There is nothing worse for a pirate than dying on dry land. Except, maybe, swinging two feet above it.
When their captain is imprisoned, facing the gallows, the men and women of the Lady Lesya's crew will try everything to break him out--even if it...
Don Juan Peña Hernandez de la Luz, third of his name, seasoned soldier from a long ancestry of soldiers, and Puerto Seguro's Chief Constable, had to face a rare but gut-wrenching fact: he was distressed. He gripped the hilt of his sheathed saber to hide his deep discomfort, unable to understand what he was confronted with. He'd had his fair share of battles, and the unenviable privilege to survive them to see the bloody result—but this... This was properly disgusting.
This was... What was it exactly? Don Juan didn't even know for sure. Rolling his whiskers between his fingers, he tried to reflect as coldly as possible. This was no mere skirmish between rival gangs. None of them could turn that barbaric. This wasn't a collective suicide either, unless ripping your own head off was humanly possible. And there were neither black candles nor pentagrams to sustain the hypothesis of a black mass.* It could have been the work of a circus bear gone berserk, but the next carnival wouldn't be for several months. Maybe it was a message to the Squid—the bloody remains scattered on the stairs belonged to his men only—but if so, the local would-be king-of-thieves had better find a good hiding place. On another continent, preferably. Because the man—the thing—that did this was beyond any kind of sanity. And hopefully, the Squid would be followed wherever he fled, because Don Juan didn't want to have anything to do with a creature capable of turning a man inside out.
Not that he had any say in the matter, unfortunately.
Don Juan closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and counted to ten. When he opened his eyes again, he didn't see scattered body parts anymore, only a puzzle to be pieced together. But he was missing clues. Unless...
A scream prevented him from investigating further. He looked up just in time to see a woman collapse at the top of the stairs. Two men ran towards her to help, stopped and pointed fingers toward the exhibition of bowels. A glance behind him and he saw a kid downstairs looking back at him wide-eyed, a strange smile on his dirty face. His mother was approaching. The Chief Constable swore through his teeth and called one of the few men he had brought with him.
"Bautista!"
The young lad turned his head reluctantly. His eyes met his officer's, but looked beyond them. His skin was pale green. Don Juan knew for a fact that the boy wouldn't sleep much for a while.
"Yes, Sir!"
"How fast can you run?"
Bautista blinked rapidly and seemed to ponder the question.
"I'm not the fastest in the Watch, but I'm..."
"Good! Get to the barracks like you were the fastest man in the whole city, and bring back everyone. I need them... one hour ago!"
Relief clearly showed on Bautista's face.
"Yes, Sir!"
Don Juan Peña Hernandez de la Luz didn't bother to make sure his order was followed. He was already absorbed in his study of what seemed to be a footprint. The bloody trace was small, pointy... A woman's boot?
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* And what a pity! This kind of very black mass was, despite the unfortunate slayings, something to behold at least once in a lifetime. Mostly because of the lovely chants. The naked virgins were enjoyable too, of course.
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