“You’re never going to tell her?”
“That I’m actually helping pirates raid trade ships?” She barked a laugh. “It would break her heart. Better she thinks I’m just a windweaver on an honest vessel.” Her fingers clenched on the railing. “Though some days, I wonder if I made the right choice staying here after learning the truth.”
I grimaced, remembering how Van Jagger had spun his lies about a “respectable merchant vessel” to secure her windweaver talents. He’d been so incredibly smug that night. Windweavers were as rare as dragon eggs, and he’d wanted one for years.
“At least the pay is better than any merchant ship.” I shifted, the motion sending a spike of pain through my left hip. The cheap prosthetic ground against the socket, reminding me why I myself endured Viper’s increasingly erratic leadership.
Up here in the clouds, I could almost pretend I wasn’t the disgraced former XO Maximus Blackwood, sentenced to death for a crime I didn’t commit. The wind and altitude kept me safely away from those who might recognize my face and claim the bounty. And each raid brought me closer to affording a proper prosthetic—one that wouldn’t leave me limping and pain-ridden by day’s end.
Ariella nodded. “Five younger siblings don’t feed themselves. And Mother…” She swallowed. “Well, she does her best. But since Father died…”
“You’re doing right by them,” I said firmly. “That’s what matters.”
“Thanks, Reaper.”
A shout pierced the morning calm. I spun around, the telescopic clattering against the railing.
Below, Butcher’s massive frame loomed over Ghost, while a few crew members looked on. Sunlight gleamed off the boatswain’s bald head as he jabbed a meaty finger into Ghost’s chest. The cleaning brush trembled in Ghost’s white-knuckled grip, though his face was pure fury rather than fear.
Damn it. I’d been so caught up in conversation, I hadn’t noticed Butcher skulking around the deck.
“Sorry, Ariella—”
I swung onto the rigging, ignoring her startled look. The thick rope flew under my hands. Halfway down, I caught sight of Butcher’s fingers curling into Ghost’s shirt.
No time for safety.
I released my grip and dropped the remaining distance. Pain exploded through my hip as I landed hard on my right leg, sending sparks of agony up my spine. But I forced myself forward, boots pounding across the deck.
“Butcher!”
The boatswain turned, revealing his trademark sneer. At six and a half feet of pure muscle, he towered over most of the crew. Crude tattoos covered his thick arms—trophies from past victims, if his drunken boasting could be believed.
Ghost’s green eyes darted between us, his face pale beneath those freckles.
“What happened?” I kept my voice level, though my fingers itched to grab Butcher’s meaty throat. My gaze fixed on Ghost,noting how his shirt clung to his chest, water dripping from the hem.
Ghost’s jaw clenched. “He kicked over my cleaning bucket.Accidentally.” His fingers tightened around the brush handle. “When I said something about it, he dumped his breakfast all over the section I just finished.”
Now that he mentioned it, I spotted the grey slop of morning gruel smeared across the freshly-scrubbed planks.
“Pure accident.” Butcher’s lips curved into an oily smile. “Clumsy me. Though if the little rat can’t handle a bit of spillage, maybe he’s not cut out for life on board.” He leaned closer to Ghost, and I could almost smell his rotten breath myself. “Maybe he’d prefer going for a swim in the clouds? Heard ghosts can float.”
Ghost’s shoulders tensed, but he held his ground. Smart lad—showing fear would only encourage Butcher further.
“Look at him, standing there all pristine and proper.” Butcher circled Ghost like a shark. “Bet you’ve never done an honest day’s work in your life, have you, pretty boy? Probably some merchant’s pampered son, who ran away from daddy’s rules.” He spat on the deck. “We don’t need your kind here, contaminating our air with your fancy manners.”
The irony of Butcher accusing anyone else of contaminating the air almost made me laugh. The man hadn’t bathed since we left port.
“Even curses like a proper little lordling.” Butcher’s voice rose to a mocking falsetto. “‘Oh, holy phoenix tails, I’ve stubbed my little toe! Mermaid fins and fairy wings, this brush is so heavy!’”
Ghost’s face flushed crimson, the color spreading to the tips of his ears. His knuckles whitened around the brush handle as he stared at the deck.
“That’s enough, Butcher.” I stepped between them, using my body to force the larger man back. “Don’t you have actual workto do? Or is harassing the only crew member who knows how to properly clean a deck more important?”
Butcher’s face darkened. He’d been gunning for my position since I joined the crew, constantly trying to undermine my authority. The crew respected—feared—my reputation as the Reaper, but Butcher relied on brute strength and intimidation.
“Just teaching the whelp his place.” Butcher’s lip curled. “Someone has to maintain discipline. Unless you’ve gone soft?”
