Knigh lifted a shoulder. “He’s not interested in the money—he’s just taken a good haul, so they have plenty. This person thinks he wants to hurt Barnacle to get to you and FitzRoy.”
Fire coursed through her, searing, bright, sending every muscle rigid. “He what?” She gulped down a long breath. But it had grown so stuffy in here, it did nothing to cool her. “Wild Hunt take him.”
“I’m sure they will.” His lips twisted. “Problem is, we need to find out where they are and I’m afraid I might’ve knocked out Tiny.”
“Don’t worry.” She squinted past the jumble of legs—they weren’t too far from the tavern’s back door. “If they’re careened, I know where they are. There’s only one beach on this island any good for it.”
A smile softened his mouth, and he leant closer. His thumb traced a light line on her nose. As if his reminder was a trigger, it began throbbing. “I can heal—”
She shook her head. “Later. Let’s get Barnacle.” It had been one thing messing around in a bar fight when she’d thought Rackham was after their money, but now she knew he meant the cat harm… “If they hurt her, I’ll do worse to them.” She nodded towards the door and crouched at the edge of the table’s shelter, watching for an opening. Her brow ached from where she frowned so hard. “I’ll make the Navy’s tales about the notorious Lady Vice sound like children’s stories.”
Knigh hunkered down at her side, warmth radiating off him. “Remind me never to cross you,” he muttered.
“Or, if you do, at least make sure you win.” She flashed him a grin that tasted of copper and darted for the door.
An hour later, Vice and Knigh arrived at the rainforest’s edge. They paused in the shade and scanned the sandy cove, squinting against the sun reflecting off the white sand.
As she’d predicted, the Ram lay against the sandbank, thick ropes around its masts, while the crew scaled ladders and timber platforms to scrape slime and barnacles from the hull. Further up the beach, a circle of a dozen tents sat with a fire at the centre. That had to be where Rackham had Barnacle.
Smoke and the savoury, greasy smell of roasting pork tickled Vice’s nose. Her stomach growled at the reminder she hadn’t eaten since lunchtime. In the interim, she’d had a fight and an hour’s walk.
Despite the tavern brawl, her muscles burned for more. This stillness, this waiting was unbearable. But too many people were at the tents.
Knigh stood against the tree they’d hidden beside, unmoving. Apparently, waiting wasn’t an issue for him. More of that damned naval discipline, no doubt.
She huffed and busied herself loading one of her pistols. “We’ll rush them. How many can there be?” The ramrod clicked as she slid it down the barrel and pushed the shot home. “We’ve got—what—five pistols between us? And our sabres. If we threaten them and make it clear we just want Barnacle, they’ll give her up. We can walk away, no harm done.”
She slipped the pistol back in place at her belt and started on the next. One benefit of the cogged, fae-worked guns was that they could be loaded ahead of time and kept ready to fire.
“And if they don’t”—she narrowed her eyes at the camp, a fierce smile tightening her cheeks—“then we’ll do plenty of harm.”
He exhaled—not quite a sigh, but almost. “You’re still covered in blood, you know?”
She blinked—she’d rubbed at it earlier with her cuff, but must not have caught it all. It wasn’t important. She ran the back of her hand over her face, then shrugged.
“Come here,” he murmured, angling her until only a few inches separated them. He scraped his thumb across her chin, grey eyes intent above a frown.
Her hands on her pistol slowed, and she bit her lip. This, whatever it was between them was still new, still delicious, and although they’d snuck off to be alone plenty of times, his nearness still had the power to drive her pulse faster. If not for this rescue mission, she’d push him back against this tree and—
“Much as I appreciate a plan that amounts to ‘get them’” —he raised his eyebrows and ran his thumb over the corner of her mouth —“I think perhaps your concerns about Barnacle are making you rash, and we might be better off with something more subtle.” His thumb lowered, grazing her bottom lip. His gaze stayed on her mouth as if intent on his work, even though he’d finished wiping away the blood.
Damn him for being right. And thoroughly distracting.
Although the way he was staring at her lips, it looked like he was distracted too.
Maybe coming after Barnacle with only him had been a bad idea. At least with the rest of the crew, they had to pretend they were nothing more than necessary allies.
