33. Haunted #2
His cheeks began reddening as the confession spilled from him—the second time for him, and yet it was the first for her.
“I told you that I am a pirate, but there are times when I am not, and I belong to a way of life and a society that demands certain breeding and propriety. Piracy is the secret of our wealth, which isn’t without reason, and it’s a way can I hide from obligations I was born into.
Doing this, being a pirate…is an obligation, I suppose, in service to our life on land.
I told you about my two worlds, only one of which you knowingly agreed to while the other was vilified and condemned so thoroughly that I…
I laid everything at your feet and you…” He scrubbed a hand down his face, looking lost. “You destroyed me.”
She tried not to look at his arms where the evidence of that destruction lay.
Tears pressed to the backs of her eyes, but she wouldn’t let them run free while Jack still had more to say.
There was so much hurt in his words, and anxiety, and yet he continued to tell her everything in a way that was so careful to spare her any wounds.
Still, his voice trembled. “You told me I was the worst thing that could have happened to you, if only for the fact that I would drag you into a world that rejoiced in your suffering. That I wanted to torture you too. You told me to let you go if I hated you so much. When I refused, the screaming would begin again. You’d declare your hatred and attack me—” His voice broke and he looked away for a moment.
He took a breath, then another. When he faced her again, his eyes were lined with silver.
“I laid awake long into the night wondering if what you said was true, and if that was what truly lay within your heart. You swore I was despicable, and suddenly I couldn’t help but agree with you. I still do, and I am rotting with it.”
It sounded so similar to what she’d said about herself the night he chased her in Tortuga. And that she’d made him think that… She couldn’t stop the tears, but scrubbed them away before they could fall.
“Forget what I said last night,” she said as evenly as she could manage. “It was a vile manipulation from a sickness I couldn’t control. Yes, I already knew what you were, and it changed nothing for me.”
He didn’t seem entirely assured as shame lingered in the tightness of his lips. She understood, unfortunately, that the cuts on his arms attested only to the lies she’d told. Her only option was to keep assuring him until he either believed it or she had a chance to prove herself.
Idly scratching at the blood on her nails, she asked, “You fought so hard to keep me here in spite of all that?”
“Keeping you with me was never in question,” he said in the same tone, though sadness still lingered in his gaze.
“However, it was perhaps the first time I wished we were less equally matched.” He leaned closer.
She thought he was about to kiss her, felt her insides began to glitter, until he began to speak again.
“There is so much more I must tell you,” he whispered.
“There are so many things we dare not speak on this ship because there’s too much risk, too many repercussions and listening ears, but I will tell you soon.
Once we’re on land where I’m no longer bound by my father’s laws, I’ll explain everything, what I am—”
The captain’s door opened, and Jack’s mouth snapped shut with an audible click.
“She lives,” drawled Copson’s voice.
Cecily didn’t look away from Jack as he faced his father. He was so quickly silenced by the captain’s presence. These secrets, whatever they were, would be deadly for them—and for her. And Jack clearly preferred that Copson remained ignorant to her knowing.
She pushed to her feet, annoyed by the interruption. Jack rose too, his shoulders stiff as Copson came to stand by them.
“I suppose it’s true then,” the captain said, eyeing Cecily with morbid interest. “The siren-sick must rely on others to care enough to save them.”
Her stomach twisted. Instead of trading insults with her father-in-law, she turned on her heel and strode for the bucket of water they kept by the rail. She plunged her hands into it and began furiously scrubbing at the blood on her fingers.
“Father,” Jack chided from behind her. “Spare us this morning.”
Unfortunately, Copson had no intention of sparing anyone as he followed and braced one hip against the rail next to her.
“I believe it was you I heard,” Cecily grumbled at him, “giving advice that would save me.”
“Don’t make it into something it’s not,” Copson said. “I may not care for you, but I’ve never wanted you dead. I wouldn’t mind a few more like you—people who slay monsters and live to tell the tale.”
Slaying monsters didn’t feel impressive when she couldn’t dislodge her husband’s blood from beneath her nails. It had dried in the ridges her of fingerprints, stubborn against her washing. The longer it held, the deeper her mortification buried itself in her stomach.
“What the hell are you doing?” Copson asked mildly.
Cecily ripped her hands from the bucket and held them up, water dripping down into her sleeves as she showed her stained fingers to the captain. Her heart thundered, shoving guilt through veins that felt too small to hold the excess of it.
