for more.”

  Barrels aimed a loaded look over her head at Plank.

  It was the ‘something bad happening’ that she objected to. “What if he’s washed over the side?” The panic she’d experienced the other day rose up anew. She didn’t know why she suddenly cared so much about Jagger’s life, but she did. He couldn’t die.

  Ebba shook her head and moved around Grubby to place her foot on the ladder.

  “My dear,” Barrels said softly, resting a hand on her shoulder. “Leave it be. It’s only another minute anyway.”

  “It ain’t safe. For him or us.”

  “Nay, it ain’t,” Plank said. “But ye should ask yerself why a man who did what he did to save yer gullet would want a quick moment alone.”

  Her next words stilled on her tongue as she frowned back at her father.

  A deep roaring sound echoed underneath the howling press of the wind and hissing spray of the monstrous swell. She stilled.

  “Did ye hear that?” she asked them, craning her head and fixing her gaze on the underside of the deck.

  “He’s tainted, my dear,” Barrels said, releasing her. “Worse than any of us.”

  What did he mean?

  The guttural sound came again, almost like a hoarse wail . . . like what one might hear at a funeral. Like a child had been ripped from a mother’s arms. Like someone had watched their entire family being slaughtered before them. The roaring plea sounded like hopeless pain, endless anguish. And if being tainted had a shanty, Ebba knew that would be it. The raw noise exactly echoed what she’d felt when influenced under the pillars’ power.

  There was only one person above deck who could be making that terrible sound and shouting his pain into the storm.

  The ripping yell came again, and Ebba’s heart squeezed.

  “Do ye think he always feels that way?” she whispered to her fathers.

  Barrels wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Come away, my dear. Leave him alone for now.”

  Fourteen

  Ebba wasn’t sure who’d gone above deck after Jagger’s time was up, but she hadn’t possessed the guts. It wasn’t just that he’d saved her life and forced her to admit he wasn’t a heartless bastard. . . .

  What did she say to someone who made that agonizing sound but strove so hard to hide his pain? Clearly, Jagger didn’t want comfort from any of them. For him to ask for time alone and risk alerting them to his anguish meant he must’ve been desperate—at his wit’s end.

  Her gut told her Jagger would hate if she mentioned overhearing him.

  Everyone on board had experienced the taint’s torment. None of them had experienced it like Jagger. None of them would be alive if they had. Yet could a person who was alive inside make such a sound? Jagger had always seemed endlessly capable, a person who didn’t need anyone else to survive in the world. He bore his burdens alone. Deep down, Ebba had always secretly marveled at that strength.

  Jagger had shown he wasn’t impervious. She should only feel heartache over his internal suffering.

  But she didn’t. Knowing that Jagger wasn’t impervious shook her. Big time.

  Deep down, had part of her relied on his strong demeanor? Ebba didn’t know. But as far as she could tell, the panic that swelled when Jagger’s life was risked and her newfound discontent in knowing he could lose control were both contributing to whatever troubled her so much.

  Ebba just couldn’t quite figure out what that thing was.

  She cracked open an eyelid, rolling onto her back to yawn. Ouch—on second thought, that wasn’t the best idea. Feeling the throbbing bruises from the lashing of the sheets yesterday just made her feel sorrier for Jagger. He’d been lashed one hundred and fifty times. How had he even survived?

  “Sal, ye up?” she said, reluctant to shift as the last few days of the storm, and her wound caught up with her.

  Hold on a minute. The ship wasn’t pitching side to side.

  The storm was over.

  Ebba swung her legs over the side of her hammock, groaning loud enough to stir the others. She’d missed her next shift by the looks of it. Plank, Grubby, and Barrels were sleeping, Pillage snoozing on her father’s chest like usual. Fat lot of help she turned out to be.

  Kicking back the lid of her clothing trunk, Ebba selected the only untorn and unbloodied tunic and threw away her old one. Taking care not to loosen the binding that Locks had wrapped around her wounded torso over the lashes, she slipped it on over her head. She decided to forgo a jerkin, certain the pressure on her back would be akin to babysitting Davy Jones’ vindictive spawn. She wrapped a green length of material around her head, turban-style, with her midnight dreads encased within.

  That’d do.

  She heaved herself up the ladder and exited onto the main deck.

  Sunlight. The rays were nearly blinding after several days without a speck of light.

  Holding an arm to shield her watering eyes, she scanned the deck and beyond. The morning ocean was a far cry from its angry, churning alter ego of the last three days. Ebba released a pent-up breath, letting the belief they’d survived the thunderbird’s storm wash over her.

  In the much calmer waters, the damage to Felicity was blatant.

