by Shana Galen
He cut one down and turned to the second when he
saw Jourdain step onto the deck. “Wait! He’s mine.”
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Good, Bastien thought. He would finally have
his revenge. The two crews moved aside to give
them space, but the fighting continued around them.
Bastien caught sight of Jolivette, Castro, Jackson, and
Ridley cutting a swath through the Barbary corsairs
with cutlasses and pistols.
He had a moment to wonder at Maine’s absence
and a moment to look for El Santo, but he saw
neither. No sign of Raeven either. He wasn’t sure if
her absence was good or bad.
Jourdain lifted his cutlass then tossed it aside.
Bastien raised a brow. He still held his sword.
“You want to kill me, Cutlass?” Jourdain asked, his
English heavily accented. “You want to avenge the
death of Vargas? Then fight me like a real man. With
these.” He held up his fists in a challenge.
Bastien was no fool. Jourdain had a good fifty pounds
on him. Bastien was strong and knew how to throw a
punch, but he was better at evading fists than using his
own. Still, the challenge had been given, and he could
hardly resist bloodying Vargas’s killer with his own hands.
Bastien sheathed his sword and raised his fists. The
two men circled each other, and Bastien looked for
weaknesses. He didn’t see any. He moved in, only to
watch Jourdain block access. They circled again, and
Jourdain smiled. “One of us will have to move first.”
“You’re right—” And without warning, he struck
Jourdain square in the face.
Jourdain turned his head at the last moment, making
it only a glancing blow, and when he turned back, he
had murder in his eyes. Bastien took a step back and
didn’t see the hard left jab.
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But he felt it. His neck snapped back, and his jaw
exploded with pain. He doubled over and charged
Jourdain, ramming him in the abdomen. Even when
Bastien used the full force of his weight, Jourdain
barely moved. He rained blows down on Bastien’s
head and shoulders, and Bastien endured the pain
while continuing to push Jourdain back. Together
they crashed into a mast. Bastien felt the thud rever-
berate through Jourdain’s thick body, and he skirted
away. Jourdain went after him, and a quick jab of his
foot had the Barbary pirate sprawled across the deck.
Bastien got in a kick and would have got in another
except he’d pressed his luck. Jourdain grabbed his
ankle, and Bastien lost his balance, landing hard on his
injured shoulder. He lay still for a moment, willing
the black swimming before his eyes to fade, and then
Jourdain’s leering grin came into focus a moment
before his fist connected with Bastien’s eye.
“Merde.” Bastien tried to roll away, but Jourdain
had him straddled. He punched him again, and Bastien
tasted blood. Jourdain was still leering when Bastien
wrapped his hands around the pirate’s neck and
squeezed. Jourdain locked his hands over Bastien’s and
the two were at stalemate until Bastien managed to roll
over and push Jourdain away.
He rose shakily to his feet, keeping an eye on the
equally shaky Jourdain. The two circled each other,
hurt now and weary. Around them, the battle between
the two ships’ crews continued. Bastien couldn’t tell
which side was winning, but he could feel La Sirena
listing to starboard. The ship was sinking.
He hoped to hell Maine was preparing to separate
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the two vessels. He didn’t want the Shadow dragged
down with La Sirena.
Jourdain must have felt the change in his ship,
known it was sinking. Known he was doomed.
He reached into his boot and pulled out a dagger.
Without blinking, Bastien reached for his sword—and
found his side bare.
He looked down to see his sword and sheath were
missing. He had a moment to scan the deck and locate
it sliding away from him.
Then Jourdain attacked.
Raeven struggled with Percy’s weight. He had always
seemed so thin and scrawny, but now that she’d half
carried and dragged him to the infirmary, she would
have sworn he weighed as much as two men.
As expected, the men of the Shadow packed the
infirmary. The companionway outside was already
lined with sand to minimize slips from all the blood.
Raeven tried not to look at the blood or the wounded
men. She dragged Percy past the men lying in the
companionway, and when her way was blocked and
she could go no farther, she called for Gaston.
“Mr. Leveque!”
No answer, and she wasn’t even certain he’d heard
her over the moans and cries of the men, not to
mention the sounds of battle above them.
“Mr. Leveque! Please help me!” She had Percy
under the arms, and she slumped now, resting her
forehead on top of his white-blond hair.
“Mademoiselle?”
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She looked up and said a prayer of thanks.
“Are you injured?”
“No.”
