She wanted to hit him, kick him, make him suffer for putting her on this piece of wood over what could so easily be her death. But terror held her limp as he lifted her into his arms, and despite her pride, she buried her face in his chest to block out the sight of the roiling sea.
He walked across the plank with the confidence of a man certain he could not fall, every footstep easy, as casual as if he were walking on solid ground. She blocked out the sound of the waves, the murmur of mens’ voices. For just a minute, just the terrifying, mind-numbing minute she was suspended over the water, she concentrated on the scent of her newest captor. Spice and the underlying hint of ozone. More elemental and much less human that the salt and musk of Tyr’s scent.
He had just stepped down off the plank when a shout from Smalls jerked her attention back to the other ship. Two sailors were carrying Tyr’s unconscious body to a lifeboat of dubious seaworthiness. As she watched, two more held Smalls back, keeping the panicked first mate from going to his captain’s rescue. Fresh horror rose on an oily tide inside her as Tyr’s body was cast into the bottom of the small wooden boat and lowered into the water.
“What are you doing?” She writhed in Bluebeard’s arms, desperate to be free of him and suddenly furious with herself for ever accepting comfort from him in any form. He put her down without a word, standing silent as she gripped the banister of the ship. “You’re going to leave him to die here?”
“He will not die. There are few ports as…alert, as those of Dacia, particularly here on the western most tip where Prince Kirill has taken a special interest. He won’t be out here more than an hour, two at most. Which is also the reason we must be going—now.”
“I’m not going to let you leave him here.” Her fingers curled against the wood, locking her in place. Fear of the water battled her need to keep her attention on Tyr, afraid if she looked away the sea would swallow the little boat and he would be lost to her. He was a despicable, self-centered pirate, but damn his eyes, he was the devil she knew. “The prince is a vampire who’s made more than one person disappear.”
Bluebeard stepped closer, but made no move to touch her. “The prince has no cause to be interested in a one-handed human pirate. Especially not now that he has neither you nor the firebird.”
His hand caught her peripheral vision as he attempted to take her arm and she jerked away. He stopped, but did not withdraw his hand.
“I have no desire to hurt you. But you will come with me now.”
“I won’t let you leave him.” She turned slowly, met his eyes that were once again a very human brown. “Bring him onto this ship. Whoever betrayed Tyr to you must have told you why they left his crew. If you don’t retrieve Tyr, now, then I will make it my personal mission to frighten away every man until you have no one here but yourself for company.”
Black pupils swallowed brown irises. “Singlehand stays on that boat. If you don’t come with me now, quietly and with no attempts to frighten my crew, when I leave him behind, it will be with a hole in the bottom of said boat. It will be a toss up which gets him first—the Dacians or the sharks.”
The sounds of flesh connecting with flesh ripped Ingrid’s attention back to the other ship. Smalls stood between his two captors, his hands covering his face. Blood seeped between his fingers, trickled down his jaw from where his lip had been split. He stared at the boat with his captain, panic tightening the skin around his eyes.
“Put him in the brig,” Bluebeard snapped.
Ingrid glared at him. “He’s only trying to save his captain. Is loyalty a quality you punish?”
Bluebeard gave her a cold look, eyes still too dark. “I’m his captain now. He will be loyal to me or he’ll be marooned on the nearest desert island.”
Her hand shot out of its own accord, fingers curling through the blue strands of the pirate’s hair. She yanked as hard as she could, vicious satisfaction thrilling through her adrenaline-singed veins as the man shouted in surprise and pain.
All activity around them halted, sudden silence falling over the two ships like a shroud. Every eye was on them, no one daring to so much as breathe as they watched the blue-bearded captain face off with the earth witch. Ingrid had barely a moment to note their attention, then all of her vision was consumed by the angry pirate captain. With his back to his men, his eyes were only for her to see, the blinding silver light painful to look at.
She fought the urge to look away, forced herself to lean closer, look beyond the silver light. Flickers of shadow danced in the mercurial orbs and she concentrated on it, on the emptiness that lay even farther beyond. The weight of the void inside him called to her, almost swallowed her whole.
