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nyeusigrube-haven · 4 years

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Jade Excerpts

0203 - Jade

Excerpt of the unfinished, unpublished work currently called 0203 - Jade

Note: this is an excerpt of a rough draft, not a final version. Errors are likely, and everything here is subject to editing and/or deletion. That being said, comments are welcome.

For Clarification:

Jade is the fifth book of the Ebony Series. It is currently narrated entierly by Jaguar, whom you know from Midnight Predator. To avoid a little confusion... the chapter numbers are deceptive. Jade is divided into only five "chapters," each about a hundred pages long and covering a specific time frame. This is why I have also included dates and locations for each clip.

The clips included on this page are in response to an interesting conversation on the message board... I try to encourage intelligent analysis and discussion, so, here you are.

Chapter 1

Donovan Estate, shortly after the fall of Midnight

September, 1804

"What do you want?" Gabriel snapped, leaning back against the wall. What did he want? Why had he come here? Honestly, he hadn't the faintest idea. He was spared answering as Gabriel sighed, "Never mind. I already know."

"Really? If you could tell me I would be most appreciative." His voice was light and ironic, disguising the fact that the words were completely honest.

"Come here."

Warily, Jaguar moved towards the other trainer- the only trainer in Midnight who had been able to boast that he was freeblood. Jeshickah had taken Gabriel into her cells and tried to break him, but she had not succeeded before she had lost her temper and nearly killed him- nearly killed him, then given him her blood and changed him.

Gabriel's fist caught him in the jaw before he had a chance to react; the snap of his jawbone breaking accompanied the taste of his own blood as he stumbled, only to have Gabriel catch his wrist and land another blow in his gut.

As he doubled over, the other trainer's knee caught him in the forehead, sending him swiftly to the ground.

He was tired, and had not been feeding well, but even so he would have been able to hold his own with most attackers. But this was Gabriel, the man who had taught him to fight in the first place, and probably the only other person in the world the jaguar respected.

"You're looking for a master, Jaguar," Gabriel stated clearly, as he dragged the other man to his feet and slammed him against the wall. "Jeshickah has abandoned you, and you have no idea how to rule your own life." As soon as Jaguar tried to speak, the trainer snapped, "Don't argue. You know it's true. And while I would love to beat you bloody, I have no interest in holding your leash."

Chapter 3

The building that will become the

Drunken Horse Tavern

1804

"How is the process undone?"

Jaguar hesitated, not sure he understood. "Undone?"

"If you can influence a person's mind so strongly to break them, you must be able to fix them, if you wanted to," she asserted. "You could tear a person's arm off, probably without much effort. Could you put it back on?" Jaguar returned.

Chapter 4

Drunken Horse Tavern

1832

His temper had cooled since the incident with Kyle, though the two men avoided each other whenever possible. Jaguar was unhappily reminded of the last few years in his father's house.

Two de Fiaro men should never try to share a household.

Turning his thoughts from Kyle to the reason he had been so furious, he tried reluctantly to face the facts.

She was beautiful, though a hundred years ago he would have given her no second glance. She wasn't the type of woman he had once craved, exotic and dangerous, a woman who would fight everything he said until he broke her.

She wasn't a lot of things.

Yet when he had seen the bruises on her skin, and thought that Kyle had hurt her, he had been ready to commit murder.

Shaking off his thoughts, he stormed down the stairs, his mood frustrated enough that he would have once gone into a cell and beaten someone.

He hesitated at the base of the stairs. With Valerie and Irene sat a lovely young woman, her honey and chocolate hair strung with cream silk ribbons and pinned atop her head. She was dressed in a charming deep green dress, the height of fashion, and laughing with the twin falcons. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright as she turned toward him, and his breath caught for a moment.

Celeste smiled when she looked at him, but there was a note of hesitancy in the sweet expression, a certain wariness that reminded him that of all people, she could best recognize his moods.

He forced himself to calm only in time to notice an adornment that Celeste wore: a double strand of pearls, damnably familiar. His gaze caught on them, and Celeste lifted a hand and touched her fingers to the necklace.

He had a sudden desire to turn and flee, or to go outside into the pouring rain he could hear and let it soak him to the bone.

A voice said just over his left shoulder, "They were all my mother left me when she died. I had to have them restrung, of course, but..."

Kyle trailed off, because Jaguar had turned to his son and was looking at him with an expression that he knew was half hatred and half pleading.

