Chapter 4
Zanta picked up the last key, brass warming quickly in her hand as she tried to fit it into the lock.
It slid in halfway before the mismatched teeth caught on the tumblers.
She jiggled it a little, but it was no use.
With a frustrated sigh, she tossed it into the small pile of nearly identical keys beside the iron chest. It clinked as it slid down, coming to rest on the wooden floor.
Zanta sat back against the side of her bed, popping a ginger candy into her mouth before massaging feeling back into her legs.
She’d been unable to sleep after the Monsoon escaped Roseforte Harbor, and did what she always had when insomnia gripped her.
She sat on the floor before the iron chest that contained Silver Stroud’s treasure and tried key after key, even the ones she’d tried a hundred times before.
It had become a sort of meditative habit over the years, a ritual to soothe her troubled mind. And like every time before, none of the keys fit.
She shoved the chest away with her foot. It barely budged, but the dull thud of her boot against its side was satisfying.
It was a pretty thing, an iron chest with a flat lid, about the length of her forearm on all sides.
The top and sides were decorated with swirls of polished filigree reminiscent of waves, now marred by the dents and scratches of Zanta’s and a dozen locksmiths’ many attempts to break into it.
A small section of filigree was currently pushed to the side to expose the keyhole.
Empty and taunting. Ever since she’d first laid eyes on it, Zanta had been fascinated by the chest that Silver Stroud so closely guarded and considered as his greatest treasure.
Even Emilie, his first mate and Zanta’s late fiancée, had never seen its contents.
Now both of them were gone, and Zanta was left with a locked chest and an aching heart.
Morning light streamed in from the windows at her back, reminding her that she hadn’t slept yet.
It wasn’t just the residual adrenaline of escaping Roseforte, or even that the fifth anniversary of Stroud’s and Emilie’s deaths had come and gone and she had nothing to show for it besides grief that returned again and again, no matter how many times she pushed it away.
It was that woman.
Zanta groaned and leaned her head back against the edge of the mattress.
That woman. Nia. She’d gone mad and tried to jump overboard as soon as the Monsoon set sail.
Was she suicidal? She’d seemed completely fine up until she’d been dragged onto the ship.
Then again, from Nia’s perspective, it probably seemed like she was being kidnapped, and sailors weren’t exactly known for treating women well.
Let me.
Zanta closed her eyes, Nia’s tearful, determined face from the night before rising fresh in her mind’s eye.
Nia had wanted to die, longed for it even.
Zanta could hear the despair so clearly in her voice.
She understood. She’d been the same after Emilie’s death, but she’d never gotten far enough to give in to that darkness.
Zanta hadn’t had the energy to deal with it all last night, so she’d left Nia in the storeroom. She supposed now that it was morning she would have to let Nia out and chart a course for the nearest Talvan port to drop her at.
She groaned as she got to her feet. She hoped Nia hadn’t suffered too much in the stuffy storeroom. She seemed like a nice enough woman. Maybe she’d found something soft to sleep on in the baskets and crates.
The baskets that Zanta suddenly remembered were full of rope, and other things Nia could use to achieve her goals.
Zanta sprinted onto the deck, startling the morning watch. Skidding to a stop next to the hatch, she wrenched the bar open, dreading what she might find within. The hatch opened with a squeal, and she reluctantly peered in.
The sight that met her was not the one she’d dreaded.
Nia’s generous form lay curled in peaceful slumber on a pile of cloth she’d taken from various parts of the storeroom and formed into a makeshift nest. She lay on her side, peachy skirts tucked around her feet and one pale, manicured hand pressed to her lips.
Her chest rose and fell with the even breath of sleep.
Zanta sat back on her heels, relief washing through her.
Nia stirred when the light from the open hatch touched her face. Her eyelids fluttered open, and she wiped a bit of drool from her lip with the back of her hand. She sat up slowly, taking stock of her surroundings before looking up.
Zanta had expected fear on Nia’s face, maybe even lingering despair. What she did not expect was cheerfulness.
“Good morning!” Nia exclaimed, a bright smile spreading across her lips. “Have you come to let me out?”
Her pale face shone peachy in the morning light, matching her skirt. She’d taken her ginger hair out of its pins and it now tumbled around her shoulders in soft waves like calm waters at dawn.
“Um, yes. As long as you don’t try anything,” Zanta said warily. Was this an act? A ploy to lower Zanta’s guard then fling herself into the sea the first chance she got?
“Oh, I’m over it,” Nia replied brightly.
What a strange woman she was. Zanta would be happy to be rid of her as soon as they reached land.
She reached down to help Nia out of the storeroom, watching, ready to catch Nia and lock her back up if she tried to make a break for the rail.
But Nia patted the dust from her skirts, then threw her head back to let the sun shine on her face.
After a few moments, her peridot eyes cut to Zanta. Zanta tensed.
“I’m not going to jump,” Nia said lightly. “I told you I’m over it. No need to look at me like that.”
“And I told you, no one dies on my ship unless I say so,” Zanta replied firmly, but her muscles relaxed.
“Well I wouldn’t have been on your ship. I’d have been in the water.” Her words were flippant. Then, seeing Zanta’s horrified expression, she added, “What? Aren’t you a pirate? You’ve seen people die before.”
“Why would you think I’m a pirate?” Zanta crossed her arms.
