The Devil's Fire

by Matt Tomerlin

  "I don’t expect that."

  "How very thoughtful of you," she chuckled.

  "Nor do I expect you to forget what I’ve done." There was no trace of remorse in his tone. He was merely stating a fact.

  "Tell me, what sort of pirate need justify his crimes to his victims?"

  "I justify nothing. But I don’t expect you to forget."

  "What exactly do you expect of me, captain? I’ve often wondered. I linger here, in this dark cabin, waiting for your expectations to rise."

  "And you grow impatient?"

  "Is that what you think?" Scathing laughter bubbled out of her.

  His face flushed red. "Then what is it?"

  She sighed, considering the question. The answer came slowly from her lips, each word under careful scrutiny. "I grow weary waiting for the inevitable."

  He arched an eyebrow, studying her narrowly. "You would get it over with?"

  Yes, she realized.

  "I have no stamina for games, Katherine. I’ve just killed a ship full of Spaniards."

  She took a step closer. "Is that your problem? Stamina?"

  "That’s not what I—"

  "When you leave this cabin, do you tell your men that you ravished me? That I screamed your name? Surely you don’t tell them that you’ve not so much as removed your boots!"

  "What’s gotten into you?" he said, blinking in sudden frustration.

  "Not you, that’s for certain."

  His brow creased, revealing lines she hadn’t known were there. "This is not the woman I took aboard my ship. You’re talking like a whore."

  Her pulse quickened. "Isn’t that what you wish me to be?"

  "No," he said, firmly shaking his head. "Whores are not difficult to come by."

  "But I am a rare gem, yes?"

  He tossed his shirt away and aimed a threatening finger squarely at her face. "Stop this."

  She held his gaze. The air was thick with humidity, and she fancied she could see swirls in the moisture dancing between them. She felt a trickle of sweat run down her back beneath her shirt. "I will not. What story will you tell your men when you leave tonight?"

  He glared hungrily at her, eyes scaling her body. "The truth."

  "And what is the truth?"

  He edged toward her. His face was still littered with tiny specks of blood, which became more apparent as he drew near.

  I should be frightened.

  His breath grew heavier with every step. She inwardly prepared herself, abolishing the bloodthirsty murderer from her thoughts and welcoming a handsome rogue; albeit a rogue with blood on his face. She purged the battered remnants of Thomas's memory, which she had struggled so diligently to preserve after these many months. It was not as difficult as she had guessed it would be. She told herself she could barely recall his face, and that he hadn’t been so great a husband. What kind of a husband took a woman to sea, anyway? You begged him, an irritating little voice reminded her. He should have known better, she told the voice. It’s his fault I’m here now, forced to placate this savage who knew my name before I had chance to give it. Thomas, what have you done to me?

  Griffith lifted her by the waist and flung her to the bed. He crawled on top of her and straddled her with powerful legs. He held one of her arms in place as though he feared she might squirm loose, though she had no intention of escaping.

  Why am I not frightened?

  He ripped her shirt open and buried his face in her breasts. His warm, wet lips encircled her left nipple, and for a fleeting moment she was nervous that he might bite down. He remained surprisingly gentle. The nipple hardened as he caressed it with his tongue. The bristle of his chin, which he had not shaved in days, tickled her skin as his mouth moved toward her neck. She tilted her head to one side, dodging his lips.

  He slipped a hand into her trousers and massaged her. A palpitating torrent washed through her, prompting her to moan things like "no" and "stop it," though she meant none of it. Secretly she wished it would never end, even as the glint of the cutlass on the desk across the room ensnared her eye. Too far. Even if she could squirm out from under him, he would be on her before she could reach the sword.

  He undid her trousers and slid them to the floor, following them down. She started to get up, knowing she should not allow herself to enjoy another second of this. He drew her legs out from under her and she collapsed feebly onto the bed. He spread her thighs and delved between them. Her fingers spread into his hair, moving of their own accord. She gathered tufts of hair into each hand, balling them into fists. Now this might work, she thought. A sharp twist of his head and perhaps his neck would snap. And if his neck didn’t break, perhaps the pain would daze him, and perhaps that would buy her enough time to sprint across the room and take up the cutlass.

