Blood in the Water (5 page)

Eric arrested at the doorway to Gullwing Tavern, startled by his own ambition. He wanted to see Vindex. Touch him. Taste him. As reported, a line of men reached to the door, jostling and rousing each other. Cocking eyes and whistles at the black quartermaster.

He didn’t know how to seduce a man, he didn’t remember the steps of the dance for flirting. He was staring. Eric committed to a table inside the tavern and asked for a beer so he could pretend he wasn’t watching the Hawk’s captain go about his business. He remembered his second letter and pulled it out to read.

****

April

Minutes Before

Kyros scowled at the fence seated across his table. “You came to me, so don’t start thinking you have any bargaining power. You happen to be in a place of convenience for me, so stay convenient.”

“Sir, I’ve sold to every merchant on this island, I don’t think a review of the books is necessary to begin—”

Kyros leaned back and said, “You don’t think it’s necessary?” He looked at Araceli. “He doesn’t think it’s necessary.”

Araceli sipped her beer. “I don’t think he’s worth your time, sir.”

Kyros flicked his eyes across the man. “Are you wasting my time?”

“No, sir! I’m here—”

“Then listen. Because this is how it works,” Kyros spoke over him. In that moment, Eric prowled through the tavern, eyes locked on Kyros and burning hot. Kyros completely lost his train of thought watching him declare ownership of a small, corner table.

Araceli cleared her throat.

Kyros did not want to look away. When he did, his scowl deepened, and the fence sat straighter. “You will turn over your ledger to my boatswain this evening, and he will review both it and your stores. If anything does not match up, we will not do business. We will provide you a trial volume of goods which you will pay for in full. Once sold, you come to me or the quartermaster.” Kyros jerked his thumb at Araceli. “Then, my boatswain checks your ledger again.”

Kyros glanced up, covering his look with a lift of his empty mug to a barmaid. Eric wasn’t paying him any attention. Instead, he was reading something intently. Kyros  tried not to feel upstaged by the note. Eric’s earlier stare had set a fire in his blood, and Kyros couldn’t wait to stoke it higher.

“I don’t run my business for you to correct, Captain.”

These interruptions to his daydreaming were pissing him off. “Look, you ignorant swine. If you want to act in this position, your business becomes my business. I’m not going to hand over my riches for some land flea to tear out the profit. You’re starting to become inconvenient.”

The fence scowled. “I don’t expect to search your ship, why should you invade my storehouse?”

Kyros growled, “Because that’s how I run things. Now, you can present yourself at the docks for my boatswain, with books in hand or not, that is up to you, but get out of this building. We’re done.” Kyros stared at him until he tsked and removed himself from the table. Then Kyros chugged his fresh beer just for something to focus his anger on.

When he set the mug down, Eric was gone. His half-empty drink still warming on the table. Kyros jerked to his feet. “Dammit, where’d he go?”

“Just left.” Araceli crossed her arms over her broad chest and gave him a turn of her lips. “In a hurry, too.”

The first of a line of men wanting to join his crew approached the table, beer already in hand.

Araceli flipped her ledger open to a new page. “I’ve got this.”

Kyros didn’t insult her by double checking. He left a handful of coin on the table to cover their drinks and ran after Deumont. He jogged down the main street, weaving through merchants and shoppers. There was no sign of him outside the tavern, and Kyros’ curiosity spiked alongside the heat in his veins. What could have been in that note to set him off?

He wasn’t going to find out wandering the city like a drunk. Kyros detoured to a pile of crates and scrambled up to a store rooftop, then out on the limb of a tree. It offered him a view down the hill all the way to the bay, and there: in a faded blue jacket, ran his pirate, down to the dock and back to the Sun.

Kyros swung down from his tree and landed on the thatched roof of the store. A baker, by the smell of it. His boots slipped on the waxy reeds. A cat hissed at him and jumped to the roof of the next merchant. Kyros followed, running on the peak where the thatch layered under a beam just wide enough for his steps. Not a conventional path, but he didn’t need to deal with the crowds.

The road turned and his house-path with it. Kyros jumped to the dirt and sprinted across. He scrambled up an adobe wall and through a fluster of chickens, cutting into yards and wild wood to catch up. He half-slid down the final slope of rocky hillside and cut Deumont off just before the docks.

