Chapter 17
N o .
Wherever Jane is, something catastrophic is happening.
I kick Phantom’s sides even harder, riding as fast as I fucking can. I paid a lot of money to stow this horse somewhere rather inconspicuous with one of my men until I was officially out of Skull’s Row, and he could be ridden home.
Even with all my planning, it might not be enough.
We twist and turn upward through this coastal village that’s right outside the pirating ports. Grabbing the black skull mask at my hip, I adorn it on my face, the material adhering to me. Everything evolves into utter clarity: my body stronger, my ability to grip Phantom with my thighs easier.
Jane, and her frantic heart, shines like a beacon during a storm. We round a corner and that woman’s energy is so palpable I can almost smell her. Commotion fills the narrow streets up ahead, Phantom piling through any fucking idiot in my way, not giving a shit who it is, his hooves stamping into a few bodies on the ground that he knocks over.
I don’t care about anyone when I see her .
A blade pierces right through Ritter’s shoulder, with Matthias standing slightly over him, holding the weapon.
I can’t— Jane .
While his attention is focused on Ritter, she lunges at Matthias’s back. Ritter stabs the Zenith in the stomach—still pierced in his own shoulder—while Jane’s initial attack lands a dagger right above his collarbone. She yanks hard as skin stretches and blood sprays out, the liquid coating his armor. His black skull mask conceals his expression, but his aura deciphers as petrified .
Gripping his lower neck with one hand, glistening blood pulses through his fingers, while his other dagger slices right at Jane.
My body freezes, my breathing hitching, the mere suggestion of her being seriously injured ripping at my sanity.I’m not a man who does well feeling powerless.
Jane’s yelps morphs into a wince, placing a hand on her hip.
Phantom charges forward right through a carriage of goods, Phantom bursts through the wood, the war horse trained for this, and I swear if it’s too late—most of the men that follow Matthias look on in shock to see he’s slumped on one knee and profusely bleeding, their attention honing in on Jane .
They can all fuck themselves.
I grab a throwing knife from Phantom’s harness, sit up slightly, leveling my hand, and throw with as much force as I can muster, the powers of my mask channeling into the blade to send it further than any normal man is capable.
I aim right for the group, knowing it’ll pierce one —when it strikes one of the bastards in the neck, it draws all of their attention to him before arriving at me .
Basilisk steps in after dropping his long sword, grabbing Jane by the waist, and hoisting her up to get her out of the way. Their blood thirst diminishes when they realize I’m not alone, and relief rejuvenates me when I’m close enough to dismount Phantom while he still moves, hitting the street as my knees intentionally buckle so I can roll forward. Carrying the momentum without hurting or slowing myself down, I rise to my feet, drawing out two swords, cutting away at flesh and armor.
I channel my focus on slaying the ones who might run, my body moving with the practiced finesse of fighting with brute force and relying on my powers to guide me, feeding off of the intention from each opposing strike.
When my steel slices at a forearm, the thrill of battle pulses through my veins, and clearly his; I recognize this cunt as a man that’s akin to Bones, the asshole transforming into a feral animal in his assault.
But there’s no time for this, and I’m bigger than him.
When he strikes again, his sword slides against mine as I kick my heel right into his liver. He collapses to catch his breath, and in that same labored inhale I slit his throat, that very blade pivoting in my hand to rise in a counterstrike.
These men are swiftly outnumbered when at least double their amount arrives on horse.
“Cut down every last one of them!” I demand, the mask amplifying my voice. The clashing of steel reverberates in the confined space, each strike echoing like crisp lightning in my ears.
I scan the vicinity when enough of my people enter the fray, fear spreading through the street as wet grunts mix in with the sounds of battle, many trying to flee but get struck down or hunted out. There’s never a lot crying out in pain; barbarism tends to silence someone before they realize what’s happened. Just like with Matthias, who was mostly a Zenith because of his connections, and the land he held.
Good fucking riddance.
I near the dying Zenith when a glance at Jane tells me she’s fine—six of my people surround her, including Basilisk who many are clearly too afraid to strike. Matthias continues to grip his neck, pressing hard on the wound. Disbelief clouds his dying mind, his shoulder rising and falling heavily. He can barely lift his head to peer at me, his eyes so wide the whites are visible around the entire iris. “It was a poor decision to injure Jane.”
No one will hurt her without suffering immeasurable pain or death. Not anymore.
Not with me in her shadow.
