The Jinxed Pirate (Graylands Book 2)

by M. Walsh

  “Let’s get the Gauntlet first,” Deck said, standing up. “Once it’s secure, we’ll decide what to do next.”

  Without waiting for either Lock or Seria to respond, he left the den and climbed up the rubble to the second floor. Lock heard him enter his room and assumed Deck was getting dressed. He looked at Seria and guessed if he had a mirror, his expression would match hers.

  He climbed to the second floor and went into Deck’s room without knocking. Inside, he found his brother putting on fresh clothes and arming himself with daggers and an extra sword. Deck didn’t acknowledge his presence.

  “There something I should know?” he asked.

  Deck didn’t answer.

  “Now’s not the time for this shit, Deck!”

  Deck paused. He stood by the bed a moment, still not looking at him, and then resumed packing his weapons. “You and Seria get the Gauntlet, then find Troa. Head for the Northern Regions. You’re bound to have better luck finding Guardians or the Sentry Elite there.”

  “And what are you going to be doing?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

  “I’m going to Seba,” said Deck, as if it was plain, indisputable fact. “I’m going to get Cassie, and I’m going to kill Vincent Dune and anyone who gets in my way.”

  “Or you’re going to get both Cassie and yourself killed. Do you have any idea how insane you sound?”

  “I don’t expect you to understand, Lock.”

  “No, Deck, I think I do. I think, if anything, this past month has helped me understand you more than I ever would have liked.”

  This stopped Deck again, and he finally looked at his brother. His face was still, but Lock could see that comment wounded him. As this Gauntlet mess grew worse and worse, Lock more and more thought he didn’t know Deck after all. But in that moment, he saw his brother again.

  “You really think that about me?” Deck asked. “You think all I care about is playing the hero without caring what happens to you or Cassie?”

  Yes was the first thought that came to his mind—which made him feel terrible. With a sigh, he said, “No. But you’re not thinking this through. You can’t go to Seba by yourself.”

  “We can’t bring the Gauntlet there,” said Deck. “Someone needs to get Troa, and someone needs to get Cassie. What do you suggest we do?”

  “Find Troa and contact the Sentry Elite. They can—”

  “The Sentry Elite don’t go into Seba unless they’re amassed. A small squad could infiltrate the city, find where Dune is keeping Cassie, and try getting her out, but how long will that take? How long before Dune loses his patience?”

  Lock had no answer.

  “Lock,” Deck said, taking his brother by the shoulders. “I screwed this up. This is all me, I know that, and I’m sorry. I can’t repay you or Cassie for what I’ve brought upon us. The least I can do is clean up after my mistakes.”

  “Deck …”

  “You’re wrong about one thing, little brother. I am thinking clearly—probably for the first time since I found that troll’s cave.” He paused and looked like he was trying to be serious, but instead just looked sad. “I refuse to let my last memory of Cassie be her angry at me.”

  Lock tried to speak. To think of anything that might convince his brother to accept some other plan. He tried to think of an alternative plan, but nothing came to him. Instead, his head sank and he murmured, “You’re committing suicide.”

  “Maybe,” said Deck. “But I’ll tell you what, before Dune kills me, I’ll tell him I acted on my own without even telling you. That way he won’t hurt Cassie and deal directly with you.” He shrugged. “Hell, that might be better for everyone.”

  “You really believe that..?”

  “It’s possible,” Deck said, returning his attention to packing weapons. “Everyone knows I’m the black sheep of this family.”

  * * *

  Deck finished packing, took Dian, and headed south—stopping only to apologize to Seria. He seemed confident, but had the air of a man who knew he wasn’t coming back.

  Seria said little to dissuade him—even less than Lock had. Whether it was because she could think of nothing better or because she accepted Deck had made his decision and would not waver, Lock didn’t know.

  He watched his brother ride off and wished he had said more before they parted. That they shared a more thoughtful goodbye than they had, because he felt a certain dread he, one way or another, would never see his brother again.