"You know I love her," Kyle said softly. "And you know I will never hurt her. She's hoping you'll give her away."

Marriage. Jaguar was sure that Kyle only meant the words in that context, though he was equally sure that Celeste meant them as more.

"I gave Celeste to herself a long time ago," he answered. "She's the only one I will ever give her to."

He couldn't face this; he brushed past his son and stepped into the beckoning rain, leaning against the outside of the Drunken Horse as he was quickly soaked.

He scented her before he heard her, heard her before he opened his eyes.

"Master?" Her voice was soft.

She walked toward him and he drew her into his arms; she stiffened for too long a moment before she relaxed against him.

"You gave me my life when Mistress Jeshickah would have had me killed for my blindness," she said. "You gave me a purpose when I had nothing but darkness. You gave me my freedom when I was all you owned. And you gave me my sight, and... you are beautiful to me."

He did not want to hear this, but he had no choice as she continued to speak.

"You were my world. And you gave me the world." She paused, and kissed his cheek. "I love you. I have to love you, for all you are and all you have been to me. But Kyle is... very sweet, and kind, and... he needs love. And I love him."

Kyle was capable of love, and capable of needing a woman and not hating himself for the weakness.

The date was 1832, summertime, when Jaguar realized he had lost- lost a woman he had always taken for granted, lost a competition he had not realized had begun.

Chapter 4

Drunken Horse Tavern

1890

"Why don't you leave, Jaguar?" The question had the tone of one Valerie had been wanting to ask for a while, but hadn't decided how until now.

He had a moment of frozen surety that he was about to be thrown out of the first place that he had ever in his life truly considered home. "Do you want me to go?"

Valerie shook her head. "That's not my point. You're free." She sat up, and brushed fingertips lightly over the faint golden lines that still marked his shoulder and chest. "These won't stop you; I'd remove them if you asked. But you don't ask. You get offered an empire by others of your kind, and you don't even consider it."

"You and Irene could rule the world, but instead you raise horses and make mulled cider and wine," he pointed out. "Not to say I don't still desire the things I had." [some cuts]

He forced himself to stay on topic. "There are many things I miss from Midnight... but there are also many things I don't. If ever I went back to it, it would kill a part of me."

Valerie nodded. Lightly, she said, "Incidentally, I think that part of which you speak is most commonly called a soul."

"Don't bother," the old man said. His voice was not apologetic, but neither was it hateful. Simply, honestly, he stated, "Animals don't have souls."

Disturbed by the memory, he stood up and returned to the fencing.

[some cuts for length and relevance]

"You okay?" Valerie asked, moving beside him as he worked.

He nodded absently.

"I miss some things about the old Midnight," he said.

"Like what?"

He had an excuse not to answer as he trotted over to fetch a handful of nails. Valerie held the boards in place as he worked, hammering most in with only one or two strokes. Long hours of practice had been needed, but time was one of the advantages of being immortal.

And one of the disadvantages.

"Do you miss anything from Ahnmik?" he asked, turning the conversation to the falcon. She and Irene so rarely spoke of their homeland; they always seemed focused on today- this project, this moment.

Valerie hesitated. "Ahnmik is a beautiful city," she answered finally. "The walls dance. The roads sing. Magic glitters everywhere, if you know how to feel it."

Silence fell, heavy with memory.

Several minutes later, long enough that the conversation might have been over, she added, "I don't miss the screaming of so-called traitors suffering the Empress's mercy. I don't miss being greeted with fear everywhere I go. Distrust, hatred." She shrugged. "Now I've answered your question- answer mine. What do you miss of Midnight?"

The thoughts turned over in his mind.

Finally, what came to the surface was, "Simplicity."

"Simplicity?" Valerie echoed.

He nodded. "Knowing exactly who you are, what you are, and what your purpose is. Having someone to tell you exactly when you falter and how to correct it." Even if that someone was Jeshickah. "Being able to place yourself between those who rule you and those you rule... it sounds cold, but it is so much simpler."

"I never found it simple to have the Empress ruling my life," Valerie answered.

"She controlled your magic- not your soul."

Again silence, at the implication.

And then she asked, "And if Jeshickah came here today, what would you do?"

He swore as his wandering mind caused a section of wall that he had been supporting to tumble, catching him hard on the shoulder. It was easy enough to right, but it took more concentration than he had been giving it.

She never asked the question again; he never answered.

