Chapter 32
Adark, flickering bank of clouds cut the horizon edge to edge, the air crackling with unseen energy that made the hair on Zanta’s arms stand on end.
She didn’t know which direction to focus on first. Which danger was escapable, and which would cut them down.
Was it the two mercenary ships that had driven them to the edge of the map, and trapped them in a choice between a battle against man and a battle against the elements?
Or was it the storm itself, so massive that it seemed to swallow the entire sea and charge the air with lightning and the scent of rain?
Or was it that she’d fucked up royally with Nia?
Zanta collapsed the spyglass she’d been using to torture herself with the futility of their situation.
Her eyes found Nia instead. She was down on the main deck, helping Laurent and Colm prepare for the storm.
Zanta had ordered the crew to prepare for anything, so half of them secured the ship against the storm, and half readied for battle.
The bright banner of Nia’s hair had escaped its pins and now whipped around her face with the threat of the storm.
It drew Zanta’s gaze like a call to war.
Zanta hadn’t meant to tell her the details of Emilie’s death.
But when she’d woken up from that horrible nightmare, adrenaline rushing through her veins and tears on her cheeks, and found Nia there to comfort her, she hadn’t been able to hold back.
She’d told Nia everything. And the expression on Nia’s face had been horrible.
She’d looked sick, and Zanta didn’t know why.
Or, she didn’t want to think about why.
They were just casually hooking up, right?
No matter how Zanta felt about it, about Nia, that had been their agreement.
She was under no illusions that Nia planned to stay on the Monsoon long term.
Their relationship—whatever it was—had an end date, and she’d thought she was fine with it.
If they got through this, Nia would surely leave. But Nia’s words the other night stung.
I am a poor substitute.
Nia wasn’t a substitute at all. She might be the only woman Zanta had slept with since Emilie’s death, but Zanta wasn’t looking to replace one with the other.
They shared certain superficial similarities.
Fair skin and hair, freckles on cute button noses.
But there the similarities ended. Emilie had been calm, one could even say stoic, most of the time.
She’d let nothing out, and hoarded her joy, her softness, for private moments only.
Zanta had loved her strength, had loved that she was the only person who had been allowed to see the soft underbelly of Emilie’s soul.
Nia was Emilie inside out. She let her joy out into the world where it could flit from person to person like a butterfly, sharing lightheartedness with whomever it touched.
But she hoarded her stormy feelings for private moments, a space Zanta had only just begun to see the cracks of.
She’d seen a bit of it after the battle, when she found Nia crying in the wardrobe.
And the other night, when she left Zanta’s room in a gloomy cloud before Zanta could say something like, you’re nothing alike, but I care for you, that could’ve either fixed everything or made it so much worse.
That would have been bad enough, if Nia stayed mad at her. If she’d cut off their arrangement or sulked or shown any outward sign that she was upset. But she didn’t. The next morning she’d gone back to her usual bubbly self, and treated Zanta like nothing happened. And that was somehow worse.
Distant thunder echoed from the dark bank of clouds. Zanta turned her eyes to the storm ahead, and a minute later a pair of arms wrapped around her waist. Nia’s lips found the nape of her neck, ghosting across her skin over the stiff collar of her jacket.
This was worse, because Nia’s mood had no cracks. And that meant Zanta’s feelings were unreciprocated. She didn’t matter to Nia beyond pleasure, perhaps friendship, and she tried to tell herself she had to be content with that while it lasted.
Before she could say anything, Nia slipped around to stand by her side, hands trailing over her waist. Nia’s hair whipped toward the encroaching ships at their back, but she raised her chin toward the darkness lurking in the opposite direction.
“That’s the Storm Ring.” There was no question in her voice.
“Looks like it.”
Nia dragged her eyes away from the clouds and met Zanta’s gaze. “We can’t go through it. We have to turn back. Fight our way out if we need to.”
This sternness was unlike her. Was she afraid?
“Did you forget that it’s two against one?
” Zanta didn’t mean to sound derisive, but her nerves were frayed to threads.
They had made one last bid for freedom a few days before, and been beaten back again when the Marigold finally caught up to its companion.
Now she faced an impossible choice: turn and fight to the end, or take her chances with the storm.
A choice she still hadn’t had the courage to make.
If the Monsoon slowed to try and avoid the storm, both mercenary ships would fall on them like a pack of wolves.
Zanta and her crew had managed to escape them once before.
But after weeks of little scrimmages which had worn down both the crew and the ship, unable to make land and rest or resupply, Zanta wasn’t confident they could win or even escape.
But if they kept running, they’d plunge headfirst into a storm so deadly no ship had survived it. None but the Silverfin.
A shout rang out from the crow’s nest, followed instantaneously by the boom of a cannon and the rumble of thunder.
The Lonesome swooped within range, its companion not far behind.
Shit. The mercenaries’ trap snapped shut, paralyzing Zanta with indecision.
