Chapter 2
Chapter Two
WENDY
SEVEN DAYS LATER, THE SWORDFISH ISLE
I thanked god every day that hair pins existed. Placing the last one in my strict up-do, I stood back to admire my efforts in the clouded little mirror. The cramped bedroom in the creaking inn at the small, sad port of Swordfish Isle didn’t offer much in the way of amenities. A bed riddled with lice (I slept on the floor), a window with no curtains and a spider web of cracks where someone’s fragile masculinity had driven them to punch it, and a three-legged table propped delicately against the wooden wall, topped with a single mirror. Oh, and a pot to piss in.
But on the plus side: hair pins. I didn’t have to cut off my hair and watch it fall, tragically, to the floor of the small inn bedroom. And at least it had been easy to find passage to this island from my home on the Silver Isle. Mama hadn’t been too pleased that I’d been running off with a gunshot wound in my shoulder, but I was as patched up as I was getting, and time was running out to save Joanna.
I pulled a black hat over my pinned hair and cast a look over myself in the speckled mirror. My clothes were dark, grimy, and loose enough to disguise the boobage area, and with the hat plus a light smear of dirt on my face, I definitely didn’t look feminine. I didn’t look ultra masculine either, but it would do.
I only needed to look convincing enough to get aboard. After that, the crew’s blood would conceal any feminine curves. A smile pulled at my lips. I was looking forward to it.
I pulled on my long coat and reminded myself of Mama’s words before she put me on the stinky fish trawler that brought me here.
Kill every last one of them and bring back your sister. No one fucks with the Darlings and lives.
We might have been discarded and unwanted by our birth parents, but we were bound as real, true family in Mama’s house. Every one of the children who came through the home was my sibling, and we were raised with fierce, unwavering loyalty. And maybe Mama taught us how to throw a punch and avoid a knife blow. Maybe she taught us how to pick locks, slip a watch from a wrist, and discreetly pilfer goods from a market stall, too, but we were family no matter how unconventional. It came in handy; I’d used all three of those skills today, my new watch ticking quietly on my wrist. I figured I’d sell it once I’d slaughtered Hook’s crew.
“Time to kill a pirate crew,” I said cheerily as I left the room with my knives buckled all over me and a nice new pistol tucked into an inside pocket in my coat. 1 “What?” I asked when a tall, grizzled guy exiting the room opposite gave me a strange look. “Like you don’t have hobbies.”
I rolled my eyes and skipped down the stairs and out the tavern, imagining all the ways I’d slice and dice the behemoth. He was massive; there were lots of places to cut. Working at Tajo’s had given me a skillset I was very proud of, and I planned to put it to good use.
Whistling a jaunty tune, I forced myself to stop skipping, throw my shoulders back, and stride with purpose the way men did, whether their purpose was going to work to provide for their family or going to the pub to drink themselves silly. I thought of how Tajo handled himself and adjusted my body, killing the smile on my face.
I’m grumpy and scowly and I’ll stab anything that gets in my way.
Hey, it worked. As I crossed the tight, cobbled streets of the Swordfish Isle, people took one look at me and got out of my way, avoiding my gaze with ducked heads and feigned interest in the quaint brick shops that lined the street. Hey, this was fun. I knew being a tall girl was going to come in handy one day, even if it made kissing awkward because men had to get on their tiptoes to meet my lips. I’d suggested getting my last fumble a stepping stool. It hadn’t gone over well.
The memory brought a smile to my face, and a woman walking towards me let out an eek of fright and ducked into a toymaker’s shop. My smile spread. It was fun to be feared, even if I did feel a tad guilty about frightening the woman. It wasn’t like I was gonna stab an innocent woman.
Like you stabbed the innocent fisherman, the little voice in my mind piped up. A tiny twinge formed behind my ribcage but I stamped it out. I was in a mood; he got in my way. It was his fault, really.
I shook the thoughts away, fixing my attention on the leaning, crooked building at the end of the street, warped windows looking out across the small port. Beams gave it a distinguished look, the windows showing its age, and if not for the company it would have been quite charming. As it was, pirates, smugglers, murderers, and thieves swarmed in and out of the pub.