“It isn’t me he wants.”
The firebird’s words echoed in her head like a ghostly warning. Ingrid tried to look away, suddenly afraid of what she’d started, the only option she had to subdue the inhuman pirate captain.
Fingers closed around her arm like talons, the pressure punishing and cruel and when he spoke, his voice was ragged, coarse with a fury that echoed deep in her body.
“I am not looking to be bonded. If you try that again, there is an entire sea waiting to claim you.”
Bonded?
He didn’t give her a chance to speak again. No one made a sound, no one moved as he dragged her away from the banister, across the deck to the gaping doorway to the ship’s main cabin. He hurled her into the room with enough force that her legs met the edge of the bed at the far end, bones striking the wooden frame with bruising force. She cried out, the sound lost as he slammed the door behind him.
Fury twisted the lines of his face as he advanced on her and Ingrid’s heart pounded as her imagination filled her mind with all manner of horrible images. Tyr’s words echoed in her memory and she shoved her hand into her pocket. The slimy lump of tentacle made her stomach roll, her body trying to expel it even before it passed her lips. She forced it into her mouth and with every ounce of willpower she had, swallowed it down…
Chapter Seven
“Captain Singlehand, I do hate to impose, but I am a terribly busy man, so if you could see your way to regaining consciousness with some haste, I would be most obliged.”
A Dacian accent, the tone cool, clipped. It slid into Tyr’s brain with all the delicate tenderness of a surgeon’s scalpel, stripping him of the last vestiges of unconsciousness and bringing him into a reality of pain. A groan crawled out of his throat as he groped at his head, hissing when he touched the bandages there.
Bandages. A head injury.
He shot into a sitting position, then keeled over again when his head screamed in protest. He tried to hold his brains in with his good right hand and the stump of his left and wildly scanned the room.
He was lying on a bed built into the corner of a small room, its thick mahogany frame holding him at least two feet off the ground and boxing him in with four large posts that held up a heavily carved ceiling. A gold chandelier hung over a small table not more than four feet away, the soft glow illuminating the sparsity of the clean, but thickly shadowed room.
When he thought he could move his head without turning his brain to mush, he tilted his face a little farther toward the table. Grey fog ate at the edges of his vision, but he could make out a figure seated at the table.
Kirill, Prince of Dacia, was as pale a man as one would expect a vampire to be. His white-blond hair hung in sharp lines to his shoulders, framing a set of eyes that might well have been carved from clear winter ice. His lips were closed, but it didn’t take a stretch of the imagination for Tyr to picture the fangs he knew were there.
“He hit me.” His voice came out thick, as though he spoke through a mouthful of cotton.
Kirill inclined his head, once. “He did. But once we’ve concluded our business, my healer will see to your wound.”
“Bloody bastard hit me,” Tyr mumbled again. “I’ll have his hand for that.”
His brain wheezed and gasped, more images and thoughts seeping out through the tendrils of
pain. Bluebeard. Pain. Small boat.
Ingrid.
Tyr’s eyes flew open and he sat up, bracing himself for the wave of pain so he merely swayed instead of falling back onto the pillow. Cold sweat dampened his forehead and his stomach turned with the acidic wash of fear, but he focused on Kirill.
“Ingrid?” he asked.
The vampire shook his head. “Ingrid is not here, I’m afraid. Nor is the blue-bearded pirate I believe left you to the tender mercies of my port master.” He stood and the candlelight caught the silver embroidery on his black tunic, burning the Dacian royal family’s crest into sharp relief. “But if it is your wish to see one or both of them again, I believe I can be of some assistance. That is, provided you are willing to agree to a small favor in return.”
It took more effort to drag his legs over the side of the bed than he wanted to admit, but there was no way Tyr was negotiating with a vampire while lying down. Or sitting, if he could help it. “Prince Kirill, isn’t it?” He tried to keep his tone conversational, hoping the other man wouldn’t notice the effort—and time—it was taking him to stand. His voice came out calm, and if he’d had rum to reward himself, he’d have kissed the bottom of the mug. Later, he promised himself.