She cleared her throat. “Hmm? Like?”
He took a sudden breath, shaking his head as if waking from his thoughts. With any luck, they were wicked ones he’d show her later. “Like,” he said, “you use your gift to bring the sea up and sweep the sand out from under their platforms. They’ll panic and all go running to secure it. While they’re distracted, we find Barnacle.”
Cunning. She cocked her head at him. So this was the man who had captured all those pirates. No wonder he’d been so successful when he was far more sneaky than the typical naval officer.
“Knigh Blackwood,” she murmured, “you have never been more attractive to me than you are right now.”
“Oh really?” He raised an eyebrow, eyes glinting in the dim light. “Just how attractive, exactly?”
Gods, it would be easy to tiptoe up to his mouth and give him the answer to that question, but…
“I’ll show you later.” She winked and dragged herself from his warmth. “For now, we’ve got a cat to rescue.”
They crept through the forest until they reached the point closest to the tents. Once more, the rich smell of roasting pork filled Vice’s nose. But she was past hunger by now. All she wanted was Barnacle’s fluffy warmth back on her shoulder where it belonged.
She knelt on the sandy floor, while Knigh stood over her, pistol and sabre drawn. If any of Rackham’s men happened upon them, he’d be ready.
With a long breath, she opened her awareness to the sea.
Wide, deep, ever-moving. Wave against shore. Tide creeping higher. Further out, currents streamed past the island to open ocean. She couldn’t help but sigh at the glory of touching the sea with her gift.
She brought her focus closer—she had a job to do.
Surf rose and broke just yards from the Ram’s crew. Muscles aching, she pushed those waves. Higher. Higher. Higher.
They heaved up the beach, shifting sand with every roll. When they hit the platforms’ footings, Vice drove harder, bringing the water crashing down on the pliant beach.
Each wave sapped a little more energy and made her hunger that bit sharper. Still, she pushed on.
She dragged the sand, scooping it away now, silting up the water with its tiny particles.
At last, a creak sounded.
Somewhere distant, she smiled.
One more big wave. That would do it.
Out on the open water, she found a swell and pulled it here, lifting it higher, faster.
They’d taken Barnacle.
That thought was enough. Even as her muscles complained, she drove harder, and the wave came roaring at the beach, full of speed and fury and power.
Timber groaned. There was a splash, followed by shouts.
Knigh’s hand landed on her shoulder, bringing her back to herself. “Done,” he murmured.
When she opened her eyes, her head spun, and she had to pause, still until it passed.
He helped her up, then held out a small pouch. She grinned at the cashew nuts inside and muttered a quick thank you before shoving a few in her mouth. That would help her energy return.
Chewing, she turned to the beach. There was no one left in the camp—all she could see were their backs as they sprinted to the ship and the teetering platforms.
“Ready?” Knigh cocked his pistol, lips setting in a grim line.
“Always.”
It took moments to hurry across the sand to the tents. A breeze blew stinging smoke in Vice’s eyes, the smell now closer to burning than roasting. Wrinkling her nose, she scanned the camp. Where the hells was that cat?
She inhaled, about to call for Barnacle, but then she heard it—the unmistakable yowl of a very pissed off cat.
Still jogging, she exchanged a glance with Knigh. He nodded to the largest tent—that was where the sound was coming from. It had to be Rackham’s tent, since he was captain.
Jaw clenched, she drew her sabre in one hand, a pistol in the other. If Rackham had hurt Barnacle…
Knigh lifted the tent flap with his sword, blade glinting in the sun, and they both crept in.
Inside, it was dim after the brightness outside. But after a moment, the shadowy shapes resolved—a few sea chests to the left, a dull brown curtain ahead.
There was a long, sharp hiss from the other side.
“Now, now,” a man said softly, “there’s a good cat.”
Sabre ready, she pulled the curtain open.
On the floor at the centre of the tent sat a man, legs splayed, eyes wide. He flinched as the curtain swished, hands raised defensively. “No, don’t—”
In front of him, stood a little grey cat, back arched, hackles raised, tail puffed up. She hissed again and swiped at his hand.