Nia gave her a look that said come on, be reasonable, and decisively did not answer her question. Instead she asked one of her own. “What’s your name anyway? It’s not Sarah. I’ve never heard of a pirate captain by that name.”
So not only had she clocked Zanta and her crew as pirates, but rightly guessed Zanta was the captain. Well, she supposed there was no use keeping up the charade of being merchants now that they’d left Roseforte.
“Zanta.”
Nia’s pretty freckled face went through a range of indecipherable emotions in a split second before settling once more into a pleasant smile. But strain lined its edges. Nia’s fingers flexed at her side, half hidden by her skirts.
“You’re the one who killed Silver Stroud,” she said, voice flat.
“That’s me.” Zanta was always flippant about it. Most people thought her an ambitious mutineer. They didn’t know how much she’d lost.
Another flicker of something Zanta couldn’t decipher.
“Splinter Zanta. I should have known. They say you’re the prettiest pirate this side of Souna.” Her eyes roved over Zanta’s form. “Looks like they’re right.”
Zanta frowned, hoping that would dispel the butterflies that had suddenly decided to escape her stomach by way of her throat.
“Yes, Splinter Zanta. And you are Nia…I didn’t catch your surname.”
“Oh. I don’t have one. I’m an orphan,” Nia said, the smile not leaving her face. Zanta herself had chosen to cast aside her family name when she became captain, to protect her family from potential connection. She couldn’t imagine never having had a family name at all, no history to cling to.
“Well, regardless. I assure you that you’re in no danger on my ship. We will drop you off at the next port and—”
“That won’t be necessary.” Nia cut her off, sidling closer. Both her hair and skirts swished in the breeze. “I’m staying.”
“Staying?” It only took a moment to regain her composure. “I’m afraid that’s not possi—”
“Anything is possible; you’re the captain,” Nia interrupted again. Zanta’s fear over her potential death was quickly becoming annoyance. “What do you need? A cook? Someone to clean? I can do anything I set my hand to.”
“Why would you want to stay on a pirate ship?” Zanta asked. She could feel her brow doing that thing Emilie had always said would give her wrinkles.
Nia spread her hands, encompassing the sea surrounding them and all that had happened last night.
“Where would I go? Roseforte is sure to be in shambles. I have no money or possessions to my name. If you drop me off at a random port I’ll be destitute, and on the streets before you even sail over the horizon.
Besides…” Nia stepped boldly into Zanta’s space, eyelids lowering flirtatiously.
She ran the back of her index finger down Zanta’s cheek, and Zanta flinched. “…You have something I want.”
The moment was broken by the clang of the aft bell calling the first shift to work. Nia lowered her hand and stepped away. Her eyes landed on the wooden box, still tucked next to the rail where she’d left it. She scooped it up.
“Show me where I’ll be sleeping.”
Captain Zanta deposited Nia in yet another storeroom. Thankfully this one was much larger, and had an actual door. Apparently the crew quarters were full, but this suited Nia just fine. She liked privacy.
She strung the hammock Zanta had given her between the rafters.
Zanta had told her to see her first mate, Sabriye, about her new duties “only till we make port.” But Nia was tired from her night on the floor and wanted a nap.
She had no intention of being dropped off on land again, not when she could feel her treasure so close at hand.
Nia had spent most of the night wondering over the presence of the treasure here.
But now she knew the reason. This wasn’t Stroud’s old ship, the Silverfin.
That ship was as familiar to her as her own body.
But it was the ship of Splinter Zanta, the woman who had killed Silver Stroud by driving a piece of his own ship through his heart, if the stories were to be believed.
Of course Zanta would have Stroud’s belongings.
Now the question was, where would Zanta keep the chest?
Had she been able to open it? Nia figured not, since it was still here and held little value to anyone but Nia.
Zanta must think it was valuable beyond measure if Stroud had guarded it as jealously during Zanta’s tenure in his crew as he had when Nia was still on the Silverfin.
She’d keep it somewhere safe. A smuggler’s hold perhaps, or the captain’s quarters.
Zanta obviously wasn’t going to just hand it over. Nor would she trust Nia enough to show her secret holds or let her unsupervised into her room. But that was no matter.
Nia knew exactly how she was going to get it.
She thought of Zanta’s smooth skin beneath her fingers. The way her lips had parted in surprise when Nia flirted with her. She rubbed her knuckles against her own cheek. Zanta’s reaction today had proved she was susceptible to Nia’s charms.
Nia smiled to herself and sat on her new hammock, swinging gently. Her fingers ran over the peach-blossom carvings of the box in her lap. She flipped the tag over and read it again.
Who was JL? Perhaps the box’s contents would provide an answer.
She lifted the lid, and discovered exactly who the box was from.
Nestled in a bed of pink velvet were four beautifully carved and polished wooden cocks of varying sizes, shapes, and colors.
Her gaze landed on the thickest one, and her smile broadened even more.
She recognized it instantly, the cock that had given her a week of pure, unadulterated bliss more than a year before, and again last fall.
She would never forget a cock like that, or the man attached to it.
John Hakon.
Which meant the cock two down, carved of blond wood and slightly curved to the left was…Logan.
John and Logan. JL.
The lining of the lid popped open under her fingers to reveal a soft velvet harness with a variety of metal rings matching the girths of her new collection.
Life was about to get very interesting indeed.