The soft crackle of a fire was the only sound in the room, aside from Elisabeth’s breath, and she relished the quiet, stepping up next to the flames and spreading her hands to its heat. She hadn’t realized that the fight had drained more than her tokens. Suddenly, she was freezing, shivers racking her body. A whirlwind of emotion swept through her—fear, rage, doubt, and back to fear. Terror cramped her muscles. When the fit passed, she was exhausted, a light tremor still running through her body. A girl appeared at her side and placed a steaming mug of liquid into her left hand. Neither of them commented on it shaking.

  “For what ails you, She-Wolf,” she spoke softly and without looking at Elisabeth, instead sharing her contemplation of the fire.

  The necromancer regarded the drink, touched it with a tendril of magic to ensure it was safe to consume, and then took a long, slow swallow. The sensation of warmth spreading back through her limbs was exquisite, and she closed her eyes to savour it.

  “My thanks,” she said quietly. The two stood and watched the flames, until the entire cup was gone and Elisabeth felt centered again. The girl took the empty vessel and placed it on a small table. A man so old, he was bent nearly in half beneath the weight of his age, sat beside it, so bundled into blankets that he almost disappeared into the chair he occupied.

  “And what brings ye to our door?” he croaked.

  “Trade,” she said, “—need,” she added.

  “Sore wounded in your pride, ain’t ya? And lookin’ to bulk up your broken defenses.” A sidelong glance from the girl. “And mayhaps add some offense.” The girl’s hair shone like gold in the light, her eyes like pools of hot lava, as orange as the flame in the fireplace.

  Elisabeth nodded once.

  “And what price’ll ya pay, corpse-caller?” The old man’s stare was dark, his voice taking on strength with a bargain at hand. She wondered briefly what magic he held that lit him up at even the thought of barter. “We take gold, if we must, trade if we can.”

  “I only have gold today.”

  The room grew silent around her, the glow and crackle of the fire fading.

  “We’ll take no gold from you, Captain Wolf. Blood or nought is the only bargain we’ll strike with you,” the girl spoke softly, but her words carried finality. Elisabeth thought about haggling, the urge strong. A counter-offer sat heavy on her tongue. She shook off the temptation, too tired to engage in a back-and-forth that would further delay her return to her ship.

  “Agreed, but I’ve bled tonight already and I won’t give much or more.” The fire’s noise returned, and the room was golden again.

  “A bargain struck,” the girl concurred.

  “Aye, a few drops will do, cold-heart,” the old man agreed. He pushed himself up slowly, then shuffled across the room to pick up a small vial and a sharp-looking knife from the detritus littering the tables scattered throughout. “Take what you like once the glass is filled.”

  “I’d say that’s more than a few drops.”

  “Phaw! It’s too late to quibble. Should’ve confirmed beforehand what I think is a few drops, lassy.” He was right, of course. It had been careless of her not to be more specific. Exhaustion lay heavy on her shoulders and clouded her thoughts. With a sigh, Elisabeth rolled up a sleeve and pulled one of her own blades.

  “I’ll use what’s mine, if you don’t object.” The old man held out the glass, his hands steady despite his age, and Captain Wolf quickly drew the blade along her arm to open the skin without even a wince. It wasn’t the first time she’d opened a vein, and it wasn’t going to be the last. A small rivulet of red liquid blossomed, and began to dribble into the container. The glass looked small. The glass didn’t fill. The girl had returned to the fire and Elisabeth glared at the back of her gilded head.

  “That’s enough,” she hissed, finally, and withdrew her arm, licking the wound to close it—an old trick, but one that was useful in moments like these.

  “Habits, you know,” the girl tossed over her shoulder. A lick of heat coiled through Elisabeth’s belly at the echo of her own words, and the memory of Henry Mortimer that came with it. “But we apologize. We don’t see your kind here often, not so close to the Skeleton King. We take what we can get.” A log fell through in the fire, sending up a shower of sparks. The shadows shifted around them.

  “Take what ya need, lassy,” the old man spoke into the silence. “Your trade is good and fair.” The vial of blood disappeared into the blankets that covered him, and he shuffled back to his chair, sinking into it with a soft groan. Elisabeth recognized the dismissal from both, and bent her attention to choosing replacements for the trinkets she’d lost in the earlier battle. With the hum of so much power in the place, finding the charms she needed demanded a lot of her focus. Some of what she’d lost in the disagreement with the king was going to be difficult to replace, but she found basic protections. They were scattered through the witches’ shop, as were pieces for strength and endurance. The search through the plethora of choice was meditative in a way. She let her vision blur and found the charms through touch and smell, rather than by sight, identifying each with her innate magical senses. A vibration here, a chill there, guided her in her decisions.