Copson raised one brow. “What should I be seeing?”
“The blood,” she snapped.
Jack came to stand at her side, surveying her skin. She was tempted to hide the proof of what she’d done to him, regardless of whether he’d already seen it. But then he asked, “What blood?”
Cecily might have thought he was teasing had he not looked entirely sincere. She gasped as Copson took her wrist in a steel grip and looked closely at her fingers.
“You see blood,” he said.
Now she wasn’t so sure, but her fingers were tipped with red, her skin stained with it. “Do you not?”
He gave her a wary glance, his brows knitted. She stared back in silent confirmation that she was not taking him for a fool.
“Your hands are clean,” the captain said. “There’s nothing there.” Her stomach dropped, but he allowed no time for follow-up questions as he let go and turned to his son. “You.”
“What,” Jack said.
“You look like you’re about to snap someone’s neck.”
Jack’s eyes narrowed into his familiar glare. “Perhaps it’s not my best morning, considering the events of the last twenty-four hours.”
The captain studied them both. He scanned the ship and scented the breeze, steeping himself in the wrongness that had hung over them since Vanetta’s death the day before.
When he spoke to Jack, his tone was grave. “Do you feel haunted?”
Jack’s jaw flexed. “This is Jonah’s doing?”
“We’re being haunted?” Cecily asked. She scanned the empty deck, half-expecting to find ghosts, but there was nothing but odd sunlight and soft, reeking breezes.
Copson stepped between them, crossing the deck toward the mainmast. He set his hand against the wood and peered up at the sails. “I’d say it’s most certainly got something to do with him.”
She saw it then—the canvas was dripping. In fact, the entire mainmast was soaked, and barnacles had grown along the bottom where the timber met the deck. Copson scrubbed his boot over the board, dislodging the tiny creatures.
“Jonah’s serpent is dead,” Copson said, “but he’s got other ways to condemn us.”
Cecily lifted her hands. The blood was still there, clinging to her skin like an accusation. Torturer. Murderer. Monster. She shook her head, tempted to scrub her hands until her skin peeled away.
“What do we do?” the first mate asked. A muscle flexed in his jaw.
“We run,” Copson said with a low, mirthless laugh. “If he’s going to all this trouble, I’m sure he intends to be the next nightmare we meet.”
“Run from Jonah,” Jack repeated incredulously. “We could hand over Fiero and be done with this.”
Copson’s rueful smile offered no comfort. “Have you not been watching? Jonah only wants death. If we face him, he’ll kill us all. Until he gets the opportunity, he’s going to haunt us, probably hoping we’ll sit here and weep over our deepest regrets instead of saving ourselves.”
“There’s no outrunning Jonah,” Cecily said. “Stede said…” His name knifed through her middle, and wet warmth swept over her hands as though fresh blood poured over them.
She looked down. Her throat closed around a retch as she found her fingers soaked in dark blood. Trembling, she flipped them over but only found more blood, and she thought of a wine bottle, glass shattering, the look in Stede’s eyes before he—
She forced her hands to her side and drew in a long, deep breath before she could be sick.
It wasn’t real. Never real.
This would continue, so she steeled herself. Regrets would haunt them all. They’d already been haunted all morning—blood for Cecily, secrets for Jack, and who knew what else? Whatever Jonah had in store for them would surely make this ship a living hell.
“We’ll do it,” Copson said. “Jack, wake the crew. Rush them, threaten them—do what you must to get them moving. They’ll be haunted too, and it’s imperative you don’t let them wallow.”
With a sharp exhale, Jack headed for the lower decks, his steps heavy.
It was futile, and they knew that. Stede had claimed Jonah could cross great distances in mere days, so it was only a matter of time before he arrived, no matter how fast the Fortuna Royale could sail.
And if Jonah could control the sea and weather around them—
Her breath seized as she remembered standing on a moonlit beach in Tortuga, arguing over treasure with their friends.
“Jack!” She hurried after him, grabbing his arm before he reached the steps. Fresh scarlet was still smeared over her hand, and she dropped it quickly, wiping it against her pants and thinking, Not real. Never real. But it was so hard to believe.
“Hester’s tide stones,” she said. “They’re real, aren’t they?”
At first, he seemed confused. But when the memory dawned on him, he swore. “Get them,” he bade her. “Take them to the captain while I wake the crew.”