The vampire smiled, still showing no teeth. “Yes. And you are Tyr Singlehand. Not your birth name, I assume.”
Tyr started to shake his head, then thought better of it. “I don’t think you brought me here to talk about my nom de plume. You are correct that I would like to return to my ship as soon as possible. But I dare say I would have some limits on the favor I am prepared to do for such assistance.” He gritted his teeth and dropped his booted feet to the floor, stiffening his spine and locking his knees as he prayed he wouldn’t fall over. Gods, my head hurts.
“I do not think the favor I ask of you will pull you in any direction you have not traveled before. There is a successful merchant who operates out of a port in Sanguennay. Monsieur Olivier. It is my desire that his ships should experience…misfortune at sea.”
Tyr studied the vampire, taking a moment to rehash all the stories he’d heard of the Dacian noble. It was no secret Kirill wanted to overthrow his father—it was the only way for a vampire prince to become a vampire king. Coups were bloody things, and not an affair Tyr had any interest in putting himself in the middle of. “I’m not a murderer,” he said quietly.
Kirill arched an eyebrow and Tyr clenched his hand into a fist.
“Not for hire.” The clarification hurt, and he had the odd thought that it wouldn’t have bothered him last week. The witch is getting to me. I’ll need to do something about that.
“Perhaps a little more information,” Kirill suggested. “When I say misfortune, I mean only that I wish for Monsieur Olivier to experience a sudden and dramatic change in circumstances. Certainly that does not necessitate loss of life, a loss of ships would do just as well. So long as it is done quickly and with no opportunity for Monsieur Olivier to recover, that is all I require. He has a large shipment at the end of next month that I believe will provide an opportune moment.”
“Does he have a family?” The question leapt from Tyr’s lips without permission, and he barely kept from scowling at his own curiosity. The tides take it, it was likely his very life depended on agreeing to whatever the vampire said. Questions like that would only muddy the waters.
“He has two daughters, Maribel and Corrine. If it is their welfare that concerns you, have no fear. I have a vested interest in making certain they have long, productive lives ahead of them.” The vampire paused, and there was a flicker of red in his blue eyes. “Unless you ask after them for more…intimate reasons?”
“I’ve never laid a hand on either one of them,” Tyr protested. He took a moment to turn the names over again in his head. They didn’t sound familiar anyway. “Do the daughters sail often?”
“Not that I am aware.”
“Are they ladies of…” he searched for an appropriate word, “…less than unquestionable virtue?”
“No. To my knowledge, their virtue is still intact.” He narrowed his eyes then. “And they are to stay that way.”
Tyr flushed. “And why wouldn’t they?” Before the vampire could answer, he waved his hand, brushing aside the concern. “I have no interest in Monsieur Oliver’s daughters. And I see no reason I wouldn’t be able to help you bring about this ruin you wish to bring to their father.” He grew serious then, his mind going back to the unpleasant memory of how he’d left Ingrid. “If I agree to this, can you truly reunite me with Ingrid? Who knows how far—” He froze as a thought occurred to him suddenly and his stomach sank. He leaned back against the bedframe. “You’re a vampire.”
Again, one slim blond eyebrow rose. “Does that concern you?”
“You’re awake. That means… That means it’s night.”
“An astute observation. I’m so pleased the head injury was not serious.”
Tyr looked around, but there were no windows in the small room to offer him any hint of the outside, any clue to the time of day—or night, rather. “How long have I been unconscious?”
“The sun passed the horizon an hour ago. When my men found you, they brought you to my healer who thought it best to put you into a deep sleep while he saw to the wound. Unpredictable things, head wounds. Better safe than sorry.”
A frown pulled at the corners of Tyr’s mouth as he narrowed his eyes at the vampire. “You said your healer would see to me after our meeting.” He touched the bandages on his head again, winced at the tenderness there. “And I don’t feel like I’ve seen a healer.”
