Sailing by Carina's Star, page 44
“Well, give Danso and Abeni my best. Be careful out there, lad.”
“Thank you, Mr. Bell.”
Now. Now, or never.
Jerome steps into view. The sand and the dry, brittle grass crunch beneath his boot heel.
René turns around. His eyes widen.
“Go!” he shouts at Bell. “Run!”
Bell freezes in place. René looks between Bell and Jerome for a fraction of a second before he takes off running, giving Jerome a choice between arresting the tavern owner or chasing him down.
Smart boy.
Jerome chooses the latter, of course, chasing René for only three minutes or so before René slows down, spinning on his heel and drawing his sword. Jerome stops too, unsheathing his own, each of them holding their blades pointed out toward the other. They’re in a small clearing, a sort of sandy circle devoid of the palm trees otherwise surrounding them.
The clouds finally move, a thin stream of moonlight bleeding down the trees and pouring into a puddle on the ground between them. Neither steps into it. The sea crashes onto the shore nearby, and Jerome wonders how close the Saiph is.
Close. She must be close.
René’s gaze darts around. What is he looking for, or who? It’s not long before he focuses on Jerome with that intense, blazing look that hasn’t changed since the day they met. His cutlass is in hand. A pistol is tucked into his sash. Jerome would gamble on there being a knife hidden somewhere. Perhaps Robin Hood’s Devil was always inside René and Jerome just couldn’t see it. His affection for the boy warped his judgment. He should have seen it. He should have stopped this.
“I didn’t know I’d have the pleasure,” René finally says. A smirk plays at his lips. “What are you doing here, Captain Jerome?”
Jerome laughs softly. “You’re more of a fool than I thought.”
René’s smirk slides across his face, smooth and sly. “Please do elaborate.”
He might not be afraid now, but he will be when Jerome’s done with him.
“Coming here.” Jerome takes one step forward. René doesn’t move. “Leaving your den of thieves in Nassau. Where’s Danso?”
René steps forward too, lowering his voice to so faint a whisper that it might have come from the mouth of a coldly furious ghost, there one second and only in Jerome’s imagination the next.
“Danso’s current whereabouts are none of your business.” René draws a line in the grassy sand with the toe of his salt-worn boot. “And if I have anything to say about it, you won’t be coming near him again.”
That is a threat, and Jerome’s certainty that René wouldn’t hurt him cracks.
René moves yet closer, so close that the amused glint in those blue eyes is visible even in the dark. Loose gold tendrils frame his face, making him look childlike, still. Jerome’s always been annoyed at the Lucifer comparisons, but here, alone with the boy on this haunted night, he sees the truth of them. The wind kicks up, bringing the smell of saltwater with it and stirring up fallen pieces of palm tree leaves. Some sailors say that evenings like these bring them nearer to the spirits of everyone the ocean has swallowed up, never to be seen again. Jerome isn’t afraid of ghost stories, but he knows better than to disrespect the sea. The sea made him. It made René. It drew the two of them together.
“Funny isn’t it,” René says, “how we meet over swords again? A bit like the beginning.”
“That child I once knew would revile the man I see now.” Jerome spits the words, each one filled with fury. “He would be ashamed of you.”
Goosebumps crawl up Jerome’s spine as René puts the sizeable bag of coins into his pocket, the jangling noise cutting through the quiet around them.
René shakes his head. “That boy simply had the players mixed up, is all.” His voice goes soft, just for a moment. “He learned.”
“You reckless brat.” Jerome laughs again, the sound acerbic enough that René steps back a tad. “You have always been prone to flights of fancy, and now you play at being a pirate captain just as you played with me when you were a child. Perhaps I should have started worrying when you volunteered to be the pirate the first time. Let me assure you, Captain Delacroix, this is no game.”
“I’m not playing a game. You don’t know me. Not anymore.”
“Know you?” Jerome steps forward one last time, running his cutlass up and down the edge of René’s own. “I have known you since you were five years old.”
