MB Short Story: The Ideal (Part 3, The End) (Patreon)

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

Part 2: https://www.patreon.com/posts/66993837 

* * * *

Damn Antonio and his reckless behavior.

Grayson was too far away to stop the bullet from firing. He watched the gunner pull the trigger of the dueling pistol as if in slow motion, with only enough time to step in front of Caleb should one of the pirates choose to shoot back after their captain was killed. His hand drifted towards his own sidepiece, prepared for the worst.

He didn’t expect the empty click.

Three of the pirates, the two women and Nick, broke into raucous laughs while the pale pirate smiled slightly.

“He thought he could shoot you!” the dark woman gasped before dissolving into another fit of giggles.

Nick smiled weakly. “As if we needed loaded guns.”

With an enraged snarl, Antonio flung the empty pistol over the ship’s side. His hands scrambled towards his boot, and the short woman gasped.

“Look out!” she cried. “He has a—”

This time, Grayson was prepared. He was on the move before the word “knife” left her lips, his hand firmly seizing Antonio’s wrist and twisting upwards.

“Go below, gunner,” he ordered. “Take Caleb with you.”

“But sir!”

Gray tightened his grip until Antonio winced. “Go. Below.”

* * * *

Nick waited until the two British sailors had left before speaking up. Despite Black’s promise to negotiate, he had no doubt that reinforcements would soon arrive. Nick didn’t think he could subdue however many men lay in wait belowdecks, their unsettled minds and panicked thoughts too numerous for him to count.

“You seem reasonable, my lord,” he told Black. “I appreciate that in a host.”

“Host or hostage?” Black inquired in a dry tone.

“It is your ship.”

“Yet the only ones standing are your men.”

“Right.” Nick hadn’t expected things to go like this. How was he supposed to shoot Black through the heart when the man was being so annoyingly civil? He'd anticipated being able to look into Black’s mind and hopefully discover whatever motivation he had for Nick’s death. A little tweaking to Black’s psyche, a little erasure, and Nick’s family would be safe. Barring that, Nick had expected resistance, that Black would draw his gun and thus give Nick an excuse to shoot back before being shot.

Instead, the Brit was practically daring Nick to shoot him in cold blood. Ambrose might have been capable of such a thing, but Nick . . .

Nick wasn’t.

“We know that you have more men below,” Nick said. “The conversation I want to have with you is somewhat sensitive in nature. So, my lord, I’d be obliged if you’d come with us.”

“I must decline your invitation.”

“Aye,” Nick said. “I figured you’d say as much.”

The light from the lanthorns on the Vengeance’s stern swayed with the gentle roll of the ship; with the night watch down and sails drawn, they drifted to the whims of the waves. Talia tilted her head back to gaze at the stars, calculating exactly how far they’d have to row  to return to The Ideal. Nick couldn’t see Sally’s expression, but her hold around his waist tightened even as his knees threatened to unlock.

He nodded to Kent, who strode towards Black with a flinty expression that spoke of his determination to redeem himself after having been earlier caught off guard by Antonio. Black didn’t move but rather waited for Kent to draw near. Again, Nick felt that same sense of knowing. He reached out to Black’s mind, pushing, pressing, prying, shoving through the pain that cracked his skull in twain, and forcing his thoughts to brush against the other captain’s.

Black winced, his attention refocusing on Nick. “Stop that,” he commanded, and for the first time Nick was able to hear a whisper of the man’s thoughts.

Don’t make me do this, Black thought.

“Kent, hold up,” Nick ordered. 

Kent threw him a disgruntled look but halted. “Captain?”

“Something’s off,” Nick said. If only he could break fully through Black’s mental barriers and understand what type of Witched the other man was, than maybe he could—

Bang.

Heat seared through Nick’s shoulder. He glanced down to see a dark stain blossoming over his shirt. Pain followed, rivaling that already present in his head.

He’d been shot.

* * * *

“Stand down, Lieutenant!” Gray shouted.

