Chapter 3
Hook
Three months later
Solid ground always made him unsteady. It wasn’t right—something so hard, firm, and unmoving. Hook frowned down at the dirt marring his leather boots. The things he did for his men. He’d take the sea any day—wind in his hair, sun on his back.
He glanced back at his ship moored in the harbor.
A wry grin painted his features. The Jolly Roger’s masts towered above the other ships in port, a commanding presence that no one would miss.
Sunlight splashed across the sail, lighting the skull and crossbones painted there.
At least the weather was fair—it always was in Tortuga.
Old witch magic, the locals said. Spells worked into the soil to ensure safe haven for pirate, merchant, and fisherman alike. Little wonder the land felt wrong.
He shook his head as he pushed open the door to the Rusty Anchor, Tortuga’s most notorious bar and brothel.
He’d promised his crew one night on shore before returning to sea.
With casks of ale and food on their way to the ship, he could finally join them.
But Hook had a different aim than drink or pleasure.
Ale and rum loosened the tongue, and a loose tongue was a pirate’s friend.
Slip a few coins into pockets, and well, he’d have a new treasure in his sights by nightfall.
Or a way to break the bloody curse on him. For that, he’d give every scrap of treasure on his ship and then some.
Laughter and pipe smoke billowed out from within.
A cave would have been brighter than this shithole.
It had nothing on the colorful rays of sunset sparkling off the sea at his back.
Sweaty scoundrels and buxom barmaids filled the crowded room.
A few of his crew already lounged among the patrons, wasting their hard-earned coin on piss-poor ale little better than water.
He tipped his brimmed hat as he wove through splintered furniture and sweating bodies. He gave one barmaid a grin, another a wink.
Smee sat at a table near the bar, his sandy head leaned over the back of the chair.
At first glance, he looked asleep, peaceful as a babe.
Another step showed the rest of the scene.
A bouncing brunette straddled his lap, skirts bunched around her waist. Smee’s groan carried through the room.
His arms tightened around the woman’s waist, urging her on.
She squealed in delight, biting her painted bottom lip.
No one looked. No one cared about the woman’s conquest of his first mate.
“Captain,” a barmaid crooned. “Care for some company?” Her come-hither look promised an adventure despite another man’s arms around her. The sweaty sailor was so lost in his cups he didn’t notice his catch’s wandering eye.
“Not tonight, love.” The phantom memory of his hand twitched where his namesake hook now resided.
It’d been too long since he had a woman.
Too long since that wench Tinker Bell drugged him with her kiss and stole his treasure.
Worse, she’d cursed him twofold. One look at another woman, and all he saw was her.
The dimpled cheek. Pink lips. Tousled, blonde hair.
Eyes as clear blue as a shallow reef. His cock betrayed him, stiffening as her face taunted him from his memories.
The bar beckoned, tearing him away even as the woman called out to him again. She’d been right in front of him, but all he saw was Tink.
Worse than ruining him for women, she’d turned the sea against him.
Nothing else could explain why the summer storms tore his sails and blew them off course while leaving their rivals untouched.
Hook slammed the point of his hook into the wood of the bar.
He was better than that, damn it. Blessed by the god of the seas, born of his potent seed from the waves themselves.
He liked that rumor best. Far better than the truth.
“Rough seas, eh, Captain?” the barkeep asked, barely sparing a glance at the new divot.
Hook grimaced. That wasn’t the half of it. “A mug of your best.” He fished in his coin purse until he found the piece he sought and slammed it upon the wood. Gold shimmered in the dim light. He had a reputation to maintain after all.
Curious glances roved over him from around the room. He stared down each in turn, a smile for friends, a hard look for strangers. Each face he memorized as he waited for his ale. No one approached. Yet.
The barkeep returned, his countenance bright—the coin’s work, no doubt. Foam clung to the rim of the generously filled mug. Hook downed a swig as Smee’s woman climbed off his lap, giving the bar a show of his satisfied manhood. Thin, sour liquid washed over Hook’s tongue.
“Horse piss!” Ale sloshed onto his hand as he slammed the mug down.
“That ’er is fine stuff.” The man gestured to the spilled liquid pooling on the counter.
Hook leaned onto the bar. “Not worth half what I paid you, mate.”
