Riven Isles

38 | Poison and Passion

"I won't lose anything!" the captain snarls, every muscle flaring with aggression. He looks her up and down and spits at her boots. "Nothing that I would miss."

She gnashes her lupine teeth, lips curling with her fiercely scrunched nose. "Then you will join your ship at the bottom of the lagoon. Dead and forgotten and left to rot. I won't lose to an arrogant cripple."

Crying out, the captain lunges at her and their swords clash with a reverberating screech that echoes through the village and bounces off the clay walls. She shoves him backwards and he throws his crutch at his heels to cease his staggering and retaliate.

"I heard that she spreads poison on her blade," Cobbe says gravely, his eyes wide and flitting, following the deadly dance below with excitement. "If it cuts him, he's dead."

"That's hardly fair," I mumble worriedly, keeping my sights set on her. "How is she is allowed to use poison? Could he use his Gift?"

"I ain't never seen him more drained than he was gettin' here. He'd be stupid to waste energy on his Gift, cuz he ain't got much left. Whatever yer lady friend did to him with those needles, I doubt it's gun' last forever. A fight's a fight, so's the ones what made the rules don't mind so much 'bout how the winner wins, ay. Poison gets the job done." He scratches his mane of white, swishing the juices between his cheeks. "They say it's on her lips, too. They say she's kissed him before, an' he nearly died for it."

"Why did he kiss her, then?" I frown. "And who told you these things? Who is 'they'?"

"Leslie. Langley. Dorian, a bit." He wets his lips. The Witch pins Captain Avery against a wall. His sword quivers against hers, holding it back, barely, from his throat. The blades grind a deadly whisper. "Every sailor worth his salt knows tales of the Witch, but ain't one story told at sea brings up poisoned kisses, save for on him. She ain't doing it for twisted romance, Teach. She ain't doing it because she's thirsty for a man. Nah. Nah, that woman's as much a queer as yeus, I'd reckon. It's a game, innit? Break a man's heart, break a man. But only our captain, because he's the only one she hasn't been able to break otherhow. He's her match, she's his. But soon we'll see who's better."

Captain Avery thrusts his knee to her groin and throws her back. Her fiery hair flicks through the air with a shake of her head and her gaze catches him, livid, as her heels plant in the packed dirt, stance wide and low. A breath escapes; a laugh of malice and pleasure. Her tongue rides smoothly over her upturned lips and she beckons him forward.

Avery swings on his crutch, eyes narrow, watching her like prey as he takes his time in his advance. Biding breath. Duh-clunk. Duh-clunk. He slashes a cross in the air, showing off, and tilts his head so his long and messy ponytail drapes over one shoulder.

She waits. Waits.

"I can see their arrogance is matched," I remark. In this twisted game, they toy with one another. Laughing, rolling shoulders, testing blades. Each despises the other but enjoys the company. Their faces are flush with as much exhilaration as threat.

They circle. Lunge, parry, dodge, fleche, duck. Quick, expert, confident. At points, my eyes cannot keep up with their blades, and in one moment the glinting steel is in the sky and the next I see it catching the threads of a coat, No blood has been drawn and no man has been poisoned. They dance a feverish, crazed dance. Both sides take similar steps, predict the other with similar ease, tease like old friends. A tango of two stories that once intertwined.

Darling begins a lunge and Captain Avery falls for the feint. She ducks slightly and catches his elbow under her arm as it propels towards her, blade grazing her high collar. Before her poisoned steel can plunge through his stomach, he kicks her squarely with the length of his leg and staggers her safely away.

"Less kicking, more blade, Avery!" barks the Witch. She scrapes the dirt like a bull, rearing to charge.

The captain sneers. "No more playing, kitty. I'm sure your men are getting tired, fluttering about in the field. Let us finish."

"My men?" Shrill bells ring out. "I wonder if any are left of yours..."

He shouts with anger but makes no impulsive move. Instead, his chest rises higher, then higher with the curl of his lips and the baring of his teeth. Rising and falling deeply, his skin begins to—astonishingly—grey. His shoulders draw back. Even under his thick naval sleeves I can see the rippling of muscles building themselves. The material stretches taut. A seam along the side splits.

"Impossible." The word escapes my lips. I lift my head, taking my eyes from the sights of the rifle to take it in, to marvel at it with fascination. This had never happened before. Never in history. Never in all the books that I have read nor the cases I have studied. Never.

"You will never have this, Darling," growls the captain through a hairless black muzzle. It retains the prominent arch of his nose. His green eyes stand out like lighthouses over stony cheeks.

"It is not a full moon," I murmur.

"He's holding back," Cobbe dismisses, grunting. "He's only baitin' her."

"I will have it," Darling returns, teeth gnashing.

Lithely, she circles. She darts around his person and first swings at his crutch. Blades clash, but his strength is greater now and she is stunned by miscalculation. She retreats nimbly, then moves around him once again. He swivels as she swipes for his peg. His crutch lifts against the back of her hand with such raw power and force that the whack echoes through the buildings as loudly as the fallen blade, convulsing like a spasming corpse against the ground. Darling throws her emptied palm against his head, grabbing a handful of hair and scraping his brow deep enough that blood hesitantly trickles out.

His crutch swings—as it had against Officer Langley high in the shrouds in his foolhardy practices—under her feet and she falls to her thigh with a cry of surprise. Her hand shoots for her sword, but Captain Avery's peg is quicker to send it skittering long away.

The point of his sword hovers at her chin.

Their eyes lock. His glint madly with the shine of one who has just told a joke. His breath huffs through his triumphant grin, muzzle receding slowly. His clothing relaxes as his frame reduces in bulk.

The Witch's eyes bore like a puppy's, but the captain shows no remorse.

"By the code, the fight is done," he states coldly. "You have lost. Our seconds are witness."

She shakes her head, showing no fear behind her smile. Green eyes clash against their green adversaries, the blade ignored. "You couldn't kill me, Hank."

"I am sure that you would like to think so." He smiles back, bittersweet as he takes a knee, his weight pinning her legs down. His sword raises over her chest in both hands, crutch laid aside. "But, you are wrong."

I close my eyes in the instant that he drives the blade into her chest, unable to watch. Nausea—a side effect of morality—refluxes from my gut like chemicals, bubbling painfully up my throat. Not to be released.

"Shoot, man!" Cobbe howls suddenly. His hand blows against the back of my head and I splutter with the impact. "Shoot! SHOOT!"

My eyes fly open too late. I try to aim. I try, but I am too late, because I had to close my eyes, didn't I? You cowardly pansy, you had to close your eyes. I had to close my eyes! And now they are welling, though my face is slack and my heart is still and my mind has ceased to function.

How? My finger slips from the trigger. The gun falls from my hands.