Barnacle, uninjured. Vice started forward, shoulders easing with relief.
The man yelped, palm bleeding, face creased in pain.
She knew that dirty blond hair and dimpled chin. Rackham.
“No, no,” he whimpered, “don’t move! Please!”
Knigh lowered his sword. “Who’s holding whom hostage?”
Vice fought a laugh, but couldn’t stop the grin tugging on her mouth. “Well, I’d heard there was a cat being held here against her will, but it looks like she’s got it all under control.” She shrugged and raised an eyebrow at Knigh. “Maybe we should leave her to it.”
Eyes still wide, Rackham finally dragged his gaze from Barnacle. He blinked up at them. “Vice! Am I glad to see you! This” —he gestured and snatched his hand away as Barnacle scratched at it again —“this is all just a misunderstanding. You—you know that, right? I didn’t mean to—just—can you get rid of her? Please?”
Vice narrowed her eyes, gaze skimming past him. In one corner was a cage, the right size for a cat, its door shut. Barnacle must’ve escaped somehow. There was a slice across his foot. Maybe she’d jumped out at him as he’d been walking around, unaware she was on the loose.
Oh dear. Poor, foolish man.
Pistol holstered, she twisted her mouth as if unsure. “Hmm, I don’t know if we can take her off your hands. I mean, she looks pretty pissed off.” She rubbed her jaw. “Feels risky. Don’t you think, Knigh?”
He sucked in his lips, nodding. “Very risky. But” —he raised his eyebrows at an open chest at the back of the tent, full of the gleam of silver —“danger money might sweeten the deal.”
Oh yes, very cunning. She bit back a grin. “You know, it might. I’d definitely be more willing to risk my hide if I got a nice share of that loot I hear you’ve taken, Rackham.” She cocked her head at him in question.
Chest heaving, he stared from her to Knigh and back again. His gaze slid to Barnacle, who still stood there, arched. Apparently breathing was the only movement she deemed acceptable because she didn’t attack him.
“Fine, fine” —he nodded the barest inch and Barnacle hissed—“anything. Please, just take that beast away. She’s worse than a hissing hellcat!”
Knigh cleared his throat. “Wonder where she gets that from,” he muttered, eyeing Vice sidelong. The corner of his mouth twitched.
She gave him a look that said she’d deal with him later. “A bargain, then.” She jerked her chin at a small coffer beside the chest—it would be much easier to carry. “I get rid of the cat, you give us that filled with silver.”
“Yes, yes, go ahead, just—I can’t move, she’ll—”
Vice laughed and nodded for Knigh to fetch the strongbox. Once he had it safely tucked under his arm, she tapped her shoulder. “Come, Barnacle.”
The little grey cat gave one last hiss at Rackham before turning on her heel. She chirruped a greeting as she ran and leapt onto Vice’s shoulder.
“What a good girl you are.” With a breath of relief, Vice scratched her under the chin and smiled at the resulting purr.
Rackham gaped up at them. “How did…?”
“Pleasure doing business with you.” She nodded and turned, Barnacle’s fur tickling her neck.
Knigh saluted Rackham, a smirk at the edge of his lips that she desperately wanted to kiss.
“Come on, Knigh,” she said, opening the tent flap. “I believe I promised to show you something later…”
Clare Sager writes swashbuckling romantic fantasy adventures with rebellious heroines and dreamy heroes. When she’s not writing, she can be found herding cats or curled up with a cup of coffee and stacks of SFF and historical romance books.
Find out more at claresager.com/freebook.
14
Under the Apple Tree, Released May 1942
By David John Dowd
Mr. Yasukawa and his daughters are mourning the loss of his dear wife., when a stray cat arrives at his beloved apple orchard, bringing with it questions and mysterious dreams…
Mr. Yasukawa awoke with a start, trying to get the smell of horse urine out of his nostrils, but it was impossible. The smell was everywhere, rubbed in along with the sweat off the horses after their race and it glistened along the boards of the stables. The rumor was that they would be moved someplace more accommodating, more permanent, within a couple of weeks. So why not wait, before requiring everyone in the county, well, not everyone—but it seemed that way to Yasukawa—to be corralled and sent to the fairgrounds? It was only the Japanese they rounded up. They told them to bring only a small bag. It was for our own good, they had said—to protect us from vigilantes that may be out there looking for trouble. And it had been tense, after Pearl Harbor, in town—but still, how could he explain this to his children, who were shuttled out of school and torn from everything familiar? To live at the fairgrounds under these dusty eaves? First without a mother and now without a home.
