Page 24 of Tempest

The face she saw everywhere loomed again. Not at the gallows or rotting in a noose but alive and smiling at the helm of a warship, the black flag billowing behind his head.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she finally said, doing all she could to bury the pain welling up in her throat.

Fell clicked his tongue. “You absolutely do.”

I have not seen him since that day, Cat wanted to reply, but no words came.

She refused to think his name, lest it leave her lips. But he still loomed, the familiar silhouette like a shadow over her. Tall, broad-shouldered, hair more golden than any coin. Suddenly Cat smelled seawater and gunpowder, heard music and laughter, the harsh thud of boots on a ship’s deck. The feel of callused hands on her body, tobacco smoke weaving with quiet words for no one else to hear. He made her skin itch, until Cat wanted to tear off her dress and all things beneath, to scrub herself clean of what she once craved. But even that would be no good, Cat knew. No amount of soap or acid or flame could burn away what he left, deeper than skin, muscle, or bone.

He was braided in her, and there was no undoing the knot.

My head or theirs, Cat thought, wincing at the true meaning.

His head or theirs.

The lock on her cell door clanged open.

Fell waited, a hand outstretched, his palm extended to her, freedom in his grasp.

Cat wondered if this was what the others felt, up on the gallows, rope around their necks, the wood beneath their feet pulled away. In the split second before gravity took hold, and all the world broke apart.

Slowly, she extended her hand and almost stumbled when he pulled her close.

Fell’s lips brushed her ear, his whisper louder than a scream.

“Valerian Kane is alive. And you’re going to find him for me.”

Chapter Six Before

THE CHURCH PREACHED of hell, a place of eternal damnation, of torture, a red place filled with burning flames. By now, Cat knew those preachings were false. Hell was not red. It was verdant green and tropical blue.

But it certainly still burned.

The air shimmered with heat, though dawn had only just broken over Rosby. Storm season waned but would linger for a month still. Such were the seasons here—not winter, spring, summer, and fall, but storm and sun, with seam season between. Cat eyed the horizon as she stalked away from the main house, heading for the barn. But there was no telltale line of black thunderheads against the blue. Furious as they were, the storms were the only reprieve from the sweltering heat and humidity, the air so thick she felt as if she were swimming.

The sun cupped her face, still relentless, but no longer a shock. Gone was the pale skin of a fine Meridian lady, replaced by freckles and a bronze flush across the high points of her face.

Rosby was a small island, smaller than a country estate back home in Meridia. She could cross the greatest length of it in less than an hour at a steady walk. Despite the climbing temperature she began to run, bypassing palm trees and beautiful, if unwieldy, flowers. They had no gardener, though Lord Rose assured her he would hire one at first opportunity. Cat doubted it, as she doubted every word out of her husband’s mouth. He had not even replaced Mr. Greer, who chose piracy over this life.

After six months on the island, Cat could hardly blame their former servant for his decision.

The dirt under her feet shifted, revealing the sand beneath the topsoil. Lord Rose would never be able to plant here, no matter how much money he threw at the prospect. Not sugar, not cotton, not tobacco, not even roses for his namesake. Cat gritted her teeth, listing the dead ends as she reached the ramshackle stable and their single horse. Sweat dripped down her neck, her legs trying to outstrip her mind, as if she might simply run fast enough to escape the wretched island and the life around her.

The graying horse was faster still, and yet, never fast enough.

Only on Sparrow’s back did Cat’s mind fall silent, with the wind in her face and salt in her teeth.

Six months since we came, she thought.

I am twenty years old today.

Her vision blurred, the sea and sky washing together until she did not know where one began and the other ended. Until the shade of them swirled into a haunting color.

The color of a tempest and sharp, unyielding eyes.

As she had on the Credence, she thought of jumping into the sea to swim or drown. To disappear into a storm and be swept away.

She hated the pirate for stopping her.