They could turn and face the mercenaries who wanted them dead.
Or sail into the endless and ancient storm that wanted nothing, but might kill them anyway.
“Zanta!” Nia’s fingers dug into her cheeks, forcing Zanta to meet her eyes, so green and bright in the gray darkness that threatened them.
“We can’t face the storm. Trust me, we—” The percussion of more cannon fire interrupted her, one shot crashing through the glass windows of Zanta’s bedchamber below them.
The Monsoon shuddered, her sails snapping as the storm’s edges seized them.
They could still fight free. But Zanta wouldn’t be able to pull the same stunt she had before. It would be a head-on fight while also battling the edge of the storm that even now dragged them closer.
A pirate scrambled down from the rigging and bounded up to her. “Message from the lookout, Captain. Spotted two more ships behind the others. Couldn’t see the flags, but one is a warship. They’re gaining fast.”
Fuck. The Serpents certainly weren’t looking out for her today. The Monsoon was outnumbered four to one. If that warship caught them, they were done for.
“Captain, what are your orders?” Sabriye appeared at their side. The press of the crew’s attention smothered Zanta like a waterlogged blanket. She’d always prided herself on her leadership. Her quick and decisive actions. But now…
Now, whatever she chose would be wrong. If they fought, they’d die. If they weathered the storm, they’d die. And the consequences of both would rest solely on Zanta’s shoulders.
Nia’s warm fingers threaded through hers, and Zanta straightened her back, imagining a rod of iron securing her spine. Strong. Unbreakable. The wind whipped her coattails around her legs as it dragged the Monsoon closer to the encroaching clouds.
“We weather the storm.” Uncertainty wavered in her voice, but only Nia and Sabriye heard it before the wind snatched it away. Zanta squeezed Nia’s hand once before she strode to the quarterdeck rail and called, clear and certain, “Stay the course!”
There was no way around it. No edge. No clear section of sky in the distance. The storm was inevitable, but this fight wasn’t. They had no choice but to be swallowed by the storm. She couldn’t let her crew and ship be weakened by battle first.
Several crew members paled, or made warding signs. She circled her serpent tattoo with shaking fingers. A habitual gesture, no real intention or prayer behind it, but it brought her comfort.
She took a deep, steadying breath and began issuing orders. The crew jumped to obey. They trusted her to lead them through.
She hoped against hope that trust was not misplaced.
“Fuck. Fuck. Shit. No, nononono.” Rowan slammed the spyglass closed and pinched the bridge of his nose.
The Monsoon, pursued by the two mercenary ships, had just sailed directly into a massive wall of storms. He could no longer see any sign of any of them, and the Siren was on course for the same fate.
He’d managed to catch up, but not enough.
The Monsoon hadn’t spotted the Siren and Kraken, or had mistaken them for more enemies.
Rowan had dispatched Nephele with a message tied to her leg, assuring Zanta allies were close at hand.
They could fight the mercenaries together.
The Siren and Monsoon might stand a chance, but with the Kraken on their side—as Rowan hoped it was—they’d shred those bastards to nothing but splinters.
But the wind had buffeted Nephele down again and again until she was too exhausted to continue and Rowan had to bring her inside, cradling her like a baby.
Now the Monsoon was gone. If Rowan hadn’t hung back to meet with Yves when he hailed him, he might have caught up in time. But his heart had stupidly wanted to give his husband one last chance, and to be reassured he had Rowan’s back no matter what.
That hadn’t happened, but the Kraken still followed in their wake.
Rowan swept his gaze over his crew, then to the Kraken not far behind, contemplating his choices.
There was little chance they would be able to avoid the storm now.
The wind was already strong, the atmosphere charged with danger.
It was now a matter of following the Monsoon or not.
On the other side of the storm—if there indeed was another side—they’d still need help.
Rowan had no choice but to go. And where Rowan went, Yves would follow. Wouldn’t he?
Yves had warned against this. He seemed so sure that Rowan would not survive.
And maybe he was right. Maybe by this time tomorrow, Rowan, his crew, and his beloved ship would be nothing but fish food drifting beneath the sea.
But it wasn’t anger or obstinance that spurred him on now.
A deep feeling tugged at his gut that he had to help Zanta, and they would come out on the other side of this.
Rowan stepped up to the rail of the quarterdeck, feeling the nervous energy of the crew like fingers on his skin. Their eyes raked over him, some pleading, some alive with the prospect of testing their might against the forces of nature.
“That is where we are going,” Rowan announced, pointing to the ominous clouds before them.
“There’s no avoiding it now.” The currents already had them; the storm would catch them one way or another.
Better to meet it head-on. “If you’re the praying type, best get it out of the way now.
You’ll have no time when we’re in the thick of it.
” Below, crew members bowed their heads, or touched serpent tattoos. Some men had one god; some had many.
Rowan had no god but luck, no faith but his crew. And it was the strength of their backs and their will that would see them through this.