The Jinxed Pirate (Graylands Book 2)

by M. Walsh

  “I need to get the hell out of here,” she said under her breath.

  The question then was what next? Jagger’s trail had run cold, and she didn’t know where to go from here. On to Seba? Further east, into the desert? Could he have gone back across the sea, into the west? She tried not to despair, but the possibility Jagger—assuming he was even still alive—could be anywhere was becoming a harsh reality.

  “How was your meeting?”

  She grabbed her sword on reflex. Scifer Olc had crept up beside her, smoking a cigarette of his own. He moved casually, paying no mind to the fact she was ready to draw her weapon. He leaned against the wall and crossed his arms with a pleasant smile on his scarred face.

  “You,” she said, her hand still on her sword. “You’re Scifer Olc.”

  “It’s what some people call me,” he replied.

  “Why did you help me last night?”

  “Would you have preferred I stood by and watched?”

  She grumbled and could already sense talking to him would be an ordeal. He stared at her with empty gray eyes. His expression was blank. Oddly, it reminded her of Jagger and his gambler’s face.

  “So,” Scifer said. “What did Carmine want?”

  “I,” she said, taking her hand from her sword. “I don’t know. He asked who I was and what I was doing here.”

  “I’m not surprised you caught his attention.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Those losers we wiped out last night worked for him,” said Scifer. “That, combined with the fact you have tits—if you’ll pardon my crude phrasing—yeah, Dean Carmine would definitely be interested in you.”

  “I got that feeling.”

  He took a deep drag from his cigarette and let the smoke drift from his mouth like a yawn. “Thing about Carmine,” he said. “He’s very fond of his crummy little fighting pit. Anyone he doesn’t like, he’s eager to stuff in there for his amusement. Even people he does like, he tries to get in.”

  “That place is disgusting,” she said. “It’s no competition. They aren’t trained warriors fighting to see who’s better. It’s glorified cockfighting, and the people who watch just want to see death.”

  “Indeed,” said Scifer. “Any fighter actually worth a damn isn’t going to bother wasting time in a shitty little fighting pit. They’d be a mercenary or join an army.” He paused to scratch his nose. “Not unless they were forced.”

  She hesitated. His words sank in, and it occurred to her such a small town so close to the desert wouldn’t have a steady stream of volunteer fighters for its pit. Carmine said himself the better ones end up in Seba. So where were the fresh fighters coming from?

  “Some choose to be here,” Scifer said, seeing she was putting it together. “But most are found.”

  “Slaves..?”

  He smiled. “Gain hasn’t been an actual mining town for a long time. Its true export is slave trading. Pretty much every man and woman in this hole is either a slaver or a slave. What mining that is still done is slave work.”

  Katrina was appalled. Her mouth hung open, and she felt sick. “But slave trading is illegal. The Sentry Elite don’t allow it …”

  “Anywhere else in Graylands, they wouldn’t. But this is Seba territory—the Sentry Elite don’t come around here.”

  “But how would the traffickers even get here?”

  “It’s not traffickers,” he said. “They can’t make it through the desert and past the Sentry Elite that are in Graylands. Some come up from the south, but let’s just say the slave labor picked up in Gain and sold to Seba is homegrown.”

  She felt a flush of intense anger. She imagined all the drifters, bums, and travelers down on their luck. Hundreds of men and women without money or homes, or in debt, snatched up and forced into labor. Fighting pits, brothels, mines, and gods only knew what else. She then remembered all the cheering brutes in the arena. The same mouth-breathers she’d seen in the saloons all over town. Men like Zeke, Slim, and Dux. The kind of immoral scumbags who lived through violence and cruelty and didn’t give a damn about the people they hurt.

  She’d heard plenty of horror stories come out of Seba—but the idea of slave trafficking never occurred to her. And the Sentry Elite couldn’t do a single thing about it …

  Stop it, she thought, noticing her hand shaking. It’s not your responsibility either.

  She took a breath. “Why tell me this?”