  She was rummaging through a pile of bird fetishes, the mummified bits and bones calling to her necromancy, a soothing sensation. And then there was a jolt, and she stopped short, her hand hovering over a circular talisman woven with sinew and feathers, five long spikes of bones radiating out from an obsidian center. It thrummed with power. Her mouth was dry with want.

  “That is not for you,” the girl spoke at her side, taking the charm and secreting it away in a pocket. “It’s not a replacement for any you lost and not part of the bargain.”

  “You said my trade was good and fair.”

  “Not enough for this one, not if you take all the others.” She gave her a sly glance. “Unless you have further payment…”

  Elisabeth considered the proposal, chewing on her lip. She needed the protective charms. She was too exposed without them, too vulnerable. But the piece the little witch now held out to her in her small brown hand sang to her in a tone that was difficult to ignore. Focus, she reminded herself, and tried to ignore how much that internal voice sounded like Cressia. Danger swirled around her as long as she remained here, and she needed to gain a bit of safety for her departure from Skull Island. The girl nodded as though hearing the pirate’s thoughts.

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  “It will be here when you return, if it’s meant to be yours,” she said finally, the decision to leave the trinket behind affirmed for both of them.

  “When I return, then.” It had the feeling of a bargain about it.

  “Bring a better trade if you wish to claim this bit of shine. A few drops of blood won’t buy this trinket.” This from the old man, and when she turned her gaze to him, she saw the gleam in his eyes again, a thirst for the bargain clear inside him.

  Elisabeth nodded at him, eyes returning to the talisman, the tug of hunger for it strong.

  “Best be on your way, now, Captain. The king’s men won’t like you lingering here. Not after that display up at the hall.” Elisabeth didn’t wonder how the witch-girl knew about events so far from her hut. Now that her head felt clear again, the energy rolling off the gilded child made her skin itch. That the king let the duo stay in his town was surprising, but she imagined he had little choice in the matter. Sanctuaries and their proprietors set up where they pleased. And not all of them were this pleasant. She suspected there was glamour involved in that, and spellwork to enhance a sense of calm, but she appreciated the respite after the confrontation with the king.

  “My thanks, then,” Elisabeth said, “for the trade, and for the comfort.” She tucked the handful of charms she’d chosen into the pockets of her coat. It wasn’t enough to replace the ones she’d lost, but it was enough to keep her from feeling vulnerable. She gave a small bow to the girl, and turned to leave.

  “Cold-heart,” the young witch called out, as she was about to step through the door and back into the night with all of its potential chaos. Elisabeth paused and looked back over her shoulder, into the light of the fire outlining the girl. The darkness beyond the threshold called to her, and it was difficult to stay in the hut now that she was ready to go. She knew in part that it was the building’s spellwork, but it was effective.

  “Beware the game you’re part of now,” the girl said. “And watch out for your heart. Cold it may be, but it can still betray you.” A shove accompanied the last words, and Elisabeth quickly stepped across the threshold, the door closing firmly and irrevocably behind her as soon as she was clear of it. The oppressive aura of the town folded around her in an instant, and the tension returned to her body. It was time to return to her ship.

  Cressia emerged from the shadows. “All is quiet,” she announced. “Though it may not remain that way for long.” The bodyguard had a sense for these things, aware of trouble before it ever started. It made her the perfect person for the job.

  “Aye.” Elisabeth took a deep breath and reached out into the dark. The town was stirring with barely suppressed violence. “I miss my ship,” she confessed. And it was true—she missed the creak of the rigging, the sway of the sea beneath her feet. It was past time to leave this place in their wake. The two women began to walk back toward the harbor and the waiting Silence, still holding the shattered illusion of freedom in the Captain’s thoughts. Elisabeth chewed on that knowledge, her teeth digging into her lips as she worked her way through it. Piracy was her family legacy. Her whole life was based on the idea that as a pirate, she was free to roam and plunder and learn as she pleased. And now this Skeleton King took that freedom away from her, with his show of strength and the quest he imposed on her and her crew. A sense of dread sat heavy on her shoulders as they wound their way through the alleys and streets. The King’s errand was a leash tied around her neck—and it already chafed.

