Page 142 of The Worst of Them

“You are,” he said, his tone leaving no space for dispute. “If we are to be cursed, then you will prove not all curses overcome us. Your sickness was unfortunate but not without convenience. You’re a cunning little snipe, so surely you can see this from my side.” He pulled his gaze back to the sea. “Make them hope, and this journey will be slightly more bearable.”

She couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to this. He wanted to separate her from Jack—but for what purpose? To convince Jack he was better without her?

Or perhaps her paranoia was merely the beginning of this haunting.

No matter their objections, it was a command both she and Jack would be compelled to follow. They wouldn’t argue—not when so many lives hung in the balance.

So, terrified but hiding it well, they obeyed.

34

THE CAPTAIN’S FAVOR

Being haunted was an exercise in patience as it turned everyone into their worst selves.

The men were heated, the women were snappy, and then there were those who stared at nothing and would have refused to rise from bed were it not for Copson or Jack barking commands at all hours.

Even Hester had taken to walking around with her cleavers, glowering at everyone. Cecily had managed to get her to put them away for twenty minutes, during which Hester had broken down in tears with a newfound regret over killing her first husband.

Even Greyson, gentle giant that he was, always looked seconds away from hurling someone overboard. Hester said it was because he dwelled on memories of parents who’d abandoned him at the docks as an adolescent. He’d struggled to learn, and his family thought lowly sailors might find more use for him, sparing them the embarrassment of having such a son. He heard those words again, as clearly as though they were spoken aloud, and Cecily often saw him with tears in his eyes.

When she learned of his past, she felt gutted for having called him an idiot after Hester was nearly killed in that first raid. She made a point to tell him so. He hadn’t said much—he’d only thrown a heavy arm around her shoulders in an awkward hug, mumbled, “S’alright,” and then lumbered off.

More of the crew began hallucinating—some heard voices or saw things that weren’t there, and it threatened to drive them to madness. For Cecily, the blood never left her hands. Sometimes it was a stain, and other times it ran thick enough to drip from her fingertips, reminding her of her past, her present, and the future she was unsure of as the threat of death loomed over all of them.

The haunting only grew worse with each day that passed.

Wet sails and a few barnacles became stinking, sandy mud piled in the corners of every deck, swords patched with bits of coral, and starfish and anemones stuck to pillows, blankets, and boots. Everything reeked of ocean decay, and not even the warming drums could thwart the pervasive chill, even though it was the middle of July.

She saw little of the night crew and even less of Jack. While he captained the ship, she shivered in their bed despite the blankets they’d both piled there. The extra covers weren’t enough even when she dressed in her thickest clothing and wore her red coat.

When the temperature had started to drop, she’d spent long minutes staring at the garment in the armoire, mulling over the rush of feelings it brought. Blood dripped over her fingers as she remembered Morgyn wearing it and all that had come after. Regardless, she put it on. And though she didn’t feel particularly good about it—she didn’t feel good about anything, really—she would wear confidence as she played her part, just as Copson had asked.

Every day, all day, she pretended to be carefree and unafraid. The day crew was never the wiser that she was so disturbed that she spent a good portion of each night retching into a bucket or silently screaming into her pillow. In those moments, the ship seemed to mimic her, creaking and whining to protest their constant, punishing speed.

But the Fortuna Royale held together, as did they all.

A week after Copson split the crew, Cecily brought him lunch.

She’d started doing it as less of a kindness and more of a respite as the haunting progressed. The captain seemed like the only unflappable man she saw during the day, and she supposed if she was brave enough to approach him by herself, everything else might seem less intense.

He also never left the helm, so she couldn’t tell how he was staying fed. Since he was steering the ship and wielding magical stones of unspeakable power, she’d rather him be alert.

As she mounted the quarterdeck around noon, she slapped a piece of dried meat into Copson’s open palm. She wore a pair of black leather gloves now, partly to avoid the chill but mostly to ignore her bloody fingers.

“You look tired,” he said. He always greeted her with an insult, which she chose to interpret his way of thanking her.

“You look haggard,” she replied without missing a beat.

This earned a rough chuckle. Copson was more of an ally than he’d ever been, and they’d managed to have a pleasant conversation once or twice—meaning neither of them insinuated through tone or threat that the other’s absence would be preferred.

He was still unaware that she knew of his life beyond piracy, and it was in moments like these when she struggled most to keep it to herself. When he insulted her, she occasionally longed to snap back with a smart, spiteful remark.

Are you an ass as a gentleman too? Or is your shit demeanor unique to piracy?

Though tempting, she never said such things to his face.

On the deck below, several pirates huddled around the warming drums. Their eyes were shadowed, their faces gaunt and pale as they shivered against the wind. One looked up at her, and she offered a smile. He smiled back, then huddled closer to the fire.