Hellcats: Anthology

by Kate Pickford

  “You do know he was in the Army?”

  “Yes!” said Cat. “I’m going to tell him I was going to join the Army, but when I saw what happened to him, I decided against it!”

  The rest of us turned back to the bar and necked our drinks. There’s no accounting for the behaviour of cats and our Cat was no exception.

  Which might explain why he never pulled a bird. No matter how great his ladies’ man stories, Cat didn’t get a single date while we were stationed in the Falklands. Perhaps it was because he didn’t wear beer goggles, didn’t engage in pointless chit-chat, spoke his mind, and drank his milk. I think he’d have been better going back to his sleepy canal and barge known as The Silent Kitten. At least there the pussy cats were cruising at his speed.

  Mind you, neither did I. I was still smarting over my own unhappy marriage and wondering what I could do to get myself on track. Cider and bowling wasn’t getting me anywhere. It would take me a while longer to untie those knots and find some new rope. Happy to say I did, but that’s another story.

  And as with many deployments to parts of the world that are no longer in conflict, my tour fizzled to a close.

  No swimming, not much cider, and a weirdo friend who attracted the kind of attention only a psycho would enjoy.

  Which begs the question: what are cats? No, really? What are they?

  Cat and I said our goodbyes the way men do. You know. Not.

  My plane home was delayed 24 hours. It doesn’t sound like much but when you’ve been waiting for that day for four months, it’s a real kick. We boarded and off we set back to Blighty. The journey back was uneventful. At the airport, I had a little bittersweet moment. An avalanche of families with men running out of the passport gates hugging them…except me.

  I got home and saw my car tax had run out. I drove to the post office and was nabbed by the police en route and slapped with a £40 fine. I couldn’t help wondering if I would have got away with it had I had my lucky Cat…but it wasn’t to be.

  So there goes my story of my four months of incarceration in a maximum security facility with Cat for a crime I did not commit. If you can find me, maybe you can hire me…just don’t ask me to go bowling!!!!

  And don’t offer me milk.

  Chris McFarlane was born in the beautiful Lake District in the North of England and hasn’t read any fiction since he left school. He hasn’t written anything – EVER – apart from “I shall not give the middle finger to my German teacher” 500 times one day in 1986. He’s still scarred and vowed never to write again, but when his cousin Kate sent out the SOS he pulled something out of his 12 years in the Royal Air Force. He hopes you like it – but more importantly, he hopes this book sells more than JK Rowling and Stephen King combined.

  13

  Hissing Hellcats

  by Clare Sager

  Forget parley, there’s only one rule that matters to pirates:

  don’t mess with the ship’s cat.

  “What do you mean, ‘they took the cat’?” Vice growled, her brows knotting, tight.

  On The Morrigan’s sun-beaten deck, Vice’s best friend and quartermaster, Perry, winced and avoided her gaze. She shielded her eyes. Docked against this jetty, there was no shade from the sails to soften the afternoon glare.

  At Vice’s side, Knigh cleared his throat. “I think she means this.” His large hand offered a scrap of paper that flapped in the sea breeze—a natural one, not raised with Vice’s fae-gift.

  She snatched the paper, scanned it, then huffed.

  …taken the ship’s cat…money…handover…

  A ransom note signed off with one name. Jack. Arrogant bastard thought he only needed that.

  There was just one man she knew who was that full of himself and had an axe to grind with The Morrigan’s crew. Normally it was silly pranks like sending over a barrel of rotting fish with their freshwater supply, insulting songs in taverns, or betting games with rigged dice.

  But this?

  A low growl sounded in her chest. “Jack bloody Rackham.”

  Perry sighed and nodded. “Exactly. And” —her wince deepened—and the Captain’s forbidden us from going after her.”

  “What?” The word burst from Vice, almost a shout. “Forbidden, what the—“

  “Says he doesn’t want any trouble right now.”

  Doesn’t want any trouble? Didn’t he understand? They were pirates—they were trouble.

  Jaw tight, limbs rigid, Vice exhaled. Fine. There was always a way around orders, like the fair folk in the stories always twisted their way around the fact they couldn’t lie.

