Page 163 of Tempest

Suddenly his hand was in her own, palm against palm, their fingers laced. Holding her steady, even as the world seemed to split apart.

“Brace for impact!”

There was no fear in Valerian Kane’s shout, only an iron will. But even he stumbled when the portside of the Victorious tore along the Covenant’s starboard, hull against hull, rail against rail, in a hailstorm of bullets and blades and splintering wood. Cat could only duck to the deck, and Valerian bent over her, sheltering her head as more men poured across—bluecoats and Ana’s remaining warriors dueling from one ship to the other. Ana was with them, climbing up from the water, her silver teeth catching the gleam of flashing guns. The battling crews shot and sliced, spilling sparks and crimson blood, until Cat could not tell one from the other.

Except for Captain Kane. His hand released and he straightened, still looming over her. He tossed his coat away, throwing it off to reveal a fresh spray of blood turning his shirt scarlet. But the blood was not his. Through the debris, Cat glimpsed his white smile, a strange sight against the breaking world.

“We’re clear,” she heard him mutter, before howling down to the gun deck.

“FIRE.”

Cat curled against the terrible earthquake that were the Covenant guns, one shot after another, loosing the fury of a broadside at close range. It was like sitting inside a thunderhead, struck by one bolt of lightning after another. So many voices screamed, in pain or triumph, for glory or bloodlust. Cat’s throat burned and she realized she was one of them, the sound lost to the din. But she yelled anyway, unleashing her terror, her frustration, even her rage, pouring it all out beneath the blanket of battle.

A curtain of smoke fell across the world, replacing the fog, flashing red with sparks and gold with the rising dawn. Through slitted, stinging eyes, Cat watched as the Victorious rocked on its keel, driven aside by the force of the impact. It bobbed like a toy in a copper tub, not a warship on the open sea. Her starboard side threatened to slough off, a gaping wound torn through the wood, and a few cannons rolled on their carriages, plunging into the sea.

“Half shot ready, odd cannons. On my mark.”

Valerian’s voice rose above the onslaught, glaring across the water at his limping prize.

She was not sunk.

Yet.

The white flag seemed a mirage at first, too good to be true. But it rose higher and higher, clutched in the fist of a bloody officer, one arm hooked in the rigging of his beleaguered ship, the other holding the flag aloft.

Cat pushed herself up on shaking arms, staring through the smoke, barely daring to hope. Until the guns dropped, the sabers tossed away, and every living man of the Victorious fell to his knees in surrender.

She climbed to her feet, blood staining her dress, gunpowder in her hair. She expected to collapse or retch over the rail. It all felt like some horrible nightmare, the air too heavy, her steps slow. But she forced herself towards the ladder down to the gundecks, avoiding corpses and debris as best she could.

“I must attend to my husband,” she said softly, the only words she could think to say.

Valerian eyed her through the swirling dust and smoke, his dark green eyes a sharp contrast to the haze. There was blood in his hair, blood on his face, blood all down his clothes. The blood of so many dead—and yet he had never looked so alive.

He watched her, expectant. Never coming closer or turning away. Letting her look at him, to see what he was, resolute in his silence.

She heard his voice anyway.

You don’t know the half of it.

The words echoed in her head, a warning and a lament.

I know now, Cat wanted to say, her vision spotting. She expected to faint, as a proper lady would, in the face of so much violence. It certainly would have been easier to pass out. But the darkness never fell, and the true world pressed in. The blood, the gunpowder. Death in every direction, on the waves and beneath them.

Slowly, Cat lowered her eyes, breaking the hold of Valerian’s gaze.

“I must attend to my husband,” she said once more. It sounded like surrender and felt even worse.

But it was the only path to walk.

While Ana shouted, beginning the laborious process of overtaking the wounded Victorious, Cat put her back to the deck. And Valerian. The world blurred, bluecoats hazing in the corners of her vision. Some threw away their uniforms, eager to defect and choose the black flag. The rest kneeled in surrender.

Cat told herself it was a mercy, to be ransomed or set adrift, instead of being shot on sight. But she knew that wasn’t entirely true.

You don’t know the half of it.

There was no erasing what she had witnessed, no squaring what she thought of the crew before the battle with the after.

Worst of all was Valerian, the whole of him now fully seen. He was somehow still the man who offered her his coat when she was wet and shivering, plucked from the sea. Who tasted of salt and smoke, strong enough to pull away when all she wanted was to push forwards. Who smirked at her across a card table, watching her as though she were the only person in the entire world.