Chapter 38
Zanta let her mind wander as her fingers traced down Nia’s back, lingering on the strange square scar which marred the otherwise perfect peachy landscape.
It was still strange to have Nia in her bed.
Strange, but not unpleasant. Despite their current circumstances and the danger ever looming on the horizon, a peace had settled in her, one that she hadn’t felt since before Emilie’s death.
One she hadn’t felt touching anyone else.
They still hadn’t reconciled the fight they’d had before sailing into the storm.
But it seemed distant now, unimportant in light of what they currently faced.
Zanta couldn’t let herself think too deeply about their relationship any more than she let herself dwell on the lives lost in the storm.
As long as she kept touching Nia, nothing else could be wrong.
Nia sighed in her sleep. Midday sunlight streamed through the broken windows, but they’d all taken to snatching little moments of rest whenever they could.
Despite the peace Nia’s presence brought, today Zanta couldn’t sleep, not when the Monsoon’s masts were broken, and a full third of her crew were either dead, critically injured, or missing.
Including Sabriye.
Zanta closed her eyes, and rested her cheek against Nia’s warm shoulder.
She’d failed to protect them. She’d made the decision to sail into that storm, and had it even been the right one?
Her best friend was dead, and the Monsoon was adrift, with nothing to do but wait like a sitting duck for either friend or foe to find them.
For two days, the Monsoon had drifted, at the mercy of the currents pulling them further and further north. Zanta had doubled the around-the-clock watch. If the mercenaries found them, Zanta wanted her crew to be ready to fight to the end. Because now, they couldn’t run.
Her fingers continued their swirling trail over Nia’s skin, trying to lull herself to sleep so she could at least get an hour of rest before it was her turn to go on watch.
No sooner had her eyes drifted closed than the door to her cabin banged open. Zanta sat bolt upright, nerves going taut, but it was just Laurent. Nia didn’t wake, only shifted in her sleep and sighed. The woman really didn’t have any sense of urgency or self-preservation when she was naked.
“What is it?” Zanta whispered, drawing the blanket up to cover Nia’s exposed skin. Her gaze wandered to the hall behind Laurent, half expecting Sabriye. But the hallway remained empty. Sabriye was gone. She’d never burst into Zanta’s rooms with bad or good news again.
Shit. It had been two days since Sabriye was swept over the side, and Zanta still expected her to just show up again like nothing had ever happened.
“We spotted a ship,” Laurent said. His curly black hair was mussed, dark circles under his eyes from endless hours sitting by Colm’s side in the infirmary, on top of his other duties.
Colm’s ribs and several other bones had broken with the impact of the sail rung, and he’d nearly drowned after being swept over the side.
But he would survive. Many others wouldn’t. Hadn’t.
Double shit. “I’ll be right there. I’m letting you off watch early; go back to Colm.”
Laurent nodded grimly, closing the door behind him.
“Nia.” Zanta leaned low over her and kissed the nape of her neck. Nia stirred.
“Hm?”
“Wake up and get dressed.” Zanta climbed over her, and began gathering her clothes. Nia sat up, propped on one arm. Her red curls stuck out wild around her head.
“They spotted a ship.” Zanta pulled on her boots and strapped on her sword belt. “Stay here, and if there’s trouble, hide.”
Nia’s light green eyes went wide, and she nodded. Zanta was almost out the door when Nia caught up with her, still naked and warm with sleep.
“Be safe.” She tucked one of Zanta’s braids back from her forehead and kissed her.
Trepidation bloomed in Zanta’s chest as the huge warship sped toward them. She’d done all she could. Roused and armed the crew. Checked on Nia, then waited. The cannons were primed, weapons gripped in sweaty hands.
It had to be the same warship the lookout had seen before the storm. Now it had come to claim its prize.
The hours ticked by, and the ship loomed closer and closer until faint details began to resolve.
Afternoon light glinted off something shiny on the bow, and she shaded her eyes against the glare.
Then a wave caught the hull just right for the glare to dim and reveal what it hid.
A massive kraken figurehead, studded with colored glass, the tentacles wrapping the front of the ship and trailing along its sides.
She recognized it instantly. The Kraken’s Fury, the infamous warship of the Deep Water Demon.
Zanta’s first instinct was to flee. If the demon and his crew meant them harm, there was little chance of winning. But the Monsoon was dead in the water. She took a deep breath, wishing Sabriye was here to strategize with her.