  She smiled sweetly at Perry. “Well, he hasn’t forbidden me.” Hells, she could deny all knowledge of his orders—she hadn’t seen him since he’d stalked away into his cabin hours ago. “And Knigh isn’t even crew, so he can’t forbid him anything.”

  Being a naval observer, Knigh was here to ensure they kept to their newly granted letter of marque and didn’t fall under FitzRoy’s command. So, technically, they were privateers, not pirates. But old habits and all that.

  Perry opened her mouth like she would argue, but she must’ve known the futility of it, because instead, she exhaled before turning away and muttering something about “plausible deniability.”

  As the quartermaster disappeared belowdecks, Vice raised an eyebrow and looked up at Knigh.

  Damn it. No matter how many times she saw it, she was never fully prepared for the sight of his face—all angled jaw and chiselled cheekbones. It snatched her breath like the wind snatched at his thick hair and blasted through that streak of white above his left eye.

  She clenched her hands at her sides against the urge to smooth it. “You in?”

  Grey eyes glinting, Knigh looked at her sidelong. “No one messes with the cat.” He pursed his lips. “Would it be too dramatic for me to crack my knuckles right now?”

  Snorting, she shook her head. “No, I’d say that’s an appropriate response.”

  She scanned the wharves, thick with foot traffic and bustling with dockers and sailors. All the usual folk of Arawaké, working hard before they disappeared into taverns later to play even harder.

  Somewhere on this island, Jack Rackham had Barnacle.

  Pranks were one thing, but now the idiot had got the ship’s cat involved. He hadn’t just crossed a line—he’d obliterated it.

  “Come on,” she said, hopping to the jetty. “Let’s put those knuckles of yours to good use.”

  No matter where in Arawaké you found yourself, there was always one place you could rely on to get information—whichever tavern pirates favoured.

  The Prancing Sabrecat was that tavern on this island.

  Vice and Knigh arrived in its busy common room as a fiddle player started a lively tune. Everywhere Vice looked were tankards of ale and rum and pirates decked in their shore-leave finery. Brass buttons and gold braid on waistcoats and jackets. Tricorne hats at jaunty angles, some with plumes. And, of course, layer upon layer of jewellery—necklaces of silver and gold, rings on every finger, and emeralds, diamonds, and pearls dangling from ears.

  Nodding at a few familiar faces, she weaved her way through the crowd, Knigh a solid presence at her back. Despite that comfort, her muscles thrummed with the need for action and her blood simmered. When she got hold of Rackham…

  Jaw tight, she elbowed through a knot of men. At almost six foot tall, she could scan over the heads of most people here and she’d spotted exactly what she was looking for at the bar.

  A crop of red curls bent over a drink. Below the shock of red was a freckled neck with a star tattooed at the nape. That was her man.

  Tiny Jones had the uncanny knack of finding out everything going on in a town within an hour of arrival. If anyone knew where Rackham had Barnacle, it was him. He might not want to talk to her, but he was alone and between her and Knigh, they’d persuade him.

  She grabbed Knigh’s fingers and nodded towards the bar.

  In return, he gave a comfortin
g squeeze. “I go left,” he murmured, breath tickling her ear, “you go right?”

  She couldn’t help but shiver as a little thrill of pleasure sparked through her. It calmed her seething anger a notch. She inclined her head, and they split up, sweeping around to arrive at either side of their target. She sidled up to Tiny, smiling. “Evening.”

  He looked up from his tankard with a frown. The sweet smell of cinnamon and vanilla drifted over alcohol burn—spiced rum. His eyebrows knotted even tighter as his blue eyes landed on her. “You,” he groaned, straightening until he towered over her.

  Tiny by name, not by nature. That was what he always said about himself, especially when he met women.

  Not tonight, though. “No,” he said. “No. I haven’t drunk enough of this to deal with you.” Shaking his head, he backed away, wary gaze staying on her. “I’m still paying off my debts from last time.”

  His eyebrows shot up as he backed into Knigh. His mouth dropped open as he turned, no doubt surprised to find someone even taller than he was.