  He looked at her, and she saw something in his eyes that gave her a chill. It was as though he knew what she had been thinking. He finished his cigarette and threw it to the ground. “That’s a nice sword you’ve got,” he said. “Where’d you get it?”

  “I found it.”

  “It have a name?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t ask the guy I took it from.”

  He smiled again. It was a strange, knowing smirk, as if he knew something she didn’t. “It’s your sword now,” he said. “You should name it. It’s a part of you.”

  She felt another chill and shivered.

  “It came pretty natural to you on the Blind Cliffs.”

  Without thinking, Katrina took a step back—feeling an urge to put some distance between them. She stared at him for what felt like a long time. He stared back, his face blank, as if what he’d said was as casual as mentioning the weather.

  “You,” she said, straining for volume. “You were there..?”

  “Little Lily Blackthorn,” he said. “Mutual acquaintance. You were the friend she was out to save, no?”

  She stammered, too stunned to respond.

  “I know your name isn’t Reen. Or Ryan—whatever your fake name is.” He paused and added, “Don’t worry. I honestly don’t remember what Lily said your real name was. I’m not one to begrudge an alias.” He yawned, cracked his neck, and grinned at her. “I recall there being fire and explosions before that dragon even showed up. Tell me, was that—”

  Katrina’s sword was out. The blade was at his neck, but he never flinched. She felt confusion more than anything else, but drawing her weapon was the only response she could think of.

  Scifer’s face was like stone, and his eyes were as dead and empty as ever. There was no fear in him. “Yes..?”

  “What do you want from me?” she demanded.

  “Who said I wanted anything?” he said. “You strike me as an interesting person. I’m just curious.”

  “The hell does that mean?”

  “Very little.”

  She kept the blade at his neck, but didn’t know what to do. She backed away, taking measured breaths, but would not lower her sword. Scifer made no move or sound—only staring at her.

  Lacking anything better to say or do, Katrina merely growled, “Stay the hell away from me,” and stormed off—feeling his eyes on her every step of the way.

  * * *

  “I wasn’t sure what happened to you after those Sentries found us.”

  As the saloon raged all around them, the young pirate patted Krutch on the shoulder and crouched beside him. In spite of everything, he was happy to see Arkady again.

  “What happened to you?” Krutch asked.

  “Not much to tell,” said Arkady. “After you ran off, I managed to steal that big Sentry’s horse and kept riding east. I figured if you got away, you’d end up here sooner or later. I’m glad I found you, boss.”

  “Neat,” he said.

  Audra materialized through the crowd, her lip bleeding and a nasty scrape by her right eye. The gun was still in her hand—covered with blood—and she was yelling, “Lee! We better get …” She trailed off, seeing Arkady, and her face contorted to horrific fury. “YOU GET AWAY FROM HIM!”

  Arkady barely had time to react and dodge the butt of the pistol coming down at him. Krutch intervened and held Audra’s arms. “Whoa, relax! He’s one of my guys!”

  Her face softened, and she said, “Oh.” She glanced at Arkady a moment and turned back to Krutch. “We should get out of here.”

>   “Yeah,” said Arkady. “We don’t want to be here when the Wraiths arrive. Follow me.”

  Grasping the case of gold, Krutch and Audra followed Arkady out the back of the saloon into an alley. The fighting had spread to the outside and was turning into a small riot. Men and women were tearing into each other with drunken abandon. Knives and swords were drawn and blood was spilled. The fighting even drew in patrons from a neighboring bar.

  Arkady and Audra were talking, but Krutch couldn’t take his eyes off what he was witnessing. For the first time since he arrived, he saw Seba as its reputation painted it. This was indeed a city of murderers and pirates, and all it took was a simple bar fight to turn into total chaos.

  A hush came over the street as a row of men and women on horseback marched into the fighting. They were clothed in black and gray armor and armed with a variety of weapons. They swept in from seemingly nowhere, making no sound except the clopping of horses on the street.

  There was a brief pause as the riders surrounded the small riot. When they swarmed, they struck with brutal efficiency, mowing down everyone in their path. The fighting drunks realized they were outmatched and attempted to scatter, but to no avail. The uniformed soldiers struck down everyone in sight. Most were only maimed, but a few looked like they were killed.

