MB Short Story: The Ideal (Part 2) (Patreon)

Part 1: https://www.patreon.com/posts/66987476 

This has become a twenty page story. I'm now officially writing a pirate novella. Help.

* * * *

“They’ve stopped following us, sir,” Caleb said.

Gray looked over the Vengeance’s rail and to the horizon where the schooner had indeed ceased to move. He no longer needed the spyglass; the schooner was now close enough that he could count its sails, but still far enough away that it was out of cannon range.

The other ship was waiting for nightfall.

Blazes. He’d desperately hoped that Reese had been wrong and that the schooner was exactly what it presented as: a packet ship coming to deliver new orders. But no packet ship would need to wait until it was dark to draw aside.

“Pirates,” Reese declared with an ugly, self-satisfied smile that Gray longed to wipe off his face with the man’s own lilac cravat. What kind of lumpskull wore silk to sea, anyway? “They’re clearly planning to ambush us in the darkness. As I warned you, Captain.” Gray’s title fell from Reese’s lips with vicious sarcasm.

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Gray replied.

He derived a small amount of satisfaction from the way Reese’s smirk flattened at the reminder of his lack of promotion, but Gray had more to be concerned over than getting into a pissing match with his subordinate. Because Reese was right: the schooner was preparing an ambush.

When Gray had been a child, he’d imagined sea battles to be fast and chaotic, a storm of iron and fire flying between two ships. He hadn’t realized how much of naval combat was simply about waiting for the other to ship to make a move. Perhaps other captains might be willing to fire their cannons without confirmation, but that had never been Gray’s way. He refused to attack until he was completely sure that the other ship was a combatant—too many innocent lives had been lost due to misconstrued intentions.

Grayson Black had achieved a reputation in the Royal Navy as the man who never fired the first shot.

But he always fired the last.

“Rudzite, join the rest of the men belowdecks,” Gray instructed. He’d have enough to worry about without Reese getting underfoot and questioning his commands. As Reese begrudging left, Gray addressed the remaining sailors: “Vengeance is too big to go unnoticed, so don’t bother extinguishing the lanterns. We won’t be able to lose them in the dark. Keep your eyes to the sides—they may try to use rowboats to board.”

“Anything else should we do, sir?” Caleb asked, voice trembling.

“We wait for them to approach,” Gray said.

“And after that, sir?”

Gray felt a twinge of pity for the boy, who looked half green with queasy fear. He’d make sure his men were safe, but the details of how he’d do so weren’t precisely something which he could share. No doubt Caleb, and half the other men, thought their new commander was a fool.

“You want to know what happens after the pirates board us?” Gray asked.

Caleb nodded shakily.

“Well, lad,” Gray said, “that’s when we convince them to leave.”

* * * *

Ambrose hadn’t been happy when Nick informed him that he’d be staying behind on The Ideal with the remaining crew. Nick wasn’t quite sure why the man had agreed to become his quartermaster; it certainly wasn’t out of affection as Nick suspected that he grated on Ambrose’s nerves as much as Ambrose grated on his. Nor, to Nick’s knowledge, was Ambrose one of the Witched with no place else to go. Whatever his reasons, Ambrose Kim had proven an adept second-in-command who, much to Nick’s relief, was more than willing to take over the disciplinary aspects of leadership.

“You’ll get yourself killed without me,” Ambrose said flatly. The two men stood on the deck of The Ideal, Nick poised to climb down to the awaiting rowboat.

Nick fluttered his lashes at the surly quartermaster. “Kim, darling, don’t tell me that you care?”

Ambrose’s only reply was a derisive snort.

Nick sighed. “If we don’t return by daybreak, or if the Vengeance starts to turn towards you, then I need someone in charge. Talia insisted on joining us once she learned that Kent was coming, and you’re the only person with the navigational skills to get to Port Unity. If we fail, I need you to warn my family.”

Ambrose’s scowl deepened. “You need more than four men for a boarding party,” Ambrose argued. “Parker can barely handle a pistol, and Alavidze is still getting her sea legs.”

“I’d do this alone if I could,” Nick said seriously. “But I need Sally to identify the man who kills me, and Kent refused to lend me his blasted birds without being there to watch over them.”

“Parker is following to watch over Zarneki, who is only accompanying you in the first place . . . because you need his birds?”

Nick shrugged. “He taught them how to drop a grappling hook over the side of a ship. Makes it easier to board.”

Whatever Ambrose proceeded to mutter in Korean, Nick was almost certain that it wasn’t complimentary.

“We’ve boarded ships a dozen times with parties exactly this size,” Nick pointed out.

“Not warships.”

“There’s a first time for everything.”

“What about the size of the crew? Are you capable of controlling that many men at once?”

Nick hesitated. “I guess we’ll find out.”