“Klement made certain your life was not endangered by the wound, then put you to sleep to encourage your body to heal naturally. When our business is satisfactorily concluded, he will see you again and finish what he started.”
“You mean he put me to sleep so I would be here and injured for you to talk to me, and if I agree to do what you want, he’ll heal me properly afterward.” His hand fell to his hip, alerting him to his sword’s inconvenient absence. “Would I be correct in assuming that if I don’t agree, there will be no need to waste your healer’s time?”
Kirill smiled a little wider and this time there was a hint of fang. “You are more observant than your reputation gives you credit for.” The smile melted away. “Do not concern yourself looking too far into the future. Right now, you have a choice to make.” His voice lowered, just a little, a trace of something dangerous roughening his tone. “Do decide quickly. I fear your wound is…bleeding again.”
The vampire’s eyes held more red now, like hot embers scattered over pale blue silk. His eyes slid from Tyr’s face to his head and lingered there.
“I’ll rob your Monsieur Olivier,” Tyr said, a little louder than he’d intended. He lifted his chin, trying to break the unsettling stare the vampire had leveled on his head wound. “Provided you can give me your word that you will get me to Ingrid. Armed,” he added.
The tension in the room thinned, but didn’t disappear altogether. Kirill nodded, and turned to the table, but not before Tyr noticed the flare of his nostrils. It took all his willpower not to touch his head, see just how badly he was bleeding.
Kirill slid a parchment toward him along with a quill. “Sign here. This contract lays out the details of our agreement.”
Tyr warily stepped forward, trying desperately not to sway as his head wound throbbed and he fought to keep his attention focused on his host. Kirill obviously sensed his caution and made an effort to remain completely still and as non-threatening as a vampire could be. Tyr picked up the quill and looked for the inkwell, but found none. “Where—”
A prick at his finger made him suck in a breath. He stared at the quill and the droplet of his blood quivering on its tip. Kirill smiled, his pupils dilating a little more as the scent of copper seemed to infuse the room.
I am alone in a room with a vampire, spilling my blood onto a contract. With a bleeding head wound no less.
The thoughts
sprang into his head with the urgency that came from realizing one stood on a dangerous precipice. Tyr slowly put the quill down, his hand falling to his side but finding his sheath empty. Kirill’s gaze followed his hand.
“Your opponent took your weapon. I will see that you receive a new one before you leave.” He gestured at the parchment, though his attention lingered on Tyr’s bloody fingertip. “After you’ve signed.”
“You say you can return me to my ship. That you can reunite me with Ingrid. But Bluebeard has had the day to escape. With a good wind, he could be as far as—”
“Captain Marcon—Bluebeard, as you call him—is in a port on the outskirts of the southern most end of Sanguennay.”
Kirill’s voice was calm, matter of fact, and completely at odds with the way the blue of his eyes was losing a battle to crimson red. Tyr took a slow breath, trying to keep his heart from racing as every instinct screamed at him to run.
“How do you know that? Bluebeard isn’t stupid, he would want to get as far from me as possible after his theft.”
The vampire held his eyes, and there was a trace of effort in the look, as if he were fighting to keep his gaze from wandering elsewhere. “Your rival pirate captain is not human and I highly doubt he views you as a threat. He likely would have forced you onto his crew if you hadn’t insulted him.”
Tyr tucked his bleeding finger into his fist and took a cautious step back. “How do you know I insulted him?”
Kirill smiled, but didn’t answer. “Marcon stole the firebird from you, along with a very powerful earth witch. If he is to sell the bird—and he will sell it at the earliest opportunity—he will want to make certain he is somewhere he has allies. Or an ally, as the case may be. There is a woman in Sanguennay with great power, and Marcon has faith that should someone try to kill him, she will intercede on his behalf.”
“He has faith.” Something about the way the vampire said it suggested he did not share the pirate’s optimism.
Another small smile. “Let us say it is not as assured as he believes it to be. I have confidence that when you arrive in Sanguennay, you will find both your ship and Marcon’s.”
The Pirate's Witch (Blood Prince) Page 8
