Chapter 8 Maximus #3
He’d slipped up to see me every night for the last three nights, each time with his own completely fabricated excuse.
We’d often sit in companionable silence for a spell, watching the stars.
Then he’d start a conversation, usually about the crew, or the ship, or our route.
He never pried me with personal questions, and I returned that favor.
However, as time went on, he was becoming increasingly relaxed with me, sharing more and more stories of his home, often centered around his nephew, Cody.
His tone took on a different cadence when he spoke about that child—any lingering edge melted away. I could tell he missed him dearly.
Oh, to have someone to miss. The thought was bitter, and I caught myself. I’d vowed to stop being so utterly pathetic after my little pity party the other day.
The rest of my day dragged like an anchor through open sky. I hauled the dead fluxstones to storage, swapping them for fresh ones from our dwindling supply. Sage’s face lit up when I delivered the replacements, though his smile faded as he counted them.
Another scuffle broke out between Greybeard and Patty—this time over a missing bottle of expensive brandy Greybeard had been saving for his birthday.
I separated them before fists could fly, confiscating the half-empty bottle from under Patty’s bunk, and ordered her to clean the bathrooms for a week.
My visit to the infirmary brought better news. Stitches had already tended to Willy’s wounds, though her lips pressed into a thin line when she mentioned how deep some of the cuts were. The boy would heal, but the scars would remain.
“Butcher enjoyed himself too much,” she’d muttered, sorting through her supplies.
I checked the position of the sun for the hundredth time that day. The crow’s nest waited, empty against the darkening sky. My hip ached from the day’s walking, but I couldn’t focus on the pain. Not when night finally approached.
When stars pierced the purple twilight, Toothless Jimmy climbed down from the nest, so I made my way across the deck to take his place. I pretended not to notice Ghost leaning against the quarterdeck railing. He polished the same spot over and over, his attention fixed anywhere but on me.
The ladder creaked under my weight as I climbed.
My prosthetic caught between rungs twice, and I had to pause to adjust it.
Heat crept up my neck—I could feel Ghost’s gaze following my awkward ascent.
But I refused to look back, refused to acknowledge how my hands trembled slightly on the wooden rungs.
Just a few more steps. The night air beckoned, promising solitude and sky and perhaps… something more.
The stars wheeled overhead as I settled into my usual spot, back against the mast. A perfect night for spotting approaching ships—clear skies, quarter moon, just enough light to see by without being seen.
I pulled out my telescopic, scanning the horizon. Nothing but endless stretches of dark clouds below.
The first hour crawled by. Every creak of rope, every whisper of wind had me glancing toward the ladder. But the crow’s nest remained empty except for me. Ghost had disappeared somewhere—and my telescopic kept scanning the empty decks as if I could conjure him by willpower.
By the third hour, my mood had soured considerably. What did I expect? That he’d come running up here every single night just because I’d taken over watch duty to spend time with him? The thought made me cringe at my own foolishness.
I’d faced down sand krakens and rival pirates without flinching. Led boarding parties into battle. Survived a military tribunal and certain death. Yet here I sat, like some lovesick cabin boy, desperate for a glimpse of pale skin and ginger hair.
Pathetic.
I forced my attention back to the horizon, gritting my teeth. The vast emptiness of the night sky usually brought peace, but tonight it only emphasized my loneliness. The distant stars seemed to mock my disappointment.
A soft scrape against the mainmast stopped my breath.
The mainmast rigging swayed, accompanied by quiet pants. My heart thundered against my ribs as those familiar footsteps drew closer. I kept my gaze fixed firmly ahead, though every nerve in my body focused on the sound of his approach.
Ghost’s head appeared over the edge, his cheeks flushed from the climb. A few strands of ginger hair curled damply against his neck. He gently placed a small knapsack on the wood, then hauled himself over the edge with surprising grace.
I maintained my position, pretending to study the endless horizon through my spyglass. My pulse refused to steady.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said breathlessly.
I managed to keep my voice level to reply, “I didn’t realize we had an appointment.”
Ghost settled cross-legged beside me, close enough that his knee brushed mine.
“I was rushing to get here, but then Puffy and Mad Murray downright insisted I play a card game with them. You know, the one where you have to match the suits but also keep track of which cards are cursed? Murray swears he invented it, but Puffy says his grandmother taught him.”