The barkeep leaned in, only the twitch of his pinkie giving away his fear. Everyone had a tell. The bulky man might heft a barrel farther than him, but Hook would wager his skill with the saber any day. “Best I got, Captain. Swear it.”
Hook’s metal hand scraped another gouge in the bar. “You don’t keep special stock?” He turned the point of his hook up, letting it catch the dim gleam of the oil lamp. “For…discerning customers?”
The burly man’s throat bobbed as he loosened his shirt at the neck. “Did, b-but Captain Blackbeard, er, made a-a special request. Might be here any day…”
Hook nearly shook with anger as he pushed back from the bar.
Captain Blackbeard. That bloody bastard.
He’d had the edge on him since he lost the Heart of Fire, and now he’d even taken his drink.
That old croc had it coming. Hook had worked too hard to become the youngest pirate captain of the Cerulean Sea in history. Prince of the Waves, they called him.
And the things Blackbeard had done to him… His hand tightened into a fist. But he was coming here soon? That was interesting. And unfortunate.
“Er, Captain,” the barkeep said. “I do have sometin’ else may interest you.”
A deep breath dimmed the fiery coal of revenge lodged in his heart. Information. Right. That’s why he came. Hook’s brows rose as he leaned in. “Captain Blackbeard’s date of arrival?”
Maybe he could catch him unawares, finally pay him back for some of the misery he’d caused.
“No. Soon, but I…” The man’s gaze darted.
A disappointed sigh slipped from his lips. “A new schedule for the merchant ships?”
That could be handy, especially if any were bringing more of that fine silk from the southern isles. He’d gotten a hefty sum for the last chest he acquired.
“No…”
Another disappointment. Hook stroked the dark stubble along his chin. “You try my patience. Return my coin and those of my men, and maybe we’ll forget this little incident.”
The man’s eyes widened. “Wait, ya want this.” He drew out a leather bag, laughably small in his worn hands. “Promise. Just a smidge and all your worries disappear.” He leaned in across the bar and whispered. “Pixie dust.”
“Pixie dust!” Hook’s bellow cut through the room. Men and women froze. Conversation ceased as all eyes snapped to him. Smee unsheathed the dagger at his side, scanning the room for danger.
A groan caught in his throat. “Can’t a man shout, you scallywags?” Hook gestured with his hand. “Back to it, you barnacles. Drinks on the house.” He lifted his mug and took a long swallow.
Cheers rose. Mugs clinked as sailors followed his lead. Hook wiped his mouth on his sleeve and slammed the mug down again, trying to banish the taste from his mouth. People resumed their play as if he’d never spoken.
Bloody, vile substance, pixie dust. One pinch in a drink, and a man could lose hours in a world of his imaginings. A spoonful? The whole day. There was only one pixie he’d heard of in recent months who stooped so low as to sell her dust to humans—the same one who ruled his head. Tinker Bell.
Hook shoveled a handful of coins onto the bar. “Now, barkeep, tell me everything you know about this pixie dust.”
*****
Hook fumed out of the Rusty Anchor into the dimming twilight, Smee close on his heels. “She’s here.”
“She?” His first mate tucked his shirt into his pants.
The look Hook cast him over one shoulder was flatter than the calm sea.
“Oh, she!” He adjusted his belt before smoothing out his hair. “Of course, how could I forget.”
Hook rolled his eyes. They’d been friends since childhood, and Smee was loyal as a hound, but sometimes he had more brains in his cock than his head. “Said he bought the pixie dust a few days ago.” His fist tightened. “Got it from a blonde woman in town.”
Smee rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, but that doesn’t mean he got it from her.”
The captain skidded to a stop, hook raised.
His mouth opened and closed. Blast it, Smee had a point.
Tinker Bell had become notorious in recent months—the only known source of pixie dust on the Cerulean Seas.
At the moment, anyway. But tracking her down?
That was the rub. He’d yet to get such a promising lead.
No matter how much gold he offered, they couldn’t say much about her, or they’d bought the stuff weeks ago. She must have a fortune tucked away.
“Still.” His long, black coat flapped behind him as he took off toward his destination. “We’ll check each tavern. If she’s here, someone will know something.”
The next den of inebriates loomed on the cliffs ahead.
A rope bridge hung in the air over the beach, stretching out to the Crow’s Roost. Drunkard’s Doom, they called it.
More than one man had taken an ill-fated spill.