The man slid in the dirt to avoid him, his cords of dark hair flying about. “Come with me if you want but don’t slow me down.”

Was that even a choice? Kyros matched Eric’s jog to the long dock and they stepped into a dinghy at the end, together. Eric counted out their first few strokes, but once they had rhythm, Kyros interrupted, “What’s your big hurry?”

Eric fell silent, and Kyros let the splash of their oars count out the beats. It became clear Eric had no intention of sharing. Kyros felt himself bristle. “So you prowl into my day all hot and heavy, sex on two legs, and now I get the cold shoulder?” Kyros had no right in the world to be indignant, but he refused to let go of the feeling.

That message had to be about the jar Eric remained so focused on— nothing else had occupied the man’s attention for as long as Kyros had been chasing him around.

But why?

They tied up at the Sun, and Kyros followed Eric up the ladder then down into the gun deck of the ship, only to be left at the threshold of the captain’s cabin like a good dog. Eric kicked the door closed in his face. Kyros immediately pounded on it. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”

But Eric didn’t answer, and Kyros didn’t know how to argue with silence. He growled and paced the width of the ship in front of the door, pausing to greet a silver tomcat that vocalized at him from the top of a gun.

Eventually the pacing stopped entertaining him and he sat against the door, arms crossed, stewing in his mix of attraction and irritation. He hit his head on the door. He had it bad for a man who could turn enemy and royally fuck up his day. What the hell was he doing here?

****

April

Minutes Later

Eric had to put a wall between them. That man set his skin on fire without touching it. Just the glower he gave while sliding down the rocks, the confident way he landed on the path before him— Eric wanted to tear off Kyros’ jacket and press them both skin to skin, bite what he could reach and grab the rest close.

He couldn’t look at him without seeing a perfect triangle from shoulders to waist. Couldn’t talk to him without holding back a command to strip naked and bend over. The short ride here on the dinghy, just watching those arms pull the boat in perfect rhythm, gave him a hard-on so tight standing up caused tunnel vision.

Eric pressed his hands to the top of his table and forced himself to focus on the map. It took him longer than it should have to locate Havana. He thought he heard Vindex stomping back and forth just outside his door, and the idea of that deadly panther— coiled and waiting for him— shattered his concentration.

He rolled up the map and stored it in a tube for safekeeping. The letter he stashed in his trunk with the incomplete jar. One more piece. Ghalil rolled under his skin. Eric snapped the lid shut and locked it. The sooner this spirit took up residence in something other than his body, the better.

Eric yanked his door open. Vindex caught himself with admirable reaction time, hardly falling into the threshold at all. Then they were nose to nose, and the blond disregarded all the rules of personal space. Kyros grabbed his head and crushed their mouths together for gasping, desperate kisses. Eric closed the door and pushed him against it head to toe. He breathed in Kyros. He wanted to devour him. Then Kyros pulled his tunic up, out of his belt, and a thread of fear jolted him back. “The shirt stays on.”

“I’m not coming in my pants again.”

“Then take them off.” Eric unthreaded his belt and dropped all twenty pounds of hardware and leather on the table with a clank. Kyros’ personal collection hit the floor.

They crashed together, hard angles and sharp teeth. Kyros yanked at Eric’s laces. Eric stripped Kyros of his jacket, holster, and shirt. Then Kyros got his hands in Eric’s pants and squeezed. Eric had to lean on him or fall to his knees. Another hand on his cock— so foreign it made him shake. Eric bit at Kyros’ neck and fucked his hand, groaning.

“That’s right, big boy. Slam it. Show me how I’m going to take your ass.”

Eric yanked him off the wall and forced him face down, on to the table. He snarled in Kyros’ ear, “Pants on the floor. It’s your ass getting slammed.”

Kyros didn’t complain. While he dealt with clothing, Eric found the grease. He slicked himself, then twisted a finger deep into Kyros. Two. He finger fucked that hole until Kyros pulled his own cheeks apart, and Eric could see his red erection pointed down against the edge of the table. He grabbed it, pushing in and pulling down in alternating strokes. Kyros begged him.