I raised an eyebrow, still pretending to focus on the horizon.
“And then I stopped by the galley, because you didn’t come fetch your evening meal again. It’s sky-high stew.” He pulled his knapsack closer. “Sage let me bring it to you, thank the goddesses. Last time he said he doesn’t let anyone take other people’s portions, but I guess he trusts me now?”
The words tumbled out of him so fast I couldn’t form a response. He opened the knapsack, and the rich aroma of Sage’s signature dish hit me like a physical force—rich, meaty, with hints of herb.
“I’ve been too busy to eat,” I managed, but my treacherous stomach chose that exact moment to growl loudly.
Ghost threw his head back and laughed, pure joy lighting up his features.
The moonlight caught his face at just the right angle, turning his freckles into a personal constellation scattered across his pale skin.
They trailed down his neck, disappearing beneath his loose shirt collar.
I found myself wondering if those freckles continued across his—
“Reaper?”
The name jolted me from my thoughts like a bucket of ice water. Something twisted in my gut, bitter and sharp. I’d grown to hate that name, especially coming from his lips. It felt wrong, like a wall between us, reminding me of everything I had to be, everything I couldn’t do.
“Are you alright? You need to eat.”
Ghost pressed the wooden bowl into my hands, a wooden spoon following. The aroma hit me again. My stomach twisted with hunger, and I gave in, shoveling the stew into my mouth.
The flavors exploded across my tongue. You could always trust Sage to turn whatever scraps we had into something incredible. I devoured half the bowl before coming up for air.
“You can’t go around asking what my favorite food is, you know,” I said, thinking back to my conversation with Sage. “People might get ideas.”
Ghost grinned, batting those light eyelashes at me with exaggerated innocence. “Oh? How so?”
I groaned, scraping the bottom of the bowl. “Don’t make me regret not making you kraken bait.”
“And what are you going to do if I don’t stop?” His voice took on a teasing lilt. “Smash my head into the mast again?”
The spoon froze halfway to my mouth. My appetite vanished as if I’d swallowed lead. The memory of his head hitting the wood, the way his face had crumpled—
“Ah, dragon balls! I’m sorry.” Ghost’s voice softened. “It was meant to be a joke. But it wasn’t very funny.”
I couldn’t respond. Couldn’t look at him.
“You know,” Ghost ventured after a moment, “the others tell the wildest tales about you. About the Reaper.”
My jaw ticked. I could only imagine the tales he’d heard, because like all urban legends, the stories changed with the winds, growing more outlandish with each passing year.
My personal favorite involved me supposedly wrestling a kraken bare-handed during a thunderstorm. According to that particular yarn, I’d strangled it with its own tentacles.
The newest crew members whispered that I collected the souls of those who crossed me, storing them in glass jars beneath my bunk. A few even believed the tale about me fighting off a hydra with nothing but a kitchen knife.
Then there were the darker rumors. That I’d betrayed my own crew for gold.
That I’d sacrificed innocents to gain unholy powers.
That my mechanical leg housed the trapped spirit of a demon, giving me supernatural strength at the cost of my humanity.
Others swore I’d made a deal with death itself, trading my leg for immortality.
The truth was far more mundane and far more painful. But I preferred the legends. They kept the crew in line without me having to actually hurt anyone. Most days.
Ghost shifted beside me, and I wondered which version of Reaper he saw when he looked at me.
“But I don’t believe them,” he said, so quietly I almost didn’t catch it. “I don’t believe any of it.”
I turned to face him fully, our eyes meeting in the starlit darkness. His green eyes held mine, unflinching, searching. The moment stretched between us like a taut rope, neither willing to look away first.
“Then what do you believe?” The words came out rougher than intended.
Ghost’s lips curved into a sad smile. “That you want to be here as much as I do. That’s to say, not at all.”
The words hit like unexpected turbulence. I jerked back, a small part of me saddened that he hated it here so much. Though that should’ve been obvious.
“You’re not entirely correct,” I told him.
“What?”
“The sky…” I gestured at the vast expanse around us, at the endless sea of stars above and the dark ocean of clouds below. “This is everything I ever wanted. Since I was a child, I’d climb the tallest trees just to feel closer to it. Used to drive my mother mad with worry.”