Winds of Fate [Books I-III]

Chapter 140: A Life You've Always Wanted (Part Two)

Psh! Psh!

The gun crew of Gallant strike their flint shards in trembling, clammy hands. Psh psh! The stones spit back in retaliation. Their panicked gazes turn to their partners at the other side of the gun, but in this moonless night, without their lanterns to guide them, no fear nor grief can ever be shared.

Admiral Smith spreads his hands before him, feeling his bearing on the deck to calm himself. The initial surprise has died down even among his officers. They even stopped trying to take his attention from the pirate's Fortress, where all the fires they had successfully started are doused as if someone had put it out. His throat tightens. This is what he abhors. Not victory. Not violence.

This is death; sailing into nothingness, awaiting for this dark Abyss to swallow one's soul whole.

His hand presses on his chest. He has felt this before. Before. Admiral Smith holds his breath. Flashes of silver blades slicing the night, descending upon his boys, his officers... blood slipping along the veins of the planks, mixing with salt and running afoul, choking those who remain living—not for long, for the undead sailors from that cursed ship comes for them all. Soon.

Except for me.

Admiral Smith turns around. "It appears the pirates faced the same predicament," he murmurs low, "Does anyone have eyes on our parties at the other side?!"

"They've stopped, Admiral Sir! Ours and the enemies!" The watcher atop the nest cries. Admiral sighs and gently feels before him, striding to the direction of the bridge. "Wait! Wait!" The boy cries. "I see something!"

Lieutenant Murdoch grumbles not so far away. "Out with it, Clery!"

"Light! At the Fortress!"

Admiral Smith heaves. But it is not gunfire. No. He squints. Yet he need not strain, for the purple sheen of the hazy ribbon of light falls upon their faces. The young men whisper prayers. A lad even tenderly feels for the rosary in his pocket.

Behind, Master Kenny sighs. "It's the witch," he mutters with venom that seeps under the Admiral's skin and seizes his throat shut. "That be the witch who attacked the Spaniards and our own ship."

Admiral Smith's heart seizes. And a forgotten memory surfaces... of his dear little baby in his arms, her tiny hand open to creatures he cannot see. Of dear little Elle's sobs once those she thought were harmless friends turned to be fiends. Of Señora Rivera saving them both with her prayers—and incantations too, if he didn't know any better...

Of Caterina demanding they leave—for England or America, she didn't even care anymore. Anywhere. Anywhere but Spain, with her own mother...

With magic, the blood of witches deep in their family.

Ending with his daughter.

"Get Dr. Wells up on deck!" Admiral Smith orders, much to the bewilderment of the crew. "Tell him to bring his powders and the gunpowders below. Help the doctor, quickly! The sorcery could not have touched our stores below—MOVE!"

~*~

"Fil de putain!" Levallois lashes in anger, kicking the useless canon thoughtlessly. "What—! We lost fire!" He nearly pulls his hair out. "What! This! This is not—"

"Devilry..." De Vries whispers, turning away from across the other side, his powder-faced crew trembling as they look up at him. "Because the English are in the dark too. This... this has never happened... as if all of our gunpowders are smothered by seawater!"