  47

  Katrina attempted suicide once. She remembered holding the knife (or glass) and cutting into her wrists—vertically, not horizontally; that was the proper way to do it. She watched the blood pour from her wounds and her skin turn white in stark contrast.

  Her attempted suicide didn’t take place in Tyrell’s fortress. After she watched the Red Plague consume her land, she spent a long time huddled in the corner of his throne room in shock. She didn’t remember how long she remained there—it was at least a day. She was either pulling at her hair or sucking on her thumb—she wasn’t sure which.

  When she finally decided to move, she took her father’s sword and drifted out of the deserted fortress. Although she didn’t realize it, the other survivors were long gone by the time she emerged. Looking back, she supposed she should wonder why they never found her. It didn’t really matter anymore.

  She left the fortress and went out into the capital city—a dull red haze lingering in the air. A part of her hoped she’d catch the disease herself, but the damage was done. She walked, having no idea where she was going or what she would do when she got there.

  She drifted through the city, as though her soul had been drained from her body, walking past countless dead bodies. Some were fellow rebels. Some were loyalists to Tyrell. Some were mere civilians trying to avoid the conflict. They got it the worst, being so close to ground zero. The Plague made fast work of them. They died spewing blood from every orifice—most choking on it before it could wear them out.

  She was only nineteen years old at the time.

  The Plague lost its potency as it spread to Vigor’s borders, but it was no less lethal. It just meant the rest of the country took longer to die. As Katrina made her way through her ruined homeland, she found the remains of bodies in similar condition as the ones in the capital. She occasionally came across someone in the final stages of the sickness, vomiting blood on the road. She passed closed up houses and inns, knowing there were more dead and dying inside.

  These were her people. They counted on her to liberate them from Tyrell’s rule. She was supposed to be their savior, and now they were dead. The victims of a madman’s cruel revenge. As she walked, a terrible reality sank in to Katrina—not only was she the last Lamont, the last heir to the throne, she was now the last Vigorian.

  It was somewhere around this point she threw her father’s sword away. She didn’t remember where she was—some back road between cities—but carrying it with her, feeling its weight in her hand, made her realize what a cruel joke destiny was. Whether it was fate or the gods, what kind of deranged power would allow this to happen? If some force was behind her destiny, guiding her on her path to slay Tyrell, where was it now? How could it not have accounted for the Plague?

  The final straw came when she found a small village on the outskirts of Vigor. She’d been walking for days without sleep—unconsciously forcing herself on some kind of pilgrimage through her dead country. The village was dead, as all the others were, except for a small child no older than five years old.

  The boy was in the final stages of the Red Sickness. His skin was wane and covered with blood, which was leaking from his eyes, ears, mouth, and nose. He looked at her, and there was desperate pleading in the boy’s eyes. He might have only been seeking help, but in that moment, Katrina was struck with a certainty the boy knew who she was. And the look in his eyes was demanding: How could you let this happen? We believed in you.

  She stood there and watched the child breathe his las
t breath. And it was at that moment she decided she would kill herself. Her destiny was fulfilled, and she had surveyed the desolation left in its wake. Time to die.

  She opened up her wrists and watched her blood flow. In her mind, she was begging for forgiveness, pleading to ghosts she couldn’t see that she didn’t know this would happen. If there was an afterlife waiting for her, she prayed the dead would forgive her.

  But Katrina didn’t die that day. Something made her save herself. She closed her wounds, left Vigor, and found her way to Graylands—beginning her new “life” as Rien, the Ghost Princess.

  She wouldn’t remember what it was until Jagger Ryggs buried her alive.

  * * *

  Katrina screamed long and loud as she heard the dirt shoveled onto her coffin. She thrashed and kicked—ignoring her injuries—but could do little in the pitch blackness. She continued screaming even after the shoveling stopped and there was nothing but her in her grave.

  When she calmed down, despair came to her in the dark and silence. She considered letting it end. To wait for her air to run out and drift away. Jagger was her last hope. The remains of her people didn’t want her, and the man she once loved had beaten her and buried her alive. What was there to survive for?

