Fiona bit her lip. If the Picaroons sent her back to Dogtown, Estelle could rip her to shreds. Tobias wouldn’t even get a chance to step in and burn the village to cinders.
One spot. There was only one spot here, and she’d have to beat out all these other miscreants.
Lir descended the stairs and stood beside his brother. His full lips and sharp cheekbones were almost feminine—an odd contrast to the roughness of his voice and the size of his shoulders. “It’s entirely possible none of you will make it through this alive. Dagon killed every one of our last group of recruits.”
“Except for Clovis,” said Marlowe.
“Choked to death on an eel,” added Jacques.
Fiona’s shoulders tensed, and she gave in to the fear that crept up her spine. She hated Lir for trying to terrify them, even if he looked like a Greek god.
“All right, enough of the doom and gloom.” Nod draped an arm over his brother’s shoulder and blew a ring of pipe smoke. “If you make it on our crew, you’ll be granted the powers of a god. I’d say that’s worth a little risk. Dagon gives us life.”
The other Picaroons chanted in unison, “Dagon gives us life.”
Fiona bit her lip. With a god’s power, she could completely destroy the witch hunters. And Nod had seen something in her, hadn’t he? Or he wouldn’t have brought her along. Surely he thought she had a chance against Dagon.
The Captain paced in front of them, staring into their faces as he passed each recruit. “If Dagon wants you to live, you will choose one of us as your mentor. Tonight, each of you will walk to the end of the plank and greet the god of the deep.”
Fiona took a deep breath. She already knew she wanted Nod as her mentor, but she could settle for the shy Marlowe or the charming Jacques. Even Valac, so proud of his goat stew, had his own quiet appeal. All she knew was that she didn’t want Lir.
Then again, maybe she’d choose the bastard just to piss him off. No one else is gonna sign up for his attitude.
But there weren’t enough Guardians for all of them.
Her hand shot into the air, and Nod raised his thick eyebrows at her. “Yes?”
“There are six of us, and only five of you.”
Ostap snorted. “Someone’s good at counting.”
Lir ran a hand through his hair. The frustration in his sigh was apparent. “I told you: not everyone will make it through. At least one of you will die tonight, perhaps more.”
The dawning reality of the situation tied Fiona’s stomach in a knot. What the hell am I doing here?
The sky had darkened to a sapphire blue.
Nod approached Fiona, staring into her eyes, before continuing down the line of recruits. Gulls squawked overhead. He stopped in front of Ostap, clapping him on the back. “You first.”
The Russian, shoulders hunched, took a tentative step. He was scared, though it would probably take a torture session to get him to admit it.
Lir waved his pipe at the Atlantic. “Simply walk to the end of the plank, and wait there until I tell you to come back.”
Ostap nodded, adjusting his leather wristbands as he crossed the deck. He wore a white T-shirt, and tattoos in a blocky Cyrillic writing covered his forearms. While he crept carefully over the creaking plank, his posture grew even more stooped, as though he were trying to disappear from view.
Nod lifted his hands to the sky, and he bellowed in Angelic. The sound of the words sent a shudder up Fiona’s spine as heavy, midnight clouds further darkened the sky.
At the very end of the plank, Ostap stopped, turning back to Nod with a hopeful look.
Nod lifted his pipe, smiling benignly. “Just wait there.”
The Atlantic seemed unusually placid, and the seagulls had ceased their piercing cries as darkness fell. Apart from the groaning of the old boat and a faint lapping of the water against its hull, silence shrouded them.
Fiona stared at Ostap, whose body had gone rigid. From the deep ocean, a thick mist rolled in, bringing with it a faint scent of decay, and the hair on Fiona’s arms stood on end. Something electric crackled in the air, an aura all around them.
At the tops of the masts, light flashed hot and blue, and Fiona gasped. It was St. Elmo’s fire—the electrical glows that sometimes lit up masts on old ships. They were supposed to signal oncoming doom. One of her favorite Romantic poets called them death fires.
On the plank, Ostap held his hands out to either side, seemingly dizzy and struggling for balance.
Fiona sucked in her breath at the sound of something splashing in the water. Crouching down, Ostap hugged himself. Fiona’s heart stopped as a deep, guttural croak rumbled through the ship.
19
Jack
He stared at the canopy stretched above him like a funeral pall. He’d slipped in and out of consciousness for days, waking to bright red droplets on his bed and a water-soaked rag on the bedside table. Someone had been keeping him nourished with human blood and water. He only hoped it was someone beautiful.