Reese stood outside the main hatch. Unlike Antonio, his hand didn’t shake as he clutched the smoking flintlock. The acrid scent of gunpowder lingered in the air, and it took all of Gray's hard-earned control to restrain himself from smacking his subordinate over the head. Firing a gun on the ship’s deck at nightfall when the lanterns burned was sheer idiocy. What if Reese’s shot had gone astray? Four pirates, Gray could’ve easily handled by himself. He didn’t need Reese blowing up the entire bloody ship.

He heard one of the women cry out. He spared a quick glance at the pirates before returning his attention to Reese: Wiseman’s body crumpled against the shorter pirate, and the pale man—Kent, Wiseman had called him—rushed over to help her. Gray’s eyes met Reese, and he was appalled to discover that the lieutenant was smirking.

“Stand down,” Gray repeated harshly.

Reese continued to point his pistol at Wiseman, who was now bolstered by two members of his crew. 

“They’re Witches, sir,” he said as if that justified manslaughter.

“I won’t order you again, Lieutenant,” Gray said. “Stand down, or I’ll see you court martialed.”

Reese hesitated, the muzzle of his gun dipping ever so slightly down. Gray’s temporary relief transformed to anger when the man shook his head and pointed the gun at only pirate not occupied with holding up Wiseman.

“They’re witches, sir,” Reese repeated.

“I’m not Witched, you twit,” the woman snapped. “But if our captain dies, I’ll make you wish that the only thing I’d done was curse you.”

Bang.

Reese pulled the trigger again. 

Gray couldn’t see the bullet—it was too dark, the shot too fast—but, given his position between Reese and the pirates, he knew that the metal ball would need to pass by him in order to reach its target. He stretched out his hand.

Outside of fairy tales, Grayson had never heard of anyone who could do what he did. It was the reason he’d had no trouble going undetected, despite obtaining a prominent position in the Navy. No one imagined that one of the Witched could move things without touch, and thus, on the rare occasion that he’d used his powers in front of someone during battle, they’d dismissed his actions as their own mind playing tricks. Gray wasn’t reckless (he had no desire to be thrown in Bedlam with other Witched), but nor was he willing to let another person die rather than risk his own exposure.

He couldn’t see the bullet, but he could feel it when he focused. He could feel everything when he focused: it was as if the air suddenly had weight.

As a child, he’d tried explaining it once to his mother, the only other person who know about his ability. At the time, he’d compared the sensation to swimming through a syllabub (which had made his mother laugh and accuse him of being obsessed with dessert). But it was still how Grayson thought of the state he entered: the space around him took on weight and thickness, but he could still move through it. Moreover, he could make other things move (or stop moving) by wiggling the space around it.

The instant that the bullet passed within six inches of his hand, Gray trapped it within the metaphorical syllabub. Suspended in the thickened air, the silver ball lingered midair before he closed his fingers around it and dropped it into his coat pocket.

Reese stared at him with wild eyes, his mouth opening and closing with horror, his expression mirrored by Caleb and Antonio whose heads peered out from over hatch. Gray sighed. One testimony, he could claim was delusional and bitter over being passed over for promotion. But three men had just witnessed him stop a bullet mid-shot . . . to protect a pirate, of all things.

Sometimes, Grayson Black truly hated being a good man.

* * * *

“Very well,” Captain Black said. “I’ll accompany you.”

Sally wanted to snarl at the bastard. Nick’s grip on her shoulder was heavy, even with Kent’s assistance in keeping him upright, and it had been Black’s man that had fired! She hated Black and the shooter both equally. But there was a third guilty party. What if, by sharing her vision with Nick, she’d been the reason that his death came sooner than otherwise?

If Nick died tonight, Sally would be the one to blame. She should never have told Nick about her vision, but she’d been weak and tired of holding everything in all by herself. For once, she’d wanted to share with someone else the crushing weight of responsibility that came with peering into the future. She'd crumbled.

As for Black . . . well, Black had also saved Talia, albeit in a way that Sally didn’t comprehend and would’ve extensively questioned had her captain not been in danger of exsanguinating to death aboard an enemy vessel.