A massive, ancient tree clung to the cliffside at an impossible slant, its branches reaching toward the distant horizon where sea met sky.
The bar, two stories high, wrapped around its trunk and lower branches.
“There’s something else,” Hook said as they neared. “Blackbeard is due in port soon. Reserved stock with the bartender—all the good stock.” Of course he did, the bloody crocodile.
Smee stumbled a step. “Blackbeard?” His voice rose an octave as he glanced toward the Jolly Roger moored at the docks. “Should we make for open seas?”
Should they? That was the question. Tortuga was neutral ground. Even the old croc respected that, but they might catch him before he arrived. Hook rolled his shoulders. “Not yet.” First, he’d get that thieving pixie and deal with the curse she’d put on him.
Lively conversation mixed with crashing waves and gull cries as Hook and Smee made their way along the bridge. The slight sway and creak of wood didn’t faze the two men who lived upon the waves.
“Nice tune,” Smee said as they stepped from the bridge onto the landing porch.
Conversation and laughter warred for dominance over the music spilling from cracks and high windows. A mandolin, perhaps. He rubbed the stubble on his jaw with his hook. Well played. Too bad he didn’t have time to enjoy it.
The Crow’s Roost boasted a lively crowd.
With the storms abated the last few days, merchants and sailors were about their trades again.
Coin for them meant more for his crew. Often the local merchants paid him for protection on their route, or assurances their ships wouldn’t be raided by him and his men.
Their prosperity brought a natural grin to his face.
If not for Captain Blackbeard poaching ships in his waters or whatever blasted pixie curse Tink had placed on him, life would be easy.
“Look what the tide dragged in!” A slim brunette pushed men out of the way as she neared them.
Not them. No, her smile wasn’t for Hook.
“Brielle!” Smee shone like the sun. He spread his strong arms wide as Brielle stopped, giving him a once-over.
“I wondered when you’d step back into my bar.” She winked.
Smee drew her into a hug before lifting her off her feet and twirling her around as she squealed in delight.
Brielle nodded to Hook as she regained her footing. “Captain.”
He tipped his hat to her. Times like these, he was glad Smee had a woman—or three—in every port. Brielle didn’t own the bar, but she might as well have. The owners were childless and treated her like their own. If Tink had been around Tortuga selling her bloody dust, she would know about it.
Even so…Hook wrapped his arm around Smee, giving him a hard pat. “Don’t forget why we’re here.”
It wouldn’t take both of them to find out what Brielle knew. Smee would likely fare better without Hook anyway. Somehow, she preferred his jovial first mate. Her loss.
Hook grinned as he spotted the crew of the Skipper near the short stage. They still owed him this season’s payment, and from the number of drinks on the table and girls in their laps, they could afford to pay.
“Gentlemen.” Hook’s booming voice carried over the table.
Glazed, widened eyes stared back at him. One man with his boots propped on the edge of the table practically fell out of his chair. Hook swept his hand toward the men in a grand gesture. “And here I thought a sea dragon took you all down to the depths. Why else would you be late on my payment?”
Their captain stood and smoothed greasy hair back from his face. “Well, ya see, sir, we—”
“That’s Captain to you, mate.” He angled the point of his hook toward the man’s face, savoring the small quiver in his lips. “Captain Hook.”
The mandolin stopped abruptly, but Hook ignored it as he stared the man down.
“Aye, Captain Hook, sir,” he stammered. “Didn’t know you ’er in port.”
Cries of frustration rose up behind Hook. Furniture clattered. Someone backed into him. Who would dare? Hook whirled, shoving the offending man toward his companions as he scanned the flustered crowd. The musician had fled the stage.
“Grab that brat!” A man yelled, pointing toward the door. His dirty, wet shirt stuck to his chest, the victim of spilled ale.
A figure hurtled for the door, sliding between patrons or knocking them aside. A hooded cloak hid their form from behind, but they stopped briefly at the door and looked back to the room.
The air charged and prickled like the moment before a lightning strike. Hook’s breath caught in his throat as the rest of the room blurred.
Tink stared back at him. It was her. It had to be. Nothing else explained the wide-eyed stare or the way one look at her strangled him. The moment vanished as she slipped out the door, mandolin in tow.
She’d pay for stealing from him, cursing him.
Hook bolted toward the door.