Page 126 of The Worst of Them

And though Cecily had no formal power or position, they looked at her in expectation for another command. But Copson’s cool voice spoke first.

“What is the meaning of this?”

The captain had returned, and the gathered pirates and civilians parted to reveal the dead girl and her mother. His eyes widened for only a breath before he turned to see Fiero as well, on his knees with a bloody knife discarded on the deck before him.

Copson’s face hardened into a scowl. “Everyone back to the ship,” he commanded. “Now.”

Cecily turned away, eager to leave behind what had occurred on this ship. But her mind would not make it so easy as it clutched the image of herself lying dead in a pool of blood, holding it at the forefront where she might continue seeing it.

She had only been spared because she’d bothered to comfort a terrified child. Vanetta hadn’t deserved it, and neither had Cecily, and it was a grave misfortune for both of them. She told herself it wasn’t her fault, that neither women bore any blame.

It was Fiero’s fault alone.

She didn’t look back until she reached the Fortuna Royale. Fiero approached the gangplank with his hands bound, grimly shuffling between Greyson and Jack. Beyond him, Copson knelt next to Ann, speaking too low to hear. But as Ann’s cries carried through the air, there was a change in the wind. It was colder, somehow. Wetter and heavier.

It smelled faintly of blood.

Foreboding crept over her skin like ghostly fingers.

Greyson stepped down from the gangplank. She remained rooted to the spot as Fiero prepared to follow. But before she could reach for her sword or prepare harsh words for the hulking man, he was shoved from behind and crashed to the deck with a loud grunt.

Jack dropped off the gangplank, dark fury pouring from his every movement. Fiero attempted to roll to his knees, but the first mate aimed a hard kick into his ribs, sending him sprawling to his stomach, then he lodged a boot between Fiero’s shoulder blades and pinned him to the deck.

“What do you think will happen now,” Jack seethed as Fiero coughed and panted, “after you tried taking revenge on me?”

Cecily paused. Fiero’s enmity was with Jack, and this was their fight, so she folded her arms, determined to step in if Jack would be so generous as to give her a moment to express her own loathing for the man.

Fiero gnashed his teeth and ground out, “You—deserve it⁠—”

Jack’s voice rose to a shout. “Then you should’ve dealt with me, you bastard.” He bent over Fiero, lowering his voice to a growl. “I killed your girl for torturing Cecily, and it was a mercy that I made it quick. But how much worse it’ll be worse for you now that you’ve tried to murder her.”

Then he reached down, grabbed one of Fiero’s wrists, and wrenched. There came a loud pop, and Fiero shrieked.

“Enough, Jack,” Copson said as he crossed the gangplank and stepped onto the Fortuna Royale. “Fiero isn’t yours to kill.”

Jack’s expression twisted in contempt.

Copson noted it with a cool look, called for the ship to get moving, and started for the helm. “Take Fiero to the brig,” he said without looking back.

Two pirates hoisted Fiero off the deck and dragged him away, groaning and wheezing against what Cecily assumed were multiple broken ribs. If that was all he got for now, it was far less than he deserved.

The sailors dispersed to their jobs, but Jack followed his father to the quarterdeck.

“I’m justified in wanting him dead,” Jack said, his low words trembling with violence.

Cecily fell in step behind them, her arms folded tightly over her chest.

“You’re not,” Copson replied. He mounted the quarterdeck and crossed to the wheel.

“He would have killed her!” Jack argued, sweeping his arm toward Cecily. “It’s attempted murder⁠—”

“Then torture him, though it seems you’ve already started. Did you mean to break his ribs? Or was that an impulsive decision with a happy outcome?”

Jack scowled. “You’re mocking me.”

“I’m in as foul a mood as you are, but I’m not letting it blind me.”

He spoke with his characteristic bravado, but Cecily could see the slight cracks in his mask—the tightness around his eyes, the slant of his lips, his white-knuckled grip on the wheel.