The Sea Wolves (33 page)

Be safe
, he thought, sending it out to her as if in prayer.

When he was close enough to hear the clank of wood and metal on board the steamship, he rowed even harder, maneuvering the rowboat beside the netting that dangled down the starboard side and tying on. From around his waist, where he had knotted it like a belt, he took the section of sail he had cut away from the small boat that had brought him and Sabine to the island. Swaddling the barrel in that cloth, he tied the ends of the cloth around his waist, the weight like a heavy anchor.

Jack snagged the thick rope netting, took a deep breath, and began to climb. Veins popped out on his forearms and biceps. Gravity fought hard, and with the effort it took to carry the barrel beneath him, it was all he could do to remain silent. As he climbed over the
Charon
's railing—carefully lifting the barrel onto the deck and unwrapping it—he knew that the true peril had only just begun.

Crouched by the railing, Jack steadied his breathing. He reached out with his senses, feeling for the savage spirits of the sea wolves. Some were in the hold, and he knew it must be Ghost and the other survivors from the
Larsen
. One wolf was on deck, but at the other end of the ship. None were near enough to come upon Jack suddenly. He only had to choose his moment and he would be committed to this final gambit. And the moment was now. He rushed from his crouch, and there was no turning back.

Sabine had begun to influence the weather, and clouds were slowly gathering. The overcast sky diffused the day's light to a dull gray, but even without much sunshine, he was exposed and vulnerable out in the open. The clock continued to tick.

The
Charon
was a double-masted steamer, but with its sails furled and its stacks silenced, it seemed like the moldering corpse of some ancient leviathan, floating upon the surface and drifting toward shore. Only the steamship's anchor saved it from that fate, but from the way it listed slightly to starboard, it was clear that it had serious hull damage.

Jack climbed the short set of steps to the wheelhouse and risked a quick glance through the window. There was no sign of anyone within. The ship creaked and rocked gently beneath him as he hurried along the deck in a crouch, using the long above-deck cabin to shield him from view and then taking cover behind one of the smokestacks. The steamer was almost twice the length of the
Larsen
, with much more hold room—how could he hope to search the entire vessel for Ghost and his men without being discovered by Death's guards? A moment of panic hit him, and then he heard the guttural laughter.

He cursed silently. If they came out onto the deck now, it would be almost impossible to avoid capture or death. But though he held his breath for long moments, awaiting discovery, no one emerged.

A patter of light rain began to fall: Sabine mustering her strength to bring down a new storm. Jack tried to push away thoughts of his love—if he started worrying about the cat-and-mouse game she was playing with Death, he would never finish the task he had come out to the
Charon
to accomplish.

He skulked along to the cabin and peered in a window, then ducked down quickly. He had sensed two of Death's wolves inside, and there they were—playing cards and drinking rum or gin in what looked like the ship's mess. That they had not yet caught his scent was either a miracle or the blessing of the alcohol they had consumed, and he knew that if he didn't hurry, his luck could run out.

Jack moved away quickly and quietly. Those two weren't the only wolves left on board, not with Ghost imprisoned here. But the last thing Death and his crew would be expecting was an assault on their ship from the island. Jack's senses were not so acute that he could pinpoint the exact presence of each beast, so he hurried from hatch to hatch, listening for activity in the cargo holds below. He moved aft until he ran out of boat and realized that the prisoners must be in the only hold he had not checked—the forward hold, right at the bow.

If he went to the hatch on the foredeck, he would be in full view of anyone stepping into the wheelhouse. The two card-playing pirates did not look as if they would trouble themselves to take a wander around the ship anytime soon, so with luck he would not be seen. His focus was slipping, and it was impossible for him to touch so many animal spirits at once. But there would be guards posted below, in the gangway outside the hold door, or in the upper cabin where the stairs from the hold levels emerged. Getting past them would be difficult and time-consuming, and time was in short supply.

