Page 147 of The Worst of Them

“I love you,” he ground out, voice raw. He moved toward the door, touching her for every second he could. “Sleep well, Cecily. I’ll see you in the morning.”

It went without saying that nothing—not even morning—was assured.

A few hours later, the Fortuna Royale jerked so violently that Cecily nearly rolled out of bed.

Muffled clanging and bangs carried through the walls as cargo dislodged and fell. The ship groaned and creaked around her, her body swaying as the ship—impossibly—ground to a halt.

She blinked against the darkness, her shaking breath loud in her ears. The room looked different in the moonlight, and it took her a beat to realize why.

She felt it before she saw it.

The air was drastically colder, so frigid that her breath clouded and hung in front of her, lingering before dissipating. Ice had bloomed around the porthole and crept down the wall, turning every surface white beneath a thin layer of frost.

As the ship stopped protesting, a deafening silence filled the cabin. Her ears strained against the wrongness, the silence, the disturbing lack of water rushing against the hull.

She could always hear the water.

They had stopped, either because the tide stones had stopped working or…Jonah had finally caught them.

There came a quiet cough, so close it sounded like it was in the room with her. She only had time to glance at the corners of the room to ensure no one was there before the furious clanging of the all-hands bell tore through the ship.

Still fully dressed, she flew from beneath the covers, shoved her feet into her boots, and grabbed her sword from its sheath. She scooped up the three mermaid-scale knives, kicked the door out of her way, and hurried for the steps.

The day crew streamed ahead of her, weapons in hand, only to cry out at whatever they saw on the main deck. When she mounted the last step, her breath caught in her throat.

It looked like the dead of winter. The sails had frozen, glittering with frost in the moonlight. Many had torn or broken, and bits of canvas hung like giant icicles. The deck wore a fine layer of ice, and the warming drums had been extinguished as the fires had given up. More ice had gathered around the hull, thick sheets holding the ship in place on the surface of the sea. It extended for nearly a mile before it turned back to sparkling waves.

“It’s July,” she whispered, half-hoping one of the other pirates might overhear and tell her was six months off. None of them did, muttering similar things to themselves.

Jack thundered down the steps from the quarterdeck, pushing through the crew to rush to her. “Go back,” he commanded. “Go downstairs and don’t come out.”

“What’s—?”

“Go back downstairs!” Jack begged, sword in hand. He herded her toward the steps, his eyes blazing with unchecked fear.

But she wouldn’t leave her crew out here while she cowered and hid. Jack knew that, and for him to disregard it…

Sidestepping him, she looked behind the Fortuna Royale and beheld the beginnings of the nightmare.

Neptune swept toward them in ominous silence, glowing red and sailing so close she could see the spokes of the unmanned helm. It was a monstrous vessel, nearly twice the size of Copson’s ship. Its rotting, barnacle-studded hull crawled with sea creatures and trailed streams of seaweed while towering black sails fluttered in the breezeless night.

There was no one on board.

Instead of pushing her to run and hide, Jack merely reached for Cecily’s hand as the ship slowed, then drifted along the starboard.

Copson’s crew waited in petrified stillness while the captain stood in front of them, ready to greet Jonah.

Several heartbeats passed. The smell of rot and death had grown stronger, and Cecily held her breath both for the stench and for fear as she clutched Jack’s hand like it was all that kept her grounded.

Then the Neptune erupted. Bellowing ghosts burst from its hull, their transparent bodies passing seamlessly through the wood as they flung themselves across the gap between the ships. They flooded onto the Fortuna Royale and barreled into the pirates.

The ghosts’ swords clashed and rang against steel, but that was the only thing corporeal about them. Cecily watched in horror, pushed back from the line of battle as they tore through Copson’s crew, stabbing and beheading, spilling blood across the deck while the living pirates’ weapons sailed through the ghosts as though they weren’t there at all.

Cecily met Jack’s gaze. The ship was stuck, and there was no way to kill ghosts.

They were going to die.

He tore his eyes away, raising his sword with a shout as a burly ghost appeared. Their blades clashed, Jack shoved the ghost into a retreat, then followed to whip his sword through the man’s translucent body. The ghost pivoted, and Jack raised his weapon again, barely fast enough to block the next attack.