  At the forefront of the assault was a familiar man distinguished by his dark blue overcoat. Vincent Dune revealed a sword with a curved blade that—with a flick of his wrist—extended to nearly six feet long. To Krutch’s awe, Dune proceeded to tear into the rioters with his massive falchion, wielding it as though it weighed nothing.

  “Come on, boss,” said Arkady, tugging on his jacket. “We need to go before they find us.”

  “The hell was all that?” he asked, following along.

  “The militia,” said Arkady. “They’re known as the Seba Wraiths. That guy with the giant sword, that’s the leader: Vincent Dune.”

  “Yeah,” said Audra. “We met him today.”

  “They call him the General,” Arkady continued. “The Wraiths don’t take shit, and you most definitely don’t want to be on Dune’s bad side.”

  As they made their way down the alley, Krutch took one final glance back toward the saloon. The fighting—or massacre, as it appeared—was subdued, and Dune and his Wraiths were standing tall over a small sea of writhing bodies and puddles of blood.

  “Say, boss,” said Arkady. “If you guys need somewhere to crash, I got a place a few blocks from here.”

  “Yeah, uh, that’s good,” he mumbled, trying to clear his head. “Oh, yeah—Arkady, this is Audra. Audra, Arkady.”

  They paused only to nod at one another and continued on through some darkened alleys—the chaos fading into the background. The sight of Dune and his men ripping into the rioters sobered Krutch up in more ways than one. Only a few minutes ago, he felt almost invincible. Now he was dizzy and sick.

  “You okay?” Audra asked.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I think so. Are you?”

  “I’m great,” she said. She handed him the pistol and wiped the blood from her chin. “You sure we can trust this one?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “He’s fine.”

  Audra nodded, but she shot a suspicious glance at Arkady. Getting a headache, Krutch didn’t press the matter.

  Arkady’s loft was located on the second floor of a liquor shop on 91 Fink Street. It was a single, rectangular room that could only be accessed by a retractable ladder. The two windows were brown with grime and could barely be seen through. There were two cots, a small tub, a water pump, and a filthy old sofa—nothing else.

  Once they were inside, Arkady pulled up the ladder and locked the door behind him. “Not much,” he said. “But I worked with a guy who’s friends with the shop owner, so I got a decent deal. Cots and sofa came with.”

  “Thanks,” said Krutch, plopping down on the sofa, causing a cloud of dust to erupt into the air. He noticed Audra looked uncomfortable and said, “Tomorrow we’ll find a better place.” He coughed from the dust. “But let’s keep it cheap, we should make Elliot’s gold last.”

  “Elliot..?” Arkady said. “The Magistrate..?”

  “Lee met him today,” said Audra. “He tried to bribe him into leaving Seba.”

  “No shit,” he said.

  Audra sat beside Krutch and cradled him like he was her pet. A day’s worth of drinking took its toll, and he felt weightless and sleepy with his head against her chest. Arkady was only three feet away, but he couldn’t make out his face.

  “So what’s your deal?” Arkady asked. “How’d you meet up with the boss?”

  “I was stuck in this mission,” she said. “The Brother there wouldn’t let me …”

  She explained the mission, Lucas, and how Krutch wound up there. He couldn’t be sure, given how drunk he was, but the way she described it made it sound like burning the place down was his idea.

  He flexed his scarred hand and almost said something about wanting no more fires, but dozed off into a dreamless sleep.

  * * *

  It turned cool as Katrina watched Carmine’s house from the shadows. The sky above was black and clear with a thin, crescent moon overlooking Gain. She craved a drink, but ignored it and kept watch on the house. Carmine stayed inside, and the windows remained lit until late in the night. No one came in or out that she could see.

  After learning about Gain’s true export, Katrina spent much of her day thinking about the alleged slave trafficking. That disgusted her enough, but when her next thought came, she couldn’t let it go: what if Jagger had been forced into slavery?