  “Don’t fret, Captain.” Cressia’s words were barely a whisper, pitched only for Elisabeth’s ear. “It’s just one task. And it buys us time to unravel the web he wove.” She was surprised to hear the woman say it out loud, even if it was said softly. “I was a royal assassin. I know how these games unfold.” The echo of the idea that this was a game, so soon after the witch’s warning, bothered Elisabeth. Her skin crawled with unease. Her emotions were a storm rolling through her and her usually reliable inner compass was topsy-turvy. Nothing made sense in the wake of her defeat. She felt lost at sea.

  “You’re just tired and worried.” The bodyguard read her mood like a well-worn book. Part of Elisabeth hated that she was so seen, even by her most trusted companion, but she also knew the other woman was right. A part of her identity was crushed in that hall, in front of all of those men, and it would take time to recover her confidence, her trinkets, and her equilibrium. Shrugging off the maelstrom of emotions wasn’t an option. She had to ride this out like any other storm, with bravado, and as much magical assistance as she could beg, buy, or steal. For now, she remained in confusion, a mixture of rage and shame—and a sliver of desire evoked by Henry Mortimer—all swirling inside her at a dizzying speed.

  A few hours ago, she’d been a cocky and feared Captain. She’d felt sure of herself, of her purpose, of her strength, and now none of that was true anymore. Nothing about this venture was working out the way she wanted or needed. As the harbour came into view, Elisabeth shoved the maelstrom down and pulled at just the threads of anger, letting its warmth wrap around her like an old friend.

  The streets behind them buzzed with the energy of sea-cursed men drinking, gambling, whoring, and fighting. Raucous noise drifted behind them, and with it that undercurrent of suppressed violence she’d sensed earlier. It ran out through the doorways of the taverns and whorehouses, lapping against her skin like the ocean against the hull of a ship. An idea began to form, as they walked off dry land and onto the jetty that led to her longboat. Moira was waiting at the end of the pier, overseeing a handful of sailors as they loaded supplies.

  “Been gone a while,” she commented without so much as a glance at the newcomers. “Boat’ll be here in a minute. This one’s full.”

  “How far along are we?” The Captain asked her quartermaster.

  “Almost done. Two more rows.”

  “Make it three. I’ll need a corpse. Reasonably fresh. Make one if you can’t find one.” The request earned her a long hard look from the other woman.

  “Do I want to know what you’re scheming at?”

  “No.”

  “Very well, captain. We’ll add ‘corpse’ to the provisions list.” A grim smirk appeared on the Captain’s face at the words, and she turned her attention away from the hubbub of loading, to the sparkling flat bay that lay in front of her feet. There was no moon overhead, but the lights of the rollicking town flickered on the little wavelets. A shadow against the dark, the Silence lay at anchor, its lights also bobbing and glittering. The ship was alive with movement, sailors scurrying hither and thither, to secure the cargo they needed to head back out to sea and fresh air, salt spray, blessed freedom—or whatever illusion of it remained. A boat splashed against the jetty.

  “Yours,” Moira said over her shoulder, carrying a barrel to the other boat that still sat tied up, its hull wallowing as it filled with provender.

  Elisabeth stepped into the bobbing vessel, Cressia at her heels, and settled herself so she could watch the land recede behind them. The women at the oars turned them about quickly, and began the short journey back to the ship. Elisabeth let her gaze roam over the pirate king’s domain, glad to put the place and its ruler behind her. A fire was starting to light the waterline, and the sound of pistol shot and clashing swords drifted over the harbour. Movement on the water not far from them caught her eye, and she turned from her contemplation of the island to observe it.

  Henry Mortimer sat in its prow, a bright torch in his hand, the scowl on his face made appealing by its flickering light. He was bloodied, just like her, red liquid still oozing from his nose, and from a cut above his brow. He seemed to feel the weight of her regard, meeting her eyes across the water. The distance was too great for her to read the nuance of his expression, but the broad strokes sent another shiver along her spine. Something fated, the thought ghosted through her mind. She hated the reaction, and pushed it away, pulling on the remnants of her rage instead, letting it fill her face and warm her limbs. Elisabeth turned her attention back to the receding shoreline, taking comfort in its distant glitter, and banished thoughts of Henry Mortimer from her mind.