Winds of Fate [Books IV - VI]

Chapter 150: Without You (Part Two)

The Flying Dutchman
Between the realms

Roars of indignation follow her reply. Eleanore closes her eyes. The men stomp. They climb on stools, on barrels, wagging their meaty fists and flinging objections and requests at Fritzl.

"Useless bitch!"

A sword tip narrowly misses her nose.

"Walk the plank!"

Thunderous growls agree with a sailor dangerously near a lantern. Eleanore heaves. Everywhere she looks, there are more of them: spilling from the crannies of the hull and piling on top of each other, roaring, flashing their sharp teeth as they cry for her head. The pillars of men loom above her tiny form-ravenous.

Merciless.

And the first mate makes no attempt to stop them. Fritzl even crosses his arms over his chest, waiting... waiting...

"Coward!" Another ghost bellows before her, empty muskey in his grasp. "You dare call yourself one of us, you-" His yellow eyes gleam brighy as he looks onto his friends for support. "Captain's little whore!"

"Ahahaha!" They nearly topple over each other, cackling deviously. Ripples of a sob threatens her chest, and every attempt to catch her breath tumbles back at the pit of her throat. Eleanore bites her lower lip. She has been flung this name, over and over. Why then, does it scald her now in the midst of mere phantoms and ghosts who cling so desperately to a realm that has evicted them long ago?

"Not a coward!"

She opens her eyes and searches for the dissenting voice. Even Fritzl stands in attention.

"Nay!" The dissent comes from a sailor with spectacles and bushy gray beard. Complaints slam at him, but he continues, "She be a hypocrite!"

Her heart seizes. Eleanore could only gawk, especially when others nod at the old man.

"Aye, aye!" The old sailor adds, "She murdered the bastard Abram! She killed two Spanish captains!"

"No, I did not!"

"Do not lie!"

"I killed Abram, but not those captains! I might have killed opponents in battle, but that is the difference!" Eleanore looks up in his diseased, bespectacled eyes. "Those decisions were made in battle! I refuse to kill innocent seamen!"

"We want none of yous excuses!" Someone cries and deafening screams agree with him. "You women always come up with 'em! Agree or leave!"

Her heart drops. As much as she wants to leave, Eleanore knows she cannot. Behind her, somewhere in this hull, the true Davy Jones resides, waiting. Around her, these phantoms, spirits without rest, they seek vengeance on the whole seas. No. She cannot leave. Her throat dries up. Their chanting dies in her ears but their bearded mouths and greasy lips all meld to tell her one thing. Their blazing eyes unforgiving. Only one crewmember doesn't join, apart from the indifferent Fritzl: his companion, the short, rather stout and bearded sailor who only evades her eyes...

And quietly slips away to the back.

"Quiet!"

BAM!

A bench slams on the post beside her. Everyone stops. Eleanore looks up. Fritzl smooths his scraggly hair and raises a wooden stick. "To yer places!" He snaps, threatening the frenzied crowd. "Now!"

Like cockroaches, the disgruntled undead crawl back where they come from. She eyes them, even behind. Eleanore holds her breath. Just as easily as they rallied, they also dispersed. Her brows met. What are they up to?