  And then . . . what then? Would she have the courage to do what she must? Would she have the strength to plunge the blade into his heart? Of course you will. Your rage will fuel you. And you will smile down at him as the life flows from his chest. And when you emerge from the cabin, shrouded in his blood, they will look on you in horror.

  She arched her back as his tongue worked diligently.

  Your rage will fuel you.

  A hand reached up to grasp one of her breasts.

  Your rage will fuel you.

  The atrocities he had committed were irrelevant in contrast to the overwhelming gratification he delivered her now. She found herself quivering uncontrollably as some piece of her screamed in protest, lost in a fog of pleasure.

  Your rage will fuel you . . . if only you could recall where you mislaid it.

  Over nine months she had learned to accept despair as a way of life, never to be amended. It was only fitting that the man who had caused her so much grief should now take that pain away. It was the very least he could do.

  When he was finished between her legs, he came up searching for a kiss with glistening lips. She seized his neck and bit down gently, holding him there with one hand, and reaching down to guide him into her with the other. He was heavier than Thomas ever was, and he leaned into her with every thrust; Thomas had always seemed afraid of injuring her. The muscles of his neck strained, but she held him firmly in place, keeping his lips away from hers. His breath was hot on her shoulder. He stank of sweat and salt and death.

  As she nibbled at his neck, she fleetingly wondered if it was possible to murder a man by gnawing through to his jugular. How long would it take him to die? Would she be doused in a gush of his blood? Would his life fade swiftly, or would he prove resilient even in the throes of death, and use his final moments to strangle the life out of her in turn?

  He twisted free of her grasp, his mouth opening and descending toward hers. She summoned all of her strength and shoved him to one side, rolling on top without letting him slide out of her. She wrapped her sinewy legs around him and set her hands on his pecks. She thrust against him, writhing on the perspiration between them. Her fingers curled as she raked her nails down his chest, leaving jagged red trails. His eyes flashed with excitement. He clutched her breasts and gritted his teeth.

  If she had concealed a blade beneath the bed, she might have used it now. She wondered if he would remain hard after she plunged it into his chest. She realized, with some alarm, that she was smiling.

  It was not long before he climaxed, and the moment showed plain on his face. She thought he looked a bit absurd, as though he had suddenly been struck dumb and was struggling to salvage the scattered pieces of his mind. She held him there for a moment, grinding ferociously against him until he softened inside her. As she pulled away, his manhood fell limply to one side, looking much less impressive now.

  She sat upright in the bed, facing the opposite direction. His fluids trickled out of her to dampen sheets, and she stared impassively at the translucent stain. A hollow ache echoed into her stomach from between her legs. Her entire body was soaked in sweat, her saturated hair matted to her face. She stared at her glistening legs, which were no longer the
bony twigs she had always known. The candlelight played strikingly upon her mahogany-tinted skin, which she favored over the ghostly shade she remembered.

  She had never enjoyed being naked. It revealed to her all of the awkward angles that were conveniently cloaked beneath heavy dresses. However, as she looked over herself now, she was in awe of her body. It was her first opportunity to thoroughly examine herself; since her capture she had always changed her clothes in speedy fashion in order to avoid spying eyes. She had never wanted Griffith to glimpse her naked, though she had always known it would come to this eventually.

  Something twitched in her peripheral vision. She was drawn to the clothes that had been hastily discarded beside the bed. Her trousers were moving. She recoiled with a gasp.

  "What’s the matter?" Griffith said.

  She leaned over the edge of the bed and reached out to pluck her trousers away. The cat perked her little head up and offered a curious meow. Katherine sighed and lifted the cat into the bed. "Poor thing," she said. "She's still shaking from all those loud guns."

  "Amongst other loud noises," Griffith chuckled as he sat up. He frowned. "Your cat soiled itself on my shirt."