* * * *

As Nick anticipated, docking alongside the Vengeance proved to be easy work. Several of the crew members who stayed behind on The Ideal were mind twisters with long enough range to encourage the sailors scanning the waves to look past the rowboat slowly making its way towards their ship. Once alongside the war vessel, Kent instructed his pet parrots, Antigone and Cassandra, to drop the grappling hook over the railing’s edge.

“Good girls,” Kent cooed in a low voice, ushering them from his shoulders to grab onto the grapple’s rope. “Like we practiced, now. I have apple slices once you get back.”

Well, now Nick knew who’d been raiding the ship’s larder for extra fruit. He would’ve rolled his eyes had he not been focused on putting the nearest lookout to sleep. Creating a sense of drowsiness wasn’t easiest, and he didn’t want the suggestion to be so strong that the man tumbled overboard.

“You two stay on the rowboat,” he told Kent and Talia after he’d successfully accomplished his task and the parrots had returned. He turned to Sally, who’d spent the entire row over sitting quietly at the dinghy’s helm with her knees tucked beneath her chin.

“I promise to keep you safe,” he reassured her. “Even so, there’s no need for you to—”

Her head shot up to face him, her eyes blazing with that same fierceness from earlier when he’d chuckled at her misfortune. “I do need to,” she declared. “All my life, I’ve seen people die. I couldn’t stop their deaths, and I was too afraid to even warn them.”

“You can’t blame yourself for that,” Talia protested. “They would’ve locked you up for being Witched.”

“Maybe not,” Sally said. “I’ve never seen my own future.”

“You don’t need to see the future to know what would’ve happened had you spoken up,” Kent said. “The people of my town locked up my mother, and they had no proof that she was Witched.”

“You never told me that,” Talia said. “Was she?”

Kent shrugged.

“My point is that this is the first time that I feel that maybe things can be different,” Sally said. She met Nick’s gaze. “That maybe things can change.”

“I sure as hell hope so,” Nick said in a tone he hoped sounded jovial and carefree. “I’m not quite ready to die.”

“We’re not ready to let you, Captain,” Talia said. “Which is why Kent and I are joining you aboard.”

Nick opened his mouth to protest.

“Don’t,” Kent cut him off. “It’s already decided.”

“We agreed back on the ship,” Talia said. “Kent can help you beat people up, and I’ll be there for moral support.”

Kent nodded.

Nick’s eyes prickled. Not with tears, though. He was a pirate captain, damnit, and pirate captains didn’t get maudlin and weepy over displays of loyalty. No, the sea air was just . . . really salty tonight. It stung his eyes.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Well, we can’t risk leaving the rest of the crew with Rosy in charge,” Talia replied, smirking. “They’d mutiny within a week.”

* * * *

The pirates certainly had a flare for dramatics, Grayson acknowledged.

The four of them had strode, casual as all be, to where he stood with Caleb at the helm. A woman whose skin melted into the darkness let out a merry laugh upon seeing whatever horrified expression was no doubt on Caleb’s face; her companion, a man so pale that he practically glowed, kept his pistol pressed against the back of a very disgruntled-looking Antonio.

Antonio wasn’t even supposed to be above deck. Gray had stationed the gunner below; no doubt Reese had countermanded his order and told Antonio to keep an eye on the captain. Much to Antonio’s clear dismay given his shocked expression, none of the crew attempt to rescue their comrade, whom the pirates had clearly been caught snoozing on watch. Gray wasn’t certain if their obedience stemmed from respecting his command that they not fire the first shot, or simply because no one much cared for Guerra.

A third pirate stood protectively in front of a short woman, and it was this third pirate that caught Gray’s attention. For one, he wore the biggest hat with the longest feather, which Gray knew to be a status symbol among pirates (not unlike in the British navy, if truth be told). The big-hatted pirate was likely the leader. But there was something else . . . something about the way that the pirate didn’t bother to scan his surroundings, as if he instinctively knew where each sailor was positioned on deck.

Like recognizes like, Gray’s father had often said, although the old man had used the saying to refer to the way that those he considered to be “ill-bred social climbers” could never “fool the upper crust” into seeing them as equals. There was a kernel of truth to the saying, however. Like did at times recognize like, and Grayson recognized within the pirate a secret, shameful similarity.

He only hoped that the pirate wasn’t as keen as observer.

“This one’s got gold buttons, Captain!” the laughing woman crowed.

The tall pirate turned to the short woman. “Is it him?”

She nodded, red curls shining like molten copper in the lanternlight.

The pirate turned towards Grayson. He took off his oversized hat with its garish feather and swooped into a deep, mocking bow.

“A pleasure to meet you, my lord,” the pirate said. “Tis a lovely night to die, is it not?”

* * * *

So, this was the man destined to kill him.