With no forgiveness, I swing my sword with full force as Matthias’s head cleanly lobs off. Grabbing him by the hair he so prized, the scalp is still warm as I break off a pole of a nearby tent and spike the wood through the severed head with a crunch . In a pile of melons being sold, I lodge the spiked head. When I glance up, my gaze connects with a merchant who blanches, her eyes fluttering before collapsing.
Anyone looking on might think she’s squeamish, but that pulse of primal fear as I looked directly into her eyes is what did her in. I survey the rest surrounding us. “Keep your tongues tied until sundown, and you won’t be spiked like him. Until then, leave his head as a warning.”
Ritter holds his hand to his shoulder, removing it to look at the blood that wets his palm before reapplying pressure. “Reset yourselves!” I yell to my men. “And if Anya isn’t here by the time your blades are cleaned, we’re moving!”
I approach Basilisk, the man slightly older in appearance than we last met but hasn’t changed much otherwise. Any oddness to seeing him is absolved in the ability to connect with another sensor. The capacity to communicate deeply with him is unnerving when he’s been a stranger for so long, a man with deep insight to my younger, more volatile self.
None of that matters right now, though, for some reason, he’s here for us. And I trust it. I can deal with the why later.
He releases Jane, who winces when back on her feet, her hands at her side. As soon as she’s got her bearings, everything screams in her to rush over to her father, that wave of desperation colliding with me. I stick out an arm and grab her outer shoulder, my back to Ritter as she faces him. “Heal yourself first.”
She looks at me with the same intensity that she just looked at Matthias. I tilt my head, doubling down. “Yourself. First .”
My voice is more grating and intense than I intend for it to be. But shit is about to escalate, and I’ll be damned if we move forward without getting her healed.
She doesn’t fight me, and the hand on her bleeding hip glows blue; Jane continuously glances toward her father. Her hazel eyes are stuck in shock, staring blankly ahead like those who suffer from horrors .
That beast in my chest that’s overly protective is eager to get Jane far away from here; to gift her those nights of safety that helped her heal. Her eyes close to concentrate, strands of auburn hair stuck to her face. The bleeding stops rather quickly, probably indicative of being mostly surface level. My arm is still across her, some of Jane’s weight leaning into me, and I’m sure she’s overcome with exhaustion.
Get her out of here.
I glance up at Basilisk, whose golden eyes watch with immense curiosity. “What path did you take to get here?” I ask, just to confirm it.
“The grapnel.”
My eyes widen, even if it’s obvious with what door they came out of, even if I could feel that’s where they’d go; it’s still a dangerous fucking path. “The molgrin infest those tunnels.”
Jane’s ear nearly twitches at that detail, like the name gives life to an awful memory. I grip her shoulder tighter, almost pulling her into me.
“We’re aware,” Basilisk comments, leaning on a wall with his arms crossed.
When Jane’s eyes open once more when her injuries are healed, she nearly bolts to her father in a desperate attempt to begin tending to his wounds, but I hold onto as I say, “Heal what you can, and once it’s not life-threatening, we’re moving.”
When she nods, I release her as she hurries across the street to the Scorpion, to which I’m not far behind. Ritter motions to the bleeding wound in his shoulder. “Just stop the bleeding, honey. I’ll be fine—I’m okay.”
Without hesitation, Jane’s wrists are already glowing blue as she reaches for his wound.
A few gasps pervade, and I glance over to see all the commoners of the street are focused on the spiked head. Matthias’s mask slowly slides off his face, having completely hardened, an expression of horror revealed as the mask hits the ground. The gold decorations melt into a puddle underneath, only to harden into a molten mess.
Fascinating .
I’ve never seen that in person. We’re told the mask is completely useless once we die.
“I’ll be okay. I promise,” Ritter reiterates, pulling me back as he reassures Jane, the bleeding indeed slowing. I can tell it means everything to her to be able to save a parent this time, and it’s probably for the best that he actually looks like himself rather than Ern.
Giving them my back, Anya’s energy grazes against my powers as I focus on searching where she approaches from; I spot her white horse among the crowd that parts with more effort than when I stormed in, as if merely touching Anya might kill them.
I can see now why everything in me screamed to send her. When we caught wind of the bridge being destroyed, and that more than one Zenith was confronting us, I knew there was no point in Jane escaping the Undercroft if what awaited her on the other side were blades.
Which meant sending Anya ahead to scout out the best path to Tempest’s ship, while I moved as fast as I could to reach her to avoid getting stuck here.