I preferred to be the most dangerous person in any room, and as much as I loathed to admit it, walking in this place would mean rubbing elbows with people who could overpower me. That little annoyance twisted my mouth as I approached the open door of the Mad Queen and shouldered past a beefy, red-bearded man who gave me a snooty look down his nose.
Inside, the scent of stale, acrid beer hit me like a solid brick wall, and it took literal effort to stop my nose wrinkling. This is normal, I’m completely used to places that smell like a brewery left to wrack, rot, and ruin. This is a home away from home for me, definitely not making my eyes water. The fragrance of aged sweat and unwashed bodies didn’t help, and neither did the odour of salt, sea, and fish or the humid heat that surrounded me as I squeezed my way through the crush of drunk, rowdy men.
I knew exactly who I was looking for, so it wasn’t hard to find the man with sallow light-brown skin, a maudlin expression, long straight black hair, and round glasses perched on his nose. He wore a grey version of the outfit everyone else adopted—ragged trousers, sturdy coat, and some version of a hat. Proving he was tasteless and dull, he’d foregone the hat.
I was still thinking about that black hat with the blood-red feather the bastard who shot me wore. I planned to take it from his cooling body. But to make that happen, I had to remove this lanky, morose-faced man from the equation. If I wasn’t masquerading as a man, I’d probably seduce him, but there was always option B.
It should only take a few minutes.
I muscled my way into a spot at the bar and bought a pint I would literally rather die than drink. Give me a glass of red wine and I was as happy as a pig in shit, but I would have struggled to part with wine and this beer was a sacrifice.
Don’t smile, I reminded myself, pint in hand as I squeezed through a crush of smugglers talking about golden nuggets. 2 Passage onto the Banshee coming in three… two… one…
I bumped into Mr. Maudlin’s shoulder, pouring the entirety of my drink over his head. Honestly, good riddance. The stuff stank. So did the pirate I dumped my drink on, so he probably wouldn’t notice the stench. But he certainly noticed the liquid that deluged his hair, sticking it to the severe lines of his face. His glasses got all fogged up until he couldn’t see; I stifled a snort when he ripped them off his face to properly glare at me.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he demanded, his voice surprisingly loud for someone so dull-looking.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I retorted, deepening my voice. “You got in my way. If you don’t want to wear beer, don’t stick your fucking elbows out.”
Why was it so hard to keep a straight face when I was trying so hard to be stern and serious? I wanted to giggle and grin my head off at the sight of the man. His hair was flat to his skull, pasted to the lines of his face, and glaring up at me, he looked ridiculous. Like a poodle that got swallowed by a puddle and vowed to murder rainclouds for the insult.
He shot to his feet in a rush, his eyebrows slamming over his eyes when I didn’t apologise. Droplets of beer flicked from him onto the arms of my coat, and I scowled. He’d got it all beer-y and gross.
“Apologise,” he demanded, a gravel to his voice that I might have found sexy in other circumstances. 3
I snorted, not having to fake that bit of bravado. “Apologise for you sticking out your bony elbows? I don’t think so.”
He grabbed the lapels of my jacket, wrenching me forward. Yes! Playtime!
I drove my fist into his stomach hard enough that the wound on my shoulder erupted to life. Yeah, shit, I was shot.
When the Banshee crewman shouted a very colourful, impressive insult, falling into his chair so hard it screeched across the sticky floor, a circle of space opened around us, the chatter and drone of twenty different conversations honed into a singular focus. Oh, goody, I did enjoy an audience.
“Knock his glasses off,” a loud, rough voice encouraged.
“Thank you very much, will do,” I replied, throwing a fist—on my good side—at Mr. Maudlin’s face, my knuckles hitting metal with enough force that the thin frame arms bent. Ha!
I felt less smug when a surprisingly powerful punch hit my stomach, knocking all my air out in a hard oof that sent me stumbling back into the circle of space.
“Break his ribs!”
Aw, shit, the guy meant my ribs?
“No, thank you,” I panted, sidestepping a clumsy hit from my wet-haired opponent. “I like my ribs unbroken.”