  Over Tiny’s shoulder, Knigh raised an eyebrow at her and clamped his fingers around Tiny’s arm. “That sounds like a story I want to hear.”

  She scoffed and waved a hand. “Another night. Right now, I want to hear Tiny’s story.” She smiled up at him, cocking her head.

  Eyes narrowed, he pursed his lips. “What story?”

  “Rackham. Where is he?”

  With a snort, he raised his tankard and took a swig. “Why the hells would I tell you that?”

  “You know why. The cat.” Her hands clenched at her side. If Rackham had harmed a whisker on Barnacle’s sweet little head…

  Tiny laughed.

  The bastard laughed!

  A growl in her throat, Vice shoved him against the bar. Rum splashed on his shirt. Heads turned their way.

  “You spilled my bloody drink.” His chest heaved and one hand fisted, but Knigh caught his wrist and bent close.

  “I wouldn’t,” Knigh muttered. He kept his face in that controlled, smooth mask he wore so often, but somehow that only made the words more threatening.

  Nostrils flaring, Tiny looked from her to Knigh and back again. “What’s got your breeches bunched?” He unclenched his fist and yanked himself from Knigh’s grip. “It’s just a cat.”

  Just a cat. She clamped her teeth together. Showing quite how much Barnacle’s kidnapping had enraged her—scared her—would only reveal her weakness for the little grey cat. Pushing him just now might already have exposed too much.

  So she swallowed down her instinct and instead gave a theatrical sigh complete with eye-roll. “To you she might be ‘just a cat,’ but my friend here is a berserker.”

  Tiny froze, eyes wide on her as if he didn’t dare look at Knigh.

  “And,” she went on, smiling at his reaction, “he’s rather fond of that cat. Help us find her and maybe I won’t point him in your direction next time he loses control.”

  Knigh crowded that bit closer to Tiny, not quite touching. She could’ve kissed him for the sheer perfection of his timing.

  Tiny’s mouth twisted up like he was chewing a wasp and he finally dared a glance at Knigh glaring down at him. “Fine,” he blasted on a sigh. “But once I tell you, you leave me alone, right?”

  She raised her hands. “Of course.”

  “He’s careened over at—”

  “Vice,” a voice boomed across the tavern.

  Silence rang in its aftermath.

  Gods damn it. Vice exhaled and turned.

  In the doorway, a dozen burly men and women at his back, stood another red-haired man. Tiny’s captain and elder brother.

  Clothes rustled and chairs squeaked across the stone floor as everyone craned to get a better view.

  Knigh stiffened and she felt his gaze on her, waiting for her cue. He didn’t know the lay of the land.

  “Jones.” She nodded.

  “You’re messing with my crew,” he said, as the crowd parted to let him through.

  No weakness—she had a reputation to protect and amongst pirates, reputation was everything. If she was going to become a captain, she needed to be bold, tough, brave.

  Of course, not being stupid was another requirement. Starting a fight she couldn’t win would’ve edged into stupid territory. Although she and Knigh were the only people here from The Morrigan, she’d passed plenty of friendly faces as she’d cut through the crowd. They’d be on her side if this blew up.

  Besides, it wasn’t likely anyone would die. The rule here, as in any pirate tavern, was no weapons—at least not real ones. Hitting someone with a chair leg or a tankard was fair game.

  Thankfully, she had what she needed from Tiny. If Rackham had careened his ship, there was only one place on this island he’d be.

  “I wanted information. Your brother gave it. What’s it to you?” She couldn’t back down, no, but this made it clear they’d finished the exchange, and Jones could leave things by telling her to come to him next time. No one would lose face.

  He stopped a yard away. “I don’t take kindly to people threatening my crew”—his eyes narrowed—“whatever fancy songs they might sing about her.”

  Ah, so there it was. The thing that pissed off too many of her male colleagues.

  So he didn’t want to take her win-win offer. Fine.

  Hands on hips, she raised her eyebrows. “What’s the matter, Jones? Jealous about the bounty on my head when there’s none on yours?”

