Zayan studies it, brow furrowed. “And what do we do with it?”
“We use it to call whatever’s replaced it.”
I already start to leave. There’s too much to do, preparations to make before we even think of calling up one of her beasts. But Gypsy’s voice cuts through my thoughts.
“Wait a moment.” She raises a hand, blocking my path. “It’s the first I’m hearing about the Lady ruling over animals. Her beasts? Don’t you think you should explain a bit more?”
The flicker of irritation flares into something hotter, sharper. I clench my fists, feeling the muscles in my shoulders tighten as my jaw locks. There’s a part of me that wants to snap, to tell her that I don’t owe her any explanations. The Lady’s creatures aren’t bedtime stories. I didn’t sign up to walk these people through the horrors I’ve seen.
But fuck… Fuck!
“Take your hand off me, Captain,” I grit out, the words edged with warning. She pauses, her gaze lingering just long enough to make it clear she’s weighing her options, then drops her hand. And maybe that’s exactly why I decide to share what I know.
“For all I know, her beasts vary in species,” I say, the words hard, clipped. “There’s no one-size-fits-all. She creates them for specific tasks—creatures that cut through hulls, capsize ships, track blood in the water like hounds. They take no sides but hers.” I lean in, letting my voice drop lower. “Unless you make them.”
Gypsy’s face pales, but her gaze doesn’t waver. “And this thing… it’ll make them? Why?”
A harsh, humorless laugh escapes me. “It’ll make just one beast obey. And just once. Why? Who knows? A shaman claimed that when one of her creatures dies, she creates another. But if you’ve got the rune the last one bore, you can make the new one heed your call—just once. That’s all.”
Her gaze shifts to Zayan, his eyes narrowing, and then back to me. “So we’re summoning another… whale?”
“Exactly that,” I reply.
Her expression shifts, caught between grim acceptance and a faint undercurrent of dread. “Then it’s bound to be massive.”
“Yes. That’s why we have preparations to make.”
This time, as I turn, she doesn’t stop me.
When we reach the deck, the chaos is impossible to miss. It bleeds through the air like the stench of rot. Groans, curses, half-spoken commands—they’re a dissonant chorus against the rhythm of the waves. Crew members stumble about like half-drunk fools, their eyes dull, yet wary. They don’t look at me. No, they look at her, and every gaze is filled with the questions they don’t dare voice.
A few of the braver ones approach Gypsy, throwing up reports like offerings, each worse than the last.
“They’re gaining, Captain,” one mutters, voice trembling just enough to betray him. .
“Won’t be long ’til they’re in cannon shot range,” another pipes up, voice a notch steadier but no less fearful.
Gypsy nods sharply, her gaze already set on our new plan. I catch her gaze—a flash of something unspoken passing between us. She’s got her role to play, and I’ve got mine.
“You lot, get the cannons ready,” she orders, her voice low but commanding. “The rest, follow us. We have a task to do.”
Before long, the men get to it, gathering up the thick rope and weaving it into a fishnet with the whalebone at the center. That rope, in turn, stretches out and knots at key points across the ship: the mast, the railings, even the prow. It’s secured everywhere we’ll need it.
In theory, it should work. It’s just enough to keep us from capsizing when a creature of that size takes hold, to keep the net—and us—from snapping under the strain. In practice, I know damn well that iron bolts would hold better than half of these knots. But there’s not enough time. The Marauders can’t get close enough.
All I can do, is shout at the top of my lungs, “Bolt the rope wherever you can!”
But before anyone can heed my order, the first round of cannonballs roar into the air.
“Fuck!” Gypsy yells, turning her head so fast, she nearly loses her balance. The cannonballs slam into the water just shy of the stern, sending sprays of icy saltwater over the deck. The men stumble, some crying out as they shield themselves.
Gypsy grits her teeth, face set like iron. “Hurry up, damn it!” she snarls, her voice slicing through the noise, leaving no room for hesitation. “Rancour! Do the damn thing!”
I stride toward the net without a second’s hesitation. It’s a monstrous, cumbersome thing, heavy as a dead weight—and with the ropes, it takes more than one man to even think of lifting it.
“Cagney!” I bellow, my hands already gripping the ropes. “Get over here!”
Zayan doesn’t waste a beat. He’s by my side, his hands latching onto the ropes, and together we haul the net into position, working in sync even as cannon fire hisses through the air behind us. Somewhere along the way, Vinicola pops up beside us, helping detangle loose strands that tangle with items on deck.