  Overhead, the lowest boom was certainly wrecked beyond functional use. Without it, they could only rely on the foresail, which was a great deal slower and more unstable. The mainsail had been ripped away too. Stubby would want to fix Felicity as soon as possible. Th
ey carried extra sails, booms, and ropes in the hold, so all they needed was time.

  Her gaze sought Stubby, and she caught sight of him running his hands over the deep chips in the bulwark where the falling tip of the beam must’ve hit. There were gouges in the deck everywhere, but nothing appeared cracked.

  Best leave him to mourn alone.

  Aside from the lashes on her back, they were all in one piece. She exhaled again, knowing they’d scraped through that mess by the skin of their teeth. Soddin’ thunderbird.

  Peg-leg stood at the base of the intact rigging, staring out over the sea. Caspian was at the bow, the veritas in his hands.

  “How’s yer back?”

  Ebba jumped at Jagger’s hoarse voice, spinning to face him and genuinely hurting her wounds in doing so. She winced, squeezing her eyes shut as the lashes panged sharply. “Not too bad till just now.”

  She kept her eyes closed, remembering Jagger’s pained shouting last night. If she looked at him wrong, Ebba didn’t want him to guess she’d overheard. Her fathers would certainly be acting the same way. Yet if she didn’t look at him, he’d know she knew anyway. Or was she overthinking this?

  Ebba opened her eyes. “Have ye been awake all night then?”

  “Nay.” He joined her under the shade of the bilge, and Ebba watched through her peripherals as he rested against the barrel close beside her. She didn’t move away.

  “Thank ye,” she said belatedly. “For savin’ my life.”

  Jagger’s hair hung limp either side of his high-boned, lean face. His gaze was less silver today and more like an unpolished gun. He was exhausted.

  “Aye, well,” he said. “I had a debt to repay.”

  About to tell him to go below deck and sleep, instead she replied, “What?”

  Ebba scoured her memory but couldn’t recall ever saving his life. Or did he refer to one of her fathers?

  Jagger shifted on the barrel. “Ye saved my life on Malice.”

  “Oh,” Ebba said, eyes widening as she remembered. “Pushing ye off the ship. Aye, well. I was also tryin’ to kill ye, if memory serves right.”

  She snorted, and then smiled because though her time on Malice had been the single worst experience of her life, aspects of the haunting memory were finally fading into something she could laugh about. Or maybe she was okay with the thought of killing Jagger. After staring up at him as she dangled in thin air, Ebba knew the latter wasn’t true.

  His face softened. “That’s not what I meant. There was another time.” He looked past her, and his face clouded. “Never mind.”

  She followed his glare to Caspian. Seeing the prince had made Jagger clam up. “Right well, yet another cryptic comment from ye. But I thank ye for what ye did all the same.”

  Jagger studied her face. “Ye’re welcome, Viva.”

  He stressed the last word like it meant something personal. She shook her head. “Ye should go sleep on a hammock below deck. Can’t be good sleepin’ crammed in the crow’s nest. Ye look like the thunderbird shat on ye.”

  Chuckling at her own joke, Ebba crossed to the prince. Her steps faltered as she remembered their kiss yesterday and his question to her.

  Felicity was becoming far too small. Where were the blissful, relaxed days with a crew of seven?

  “Ahoy,” she said, opting to hover awkwardly instead of sitting against the ship side next to him.

  His amber eyes jerked up to hers. She watched as red crept through his cheeks.

  Ebba cleared her throat. “Nice day.”

  A slow smile spread across Caspian’s face. “Yes, Mistress Pirate. A nice day. We have survived the thunderbird’s punishment.”

  “Aye,” she answered.

  They fell into silence.

  “Did you hear Jagger screaming last night?” he asked her in undertones.

  Jagger was still on deck—out of hearing distance, but Ebba didn’t blame the prince for whispering anyway.

  She nodded. “I did. Never heard anythin’ like it in my life. And I’ve heard the siren.”

  He shuddered. “Neither have I. But I’ve felt it.” He tapped a finger on the blade.

  Every single person on this ship—except Sally and Pillage—had felt ‘it.’ It being the taint. “I can’t imagine what it’s like to be him after so long on Malice.” Or if Jagger would ever regain the person he’d been. She stilled at the thought, her heart pounding hard and fast as the source of her discomfort rose nearly within reach.

  “Have you noticed that Jagger likes to hold the veritas?”

  The remark tore her from the edge of whatever thought she’d been about to understand. Blast it.

  “Ye think he likes to hold the sword?” she asked. “Not just when he has to?”

  Jagger couldn’t hardly hold purgium, could he? And she sure as hell wasn’t switching with him to hold truth. Unless Caspian wanted to give her the purgium and hold truth himself. He seemed okay with either.