  Katherine followed his gaze, and the kitten had indeed scattered little black droppings all over Griffith’s shirt. "She must be making a statement," she giggled.

  "A statement written in shit," he grumbled.

  "I’ll clean it later."

  "Speaking of cleaning up messes, I should check on the crew."

  "I'll be here," she said.

  He moved in for a kiss but she tilted her head away with a coy smile. He halted apprehensively. "No?"

  "You got what you came for," she answered bracingly. The kitten bounded off to play with a speck of dust.

  "More than you realize," he replied. "The Spaniards surrendered wealth beyond our wildest dreams, Katherine."

  "What makes you think I share your dreams of wealth?"

  "Is that not why you married a wealthy man?"

  "There are many reasons why I married him," she said, though she was having trouble recalling a single one. She stared into the flame of the candle flickering on the bedside table. When she finally looked away, a bright spot had burned into her vision, obscuring anything she stared directly at. She looked at Griffith and saw only his raven hair and the outlines of his strong jaw. "None of them for wealth," she said. It wasn’t true, but he hardly deserved truth.

  "What of security?" She saw his jaw moving, but his face remained veiled in light.

  "Any woman dreams of security," she replied distantly. "It is a base survival instinct."

  "I must confess," Griffith sighed, "I have no idea what you dream of. Maybe one day you'll tell me."

  She allowed herself a light giggle, one that she knew he would misinterpret as a nicety.

  And he didn’t disappoint. "That's a pleasant sound," he said. "Before tonight, I don't believe I've heard it."

  His features gradually came into view through the white blot of ghostly flame. She saw a pair of eyes and a mouth, indistinguishable from any other. "You didn't eat those men on your former ship," she blurted suddenly. It was not a question, merely a declaration of obvious fact. She would have bet her life that there was not a cannibal alive who whispered sweet nothings in the ear of a woman.

  "Of course not," he conceded, lowering his head. "When did you figure that?"

  The blot dulled into a dark haze, and his face was once again obscured. She shifted her gaze, and out of the corner of her eye she saw a man far younger than Griffith, grinning boyishly. "When fear subsided and common sense took hold."

  A crease in his brow returned him to his true age. "Is it so hard to believe a pirate would consume his victims?"

  She blinked rapidly, until she was sure her vision had returned to normal. "No. Not at first. But then I realized that, despite your crew's belligerence, you're only men, molded of the same inclinations as every other."

  "I think I should be insulted," he frowned.

  "It was intended as such," she replied matter-of-factly.

  He reached out to pinch one of her nipples. She glanced down and saw that he was already growing hard. She mounted him and leaned forward, teasing him with her lips before pulling away. He undoubtedly mistook her mischievous grin for flirtation, though it was actually the result of an inward muse.

  Your lips will never touch mine.

  LIVINGSTON

  The galleon's great cabin was extravagant. The red sheets and pillows of the king-sized bed were lined with swirling gold accents that shimmered in the thin rays of morning sunlight slipping through drapes of brilliant red linen that hung from absurdly tall windows. The large round table in the center of the room was bedecked with burnished goblets and spotless silverware. The table’s legs ended in four massive lion’s paws, carved of mahogany and polished to a smooth shine. The paws were set upon a fine crimson tapestry interwoven with a detailed map of Spain.

  Livingston saw jealousy made plain on the Griffith’s face as he entered the room. The captain swiftly withdrew his scowl and, with a great intake of air, adopted a smirk. "Trinkets, he had them all," said Griffith, "but the most precious he lost in battle."

  "That would be?"

  "His life," Griffith answered, withering.

  "Right," Livingston replied. He never understood why men felt the need to wax poetic after a fierce battle. Perhaps it made them feel better about killing. Personally, he required no incentive. Death was as natural as life.

  "She’s a fine ship," Griffith went on.

  "Do we take her for ourselves?" Livingston had been asking himself this question for the past hour, and he hoped Griffith would say no. The ship was grand, but she was also less maneuverable than Harbinger. And her absence was not likely to go unnoticed by the Spanish. The galleon may have been part of a treasure fleet and had fallen behind or, worse yet, sailed ahead. It was possible there were more on the way.