She surveys the scene until she’s right up on me, pulling on her horse’s reins, looking down. “We have to leave, now . Blackwell has sent everyone, and he’s manning his ships. There’s one path that can take us to Tempest without issue, but it’s a matter of time before it’s overcrowded with their fucking henchmen.” Anya’s usual resolute determination is shaken when she spots Matthias’s ugly head. “Did you kill him?”
The murder of a Zenith isn’t going to go over well.
“Jane did,” I answer, glancing at her as she removes her hands to examine her father’s wound.
Anya snorts, surprise washing over her. “Great. Now she’ll have a real bounty on her head.” The fleeting humor fades, her face deadpanning as she dismounts, the stirrups clinking. “We need to leave the horses, too. We’re going to take the cliff’s boardwalks— oh .”
Anya’s focus draws me to see that among the bodies are two of my men. My priorities shift as I move to their side, glancing at both their faces; their eyes are wide, unblinking, and jaws slacked, carelessly open. Their vibrations in this world are silent. “They died quickly, sir,” one of mine solemnly says, who was already standing near them.
Mads and Silas.
We don’t have time.
Guilt strains my focus, knowing I have to make this call. “Take their effects, leave the bodies.”
With a whistle, every one of my people focus on me, and I motion for Michael, who hurries over. I lean toward his ear to speak quietly, “We’re taking the cliff boardwalks, down to the Underdeck, so we can board the Sea Wolf. Start with Rogers and tell him to get Phantom out of this city and up north.”
In a swift series of movements, another man who lives as a stablemaster back in my lands approaches Phantom; the man that will now tend to my horse while I cannot. Anytime I’m away from my war horse, Rogers is with him. I touch the nose of the black beast, looking him in the eyes, an odd sense of guilt pinching my heart to think I very well could die and leave him without a master. He’s a stallion who hates bowing to anyone but me.
I understand him, in that way. Fuck authority.
“Don’t bite Rogers again. He’s your path to safety… and if I don’t return, they’ll set you free, alright?” Phantom breathes harder, leaning into my hand. “Ride hard, my friend. Be safe.”
Rogers kicks Phantom’s hips, turning him around, and I step away when the horse seems to fight the command from a rider that’s not me. Rogers says, “I’m going to find a heavy merchant carriage and attach him to it. See if that works to get him out unnoticed, if it doesn’t spook the horse. I’ll take care of him, sir.”
I nod once, watching my horse be ridden off, sentiment an odd feeling in my chest, which makes me look at the men that haven’t moved; not even to breathe.
So swiftly, they’re gone.
It won’t be in vain.
Basilisk moves among the crowd, reclaiming his long sword, the shiny metal glinting in the sunlight where it’s not marred with blood. He’s probably the only person, other than Cypress, to know my pain. My rage. A vulnerability that will either prove to be comforting, or a massive risk and fucking annoyance.
Approaching Basilisk, I ask, “What are you doing here?”
His jaw clenches before he looks at me, the lines around his eyes deeper than we last saw each other, but it only adds to his intense demeanor, really. “I’m here to protect my cat, if you must know.”
That’s so abstract of a comment that I completely ignore it, focusing instead on his aura. It’s like it was fifteen years ago, except maybe more focused. Less aggressive; no, the aggression still exists, but it’s honed .
It’s hard not to notice he has new scars, or that a few streaks in his dark hair are whitening. He’s still young enough to not look aged like Ritter, but just wisened.
“Are you going to be useful to me or not?” I ask, as there’s no time for familiarity.
“I saved your woman.” He casually flits his gaze to Jane. “ Ah , don’t get angry. I don’t seduce the women of friends.”
The fucking womanizer; his difficult personality seems to make women pine for him all the more, even down to his harem back home.
What the man does in his own time has no effect on me, but when he refers to what is mine, I can’t help but feel defensive. I do my bestto focus on not giving away my emotions toward Jane—a much harder feat given Basilisk is as capable as I am to know the truth . Some rumors even say he has a rotating harem wherever he lives, tucked deep within his private life.
“Don’t make this personal, Rasmus,” I warn, the use of his real name bringing out the callous side reserved for the rest of the world.
“Don’t fucking call me that, and it won’t be personal,” he retorts, his desire to stab me quite intense.
I smirk under the mask. “Then you trail at the end, and I’ll lead.”
“If you say so, Zenith .”
That man used to be immeasurably difficult to talk to, let alone be personal with. Yet once he allows someone in, he’s a different human being. I just don’t know which one we have following us, even if his energy feels like it’s here to help.
“We’ll speak later,” Basilisk remarks.