  A muscle in his jaw ticked.

  From the other side of Tiny, Knigh shifted. She only caught the movement out the corner of her eye, but it was one she knew—a subtle change of stance and angling of his shoulders. He was ready for her to tip the house of cards.

  “But,” she continued. “I suppose you’d have to do something successful enough to warrant a bounty, wouldn’t you?”

  Teeth bared, he lurched forward. The punch was powerful but clumsy, accompanied by the sour stink of ale, and Vice swiped it away. A fight it was, then. She jabbed for his belly, blasting the breath from his lungs. He doubled over, gasping.

  At her side, Tiny swung for Knigh, but he found only air as Knigh ducked. An oof said Knigh had returned the favour and connected.

  She grinned. Knigh might’ve been Navy through and through, but he knew his way around a bar brawl as well as any pirate.

  She was still grinning when movement to her left caught her attention and she turned.

  A fist. Fast. On-target, filling her vision.

  Crunch. She blinked as her head snapped back and the world tilted. Pain exploded across her face.

  As if that was a cue they’d all been waiting for, the place erupted.

  Bodies collided. Chairs clattered to the floor. Shouts left and right.

  Staggering back against the bar, Vice grabbed her face. Her lips and chin were wet, hot, and a copper tang filled her mouth. When she took her hand away, it was slick with blood.

  She glared at the man in front of her. Another red-head—another Jones brother? She huffed. “All I wanted was my bloody cat.”

  His face screwed up in confusion and his fist paused, ready to strike again.

  Her fingers closed on the cool pewter of a tankard abandoned on the bar. He didn’t even see it swinging towards his head. The clang of metal jarred through her arm and a second later, he slumped to the ground.

  But the eldest Jones was straightening, breaths steady, and he launched at her.

  They exchanged a flurry of blows, grunting and shoving and blocking. Knigh already had Tiny on the floor, groaning, and was busy keeping two of Jones’ men at bay. Others tried to dart in, but as she’d expected, Vice’s allies cut them off.

  A woman leapt off a table, knocking over four men. Tankards arced through the air. Someone else launched a chair across the room.

  Still fighting Jones, Vice caught one blow after another on her forearms before the opening came. She kicked him away, muscles glad to be put to good use at last. This was what she
needed—not talking.

  But Barnacle needed her. Once she took down Jones, she’d grab Knigh and they could sneak out.

  With a roar, Jones charged, spittle on his lips.

  Shoulders set, Vice waited. She forced her mouth open, as if so shocked she’d frozen in place.

  Victory flashed in his eyes.

  Fool.

  At the last moment, she ducked, then heaved upwards. With his momentum and her strength, he crashed over the bar. She winced at the tinkle of shattering glass—he’d smashed into the shelves of bottled spirits.

  No time to peer over at him, though, because a scowling woman with a halo of curly hair was already in the gap Jones had left and aiming a fist at Vice’s face.

  Vice blocked that one and the next, and somehow their fight swung away from the bar and into the crowd.

  Elbows and knees and sweat and blood. Kicking, flailing, and great clubbing fists.

  Some shouted, others grunted, plenty hurled curses and insults. A few laughed.

  The heat was unbearable, and more than once, she tried to hit, but couldn’t because someone was in the way.

  Buggeration. She had to find Knigh and get out of here.

  She fought her way to a table and was about to climb onto it when firm hands gripped her legs and yanked her under. A growl in her throat, she readied a punch. Just as she tensed to unleash it, she found herself face-to-face with Knigh.

  Bruises shadowed his cheek, accented by a small cut and a smear of blood. Damn him, but he even made an injury look good.

  Sagging, she caught her breath. “Didn’t have you down as hiding under a table in the middle of a fight.”

  He sighed through his nose, short and sharp. “We’ve got more important things to worry about.”

  That was true. She grimaced. “Barnacle.”

  “Just spoke to someone who knows Rackham.”

  “You found time to chat in all this?” She gestured vaguely as a bang resounded through the table. Above, a baton nailed to the underside, probably from a previous repair, creaked.