  "No," Griffith said, answering Livingston’s prayers. "We've taken the best of her. The worst will return to find her, and waste no time exacting vengeance. Best we’re not around when they arrive. We’ve dawdled long enough."

  "Aye," said Livingston, "and she took some of our best." He let out a protracted sigh, for his mind had been lingering on the many deaths that had brought such a victory.

  Griffith nodded broodingly. "Thatcher thinks cold of us."

  Livingston's regrets escaped him in a sudden puff of air. "My own conscience bites at me enough, and still it smells better than that fat beast! It's not his concern how I burn, but I'll see to it that he goes first. I’ll wager the Spaniards came to this treasure with less reputability than we, and far less quarrel!"

  "No doubt," nodded Griffith. "Were that a concern, I'd be in the wrong business. It's the loss of men that twists my gut."

  "Aye, the men," Livingston said. "There's Louis, of course. A good lad with unmatched aim. And we lost our mate to the very same cannonball what took our port bulwark. A bloody mess, that is."

  "We'll need to replace him." Griffith fell silent. "Any suggestions?"

  "Nathan Adams." The name came too easily to Livingston's lips, and Griffith seemed pleasantly surprised by the swiftness of his response. Livingston immediately withdrew. He didn't want Griffith thinking that he had attachments to any particular crewman, so he laughed and said, "And Katherine Lindsay be a perfect fit for Henry's apprentice, so I reckon she won't do for a mate."

  Griffith's face twisted. "Henry’s apprentice?"

  "No offense," said Livingston with a shrug, "but I dislike the woman, and she shares my feelings, or so I would wager by her cruel looks. And I don't blame her for those, as mine be far uglier. But I see her uses, and those aren't with the lines. I'm told she's fine with the knots and better still at splicing. A perfect pair, Henry and she, as I like neither one of them. Or would you rather keep her in your cabin for all of eternity?"

  "Is her being in my cabin a problem?" Griffith's tone was flat and inscrut
able, as one who is attempting to keep his emotions in check, but Livingston knew the man well enough to know when he was roiling to the brim.

  Livingston maintained a strategically innocuous manner, though his words were anything but. It was a tactic worse than outright accusation, as there was no defense against a man who so innocently made his claims. "The men don't always voice their woes," he said, lightly stroking his chin with his knuckles.

  Griffith stared at him for a long time. "Is it a problem for the men, or a problem for you?"

  "If it were, I'd have solved it meself."

  "You’d stroll into my cabin and kill her yourself?"

  "I shouldn’t need remind you that cabin belongs to us all. Or have you forgotten?"

  "Of course," Griffith relinquished immediately, blinking rapidly. "Any of the crew is welcome to my cabin. And though it's certainly not as rich in furniture or space as this one, I've never locked my door to them, and certainly never to you."

  "True that be," Livingston said. And now that Griffith had considered and refuted every point, only one tactic remained to Livingston. "When I said that the crew don't talk, I might've held back a piece."

  "Eh?" said Griffith with a raised eyebrow. "What? What have they said? And which ones? I’ll have words with them myself."

  "Now, now," Livingston replied in a calming voice, "it's not fair I should speak gossips of the dead."

  "These worriers are dead?"

  "Yes," he sighed. "So I guess, in that regard, there’s little concern to you."

  "Who were they?"

  Livingston gave another sigh, and he had trouble avoiding a grin for his slyness. He thought it profoundly clever to use the dead as sources of gossip; they wouldn’t have the chance to deny these words, so there was no better scapegoat.

  "If they’re dead," said Griffith when Livingston didn't answer immediately, "it won't hurt to know their names."

  "Gregory Norrington, largely," Livingston replied. He saw no deception in revealing this name. The man was utterly dead.

  "That boy had not a brain in his skull large enough for thoughts of his own. This must have come from another. I never saw Gregory parted from Nathan Adams. And Nathan has more brain than he lets on."