“Black is our only option,” Kent muttered, low enough that Brits couldn’t overhear him. “We can’t take cover from bullets while carrying the captain.”

“Why the hell wasn’t your gun loaded?” Sally hissed, wondering if she could hate Kent as well. If she hated enough people, maybe there wouldn’t be any loathing left over for herself.

“I don’t like guns,” Kent said. “Never have.”

Nick let out a watery cough, and they both fell silent. “I accept your surrender, Captain Black,” he rasped, and Sally's heart clenched upon realizing that he was attempting to smile through the pain.

The blond newcomer still held onto his pistol, although Sally was relieved to see that he had taken to pointing it at Black instead of at one of her crewmates.

“I wouldn’t recommend it,” Black said, appearing unfazed by the muzzle aimed at his face.

The blond sailor’s hand quivered on the pistol's grip; he reached up with his other hand to steady his hold. “Witch,” he hissed at Black. “I should’ve known.”

Black ignored him and walked towards Sally and Kent, who continued to hold Nick between them. Nick felt even heavier now, his knees given out beneath him.

“May I?” Black asked gently.

Sally hesitated before reluctantly allowing Black to take her place beneath Nick’s left arm. The truth was that she was on the verge of collapsing herself, having been struggling to hold Nick upright ever since he’d put down the Vengeance’s topside crew.

“There’s a pistol in my coat pocket,” Black told her in calm voice. “Take it.”

This time, Sally acted without delay. She retrieved the flintlock from Black’s jacket, feeling empowered for the first time as her fingers wrapped around its enameled pearl grip. Next time they boarded an enemy vessel, if there was a next time, she’d insist that Nick allowed her to carry a weapon.

“Should Lieutenant Rudzite reload, fire a shot at the nearest lantern,” Black instructed.

“That’s near the powder stock!” squealed one of the heads peeking out from the hatch. “You’ll set the whole ship aflame!”

“Apologies, Caleb,” Black called back as he and Kent hoisted Nick to a full stand. “You should pop back down and begin organizing a fire brigade. In case Lieutenant Rudzite decides to act rashly.”

The protester disappeared inside the ship. Despite Black’s threat, the blond sailor didn’t lower his gun. Sally cocked her pistol and directed it towards the lantern. The sailor blanched.

“You wouldn’t,” he said.

“You shot my captain,” Sally retorted. “Try me.”

* * * *

They made it back to the pirates’ rowboat without incident, Reese having decided that, although perhaps willing to sacrifice the lives of the crew, he wasn’t quite ready to risk his own as the person closest to the explosion should the short pirate—Sally, she said her name was—return fire.

“They’ll aim the cannons at your ship,” Gray told the pirates. “As soon as we’ve boarded, your crew needs to ready the sails to escape.”

The other female pirate grinned at him. “They’d have to see us first to know where to fire,” she said. “We left some people back on board who can make sure that doesn’t happen.”

Wiseman groaned from where he lay flat on the rowboat’s bottom. “Love my crew," he slurred. "Sohvi’ll need to patch me up. You all did so good. I’m . . .” He broke off in a groan.

“He’s losing too much blood,” Kent said, quickening the pace at which he turned the oars. “Talia, how long until we make it back?”

Talia squinted into the distance, where The Ideal was still no more a thumb-sized speck. “An hour at most."

No one spoke, all knowing that Wiseman wouldn’t last that long.

“I can try to stop the bleeding," Gray said.

Truthfully, Grayson wasn’t certain he possessed the finesse to knit back skin and sinew. But the alternative was to not try at all, and there was no way of knowing what his reception on The Ideal would be if he allowed their captain to perish. Not to mention that it simply wasn’t in Gray’s nature to sit by and let someone die. His blasted better nature was why he was in this mess in the first place, crowded onto a rowboat with four pirates and two parrots that kept pecking at his sleeves as if expecting treats hidden up his cuffs.

“You want to save Nick your magic hands?” Talia asked. “Seems suspicious.”