He gave her a look that said otherwise, but she
shook her head. She had no time for her injuries. “It’s
my friend Percy. He’s been shot. Can you help?”
She could see him take in the throngs of waiting
men, but he said, “Oui, of course. Here, I will help
you bring him in.”
Together they managed to lift Percy onto a table,
and the doctor tore open his shirt. It was then Raeven
saw the true extent of the damage. Percy had been
shot in the chest, and she saw blood. Too much blood.
It oozed and bubbled from the wound, making a dark
crimson river down his chest. His chest still rose and
fell, but his breathing labored. She felt weak and faint,
but she gripped the table tightly and said through
gritted teeth, “What can I do to help?”
She looked up and met the gaze of the doctor. His
eyes told her all.
There was no help for Percy.
“Please,” she whispered. “Please. You have to
do something.”
Leveque nodded and brought her a canteen of rum.
“Here. Give him this. He is thirsty, no? And the rum will
dull some of the pain.” She reached under Percy’s neck,
supporting his head, and eased the canteen to his lips. His
eyes fluttered for a moment, but he did not drink. The
rum sluiced over his chin to pool around his neck.
“Percy,” she leaned close and whispered. “Please
drink, Percy. Please.” She held t
he canteen to his
mouth again, but he didn’t open his lips.
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“Percy.” She was sobbing now. “Percy, you have
to drink. Please, please.” She laid her head on his
shoulder, feeling the tears wet her cheeks and tumble
down her chin. And she didn’t care if anyone saw. If
she looked weak.
This was her fault. If Percy died—no, she knew he
would die—and it was her fault. She had brought him
here. She had done this to him.
“Percy, I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” She wept,
and her whole body shook with sobs. She lifted her
head when she felt something brush against the hair
at her neck. She thought it might be Leveque, but
he was tending another man. She looked up and saw
Percy’s eyes half open.
“Grand adventure,” he wheezed. She could hear
the fluid in his lungs. Could hear the rattle of the
blood in his throat.
“Oh, Percy.” She gripped his hand then remem-
bered the canteen. “Here, drink.”
But he shook his head. “Not your fault. I made my
own ch-choices.” He closed his eyes.
“Percy.” She gripped his hand and shook it firmly.
“You have to fight. You can’t give up. I still have to
buy you that dinner and those two bottles of wine.”
“Three bottles,” he murmured.
She almost laughed. “Yes—as many as you want.
Hold on, please. I need you, Percy.”
His eyes fluttered open then closed again. “You
don’t n-need me.” His breathing hitched, stopped,
and after a long moment his chest rose once more.
“Him.” He looked heavenward, and she knew he
meant Bastien.
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“Percy.” She gripped his hand, held it tightly. She
didn’t know what to say, what to do. If she could have
willed him to live, she would have done so. “I do need
you. I do.”
He smiled, but it was sad and wistful. “Lo… you.”
He breathed out, and she pressed his hand to her lips,
kissed it, waited for his chest to rise again.
It never did.
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Fourteen
Bastien ducked, barely avoiding the slash of
Jourdain’s cutlass. He felt the blade cut the air near his
neck, and his skin tingled in response. Bastien risked
a glance at the deck and his sword. It had caught
on a bulwark. Two men were fighting nearby, but
Bastien thought he could snatch it. He backed toward
the sword as Jourdain closed in. The Barbary pirate
grinned. “You will never reach it. I’ll have your head
on a platter.”
“Are there platters at the bottom of the sea? Your
ship is sinking.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps it can be repaired.” He thrust,
and Bastien skirted left. He almost tangled feet with
one of his own men fighting the pirates. The two
exchanged a look, and Bastien moved back, closer to
his sword.
“But your ship will be nothing but splinters when
El Santo is finished.”
What the hell was Jourdain talking about now?
Bastien was almost within reach of his sword. The
ship was tilting, and he could see the sword balanced
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precariously. One more lurch of the vessel, and it
would slide far, far out of reach.
He reached for the sword, and Jourdain attacked.
Bastien raised an arm to ward off the blow and
was rewarded with cutting pain as the cutlass sliced
through skin. The ship had moved, and Jourdain
had managed only a surface cut. But Bastien’s fingers
closed on his sword just as it slid loose of the bulwark.
In one motion, Bastien unsheathed the sword, swung
around, and connected with Jourdain’s cutlass.
Jourdain still had the advantage. The cutlass was
short and better suited for fighting in close quarters,
but Bastien could make adjustments.