“It means nothing.” René’s voice tightens. Something unravels.
“Doesn’t it?”
René’s imperious mask keeps slipping, but he doesn’t move yet, even with Jerome’s sword resting lightly against his own. “I could ask you the same, couldn’t I?”
Jerome ignores the question, stepping to the side and circling René so that he’s forced to move, their swords still pressed together. The dripping moonlight casts René’s face ghostly white when he steps into it, and Jerome sees him more clearly than he did on that day the pirates came for Danso. There’s a scar shot through his eyebrow, faded but still visible, and left, no doubt, by Jerome’s own ring. The silver light glints off the gold buttons of René’s coat, the bright red visible in the dark and the collar half covering a small burn from the sun where René must have neglected to tie his neckerchief. His hands are calloused like any sailor’s. There’s a tiny, u-shaped golden hoop in his ear. He wears a simple necklace as well—a thin, black leather cord with a blue stone hanging from it. His white shirt is clean but worn, a small stain on the ruffle of his right sleeve.
“God, you look like a thief.” Jerome rolls his eyes in disapproval. “Throwing away everything your father ever did for you to become what? A pirate’s protégé?”
René’s grip tightens around his sword.
“Your father will be here any minute.” Jerome speaks in a harsh, lecturing whisper. “And he’ll see what a villain you are. He thinks there’s some sort of redemption for you, even after what he saw that day you rescued Danso. I’ve never seen him so upset. I hope you’re pleased.”
René clenches his jaw. “I don’t care what my father thinks.”
Jerome hears the pinch of grief in René’s voice, latching onto it. He circles around, forcing René closer to a nearby tree.
“You still have no respect for your father,” Jerome seethes, and he isn’t sure how much longer he can keep his temper. “No gratitude for everything you had. What an utter, willful waste of your connections and potential. Did it please you greatly to align yourself with the man I’ve hunted for years? Did you and Danso laugh together with Abeni when you thwarted me? You all grew too bold, René. Leaving me alive on Nassau. Attacking Barbados and rescuing Robins. You should have known better than to come out after we uncovered that black market in Charles Town. Now your web is unraveling and you can’t keep up. I knew it would, one day. I just had to be patient.”
“I’m not a fool, Jerome. I just took a chance.” René’s next words come from low and deep in his chest. “I wanted to do something for Danso and Abeni after everything they’ve done for me, because I know what loyalty is. Friendship. I used to think you knew what those things meant too, but maybe you were always like this and I couldn’t see it.” He swallows something back, taking a deep breath. “Prove me wrong, Jerome. I want you to prove me wrong.”
Jerome snorts. “I have no interest in meeting your stupid expectations, boy. Spare me your righteousness.” Jerome increases the pressure of his sword against René’s, but the intimidation tactic falls flat. “Pardon me if I don’t want to hear talk about loyalty from a boy who abandoned his family.”
Satan slips away, replaced, at least for a moment, by the rash adolescent Jerome last knew. The little boy he met is nowhere in sight.
“Abandoned you, you mean,” René says. “But the truth is you abandoned me without ever leaving Kingston. I was a lonely little boy, once. I trusted you. I loved you. Then my father chose my grandfather’s approval, chose his fear and his peace, over Frantz and me. And so you chose my father over me, in turn. This is barely even about me being a pirate—”
“Trust me,” Jerome cuts in. “It is very much about you being a pirate. Pirates don’t deserve my apologies. They don’t deserve my affection.” He leans in as close as he may with their swords crossed. “Pirates deserve what they get.”
René takes another deep, shuddering breath. One tear falls free. Then another. A smile curls at the edge of Jerome’s mouth. There. This is what he wanted.
Except then, René laughs. Soft. Snide. Sad.
“Deserve what I get,” René says, shaking his head. “You’ve said that before. Well, I’ll repeat what I said then. You deserve what you get too. For hanging pirates like animals in your harbor. For throwing me away as soon as I didn’t do exactly what you wanted. For all of it.”