Nick was not impressed.

The Vengeance’s captain looked as if he were the type to take umbrage at the concept of enjoyment. It wasn’t his physical appearance that gave the impression, but rather the man’s posture. He stood with the same rigid formality as did Ambrose, with a stiffness that advertised the stick up the stander’s ass.

As for looks, well, Nick’s mother would have likely called the Brit handsome. The man’s features were patrician and his hair neatly tied in a short queue; everything about him was almost too neat and polished, from the shine of his boots to the fact that his jacket was buttoned up all the way to the collar (with gold buttons, as Talia had pointed out). Why not at least dress comfortably while at sea? Were it not for the small scar and golden gleam of scruff at the Brit’s jaw, Nick would’ve doubted the man to be human.

“My name is Captain Black,” the man said, “and I’m not a lord.”

Nick’s brows shot up. “’Scuse me?”

“You called me a lord,” Black said genially. “My family is not, in fact, nobility.”

“Sorry about that, my lord,” Nick replied, darkly amused by the fact that of all the things Black could have objected too—their illicit boarding, the fact that Kent had a gun to his crewman’s back—he’d been bothered most by impropriety of address. “Can never tell who’s called what with you British types.”

“Be as it may,” Black said, “might I inquire what you’re doing aboard my ship?”

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” squawked the annoying man who Kent held at gunpoint. “They’re pirates!”

“My crew is not, in fact, pirates,” Nick said, echoing Black’s early phrasing. “We’re privateers. Received approval from Madison himself.” He replaced his hat on his head, taking a moment to straighten out the ostrich feather plume. “Now, onto business. My name is Nicholas Wiseman, and I’ve come to kidnap me.”

“How flattering,” Black said. “You do realize that we have you outnumbered?”

Nick grinned. “Do you, now?”

There was thump as a body hit the deck. Followed by another thump, and then yet another. Thirty thumps in all as, one by one, Black’s crew stationed atop Vengeance’s deck fell unconscious to the ground and the only people who remained standing were Nick’s crew, Black, the sailor Kent held onto, and the trembling boy standing beside Black. Nick knew his mental push wouldn’t be fatal, although he suspected the sailors would all have a splitting headache upon waking.

It was a headache which Nick already possessed. Usually, he boarded vessels with his entire crew. One small display of power, maybe knocking pit the captain and first mate, and the rest of the merchant ship were usually so terrified that they helped load their own cargo onto The Ideal. Nick had never put down thirty men before; he’d never needed to.

“Don’t bother calling for reinforcements,” Nick warned, ignoring the way that his pulse thrummed in his temples and his brain screamed with agony so loud that it ricocheted around his skull. “I’ll only send them to sleep as well.”

“Your nose is bleeding,” Black noted.

Nick tensed as the Brit reached into his jacket, only to blink in surprise when he withdrew a crisp white handkerchief and offered it forward.

“Is this your flag of surrender?” Nick asked glibly.

“Of course not.” Black’s voice was calm. Too damn calm, given the circumstances. “But there’s no need to be inhospitable. We can discuss the terms of your departure like gentlemen.”

Something was off. Most men in Black’s position, when faced with proof of Nick’s ability, would’ve already wet their britches. Nick reached out towards the other captain, listening.

Ohgodohgodohgodohgod. They’re witches. Ohgodohgod. I’m going to die.

Those thoughts clearly belonged to the cowering sailor next to Black.

Reese was right, they’re more powerful than we know. What the hells is the captain doing offering one a handkerchief?

That anger came from the sailor they’d captured. Pushing past the cloud of pain that was already beginning to dim his vision, Nick stretched further, harder, and encountered . . .

A wall.

Black smiled, his teeth flashing sharp and white in the moonlight, and Nick knew. Perhaps if he hadn’t just knocked out thirty men, he might be able to break through Black’s barrier and discover exactly what his abilities were. But forcing into the mind of another Witched took effort, and right now he could barely keep himself from toppling over like the men he’d so recently put out of commission.

Nick felt someone move beneath his right arm, boosting him up and helping him stand upright. Sally’s head only hit his shoulder, but she slipped her arm around his waist and held on with surprising strength. A weary smile spread across Nick’s face. How hubristic of him to assume she needed his help to become a pirate, when . . .

“I won’t be cursed!”

The scream tore through Nick’s mind with such venom and volume that it took him a moment to realize that the sailor had shouted the words aloud as well. He saw a flash of silver as the sailor jerked away from Kent, his sudden movement causing Kent to slip on the slick deck.

Kent’s gun clattered to the ground.

Talia lunged for the weapon, but the sailor was faster. He pointed the gun towards Nick with trembling hands.

“I won’t be cursed,” he repeated, and pulled the trigger.

* * * *

Part 3: https://www.patreon.com/posts/67023372