  Caspian hummed, pushing back his russet curls. The attempt failed; the lazy curls flopped back into place the moment he removed his hand. “He’s stolen the sword from me at least twice in the night.”

  “What?” Ebba knelt next to him and sat back on her haunches.

  “The sword is always back on top of my trunk by morning,” he continued. “But after Sally took the purgium at Neos, I’ve been waking at every creak. I woke the morning before we encountered the thunderbird as Jagger replaced the sword. Then I made sure to stay up the next night and watch him. He takes it each night and keeps the blade until sunrise, I’m certain of it.”

  “Why didn’t ye say sumpin’?”

  “I only noticed recently. Then we were battling against the storm. I was going to wait and see what he did with it before alerting everyone. But . . . I think I’ve figured out why.”

  “Why does he take it then?” she asked, watching the prince closely.

  Light stubble covered his jaw. The neck of his tunic was unlaced, and ink stained his fingertips—he’d been in Barrels’ office again. His hair was just slightly too long, the curls in disarray. He sat with one leg straight and the other bent up, draping his right arm over his right knee. In short, Caspian looked nothing like the Cosmo she’d first met.

  Ebba had never stopped to look at him as more than a friend. No matter how much she’d pretended otherwise, she’d always noticed how handsome he was—if on the Exosian side of tough—but all those months ago, Ebba had been different. A person who was limiting herself because of fear. She’d never wanted anything except to fill her hair with beads and to become a fearsome pirate. Those things seemed so childish now, in a way, but part of her wished to be that person again; someone without cares and confusing things to think on. Regardless of that wistfulness, Ebba’s priorities and her desires had shifted since she first met Cosmo.

  Should she take a risk and explore something new with Caspian?

  “Where have you gone?” he asked her, closer than before.

  Ebba leaned back, shaking herself. “Nowhere. I mean, just here. What were ye sayin’?”

  A flirting twinkle entered his amber eyes and Ebba swallowed. Clearly, his profession last night had uncorked something because she’d never seen that in his gaze before.

  She inhaled quietly when he didn’t tease her further.

  “I was saying,” he said, casting her another twinkling look, “that I believe Jagger has trouble discerning what is real and not. When the taint had me in its clutches, I had the same trouble.”

  Ebba cast her mind back, realizing the same was true for her. She’d been convinced that the urge to kill Jagger and leave Verity behind were hers, only realizing it was the pillars’ whispering to her via the taint once the purgium healed her.

  “He holds the veritas so he knows the taint’s lie from what’s really happenin’.”

  Caspian nodded. “Yes, at least that’s my theory.”

  They’d all felt the taint. If there was a way to help Jagger, they’d do it, simply in empathy’s n
ame. Except the look on Caspian’s face told her he may not feel the same.

  “Will ye give him the sword?” she asked, slightly alarmed at his hesitation.

  He lifted his head from staring at the sword again. “It’s my family sword—my father’s. I don’t have anything else from him.”

  True. But King Montcroix himself had given the sword to Jagger’s father to hold in his stead. Though . . . he’d killed him years later, so maybe that wasn’t a great point to make. “I can understand that, matey. But is that a good enough reason to not help him?”

  Caspian sighed. “It’s hard to help someone who has actively attempted to kill your family most of his life. Part of me wonders why I should go out of my way.”

  Where was this coming from? He’d been darker in recent times but never mean-spirited. Was this to do with the envy and bitterness he’d occasionally voice in regard to the pirate? Jagger had always protected his tribe, and Caspian felt he hadn’t. Was that where this had stemmed from?

  “I suppose ye don’t need to help him,” she said slowly. “Seems a good way to show Jagger he’s wrong about yer family. Might start mendin’ things between ye.”

  His reply was dry. “I’m not sure things between us will ever be mended, Mistress Pirate. There’s a lot in the way of us becoming friends. He begrudges my entire existence.”

  “But he hasn’t killed ye. That’s encouragin’,” she offered weakly.

  He turned the sword over in his hand. “That he hasn’t killed me is no indication of what he intends. Jagger is merely biding his time. Should I give the person who means to kill me a sword?”

  The question didn’t sound like the type that needed an answer. And he had a point, perhaps, though he was acting strange and maudlin.

  Ebba changed tactics. “Will ye feel happy to know ye could’ve helped Jagger but didn’t?”

  Caspian stared at her. She stared right back.

  “If I give him the sword, he might be less inclined to kill me,” the prince admitted. “His threats worry you, and I don’t like it when you worry.”

  Worry her? Shouldn’t they worry him?

  His eyes burned into hers. “He’s threatening my life, and I’m going to handle it. You don’t have to always protect me. Maybe I should start protecting you for once.