“What the hell!” Devyl ducked as the sea itself rained down on him. Along with a lot of blood and intestines.
He turned to see another ship fast approaching on their starboard side. His gunners struggled to turn their cannons into position for it and reload.
As they made ready to fire, he realized that the ship wasn’t aiming at them. It’d struck its mark.
Devyl grimaced as soon as he saw who it was. “Halt! ’Tis friendly.”
Sort of, anyway. Though a friend should be a little more circumspect than to be firing at them like this.
William groaned out loud as he recognized the ship. “Santiago?”
“Aye. Bugger’s no doubt thinking to lend us a hand.” Devyl grimaced at the slimy chunks of entrails that clung to him. “Would rather he lend me a towel, to be honest.”
William laughed. “Indeed.” Then he sobered as he glanced around at the number of their crew who’d been wounded or “killed.”
It was a sight Devyl could have done without, as it took him back to a past he’d never been particularly proud of. Aye, he’d led his army through untold bloody conquests. Driven by reasons that seemed paltry now, he’d been ruthless as he tore his enemies asunder.
But at least this army wouldn’t stay dead. In fact, their “dead” were already rising up from where they’d fallen. Griping and moaning in colorful alacrity as they returned to physical form and pulled themselves together.
Literally, in some cases.
It was the one benefit they had in serving Thorn. The only way the Deadmen could die again was for something to obliterate their bodies or souls. So long as their flesh remained intact, as well as their souls, they would reanimate.
Fire, axes, and acid, however, could still ruin their days.
Even a vat of piranha could prove a rather grisly end for them.
Hmmm … that gave him a thought for their guest.
He turned toward Bart. “Did we lose anyone, Mr. Meers?”
“Don’t think so, Captain.” He cast an eye toward one of their crew who was slowly healing from death. “Least not permanently.”
Devyl continued to wipe at his face and neck. “Good. Send over some of our best rum to Santiago, with my compliments.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.”
With a determined stride, he headed for William. “Death? Get to our Miss Jack and keep an eye on her. Make sure she stays put and safe. Continue heading us toward land to patch our lady. Keep a weather eye for more attackers.”
Bart drew up short at those words. “You think there are more?”
“I know it.” And with that, he continued on to return belowdecks so that he could make sure Belle hadn’t been injured in the fighting.
If she had …
He’d be bathing these guts off his flesh over a Blackthorn bonfire.
As soon as he entered the small cabin room and Mona saw the expression on his face, she shrank back in terror. And well she should, for he was through playing her games. Worse, he was in too much pain for them. Bile rose into his throat as he seized her wrist and yanked her forward. “Do you know what my people did with zraif?” He used the ancient name they’d given the Blackthorns.
She paled considerably. “Nay.”
An insidious smile curled his lips. “’Tis said sulphur runs through you. Powerful magick is in the root of your hearts and bones. Bones we’d grind into blood potions to protect us during war and for healing any wounds we might incur. Potions we used to commune with our darker gods when we summoned them for wisdom and insight. Or make blood offerings to Mórrígan and Aeron before battle. But the most prized parts?”
She gulped audibly. “W-w-what?”
“Your hearts we’d devour for spells and eyes we’d eat for visions.”
“You’re a monster!”