He would have to use the other way into the forward hold.

Crouched down, he hustled alongside the cabin until he reached the spot just before the wheelhouse where he had clambered aboard. Had anyone walked the deck in the minute since he had climbed over the railing, they would have to have been blind or drunk to miss the wooden barrel. Now Jack knelt by it, his trousers dampened by the sheen of drizzle that filmed the deck.

Sabine could have mustered a larger storm by now, but she would hold off on the hard rain for as long as she could. Jack's plan might be undone by a true downpour.

From within his shirt he withdrew a small canvas pouch, and from the pouch a length of fuse. He pried up the edge of the barrel's lid with his knife, then slid the fuse down inside, making sure it was firmly in place. He wondered if the matches in his pocket would be dry enough, but this was no time for hesitation or doubt. He hoisted the barrel and—with one final glance around—ran lightly out across the foredeck. The wheelhouse loomed behind him, but there were no shouts or sounds of alarm.

Of course not
, he thought.
There will be no shout
. All he would hear would be the
click click
of claws on metal, and the hungry breath, and—

He shook the thought away.

Jack took a closer look at the forward cargo hatch. It was iron, the heavy frame bolted to the deck, intended to prevent any hope of escape by prisoners the
Charon
might take, human or otherwise. Beside it was a smaller, open grating, too small for a man to slip through even with the bars cut away. Despite the thickness of the hatch and its heavy bolts, the savage strength of the wolves was so great that they might well have been able to break out if they could have put any pressure on it from below. But the hold was at least twenty feet deep, so it would be impossible for them to get any leverage.

“Young Jack!” a familiar voice said from down in the hold. Ghost knew his scent, and Jack was pleased at the captain's evident surprise.

“Hush,” Jack whispered, wondering if the guards had heard Ghost speak. Not that it mattered. In moments, there would be noise enough to wake the dead.

He laid the barrel atop the hinges on one side of the hatch, then dug into his pocket for the tin box of lucifers he'd stolen from the
Larsen
. The match lit on first strike, and he held it to the fuse. It caught with a hiss.

Jack looked down through the grate and saw Louis staring upward. Hope flickered within him. Louis might be a beast, a member of the pack, but he had been the closest thing Jack had to a friend in Ghost's crew.

Vukovich, Tree, and Maurilio were down there as well, bloody and bedraggled but alive. Strangely, he felt a pang of regret that Demetrius had not survived. The fat sailor had seemed fairly even-keeled.

“What are you up to, Jack?” Louis whispered.

“Stand back and cover your ears,” Jack replied, and he took his own advice, racing toward the bow and throwing himself facedown upon the deck. He clapped his hands over his ears.

The explosion shook the entire ship, roaring at the sky as if the sea had replied with thunder of its own, and thumping at the ship like a massive drum. Metal fragments ricocheted, and something wailed like a creature in pain.
Metal rupturing
, Jack thought, and he wondered whether the gunpowder load had been too much. When he looked into the hatch, would he see Ghost and the others pulverized down there? Crushed, spattered, taken apart by the blast?

The cargo hatch was now a smoking hole in the deck. Shouts rose from within, and Jack smiled with relief. But then a door banged open farther aft, and the two drunken pirates stumbled out.

Jack scrambled across to the ruined hatch. Ghost and his men were holding their heads and staggering to their feet as they recovered from the explosion, shaken but otherwise unharmed. With a clank and a screech, the hold door swung open and two guards rushed in, halfway through their agonized lupine transformations. Ghost howled as he changed, bones popping and skin stretching as fur sprouted all across his flesh. He leaped at the guards, and he tore out the nearest beast's throat even before the rest of his sea wolves had finished their metamorphosis.

Jack turned away then, loath to witness any more of the slaughter.

“How the hell did you get out?” one of the drunken sailors barked, pointing at him. He looked at his companion. “Wait. Have we seen this one before?”