  Although she reminded herself she was jumping at nothing—she couldn’t even call this a lead—the thought and its implications wouldn’t leave. If Carmine and Gain’s slave traders targeted nameless drifters, it was possible they went after him. It would explain why his trail had dried up.

  She imagined Jagger traveling by himself, drifting from town to town as she had. She saw him getting ambushed and overwhelmed by slavers. And worse, she imagined what they would’ve done to him when he refused to submit. They would have beaten him down, tortured him …

  Stop thinking like this. You don’t know that any of this happened …

  If he didn’t break, they would’ve killed him. Killed him and left him to rot or fed him to their pets. Again, she tried to tell herself not to think that way. Not to assume the worst … that Jagger was already long dead. That he had survived Vigor and been alive all these years … and only now, now that she knew it, he was gone. Worse, forced into slavery by these sons of bitches …

  I will burn this shit-hole to the ground …

  Katrina snapped back to reality, realizing she was sweating. Her right hand was also hurting, and she saw—not without some shock—her fist had been clenched so tight, her fingernails dug into her palm and drew blood.

  Taking a deep breath, she took one last look at Carmine’s darkened home and decided to retire for the night. If Jagger had indeed been captured and enslaved, would there be paperwork? Some kind of receipt or record of his capture and sale? If such a thing existed, would it be kept in Carmine’s house? If she found it, she could pick up Jagger’s trail.

  A lot of ifs, maybes, and longshots, she thought as she entered the inn.

  Approaching her room, she wasn’t sure what she planned to do. She only watched Carmine’s house to gauge whether or not she could break in and out without trouble. It seemed large enough for her to move around without being noticed. She didn’t know how many guards Carmine kept inside with him, but she was confident she could handle anything she might find.

  Once, when she was the rebel princess working to take down Armand Tyrell, she’d broken into her share of fortresses and prisons. She found it tedious work. Getting in, sneaking around, and getting back out with no one noticing—she always thought it a terrible bore.

  You’re a hell of a fighter, Kat, Jagger used to say. But you’re a garbage thief.

  Actually, she�
��d reply. I’m a pretty decent thief. I just don’t enjoy it.

  Others enjoyed the sneaking and stealth work. Jagger, of course—being a thief. She remembered Gabriella loved it—she’d been an Eldér who joined the resistance, despite not living in Vigor. Darren, too. He’d looked up to Jagger.

  Katrina always preferred a straight fight. She never underestimated the need or purpose of spying, infiltrating, and stealth—but she was fonder of taking a direct approach. For her, sneaking into an enemy base or prison, getting information or breaking someone out, and escaping unnoticed were like an unwanted homework assignment. She supposed that was Barton’s training shining through. He’d been the same way.

  She hesitated then—it occurring to her she was reminiscing about her youth. For so long, she tried to bury those memories with alcohol. Any time those thoughts did creep in past her defenses, she’d feel nothing but bitterness and disgust over the life that had been thrust upon her, the life that she should’ve had but was denied, and the cruel whims of fate that left her this way.

  But just then, thinking about Jagger and all her other friends and loved ones, she felt at ease. There was no desire to drink. No urge to hide herself in some dark hole for the rest of her days. She felt at peace. Even … comforted.

  She didn’t remember the last time she felt that way while sober. It was a feeling that threw her off guard. So much so, she didn’t notice the door to her rented room was unlocked until too late.

  She took only two steps inside, when she was swarmed by men armed with clubs.

  18

  South of Mannix Square, not far from Roller’s Place, was a long stretch of shops called Tramp Road. It was packed with people and reminded Krutch of the busy markets he’d see in other parts of the country—except these looked like they were open all day and all night. And these merchants were selling a lot more than just food and jewelry.

  There were fortune-tellers, oracles, and supposed mages promising good fortune, powerful spells, and glimpses into the future. Prostitutes of all shapes, sizes, races, and genders were available for the picking. Special herbs, weeds, and powders that could be eaten, smoked, or snorted promised grand visions, calm ecstasy, or vibrant energy.