That’s enough for now.
It’s difficult to switch between people, but there are many relying on me and my decisions. Jane . The priority is always her. Approaching Jane is like nearing the failure I fear, my magic honed so much onto her that I can feel the miserable memories of losing her mother as it stirs up my emotions of losing Serena. Her father almost dying, in the same manner, has not just reopened a wound; it nearly crippled her.
I hate not being able to keep her safe from the world, even from heartache. “Let’s go, love. Are you too tired on your feet?”
She straightens up, the pet name softening her anxiety. “No, no. I can walk.”
I waste no more time, ushering everyone forward with Anya guiding me, Ritter changing his face once again to another man instead of Ern, although it’s not as extreme of a transformation. His hair darkens into raven locks, his eyes glinting with a brighter hue, and mostly, his nose and jaw alter their shape.
“We need to move, and make it fast,” I say, the pace of everyone increasing to a rhythm that hovers between walking and jogging.
A familiar metallic, salty taste fills the air, the dampness of the nearby ocean reassuring us that we’re at the edge of this merchant village, even if we can’t see the docks.
Michael aids Ritter as we move while Jane reaches into her small pouch to give her father a blood tonic. Michael seems to be fucking thrilled to aid an old legend, like this is one last step he needs to be fulfilled in life. Ritter drinks the tonic as we move. “I’m good,” he says to Michael.
Michael replies, “If you say so. We need to be swift now that a Zenith was killed.”
Jane’s hazel eyes widen with sudden realization as we move further to the rocky walls of the cliffs, and she dashes a glance back my way then at Michael, avoiding stepping on an apple that falls off a cart. “Well, the bastard shouldn’t have stabbed my dad.”
Jane can’t see or feel it, but something in that statement is almost healing for Ritter.
A woman steps forward through the chaos of the market, wearing a worn woolen coat, yelling at passersby about her shells of a spotted snail and how she has tonics made from its venom.
My eyes trail to the back of Jane’s head, who watches the crowd alertly. Once, I would have thought the precaution unnecessary—not with how her safety seems to matter more to my magic than my own life. But now I know that it’s nearly impossible to spot the blank spaces in a giant crowd unless I’m searching for them.
Anyone could be an issue, and I don’t have time to decipher who .
We just need to get to the harbor.
Jane continues to glance at her father as we move, eyeing his shoulder like she’s worried she didn’t do enough. Well, I guess I have to protect the old fucker, too, for Jane’s sake.
He can’t die on my watch, not until this is all in the past and Jane’s heart is healed from everything that’s happened to her. Not until I’m so entrenched in her soul that my presence will always soothe her.
A black banner with the pirating skull is visible once we round a street corner, hanging above a wooden walkway. Skulls dipped in gold hang on the side of the pillars, along with ropes and netting.
I fucking hate pirates, so goddamn unreliable and backstabbing in nature. Like the cunt who raped my mother to make me.
Thank the gods, he was a pirate of another coast, so I don’t have to come across the flag he sailed under because I can’t miss a step right now. The scent of saltwater is so strong that it overrides my annoyances—getting away from here also means getting away from the pirates in this bay; I’d rather be among a crew I know. And that water is our best chance of freedom, even if it comes with the assaulting smell of fish.
Right before we pass underneath the banner, we’re upon an exotic trader of cloaks—silks, fine wool, and embroidered cotton. I grab a thick wool cloak as if it’s free. “Jane,” I say. She slows to look back at me, and I hand it to her. “To keep warm and cover your hair.”
Relief floods her more than her eyes reveal, and she’s quick to throw it over her shoulders. I can even hear someone yelling about their cloak behind me, but unless they’re willing to fight me, it’s as good as gone. When the path hikes up, and we crest at the top…
The ocean’s horizon is clear in view.
We’re at the very top of a monstrous wooden construction that reminds me of a god having to make a city out of broken piers and ships, one who has no concept of how even surfaces work. Down below the weather-beaten cliffs, after what will be a difficult descent to navigate, is an inlet of sails and ships, and we must be fifty stories above seawater.
Magic pulses faintly through its bones, as if daring gravity to intervene, buildings overhanging each other.
I can see a crevice that splits the cliffs. That will lead to the entrance for the docks—it’s a shadowy gorge with rope bridges crisscrossing the chasm, the Underdeck. “Let me lead from here,” I command the few in front of me. “Jane, stay very close behind me.”
I move in front of her, because these peers can arguably be more dangerous than the city, like roaming alone on Carver’s or the Undercroft.
