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Rowan glanced at the partially open door, where he saw the lantern-like glow of Smoke’s eyes. The wolf raised his head, his fur blending into the black corridor.
More black within the black.
Rowan felt the hairs prickle on the back of his neck. He came to his feet, quitting the chamber only after pulling the blanket over Blanchette.
* * *
The gangplank hit the ship’s deck with a satisfying boom that shook the boards beneath Lord Peter Huntley’s boots. They’d moved in under the cover of darkness, silent and steady like a predator stalking its prey.He wore his house’s sigil on the left side of his jerkin, directly over his heart: a prancing half man, half goat with cloven feet.
The Greek god Pan.
Huntley withdrew his shortsword with a battle cry that his crew passionately echoed. They stormed down the gangplank in a unified charge of steel, shield, and boiled leather.
He’d taken Captain Walsh’s crew by surprise. The earth-shattering thud of the gangplank had stirred them from below the deck, putting an end to their fucking or feasting or whatever they’d been occupied with.
Now, the world turned into a fantastic blur of clashing swords and war cries. Huntley pushed himself into the thick of it—the only place he liked to be during a battle. His blood ran hot, the sea air brushing his sweat-slick skin like a lover’s kiss, and his shortsword danced in the moonlight, thundering down, down, down.
First into the side of a young man’s neck. Huntley screamed from the thrill of it and turned the blade so it sliced through the front of his throat.
Like a dog, he thought, tearing out his rival’s throat. Another small voice echoed wolf, but Huntley ignored that.
He shoved the man to the ground and raised his blade again. An axe came at him from his flank. He dodged it with ease, then ducked under its sweeping arc. He countered with a biting undercut that sent the edge of his shortsword into the man’s chest. He’d embedded the metal so deeply it was a struggle to dislodge it from his rib cage. Huntley grunted as he withdrew the shortsword. Then, without a moment’s rest, he brought it crashing down and into someone’s skull.
Buried deep. It was a struggle to extricate.
Then Huntley resumed his dance.
He noticed one of his soldiers holding an oiled torch and setting fire to a black flag from the corner of his eye.
Huntley moved swiftly. He hacked the burning flag with his shortsword, grabbed the crew member by the back of his collar, and thrust him against the railing.
“Huntley?” he said with a confused expression.
“My order was to lay no damage to the ship. Only to its crew.” And without another word, Huntley heaved the man and the flaming flag overboard. He watched the ocean swallow them whole. Huntley slapped the railing with a battle-fever-induced laugh, then turned just in time to slide his blood-soaked sword into a man’s fat gut.
The man died with a curse and the name of some poor wench on his lips. Huntley spared a moment to swipe his blade on the side of his shirtsleeves. It was slick, polished with the blood of his enemies.
He surveyed the scene before him, watching his crew cutting down pirates left and right, most of whom had gorged on rum and women minutes before and were ill-ready for battle.
Father, you’d be proud.
Huntley stormed through the ship—took one more life to his left, another to his right—and burst through the wooden door that led below decks and to the cabins.
Loud moaning echoed from below. He followed the sound as the wild battle crashed above him like waves on a beach. Soon, he reached Captain Walsh’s private cabin. One of his men had mounted some poor girl against the wall and was ramming her from behind.
Like a fucking wolf, he thought again. Huntley stalked behind him. He pulled him off and out of the girl. With one swipe, he sliced the man’s throat to the bone. He crumpled in a heap of blood and semen. Huntley turned back to the girl, who was cowering against the wall, her entire body shaking.
“Run, run away fast,” he said to her.
* * *
An hour later, the sun sat low on the horizon where the sea met the sky. Huntley turned away from the glimmering water and faced the pirate and his crew. Corpses of dead men littered the wooden floor; blood leaked from their knife wounds and spilled in red puddles. They mainly were Captain Walsh’s crew, he acknowledged with a satisfactory nod.
Seven of his crew stood around Thomas Walsh, the captain of the Woodcutter—their longswords and daggers drawn. They’d gagged him, and his muffled voice fought to wriggle through the sodden bind.
Huntley placed his palm over the pommel of his shortsword, which was tucked away in its sheath. He crossed the deck with determined strides. He walked through this valley of death and blood, tracking his red footprints across the boards.
The captain tried to speak again. He wrestled the ropes that bound his body together.