But the Demon was Rowan’s man, wasn’t he? She and Rowan were acquaintances, probably even friends by now, and if the Demon had any loyalty to his lover, maybe Zanta could use that to ensure her crew’s safety. Who knew? Maybe he’d even deign to tow them to shore if she begged hard enough.
“Run up the colors!” she ordered. The idle crew ran to do her bidding, and despite the Monsoon’s stagnant position, there was enough of a breeze to snap her flag out nice and proud when they attached it to the top of the half-missing mast.
In response, blue sails emblazoned with a kraken dropped down over the nondescript white ones, and the tentacled flag climbed to the top of the main mast. No going back now.
Zanta’s fingers encircled the spot on her opposite forearm where the serpent resided.
Hoping for the best. She didn’t know whether to be frightened or grateful that it was the most notorious pirate captain on the seas that had found her in this vulnerable state instead of the mercenaries.
She didn’t want to spare a thought for how or why the Deep Water Demon was here.
Her crew shifted nervously around her, waiting to see what would happen. As the Kraken drew closer, Zanta sucked in a breath and held it.
Just as the pressure in her lungs began to grow uncomfortable, the massive ship slowed, and a familiar blond head popped up over the terrifying kraken figurehead.
“Zanta!”
Her breath escaped in a relieved rush. It was the Ghost Hawk, peering one-eyed down at her. Today wouldn’t be the day she died after all.
Henri pinched Robin’s cheek, watching affectionately how it grew pink beneath his fingers before releasing him. Robin swatted his hand away lightly.
“You’re sure you don’t want help?” Henri asked.
Robin was in the process of packing up medical supplies to take over to the Monsoon. Though it was taking longer than necessary, because he was no longer familiar with the Kraken’s infirmary. Robin waved him off.
“The captain said he wanted you on deck. You better go.” Two amber glass bottles clinked together as Robin shooed him again. “Go. Go. You’re distracting me.”
“Fine.” They’d found the Monsoon crippled in the water two days after leaving the Siren.
From a distance, it had looked like a wreck.
No masts, no sails, no movement. The only sign anyone at all had survived were the dark mourning ribbons tied to the rails.
If someone was left to mourn, that meant someone was alive.
Now the splinter heart flag fluttered on the broken mast. But with damage like that, there were bound to be casualties, and Rowan had ordered them to prepare for the worst as they carefully maneuvered the ships to float side-by-side.
A bump that was unmistakably the gangplank being positioned sounded overhead. Henri rushed up to the deck, but not before Robin managed to pinch him on the buttcheek.
“Revenge for the cheek pinch!” Robin called after his retreating form.
Henri made it onto the deck just as Rowan stepped onto the gangplank, and he fell in step behind Logan.
The Kraken’s crew looked on from their stations, and Captain Demon stood with his hands spread imperiously on the quarterdeck rail.
Aloof as always. Henri was honestly a little surprised he’d agreed to this.
It was unfortunately common knowledge among the crews that Rowan and Zanta had kissed that winter they had first left Illusion and Rowan lost his eye.
Rowan and the Demon had had a brief, yet loud, shouting match then makeup session about it the summer after.
So, like children whose parents were fighting, no one on Illusion had brought it up since.
Even when it became clear that Rowan and Zanta intended to continue their friendship.
The Demon must have been jealous, angry even, but he’d still followed Rowan on this disastrous mission anyway.
Though some of them had noticed Rowan limping around the day after the storm, clearly not from an actual injury.
Maybe aloofness was the safest for all of them.
Henri’s boots thumped on the wide gangplank as he crossed over to the Monsoon. He heard Logan gasp softly, and looked up.
The damage was much worse than they’d thought. Both masts were broken off and lost somewhere in the storm, along with the yellow sails Henri had always found cheerful. Not a scrap of sailcloth remained, only rubble pushed hastily to the rails and bits of rope swaying in the breeze like cobwebs.
Captain Zanta, with her hair tied back in a green scarf and her clothes rumpled, looked as exhausted as the rest of her crew, which numbered about half its usual size. Henri wondered how many of the rest nursed injuries below deck, and how many were dead or missing.
He stepped onto deck as Rowan wrapped Captain Zanta in a short embrace that the Demon surely wouldn’t like.
“Are you well?” Rowan asked when they broke apart. “What am I saying? Of course you’re not. How many did you lose?” It may have been blunt, but that was Rowan’s way.