Tempest’s ship sits out at sea, near the harbor, clear even from here—the infamous Sea Wolf. To many who frequent these piers, that ship is a status symbol of the most elite pirates, a life’s goal to sail among it. I can imagine the details of the wolf’s head at the front of the hull, the paint worn from all the trips. It’s one of the only ships that can handle the Black Sea without losing a single sail, let alone escaping with a crew that survives.
If it’s at sea, then we have to catch one of the longboats that will take us to her, and then we can get the fuck out of here.
Descending swiftly is risky at best, everything fucking uneven or worn and slick. The planks creak underfoot like they’ll splinter at any moment. More than once, I turn around for Jane, offering my hand for stability so we don’t slow the momentum. She’s the only one here who hasn’t been to these ports, and navigating the rickety platforms requires experience.
Our hurried steps take us past a large structure that looks like the rest of it merges deep into the cliffside, the energy changing as we’re forced to weave through a cluster of nosy pirates—cotton shirts hang loose over tattooed bodies, cutlasses glinting at their hips. The already narrow walkways are hemmed by multi-tiered shanties stacked haphazardly on top of each other, and these assholes are blocking the only clear way forward, one of them with a wooden pegleg.
They don’t hide their curiosity, or their disdain.
“You seem to be—” one of them starts, his voice dripping with mockery.
I simultaneously unsheathe both my swords, not slowing down. When my gaze connects with the man, his confidence crumbles like wet sand, his posture wilting as he steps to the side, and the others follow in discontent.
“ He’s covered in blood, don’t be a fuckwit ,” one says to another.
A greasy pirate looks at Jane, or at least, I can tell one of them is eyeing someone behind me with more interest than I care to feel. As soon as I give him my full attention, swords still in hand, he throws his hands up to show they’re empty and swiftly backs away, averting his gaze down.
That’s fucking right.
This pattern repeats as we move through to the misty Underdeck, especially passing one of the lodges that’s filled with hammocks, even out on the deck; the place is layered with marauders and outlaws. Some are more finely dressed in a cocky display of confidence that no one will try to steal the clothes off their back. Even the brothel is questionable, like the lot is about to seduce their way into our pockets, the perfume that saturates their building as potent as the scales in a fish market.
We’re getting closer.
The journey feels endless, every step carrying what feels like a hundred prying eyes. We finally make it to one of the lowest levels. Adjacent to our pathway is a small, oceanic river in one of the crevices of the stony cliffs. The towering harbor now is completely above us, their surfaces dotted with glowing lanterns and windows. Rounding a corner, I glance up to see a sign hanging on rusty hinges, denoting a market for fishing hooks.
Shit.
A nasty collective of pirates has made a home right around this bend, their residence established over a bridge; their longboats are anchored in the narrow waters right next to us, so they’re definitely home. They frequently perch their asses on a deck— there they are.
They adorn featureless, black masks that are slightly in the shape of an animal skull with subtle ridges, their fingers all stained black in an uneven fade to their wrists as if dipped into the shadows. Their bare arms are layered with intentional, small scars revealing a pattern of how many they’ve killed in an open ledger of death.
Blades of Zanos.
Aside from being hired swords, they’re one of the very few who can cross the Black Sea, and also have knowledge of the harbors and ports. It’s a complete mystery how they acquired their vessel, which defies the odds, as not even Tempest knows.
They’re ruthless cutthroats who like to demand tolls down here. When I look up at four of them, not one of them seems interested in us—thankfully—except maybe morbidly curious about what we’re doing and why we’re all covered in sweat and blood.
I swear those fuckers all have to be classified as insane before earning their mask.
I’m so fucking ready to be out of here.
When we walk under a two-story footbridge with pirating flags hanging down them, cold chills of relief wash over me. Ahead, the official harbor stretches into view; we pass by ships pulled completely out of the water as barnacles are scraped off the bottom like beasts being flayed alive. The floors creak underneath our feet, worn by relentless waves, sea water sprays, and boots.
We’re so damn close.
At least forty vessels are anchored in port or pulled out for cleaning. There are only two flights of stairs we need to descend to be on the piers themselves?—
I’m overwhelmed with the sensation of something so incredibly foul behind us, but I ignore it to scan for any of the longboats that have the wolf’s head at the hull, but I don’t see one. My heart races faster, everything telling me below , but looking down only reveals the wood.
The foul sensation slithers up my spine, the undeniable rot nearly identical to the corner I felt back in Blackwell’s room.
No.
He’s here.