The sound of a radio playing somewhere bounced through the hollow metal roof—the corrugated sheeting trapped the heat, and he could imagine the heat would become unbearable later on in the summer. The song that was playing on the radio, his wife would have loved it. It was the Andrews Sisters. Don’t go sitting under the apple tree without me, before I come marching home. It had just come out a few weeks ago, just as the apple trees in back of the house had budded out.
Those sixteen acres were the best apples in the county. It was hard to believe that he had bought it at such a price. True, he had been saving up from the years spent working at the feed store just south of Highway 12, toward Sebastopol. Sebastopol was just east of Santa Rosa in the valley that rolled over into the bay near San Francisco. This was where they had settled after he sent for his wife back in Japan.
But this place was a steal, even though it backed up to the Laguna de Santa Rosa. It seemed all the rain that fell in the county over the winter collected there, flooding the orchard, and he assumed, every once in awhile, even the old farmhouse would go under. Must have been why the price was right.
He didn’t believe the rumor that the Indians who used to live in the area had cursed the Laguna...that it was haunted or some such thing. Or at least at first, but then his wife died, and that little kitty slunk out of the willow stand at the edge of the Laguna and took up a place on the farmhouse porch. Yasukawa knew something was different about that cat. It took to sitting in the same chair that was his wife’s favorite, and then would give him a look, a cock of the neck, that reminded him of her...and then the tail would twitch back and forth, in time to this tune on the radio. It seemed to be written for her. “Und
er the Apple Tree,” it was called. And now it seemed to be something more than just a catchy song. He knew it wasn’t about his return to the farmhouse, but it felt like a promise of some sort, filtering through the long stable in the middle of this night. Good, his daughters were still sleeping. He hadn’t disturbed them. He knew it would be crazy to think that his wife was somehow there when the cat arrived at his doorstep. But he couldn’t quite put his finger upon it. And now this dream.
It was dark in the orchard. He couldn’t push his way through the apple tree branches – they had grown so thickly together, in even just this short amount of time that he was gone. He knew it was unreasonable to think so, but it was a dream, after all. The cat was wailing, crying out in the darkness, and he was fighting through the branches, to save it from something he didn’t understand. There was so much that didn’t make sense right now. It was all confusion. When would they return home?
Yasukawa knew that the orchard was in safe hands. He had given the keys to Tommy Tesconi, to look after things. He could use the farmhouse, what with his wife expecting and three children, living in town couldn’t compare to out there under the apple trees. Yasukawa had known him for all the time that they worked at the feed store together. Tommy seemed a good man. Yasukawa didn’t want the orchard falling apart even for a few short weeks. He hoped that this relocation wouldn’t be permanent, but the war was heating up and no one could be so sure. Mastuhiro, the owner of the sewing shop in town and practically the Japanese mayor, had told him to lend the orchard to someone he trusted, otherwise it could be seized, foreclosed upon—don’t put it past the bank to do such a thing. But with Tommy claiming ownership for a while, until his family could return home, then it would be safe—at least that was the best bet Yasukawa had going down.
Matsuhiro had also told him to bury all his valuables out in the orchard. He thought he could trust Tommy, but you never knew who was out there, sneaking around and looking through windows. Yasukawa didn’t follow the advice. Besides, what valuables did they have? They had scant mementos from Japan, only some from when his father had come over years ago. Yasukawa knew the rumors too – that the Japs had a lot of gold, that they had smuggled it out of the homeland. That they had it sealed away in the walls of their houses. So, it would only seem logical that someone would turn the house upside down, looking for it. The orchard was in good hands with Tommy. Wasn’t it? Tommy could be counted on, right? Yasukawa had better believe that, for he knew that he really had no other choice.
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