“You shattered my home, René!” Jerome’s words slice through the air, full of grief he didn’t want to even admit to himself, let alone René. “You broke it. You burned it down. You cut your father open and left him bleeding on the ground, and I’ve been looking out for him ever since. Why don’t you understand what you’ve done, you selfish, ungrateful boy?”
“You’re not sorry I left that house bruised and bleeding! You’re not sorry that my grandfather taught me to hate myself!” René’s shout echoes in the clearing, and his rage could summon storms. “You’re not sorry that Frantz feared for his life and his freedom because of my grandfather’s threats. You’re not sorry you tossed people in the hold of your ship like they were nothing more than boxes of sugar. You were never sorry. You’re not the man I met on my father’s ship that night. What happened to him?”
“I am,” Jerome says, the words stuck in the back of his throat, “who I always was.”
In the midst of his tirade, René's grip on his cutlass has loosened and he isn't protecting himself, too busy looking for some shred of an apology. René won’t let his guard down for long—getting hit frequently enough tends to have that effect. Jerome, through different circumstances, knows the instinct well, but he knows that discipline works. It teaches you things.
And the boy has to learn.
He takes the risk of moving his blade away in a flash before kicking René in the stomach—he almost misses his chance when René's lightning-fast reflexes come back to him just a second too late. René falls to his knees and catches himself on his hands, though he doesn't let go of his cutlass. He attempts to move, but there’s a tree behind him, and Jerome blocks the way forward.
“Uh uh.” Jerome slides the flat of his cutlass beneath René's chin. “Don't move. Let go of the sword.”
René angles his head upward, giving nothing but a searing glare in response. Jerome turns the blade so that the point makes a pinprick cut in the soft flesh. Blood dribbles out. He’ll do this rather than injuring the brat’s hand. He won't damage his student's fingers, not when they haven't even had a chance to truly cross swords yet. René releases his weapon, making a small noise when Jerome kicks it out of reach toward the other side of the small clearing.
“You forgot one of my most important lessons, didn't you?” Jerome asks, returning his cutlass to its original position. “Never allow your enemy to back you into a corner.”
René averts his eyes, hands grasping at the sand beneath. Tension runs down his spine like he might be holding himself back. Keeping control.
“You forget that I came from the gutter you so proudly ran to, René,” Jerome continues, and the sharp edge of his whisper could cut through stone. “You forget that I know these people with whom you allied yourself. I should have spoken to your father about my concerns over your behavior more openly. Perhaps then there might have been some time to save you.”
René doesn’t move. “So your plan is to what? Go along with whatever deal I’m certain my father is attempting to make, and if that fails, attend my execution? Hang my corpse in the harbor and say I knew that boy once? I’m not afraid of that, Jerome.”
René glances again into the darkness, and something about it makes Jerome furious. He doesn’t say what he’s afraid of, but Jerome intends to find out.
“Look at me, René.” Jerome tilts René’s chin upward with his sword, forcing the boy to meet his eyes. “You should be afraid. You will keep your damned mouth shut when the time comes, or everything your father is attempting to do will fall apart. You will be grateful for whatever mercy you’re shown.” His words are calm and collected, but he’s cursing himself for ever having agreed to play pretend that night on Michel’s ship. “You did this. You put yourself in this predicament.”
"You don't care, then?"
“My unfortunate affection for you will not save you from the gallows. I am doing as I am for your father's sake, and I assure you, were he not here, you could not count upon me to save you from the fate you have earned.”
Jerome expects tears. Shouting. What he gets is René staring him down. What he gets is a flash of lightning far off in the distance, though no crack of thunder follows.
What he gets is the Morning Star.
“You should know that I have no interest in sharing a different fate than my friends.” René’s eyes are slits. His voice goes deeper. “But thank you for telling me the truth.”
It’s not the noose he fears, then, Jerome realizes. It’s fear of watching his crew of rogues face execution while he’s forced to stand by.