Jack hesitated. They thought he was a werewolf! He wondered how he could use this.

Bleary-eyed, arrogant, and exuding cruelty, the sailors approached him carefully, taking his measure. One of them sniffed the air. “Kurt,” he said, narrowing his eyes, “this little bastard is human.”

Kurt grinned, teeth elongating and sharpening to points as fur sprouted from his skin. “Beautiful.”

Jack drew his knife, wishing it were silver. He bent slightly, taking slow breaths, using the magic that Lesya had taught him—instilled within him—during his time in the Yukon. He could not only sense the presence of animals but channel their essence within himself and join it with his own innate wildness. There were fish nearby, of course, and if he extended his spirit far enough, he might find a seabird or two. But the true beasts were those standing before him—men who could turn themselves inside out, wearing their primitive rage and hunger on the outside.

The rainstorm suddenly strengthened, and Jack silently thanked Sabine.

The drunken werewolves closed in, going around the ragged hole blown in the deck. They ignored the sounds of slaughter from below. Fur matted to their huge, lupine bodies by the rain, they growled in hunger as they flanked him on either side.

Jack growled in return, baring his teeth. Knife in hand, he tapped directly into the essence of the werewolves, matching his savagery to theirs so completely that for a moment he almost lost himself in it, reveling in the sense of power and freedom. He was stronger than ever before, and if only he could harness this power and take control, release himself to the animal and become unhindered, unconfined…

But the bright, burning ember of his humanity remained within. And it always would. “Come on, you worthless dogs,” Jack snarled.

The giant wolf that had been Kurt lunged toward him, but even on four legs it swayed drunkenly. Jack dodged aside and kicked the werewolf's leg with such force that it snapped, spilling the monster to the deck. As it thrashed and tried to stand, he stomped on its forelegs and slammed the knife into its chest, penetrating flesh and slipping past bone to impale the tough muscle of its heart. Blood pulsed from the wound, and the giant wolf screamed and writhed, slipping back to a form that was part beast, part man. The wound would not kill him, but Kurt would stay down for a while.

The other werewolf howled in rage and launched itself at Jack, who leaped over Kurt's bloody form, mind racing. He had no real options—his only avenues of escape were over the side into the ocean or a twenty-foot drop into the cargo hold with Ghost and his ravenous crew.

In a moment of indecision, Jack caught a glimpse of movement behind the werewolf. A dark streak of fur erupted from the open hatch and barreled into the drunken beast, jaws gnashing and claws dragging furrows in flesh. Blood mingled with rain as the two werewolves clashed on the deck, tumbling over and over. They slammed into the railing, and it cracked but did not give way.

The dark-furred wolf clawed the other's face, flaying its jaw open to the bone and taking out an eye. The booze-soaked werewolf whined and staggered back; its remaining golden eye glinted with bleary fear. Jack longed for his knife but dared not try to retrieve it from Kurt's chest—Kurt had already transformed enough to tug the blade out of his heart.

The deck came alive with wolves as Ghost and his crew—spattered with their guards' blood—leaped out of the hold. The werewolves steamed, growled, stalking the deck with a hunger for flesh and vengeance. Counting the dark-furred one who had just half blinded the enemy, there were five of them against two drunken, injured beasts. Death's wolves had no chance. Ghost and what remained of his pack tore them apart.

Jack turned away from the slaughter and crossed to the starboard railing. If Ghost decided to kill him now, there would be nothing he could do to stop it, and he preferred not to watch the sea wolves taking their grisly meal.

The scrape of claws on the deck forced him to turn. He expected the hulking gray wolf that Ghost became when he revealed his true self, but instead the monster that approached was the dark-furred werewolf that had aided him. It panted and growled, but the noise seemed more greeting that threat. The werewolf began to change, its bones shifting and popping as it stood up, now half man and half beast. It threw back its head and howled, and bared its fangs in a monstrous grin.

The wolf-man had a single golden tooth.