Chapter 11 Danica
Danica
After Rhyland thoroughly pillaged my village and left me a satisfied, panting mess, we finally scrubbed off layers of salt, grime, and who knows what else in the tub (seriously, I don't even want to think about what kind of funky pirate cooties we might have picked up on that ship.
I finally got to wash my hair. And let me tell you, after my day, that little luxury felt like pure heaven.
The best part? I can still hide my crown with a mere thought, so at least that little parlor trick still works in my favor.
Small victories.
Rhyland finally took care of Azrael's nasty bite by giving me his blood. And, of course, he needed his dose of SPF to keep his strength up.
We didn't have any fancy tools to draw blood for Erik, so we went old school—sliced my hand open and filled a glass the savage way. Rhyland patched me up again, though he hated every second of it.
"You honor me, Little One," Erik said, then glanced at Rhyland. "And you, brother."
Rhyland, as expected, brushed it off with a casual, "Don't mention it."
Once we were all squeaky clean and smelling like something other than the wrong end of a Kraken, we headed to the Buccaneer's Wardrobe to pick out some fresh threads. Because, let's face it, if we're going to be stuck in this realm, we might as well look the part.
Rhyland, Erik, and I spent the whole time going back and forth about Lucian, and we all know deep down in our gut that Azrael is holding him hostage.
That piece of shit is probably banking on us coming back to rescue Lucian so that he can spring some trap and catch us all in one fell swoop.
The joke's on him because we're not going down without a fight.
With some intel about their brotherly bond, Rhyland also put my mind at ease—he'd feel it if Lucian died. It's all tied to their connection through their Maker.
We're going to get Lucian back, come hell or high water. But how are we going to do that? That's the million-dollar question.
It's not like we can just portal back to the Mortal Realm and bust down Azrael's door, especially not with our powers and magic on the fritz thanks to that witch's curse.
Seriously, how long is this going to last?
Does it have an expiration date, or are we just supposed to stumble around like a bunch of normies until we figure out how to lift it?
We finally arrive at the Salty Siren Tavern—Rhyland—all eye candy in his pirate getup. Holy hell, my man cleans up nicely. That crisp white shirt, those high-waisted leather pants, the skull buckle at his waist? I'm pretty sure I started drooling the moment he put this on.
That teasing glimpse of ink peeking out from his shirt's open collar.
.. I mean, holy ship. If we weren't on a quest to interrogate Captain Barbosa's long lost cousin—I mean, Gideon, I'd be seriously considering saying, "Screw it, let's ditch this joint, head back to our pirate pleasure den, and set sail for round two.
As for me, I managed to snag the best outfit they had for a woman that didn't involve a gown and a parasol.
Because let's be honest, I'm not about to go gallivanting around the high seas looking like I'm ready for a fancy tea party on the Titanic.
No. Instead, I scored a pair of brown leather pants that fit like they were painted on (in the best way possible) and a flowy white shirt that's just low-cut enough to be sexy without screaming, "Ahoy, mateys, check out the goods! "
At least the girls aren't on a mission to touch the sky and being hoisted to the max.
Of course, Rhyland couldn't keep his paws to himself, fiddling with the drawstring like a kid with a new toy. I finally had to slap his hands away before he undid all my hard work. A nice leather wrap around my waist to hold my trusty daggers finishes the look.
And Erik? The silver fox can rock the pirate look like nobody's business. He wore the same white shirt and leather pants combo as Rhyland, but with his shoulder-length silver hair and brooding demeanor, he looks like he has just stepped out of a romance novel. A really, really good romance novel.
So here we are, all decked out in our matching pirate getups, sashaying into the Tavern like we're the hottest new crew in town.
And get this—the place is practically a carbon copy of the Playful Pint back home, just with a few more eye patches and peg legs thrown in for that authentic pirate ambiance.
I spot Gideon lurking at a table in the back, and we start strutting over, ready to scheme up our next move and maybe toss back a few pints of grog—rum—whatever swill these pirates are knocking back.
If there's one thing this insane rollercoaster of an adventure has drilled into my head, it's that sometimes you've just gotta say, "screw it," embrace the chaos, and enjoy the wild ride.
Even if said ride involves cursed magic, hostage situations, and more swashbuckling than a pirate impersonator contest at a rum-soaked pirate festival.
"Well, matey's," Gideon drawls, his eyes twinkling with amusement as he takes in our new attire. "Ye clean up nicely, I must say. Lookin' right sharp, the lot of ye."