The sound of muted footsteps cuts off Jerome’s reply. Four sets, he thinks, though there isn’t a moment to consider how to handle both René and those footsteps before there’s a pistol pressed to the back of his head.
“Fancy meeting you here, Captain Jerome.”
Jerome knows that voice. That voice that’s always a hair’s breadth away from a joke even now.
Auden.
A real smile slips onto René’s lips, and Jerome sees why he kept looking out into the clearing. It wasn’t fear or shame. He was waiting for them.
Jerome doesn’t move. “Care to tell me what’s next, Carlisle?”
“I’d like to know what the hell you’re doing here. We all would, actually. Answer fast.”
Jerome stays still, keeping his eyes on René. “I required a word with your captain here. Though we had not yet come to the important matter of where your ship is.”
“The Saiph is just a bit shallower on the draft than the Chase.” That’s Frantz speaking now. “So we may go where you cannot.”
Jerome resists the urge to turn around too suddenly. Auden Carlisle has no love for him, and probably only hasn’t shot him because he knows René does, or at least once did. Meanwhile, René is still armed, even if he’s lost his cutlass. Danso has a code for his crews about not harming those who surrender—Jerome knows that well, maddening as it is—but he doesn’t trust the situation, and he doesn’t know if he can make himself surrender to these brats, if it comes down to it.
Perhaps he shouldn’t have come alone, but it’s too late now.
“It’s barely so, if at all. But then, I wouldn’t put it past pirates to run their ship aground,” Jerome says.
Frantz steps into Jerome’s space. “I know my own ship. Let René go. Now.”
Frantz sounds like Arthur. So much like Arthur. The part of Arthur Jerome could never approve of despite his respect and affection for the man. The rebel.
“Drop the sword and let René go.” Auden echoes Frantz’s words. “Dead men tell no tales, Jerome. Or didn’t you hear?” He cocks his pistol to drive home his point, the sound echoing into the quiet.
Jerome won’t be seen giving in to pirates. Not entirely, at least.
And he’ll have to take a chance that Michel will be here soon.
He does remove his sword from beneath René’s chin, but in the same moment he also jabs his elbow directly against Auden’s ribcage. Auden grunts. The pistol goes flying backward. Jerome spins around just as three more sets of footsteps approach.
Michel. At least, he hopes so, because if it’s more pirates? He’s done for. There are five of them as it is.
Surprising Jerome, René makes straight for Auden rather than running toward his sword, which lays a few feet away on the grassy sand. Auden insists he’s fine in answer to René’s worried are you all right. The five pirates back away toward the direction of the palm trees and the sea, while Jerome inches toward the direction of the tavern—and the footsteps.
A lantern casts an orange glow around the dark clearing, and yes, thank God, it is Michel, along with Brown and Dawson, two men from the Navigator’s crew. They are not, Jerome notes, sailors who knew René and Frantz as boys. These reinforcements allow Jerome a moment to survey the pirates—a luxury he did not have when Auden held a gun to the back of his head. The two less familiar rogues each hold a small crate in their hands, light enough to carry. Jerome recognizes one: the man with the powder flask that René swooped in to defend. René eyes his cutlass laying on the sand, but Michel sees it too, snatching it and placing it in the extra sheath on his shoulder belt.
René, Frantz, and Auden hold their positions, poised to run toward the trees and the sea if they get the chance. Michel, Brown, and Dawson stand next to Jerome. The other two pirates are in between them. Five versus four. Not terrible odds, though Jerome doesn’t like the pirates having an extra man.
The question is, what is their plan?
“Looks like we have a situation here, don’t we gents?” the pirate Jerome recognized asks.
“Eli,” the unfamiliar one with the braid replies, wagging his finger in an exaggerated way. “You don’t want to scare them.”
“I think I do, Marc.” Eli grins at the one called Marc, who winks. “They deserve it, pirate hunters that they are.”
“More of our men will be here in a matter of moments.” Michel finally speaks, setting the lantern down on the ground. “I would like to avoid anyone getting hurt. What’s your game, René?”