  Even if she escaped, she would only be condemning herself to a future of more aimless wandering, drinking herself to death, and eventual insanity. Sooner or later, she would snap as she had in Daredin’s tower or that tavern outside Devon. Only this time, she’d do something far worse and someone would end up putting her down—a sad, miserable end to the one-time Chosen One of Vigor.

  Maybe it was better this way, she thought. Just lie still, accept her burial, and let death come for her. She didn’t know how much air remained in the coffin, but it couldn’t be too long. Perhaps it was appropriate she die gasping for air like her people had when the Plague hit.

  You have an edge to you, Kat.

  It was Jagger’s voice, and the memory of that night came to her. Like so many of her memories from Vigor, she hadn’t thought of it in years. It was the night before the final battle with Tyrell’s forces—her last night with Jagger before it all went wrong.

  They were sharing a tent. They had just made love. Still remembering her first disastrous encounter with Tyrell, Katrina was especially nervous. Her armies had surrounded the capital city, where Tyrell and the last of his forces were marshaled. They would lay siege the following morning, and it was likely—if not expected—Katrina would find herself facing him once and for all.

  “Jagger,” she whispered. “I want you to promise me something.”

  “You got it.”

  “Whatever happens tomorrow,” she said. “Stay alive. If I can’t … if something goes wrong, just get away. Escape.”

  “I’d never leave you.”

  “Jagger, please,” she said, looking him in the eye. “It all comes down to tomorrow. Tomorrow, I’m going to fight Tyrell again. If it all goes wrong—if I can’t beat him—then that’s it. I don’t want you taking the fall if I can’t do what needs to be done.”

  “Come on, Kat,” he said. “You can beat him. What happened last time—that was completely different. You’re different …”

  “It was only a year ago.”

  “And you’ve been pushing yourself harder than ever since. You’re going to make it, Kat. Whatever happens, I know you’re going to make it.” He gave her a quick, gentle kiss and added, “You know how I know that?”

  She shook her head.

  “You’ve got an edge to you, Kat. I’ve known that since I first met you. It’s a jagged edge that cuts deep when you’re not careful.” He sat up and looked at her seriously. “I guess you needed that edge to keep yourself alive after all you’ve been through. I don’t know if it came from your upbringing or if it’s just natural, but you got something in you. Something mean that refuses to stay down.”

  She knew he was trying to comfort her, but she started to feel uncomfortable. “What are you saying?”

  “Don’t get me wrong,” he said. “To tell the truth, it’s one of the things I love about you. You might be a princess, Kat, but you’re not the kind that sits in her garden, writing poems, and enjoying pretty songs. When I say you could’ve been a good pirate, I’m not entirely kidding. I’ve seen you when you fight. I’ve seen you when things go bad and you’re low. You’ve got a mean streak that won’t let you die.” He smirked. “And I’m telling you: Tyrell don’t stand a chance.”

  “I,” she said, snorting. “I don’t know how to take that.”

  “It’s a compliment,” he said. “Promise.”

  “Well,” she said, giggling despite herself. “You sure know how to make a girl feel like a madwoman, Mr. Ryggs.”

  “You say madwoman,” he said, looking proud of himself. “I say bad-ass.”

  “I guess that’s what I’ll have to settle for asking a pirate for emotional support,” she said, kissing him.

  They made love one more time that night. The following morning, they fought side by side into the capital city. They separated outside the fortress when she went on to fight Tyrell.

  That was the last she saw of him until Seba.

  * * *

  Katrina lay in her pitch black box, knowing the air was getting thinner. She replayed her last night with Jagger and thought about the things he said. She remembered his words repeated in her mind when she tried killing herself.

  He was right. She had an edge to her—or as Scifer Olc might call it, the hate—and indeed, it kept her alive many times when she was beaten, brought low, or tempted to give up.