Mr. Maudlin bared his teeth. Or grinned. It was hard to tell; he was mostly hair at this point. I should have realised the grin was a warning before he grabbed my jacket and slammed me over a tacky table, a hard wooden edge digging into my back.
I winced, but couldn’t resist quipping, “Kinky.”
Ooh, that proved effective. Mr. Maudlin let go of me like I’d burned him, his nose wrinkled in a sneer. Terrified of homosexuality. I could work with that.
“You’re not afraid of a little dick, are you?” I laughed, grabbing a pretend package in my pants. “Aw, don’t back off, we were having such a good fight.”
Some in the crowd guffawed like I was hilarious, which thank you, yes I was. Others sneered. Losers.
When my bar fight buddy began to push through the crowd, I laughed under my breath. “Running away so soon? Afraid I’ll break your face?”
He paused. I grinned. Perfect.
He turned slowly, squinting at me—maybe because I knocked his glasses off his face, it was hard to tell. The look on his face spelled danger and made my heartbeat quicken. He lunged towards me, and I raised my fists, ready to throw one into his throat—but before we could collide in a volley of blows, a meaty hand grabbed each of us and lifted us clean off the floor.
“Woah,” I breathed. “Impressive.”
The squashed face of the man who held us didn’t crack into a smile, not even a twinkle passing through his eyes.
“We have one rule. One single rule. No breaking furniture.”
“Oops,” I whispered, casting a look at the chair we’d knocked two legs clean off.
Before I could fight my case—and really why was I arguing when this played into my plans?—the barkeep or guard or whatever he was 4 wrenched me and Mr. Maudlin across the crowded room of the pub, the crowd parting as he aimed for the door.
“Tell me you’re not going to literally throw us out,” I asked.
He didn’t reply, just shouldered through the door, scattered the people gathering on the front step and—yep, threw both of us onto the cobbles.
I landed hard enough to bruise my hip, ditch water soaking into my trousers and coat.
“Curse your mother’s saggy tits!” I yelled as the hulking man disappeared back into his pub. “Fuck, that hurt.”
“Oh, shut up complaining,” Mr. Maudlin muttered, his voice deep with undeniable pain. Cool, that’d make it easier to take him out. He got awkwardly to his feet and I pushed to my own, gritting my teeth against an ache in my hip. I’d be fine. I could hobble aboard the Banshee, no problem.
“I’ll shut you up in a minute,” I threatened, heading into a dark, quiet alleyway. I glanced around. Shady, abandoned, perfect. “With my enormous knob down your throat,” I threw over my shoulder, snickering at the scuff of boots on cobbles.
Here we go. Impact in three… two…
“Shit,” I grunted, miscalculating, my boobs wailing in pain as he slammed me into the rough face of a wall. “Now we’re really getting kinky,” I laughed, feeling under my coat and closing my fingers around a knife Mama gifted me for my twenty-first birthday. It had a starfish on the handle, glimmering with jewels, and was undoubtedly stolen.
“Fucking fag,” the guy spat, shoving me further into the wall.
“That,” I said, turning slowly, my knife at my side, “is a very unpleasant word. My brother, Michael’s gay. He’s a bruiser, fights for a living. He’d mash you to a pulp,” I informed him with a smile, whipping my knife up and driving it under his coat and through his shirt into his ribs. I ignored the ache in my side to lean my weight into the blade until it punched through cotton and skin into muscle.
“I was going to say it’s nothing personal, I just need your spot aboard the Banshee, but after that shitty remark, I’m afraid it is personal.”
Mr. Maudlin grunted, trying to un-skewer himself from my blade, but I twisted it deeper, drawing a roar from him that echoed off the tight alleyway and served as a warning to everyone nearby. My wounded shoulder blazed with heat and pain, but I gritted my teeth and held onto Mr. Maudlin until blood loss made him weak.
I followed him to the ground, gratified to still see clarity in his eyes.
“Now, since it’s personal,” I said, cleaning my knife on his clothes and tucking it away, getting out an oyster shucking knife, “this next part is going to hurt.”
I let all my crazy out until my face split in a manic smile. “Buckle up, buttercup. I’m gonna make you sing.” 5