The curve of the ship’s hull bows out around us as we descend the steps to the mats, which have been nailed in haphazardly amid stacks of cargo. My gaze fixes on a bright floral suitcase tucked behind a crate, and on the wads of cash stuffed in its pockets. It’s child-sized.
The hold is packed with crew. Swift makes for a corner, where the four other lackeys are gathered in a knot. As we approach the wall, I spot a familiar face among the crowd—the girl who was in Swift’s lap the night we sunk the bucket. For a moment, I fear that we’re headed for her, but then she spots Swift and glares. And Swift glares back.
And something triumphant lifts inside me before I can stop it.
As we reach the lackeys, Code taps Chuck on the shoulder and a feral grin curls its way across her face. “Fists?” she asks.
“Anything for you, princess,” Code simpers.
Varma’s lip curls, and Swift jabs him in the ribs as she takes her place next to him. I hang back, a nervous energy humming through me. When Swift invited me to see the best show on the ship, I didn’t anticipate anything like this.
As Code and Chuck step onto the mats, they tip salutes upward, and I spot the captain perched on a stack of crates in the ship’s prow, her son at her side. Santa Elena bares her teeth and salutes back. The boy sits up straighter.
“Slew fights,” Swift mutters over her shoulder, beckoning me closer. “First rule: if the captain says it’s over, it’s over. Second rule: if a crew member calls it, the captain has to finalize the call. Third rule: if you break someone bad, you fight the captain. Rest of it’s pretty straightforward.”
“You ever fought the captain?” I ask.
Swift snorts. “If I’d fought the captain, I wouldn’t be standing here.”
Varma’s lips twitch another notch upward, though his eyes never leave the lackeys on the mats. “Captain took this ship single-handedly. You fight her, you come out in pieces.”
I can feel Santa Elena’s gaze on me even before my eyes flick up to meet hers. She flashes me a wicked grin and tilts her head toward the mats, a question in the quirk of her brows. A hollow, sinking feeling floods me as I understand exactly what she’s challenging me to do.
I pull back into the shadows.
Under the harsh glare of the industrial lamps, Chuck and Code square off. There’s no opening bell, no whistle, no countdown. Code simply leaps forward, and Chuck’s forearm is there to parry. The crack of knuckles on flesh snaps through the hold, and the fight is on.
But I soon learn that a good fight is mostly about waiting. They dance around each other, Code with quick, elegant steps, Chuck with smoothness and deliberation. When one of them makes a move, the other matches it. Chuck has power, but Code has speed. Chuck has endurance, but Code’s reflexes are faster. Her shirt stains with sweat before his does, and on the sidelines, Varma’s muscles wind tenser and tenser.
“Don’t look so moon-eyed, loverboy,” Swift growls, nudging him with her shoulder. “Your princess still has gas in the tank.”
Because the captain’s attention is fixed on the fight, I feel bold enough to speak up. “Is she … is she actually a princess, or are you guys just saying that because she’s … ”
Varma raises an eyebrow, but Swift shrugs and says, “Chuck was the only daughter of the man who owns Art-Hawaii 5. Took to mechanics early. Father didn’t take too well to that—Islander princesses should be running businesses, not sneaking off to repair engines, you know? So when it got to be too much, Chuck stole down to the docks and begged aboard the first vessel she found with an engine that … what was the phrase she used?”
“Felt like home,” Varma fills in.
“Right. Captain didn’t want to take a big spoiled princess onto her crew, but then Chuck got in the engine room. No more doubt after that.”
“You were there?” I ask as Code ducks into an opening and lands a flurry of punches. Chuck staggers backward, then swings with a vicious uppercut that grazes his chin.
Swift nods. “Chuck was the last of us. Lemon came a year before. Captain picked her up from an Aleutian colony after she heard the local gossip about a girl who could speak the ocean’s language.”
Before I can confirm that Lemon speaks something, a burst of action on the mats draws every eye in the Slew. Code’s made a misstep, Chuck lunges, and a hiss rises from the crowd.
Her fist drives into his temple.
The cheers that echo through the hold swallow the sound he makes when he hits the mat. Varma throws his hands in the air, and up on the crates, Santa Elena leans forward. “That’ll do,” she thunders.
Chuck steps back, running her hands through her hair as a grin cracks over her face. My lips curve involuntarily, and pride flushes through my body as Varma rushes to her side. I can’t resist it. The celebration sweeps me in, and I find myself trailing in Swift’s wake as she hops up on the mats to congratulate Chuck.
But then Code is crawling to his feet, his eyes narrowed, his face flushed, and the first words out of his mouth are “I’m not finished.” He fixes Swift with his pale stare and lifts his chin. “You. Knives this time.”
Swift freezes, her gaze flicking up for the captain’s approval.
Santa Elena nods back.
One of the crew members on the sidelines tosses two rubber training daggers to Code, who offers one to Swift blade-first. She takes it with a scowl, flipping it over once and catching it by the hilt. “You sure?” she asks, and no one in the Slew misses the way she hesitates before bringing her knife up.
“I’m just getting started,” he snarls. “Clear the mats.”
I follow Varma and Chuck back to our corner, where Lemon is still lurking. Under the lights, Code and Swift circle each other, the tips of their blades dancing back and forth. He makes the first move.
A good fight is mostly waiting.
This isn’t a good fight.
Code comes at her with an animal’s voracity, his knife plunging straight for her throat. She catches his wrist and twists, but he flows with the movement, bringing his elbow down hard on her sternum. Swift chokes out a gasp, staggering back, but Code keeps coming even as she raises her blade and slaps it hard across his forearm. He doesn’t slow.
Then Varma’s voice is in my ear. “All you need to know about those two is they came on this boat on the same day. Him in slavers’ chains, and her of her own volition.”
It’s a harsh reminder of how far from home I am. Out here, beyond the regulation of any state, people can be bought and sold. And it makes me reconsider everything I know about Code. A boy who started with nothing, and now he’s clawing his way to the top of the Minnow’s food chain. No wonder he fights so viciously.
My nails dig into my palms as Swift hits the mat with a thud that drives the air from her lungs. Code’s free hand latches around her neck just as her legs swing up. She punts him over her head, and he collapses in a seething heap.
Swift props herself up on her forearms, her eyes darting to the captain.
Santa Elena ruffles her son’s hair and smirks. She won’t call it. Not while they’re both still fresh.
Murmurs roll through the crowd as Code and Swift stagger to their feet. The fight’s hit its first lull at last, leaving them catching their breath and rolling their shoulders. Code adjusts his grip on his knife and raises his eyebrows, daring Swift to make the next move.
She sweeps her hair out of her face, sticks the hilt of her blade in her mouth, and grabs the hem of her T-shirt.
Oh no.
Swift peels her shirt off, and the crowd collapses into whistles and hollers as she balls it up and pitches it to the side. Her back is already slick with sweat, shimmering in the harsh glare of the industrial lamps overhead. Her lips twitch devilishly upward around the knife’s butt, and for a moment—a horrible moment—she catches my eye.
I blink and stare at the floor, wishing I could drain the blood from my body just to keep it away from my cheeks.