Eric replaced fingers with cock and groaned. Halfway in, Kyros came, his ass squeezing with each pulse. His voice, a confusion of “God, yes!” Eric fucked him while he shuddered. He dug his fingers into each hip, his thumbs pulling Kyros’ cheeks wide. He watched the hole clench around him, and panted, “Your ass feels so good.” Climax struck like a shallow reef and he hissed, arching closer. “You’re not leaving until I’ve fucked you raw.”

Beneath him, Kyros gasped for air. “Believe me, the feeling is mutual.”

****

April

An Hour Later

Kyros rolled to one side and flung an arm over his eyes. The bed was a mess. They were a mess. His body buzzed from top to toes.

Eric threw an arm over Kyros’ stomach. “Wake me up for dinner.”

Sleep. An attractive thought after a carnal indulgence like that. Kyros slid to the edge of the bed and fished underneath for the chamberpot. Relieved, he sighed. Behind him Eric snored. Out already? Kyros waved a hand over his nose. Snapped his fingers a few times. No response.

He ached to stay in the bed, both in heart and in body, but he had more than one reason for being here. Kyros investigated every corner of the cabin with methodical patience. He slid open each drawer, catalogued every cabinet, and replaced everything where he found it. He wasn’t interested in stripping Eric dry of his goods, just one treasure in particular.

It had to be in the chest. Kyros jangled the keys as he picked them up off the table, watching Eric for any sign of anger. The pirate remained resolutely asleep. Kyros unlocked the chest and investigated its contents. He lifted the puzzle jar and turned it in his hands. It wasn’t large, maybe two fists tall but tapered down to one fist wide at the base. The circlet Kyros found on the Spanish ship fit, interlocked between two others. Four total, if Kyros had to guess. He couldn’t make out the seams of each ring with confidence. It needed a seal on top.

Kyros fished out a rolled message from the trunk and spotted a rubbing in the middle of the letter. A sketch beside it. It was the top Eric sought to complete his jar. This had to be the letter he’d read at the tavern, the reason for his rush to get back here.

But the question remained: why did he need a jar for a spirit?

Kyros skimmed the letter, but it said nothing about trapping a spirit in the jar. Yet, it did give the location of the merchant who had the top.

With some regret, Kyros dressed and slid the jar into a leather pouch on his belt. He kept the letter inside. He repacked the trunk and locked it, tossing the keys to the table where, hopefully, they looked unmoved.

Eric snored.

Kyros didn’t look back.

On the Hawk, Kyros closed his cabin door. He had to move the African beast statue to get to his maps. He unrolled one, well-traveled. His own course lines littered the spaces between islands, measured and timed from previous treks. Ocean current markers and seasonal notations littered the entire archipelago.

Kyros slid a rule across the map to line up Nassau and Havana. The Bahamas fell between them. Going north proved to be a shorter distance, but a strong current poured out of the gulf and pushed eastward. The faster route was likely to the south, then up the Cuban coast with the wind. Kyros marked his route, then calculated the times twice to make sure he’d done the math correctly.

Someone pounded on his door.

“Enter.”

Araceli leaned in, her coat over one arm. “Everyone’s aboard.”

“Thank you. Any trouble with the new men?”

“Nothing abnormal.”

Which meant a few of them got themselves cut but no one pressed the issue. “Alright. Take us out eastward and head south when we’ve cleared the island.”

“You have a heading.” She leaned on the doorjamb. “What did you find?”

Kyros waved her in and pushed the letter across his table. “It looks like the top to Deumont’s jar.”

“This isn’t addressed to you.” She gave him a bitter sneer. “You’re asking for trouble, stealing his letters.”

“Stole more than that, I have the jar.”

“Dammit, Kyros. Do not make us his enemy.” She slapped the letter down on the table. “We don’t have anything to gain by this.”

“There’s a market for ghosts and spirits, which means there’s a market for the jars that hold them.” Kyros pulled the container from his pouch and set it on the map. “This isn’t just something your local kiln throws on a wheel. It’s like the clockwork inside my pocket watch. Even if it weren’t used for something metaphysical, it would still be worth a small fortune to some plantation owner. And I know where the top is.”

“When Deumont chases you down, I’m going to escort him right to you.” She frowned and strode away from the table.

“East and south, Quartermaster.”