“Unless one of you is a surgeon, in which case you’d have already staunched his wound, my ‘magic hands’ are the only hope your captain has of surviving until he can be properly attended,” Gray said. “Let me help, or let him die. It’s your choice.”

Wiseman’s eyes had fluttered closed. Sally cradled his head in her lap, her fingers resting against his lips to ensure that he was still breathing.

“Do it,” she said.

* * * *

Black’s hands rested upon Nick’s wounded shoulder, blood seeping through his fingers and his face taunt with concentration. To someone without knowledge of what had occurred, and without understanding the bizarre feats which Grayson Black was capable, the scenario looked for all extents and purposes as if he were preventing an injured Nick from rising to seek help.

It looked like the scene of a murder.

To Sally, the scene was painfully familiar.

The setting was a rowboat instead of Port Unity's dock, and no ships were on fire in the background (although, admittedly, Sally had been tempted to shoot at the Vengeance’s lantern just as payback for Nick’s injury). Everything otherwise was identical to her vision, except that Sally could still feel Nick’s breath ghost against her fingertips. He was, for now, still alive.

Black removed his hands off Nick’s chest to reveal skin that looked ugly and raw: not healed, but only roughly fused together. A stained bullet hovered above the closed wound; Talia snatched it from the air.

“Captain might want this as a souvenir,” she said lightly. She looked at Black, her expression more worried than her voice let on. “He’ll survive?”

“Provided you have a capable surgeon back at your ship?” Black replied. “I believe so.”

Talia broke into a wide, albeit somewhat wobbly, smile. “Sohvi’s the best.”

“I can’t be sure that I connected everything properly,” Black warned. “She’ll likely need to cut him open again to check.”

“His breathing seems easier,” Sally said. “Steadier.”

“Then let us pray for the best.”

* * * *

The worst thing about having been shot wasn’t the pain. It wasn’t even the fact that he’d almost died.

No, Nick concluded as The Ideal pulled into Port Unity and he spotted the faces of his family beaming from the crowded dock. The worst part of being shot was worrying his mother. 

Ambrose, the bastard, had written to his sibling informing Button of his injury. Why was the man found it appropriate to correspond with Nick’s relatives was beyond him, but he hadn’t been in a position to protest during these last two weeks, having been delirious with fever from Grayson’s brute force surgery.

Nick’s life had been saved thanks to the Brit, but now he was faced with reassuring his parents that, yes, he was alright, and no, being a privateer truly wasn’t usually that dangerous, and maybe he’d consider coming home more often.

As to vising more frequently, he’d do so if only to make sure that the Vengeance never docked there. Sally hadn’t had any other visions regarding the ship, but Nick was determined that she meet his family so that if anything bad were headed their way, she’d foresee the danger and give him time to return. And this was, as he’d testily informed a clearly disbelieving Talia, the only reason why he wanted Sally to meet his family.

“It must be nice to return home,” Grayson said. His expression was in equal parts contemplative and morose, and Nick felt yet another stab of guilt over his part in upsetting the man's life. Although, in Nick's personal opinion, a little freedom was exactly the thing that Gray needed.

The Brit had accepted the position of The Ideal’s First Mate with grace, despite it being a demotion from his former captaincy. His only stipulation had been The Ideal only go after merchant ships that Gray deemed “deserving targets.” Nick had agreed to the condition, since the man’s ability (or, as Talia continued to refer to it, his “magic hands”) was too valuable to lose.

It wasn’t as if the man could ever go back to England, given what his crew had witnessed. Nick still wasn’t sure what had motivated Gray to sacrifice everything to save the life of a stranger, nor did he yet believe that they were close enough for him to ask Gray that question. Perhaps someday, but not yet.

“The people here aren’t afraid of different,” Nick settled on saying. “Not the way the rest of the world is.”

“WELCOME BACK, NICK-NACK!”

Nick grinned as his sibling’s loud holler rang in from the docks. “Think on it,” he told Grayson. “Every seadog needs to retire someday. Port Unity could be your home as well.”