“You won’t be smiling long, my friend,” Jourdain
said as their swords connected.
“Once I slit your throat, I’ll never stop smiling.” But
Bastien felt a prickle on his neck. Jourdain knew some-
thing. What had he said? Something about splinters?
He skirted around two men fighting near them
and connected with Jourdain’s cutlass again. “What
are you babbling about, Jourdain? My ship isn’t the
one sinking.”
Jourdain only smiled. “Boom.”
Merde. Bastien glanced at the Shadow. Jourdain’s men
weren’t swarming over the sides. The decks were clear
but for the reserves he had left on board. And on La
Sirena, his own men seemed to be winning the battle.
But it took only one. One man to light a fuse near
the powder magazines, and the whole ship would blow.
El Santo. Where the hell was El Santo?
And Raeven. Was she still on the Shadow? He had
to get her off. He had to stop El Santo.
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Jourdain thrust again, and Bastien parried. He
doubled his efforts, meeting Jourdain blow for
blow, but he couldn’t get a clear opening at the
Barbary pirate. In frustration, he struck again—and
made no progress.
Raeven stood at the bottom of the ladderway and tried
to compose herself. She had to stop weeping. Tears
wouldn’t save Percy, and they wouldn’t save Bastien.
Maine was dead. The traitor gone. But she could
hear the battle raging above. Who was winning?
She still had Bastien’s pistol and her sword. Percy
had said Bastien was boarding La Sirena. Perhaps she
could help the boarding party. She started up the
ladderway just as a set of boots started down. She
moved aside, prepared to allow the crewman to go
about his work. Until she saw the man’s face.
He hadn’t seen her there. She stood in shadow to
hide her teary face, and El Santo didn’t see her when
he glanced down. He smiled, jumped down the last
few steps and started down the ladderway to the hold.
Raeven stood in the darkness and watched him
go, momentarily confused. What was he doing on
the Shadow? Percy had said Bastien boarded La Sirena.
Shouldn’t Jourdain’s second-in-command be fighting
at his side?
Of course. Unless… unless he had another mission.
With a gasp, she raced after the Spaniard. He was
headed aft and toward the powder magazines in the
hold. It didn’t take much thought to piece together his
orders. “El Santo!” she cried.
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She saw the shock course through his body at the
sound of his name. Slowly, he turned, pistol raised.
But she was ready. She ducked behind a bulkhead and
winced when the wood splintered beside her cheek.
She fumbled with Bastien’s pistol, but it was dark,
and her hands were shaking. She glanced up and saw
El Santo bearing down on her just as the pistol slipped
from her fingers.
Bastien had almost killed Jourdain half a dozen times,
but the pirate had the luck of the devil. He had the
feeling Jourdain was biding his time, stalling Bastien
until El Santo could complete his task.
Bastien attacked again, and Jourdain spun out of
reach. Merde! He didn’t have time to play with the
pirate. He spotted Castro and yelled, “Get back to the
Shadow! Get to the powder before El Santo can blow
us to heaven.”
“Yes, Captain!” Castro moved to obey, but his
way was blocked by a burly pirate, and he was forced
to raise his cutlass and defend himself. Bastien swore
again and slashed ineffectively at Jourdain. Jourdain
smiled and mouthed, “Boom.”
Bastien knew he had two choices: stay and fight
Jourdain or return and save his ship. He glanced at
Jourdain, imagined how much he wanted to destroy
the man, avenge Vargas. But La Sirena was sinking.
That was vengeance enough.
With a yell, he made his decision. He slashed and
cut, forcing Jourdain back, then turned and ran for the
railing. He sheathed his sword and grabbed one of the
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ropes attached to a grappling hook. He swung one-
handed across both ships, landed a little unsteadily,
and yanked the rope free. Dropping it on deck, he
unsheathed his sword and raced for the lower decks.
He almost tumbled down the first ladderway then
regained his balance and proceeded more carefully
down the second. He could hear the clash of metal
before he saw the adversaries.
And for some reason, it didn’t surprise him to see
Raeven Russell outside the powder room, sword
raised against El Santo.
He almost breathed a sigh of relief. Then he saw
El Santo stoop and lift something—Bastien’s other
Samuel Brunn pistol.
“Devil take it!” Raeven swore and attacked. But El
Santo parried, throwing her off balance. She stumbled
and fell, and El Santo cocked the hammer. Too late
he saw Bastien.
“This is for Gibraltar,” Bastien said and fired.