  It made her save herself from bleeding out. It pushed her on to reach Graylands and kept her moving despite having nowhere to go. It came back, in brutal fashion, in Daredin’s tower. And in the end, she supposed, once she stripped away whatever emotions that might have driven it—anger, fear, desire, or desperation—it all boiled down to one simple thing:

  Not like this.

  All her life, Katrina had been brought up to look forward. All the training and fighting of her youth—it was meant to lead to when she reclaimed her throne. All the years she spent wandering Graylands—what was she doing if not looking for some next step? The search for her remaining people and Jagger—all in the hope that, when she accomplished her goal, she would finally find what she was looking for: a life of her own in peace. A life she seemed doomed to constantly be denied.

  “I don’t want to die,” she said aloud, cutting the silence of her cramped coffin. “Not like this. Not yet.”

  The air was stuffy and getting thinner. If she was to act, it needed to be now, and the only way out was through the dirt. As panicked as she was when lowered into the earth, she remembered it wasn’t a long drop. Her grave was shallow. It had only been a couple hours, so the dirt was still loose. She could do it, or at the very least, die trying.

  I’m dead either way, she thought, bracing herself. So fuck it.

  The most difficult part, she anticipated, was breaking through the wood and dealing with the first avalanche of dirt that followed. The space was cramped, and she had no leverage. Her left hand, the stronger one, was broken, so she used her right. None of it mattered. She was determined to live.

  They call her the Ghost Princess, and what is a ghost but something that refuses to stay dead?

  She spent a long time pounding at the plank in front of her. Her fist was bloody and raw, and her progress was slow. She was sweating, and breathing became a significant effort. Finally, she heard a crack and the wood began to give. She continued pounding at the weak spot, using what little space that was available to her.

  Dirt rained down. She shuffled it to the end of the coffin at her feet. The wood crunched and more dirt spilled in. Having no choice, she utilized her left hand, cringing and gritting her teeth in pain, and clawed and scraped at the broken wood. She felt splinters rip into her palms and fingers. She didn’t need to see in the dark to know her hands were a bloody mess.

&nb
sp; More dirt poured in. She slapped it to the back of the coffin. Turning on her stomach, she pressed her head into the small hole she’d created. She inhaled what little air was left and held her breath. If she couldn’t make it, or got stuck along the way, she was done.

  Tapping into her Eldér training, she pushed her body harder than she’d pushed it in years—if not ever. Her eyes shut, and grinding her teeth, she pressed upward, forcing her body through the hole. Her back and sides scraped on the shattered wood. Dirt rained all around her. It was smothering and hot. She could taste it in her mouth.

  Her feet, still in the coffin, slid on the dirt that had piled up, and for a moment, she thought she was stuck. With a harsh roar, she forced her left arm up through the earth and felt it emerge into open air.

  Grasping desperately—now out of breath—she tried to pull herself up, but gained little leverage. One of her knees was propped in an awkward position and flared with pain. The other was all but useless from the damage inflicted by Jagger. Dirt was getting down her throat.

  If I can just stand, she thought, her mind racing. I can stand …

  Using what remained of her strength, she got her right arm up. It too escaped into open air. She pulled and strained—she felt as though acid pumped through her veins. Her heart pounded and felt close to bursting. Every muscle burned. Her injuries screamed in protest.

  Little more … little more … come on, you bitch!

  She clawed herself up enough to get her feet flat. She pushed again, gaining little progress, but got her head out of the earth. She gasped in the air, gagging on the dirt she’d swallowed, and hesitated a moment.

  The earth shifted, and she thought she would be swallowed again. She flailed in the dirt, trying to keep her head above the surface, when her left hand exploded in pain again. She howled in agony, but felt something tugging at her.

  Focusing through the pain, she realized someone had taken her by the hand and was pulling her up. Despite her exhaustion and injuries, she fought her way out of the grave while her apparent helper pulled.

  When she was fully out, she lied on her back, sucking in air with harsh gasps. The sky above was dim, and it took her a few moments to realize it was nearly dawn.