The captain gives an approving nod, clearly impressed by the transformation. "Now that yer properly outfitted, ye'll blend in better with the crowd here. Fewer suspicious glances thrown yer way, I reckon."
I can't help but let a smirk sneak across my face as I smooth down the front of my leather pants. "What can I say? Impressing people is our thing."
Gideon chuckles and waves us over. "Come on, let's have a round of rum and a game of cards."
We gather around the table, and a voluptuous waitress with a mane of blonde locks sashays over, plunking mugs of rum in front of us. I whiff the amber liquid and nearly choke on the spot.
"Whew," I cough, eyes watering just a bit. "That’s some serious stuff."
Gideon grins, taking a hearty swig from his mug. "Aye, that it is, lass. But it'll put some hair on your chest."
I roll my eyes at his display of bravado but take a cautious sip anyway. The rum sears its way down, setting my belly ablaze and giving me a delightful little buzz.
"So, what's the game?" I ask, raising an eyebrow at the deck of cards in the center of the table.
"Black poker, five cards," Gideon replies, his fingers deftly shuffling the deck. "Ye know how to play, lass?"
I shrug, a confident smirk tugging at my lips. "I think I can figure it out."
Gideon nods, handing out stacks of coins to Rhyland, Erik, and me. "Consider this a loan," he says with a wink. "Ye'll pay me back in full, of course."
I snort, my fingers closing around the cool metal. "Of course."
Gideon launches into a rapid-fire rundown of the game. I tune in just enough to catch the basics: Poker. We're talking five cards, bets placed, and the best hand wins. Bluffing's key; you’ve got to know when to fold or go all in.
As he drones on, I analyze the rules in my head, my brain working overtime. Really, this is just a glorified exercise in probability and psychology—a fancy game of numbers and reading people.
It's just another puzzle to solve, and I'm a pro at cracking codes. Bring it on.
As the game starts, I scope out the other pirates at the table. To my left, there's this grizzled old sea dog with an eye patch and a gnarly scar running down his weathered cheek. He goes by Will.
Finn, the Captain's trusty right-hand man, raises his mug in my direction, a playful glint in his eye. "Look at you, lass. All gussied up and ready to take on the world. Or at least, ready to take on a few drunk pirates in a game of chance."
I flash him a confident grin. "Thanks, Finn. Hope you're ready to lose?"
Finn chuckles, shaking his head. "Oh, I'd like to see you try."
Next to the Captain is this young, cocky pirate with a mop of curly black hair and a gold hoop earring. He keeps trying to catch my eye, his gaze drifting south to the displayed goods. Please, buddy. Eyes up here.
And then there's Izabelle, with her flowing brown locks and tits practically spilling out of her top.
Those piercing turquoise eyes of hers are boring into my very soul.
She's circling the table like a damn shark, her fingers trailing over Gideon's shoulders like she owns the man.
And the way she's eyeing me? It's pure disdain.
If looks could kill, I'd be pushing up daisies by now. But you know what? Two can play at this bitch's game. I'll be damned if I let some pirate wench get under my skin. She can take those nasty looks and shove 'em where the sun don't shine, for all I care.
Bring it on, you two-bit hussy. Let's dance.
"Well, well, well," she sneers. "If it isn't the little landlubber who thinks she can play with the big boys."
I flash Izabelle a smile, my fingers idly fiddling with the coins before me. "Izabelle," I purr. "Always a pleasure to see your charming face. I see you're still keeping these sailor boys on a tight leash."
She narrows her eyes at me, her lips curling into a sneer. "Well, someone has to keep them in line," she retorts, her gaze flicking pointedly to my cleavage. "Wouldn't want them getting distracted by any... loose cargo."
Oh, this bitch did not just go there.
I lean forward, giving her a deliberate eyeful of my assets. "Honey, if you're worried about loose cargo, maybe you should check your own deck," I smirk. "Seems like a few things might have shifted during your last voyage if you know what I mean."
"Aye, and ye best be keeping yer hands off 'em, wench. They're mine."
"For the love of Neptune, Izabelle, mind yer tits!" Finn spits, already glaring daggers at her.
I can practically hear her teeth grinding from here. Oh, this is just too much fun. I do so love ruffling the feathers of insecure skanks.
"What is this about?" Rhyland's voice floats into my mind.
I can sense his unease through our bond, the way his protective instincts are flaring up in the face of this unexpected development.