“More than I care to think about.” Cameron cleared her throat as more embarrassment filled her. “Some are not as circumspect as they should be.”
“Yet you’ve never been curious?” Valynda arched a straw brow.
“Not with what’s walked through the door of me tavern. They were all welcome to keep their fruits and nuts planted firmly in their breeches.”
They all burst into laughter.
Still, Cameron couldn’t refrain from allowing her thoughts to wander toward a couple of the men sailing aboard this ship that the others had mentioned earlier. Unlike the patrons of the Black Swan, the crew here were a different breed.
A much finer, more handsome group she’d never seen confined in one place. The ladies were right about that. The Deadmen definitely stood out as if hand-selected for their exceptional forms.
Which made her curious about something else.…
“Are all of you really dead?”
“Aye,” Belle said, sobering. “Every last one of us. The only living creatures here are you and the ship, herself. To our knowledge, Lady Marcelina never perished. She alone retains her lifeblood.”
“Even Kalder?”
Sancha nodded. “He was gutted. There’s a vicious scar on his belly what shows where his enemies slit him good.”
“But it be the scar on his soul that continues to bleed.”
Belle scoffed at Janice’s words. “’Tis the scars on all our souls that continue to bleed, sister.” She turned her dark gaze to Cameron. “Even our fair Miss Jack. I feel her pain. It reaches out to me and twists like a dagger in me heart. She has her own secrets that she keeps, and it’s not just her brother what haunts her.”
Cameron’s jaw dropped that the woman would guess something that she’d have sworn she was keeping quite private. “How do you know that?”
An esoteric smile curved her lips. “No one hides from me, love. I see everything. Even the fact that you haven’t been completely honest with the captain.”
“What?”
“Are you going to deny it?”
Cameron wasn’t sure what to say. “I’m not hiding anything.” But even as she spoke, she knew it was a lie.
Worse? So did Belle.
* * *
Devyl listened to the creaking of the boards and to the whispers of things he wished he couldn’t hear. To the voices of the aether that never left him alone.
Ironic really, since he’d sold his soul long ago for the ability and powers to tap into the very things that now irritated him.
Or perhaps it was justice that he was tortured by them.
“You dared to call for me?”
He looked up from the book he was reading to the shadowed corner where his old enemy peered at him. “You dare take that tone?”
Thorn scoffed as he stepped into the light. Though he wasn’t quite as tall as Devyl, he was still a well-muscled bastard who would intimidate most. But then, Devyl wasn’t most, and the two of them had never been particularly friendly.
Indeed, they’d once battled hard against each other. Their armies had waged a bloody, devastating war on opposite ends of an intestine-laden field. It was so odd to peer into those frigid green eyes without a battle helm framing them. To sit peacefully in the presence of a being he’d once sworn to see dead at his feet.
Much had changed. Instead of ancient ringed armor, Thorn was dressed in a fashionable brocade coat and buckled shoes. Hell, he even wore a powdered wig over his brown hair.
How fucking off.
But then, Devyl was a long way from his warrior’s cloaked armor, too. His braids were gone, as was his thick black beard and philosopher’s paint. Nor did he brandish his twisted runic staff.