He didn't know how.

End of Chapter 4

Drunken Horse Tavern

1890

"I could," Theron said. "He's had her long enough, a few more minutes won't matter. But since he's planning to get rid of her tonight, I thought it best to tell you now."

Mumbling every curse he knew in multiple languages, Jaguar reluctantly found his feet; Irene smoothed her rumpled clothing and stalked into the Horse's main building.

"What do you know?"

Theron could see when his client was in a foul mood; he didn't play around. "I was visiting Daryl earlier," he explained. "You remember him?"

"Of course."

[some cuts for length and relevance]

"Of course."

"Not fondly," Theron observed. "Rightly so."

"He was mostly incompetent, more likely to kill or maim a human than break it. He also routinely destroyed slaves for the fun of it. The only reason Jeshickah indulged him was because he was exceedingly wealthy."

Theron nodded. "He's become involved in the trade again, and is setting himself up a nice little power base," the mercenary explained. "He's been talking about selling his prize, a woman he received a couple years ago and now has broken perfectly."

"Go on." Theron's tone said he wasn't here about slave trading, even if Jaguar had been looking to buy.

"Daryl's description sounded familiar, so I invited myself into his current home to catch a glimpse of her while he was asleep today. I don't know how the fool got his hands on her, but Daryl's got Alejandra licking his boots. If I didn't know her scent, I barely would have recognized her."

For several moments, Jaguar considered turning his back on the news. Daryl was obnoxious, but he was powerful in the trade now; going against him would be foolish. Killing him outright would earn Jaguar enemies with enough influence and wealth that he doubted he would survive them.

Unfortunately, Daryl hated Jaguar enough that he might refuse to sell Alejandra for any price. Her lineage was too clearly written in her features; even if it hadn't been, Daryl likely knew her history by now. If Jaguar suddenly returned from his reclusive life at Drunken Horse and asked to buy Daryl's prize, no casual façade would keep Daryl from knowing the value of what he had.

And like Theron had said, if Alejandra was broken already, what did another few minutes- or years, even- matter?

They did. If only because Alejandra had once been proud, and would have hated to belong to anyone, every second mattered. She had been annoying and in many ways infuriating, but thinking of Alejandra as Daryl's pet did painful things to Jaguar's mind.

"He won't sell her to you," Theron said, stating the obvious.

"I know."

"Unless he thought you were taking control of the trade again," Theron continued. "It has grown enough power lately, people have been talking about banding together, maybe working against Mayhem."

Jaguar shook his head. "No one could manage it."

"Daryl might be able to," the mercenary argued. "He's not overly strong, but he has Kendra's backing, and her line has almost always been the deciding factor. He was a trainer before; the others would follow him now, if he tried to rule."

Daryl, in charge of Midnight? That was a terrifying thought.

"He deserves a knife in his back."

"It would be a very costly knife," Theron warned. "I wouldn't do it. I don't like Daryl much more than you do, but he's powerful in the trade."

Chingada.

Alejandra was one thing. Death was the best she could hope for now, if she was really as broken as Theron implied she was.

The idea of Daryl's attempting to rebuild and rule Midnight was something else, something far worse. The most sickening part was that he might be able to do it.

Jaguar ticked off in his mind the people who could oppose Daryl. Katama and Jeshickah might be anywhere at this point; they certainly weren't involving themselves in politics. Gabriel was also withdrawn, but he would probably support someone who was trying to restore Jeshickah's empire; if he got tired of Daryl, Gabriel himself might take control, which would be little better. Taro and Varick, Midnight's other trainers, would submit to anyone who wanted to rule; they were already embroiled in the slave trade again, simply awaiting a master.

The slave trade would continue. There was no helping that. But without Midnight to keep it under control, it would flourish lawlessly, destroying everything it touched like a blackening pestilence.

Alejandra, for example, would have been safe in Midnight. Shapeshifters were freeblood unless made otherwise by their own kin. Even Jeshickah had needed to purchase Esteban de Fiaro's son for coins, few as they were, before taking the young man of Azteka blood back with her.

"You could control it," Jaguar pointed out, hoping desperately but knowing Theron would not agree.

"If I wanted to," he answered. "I could get the following necessary, that is. But I'm a mercenary, not a trainer. I'll follow whoever pays me; I would follow you, or Daryl, just as I've always done in the past. Midnight is a profitable venture, but I have no desire to be a ruler. I'll follow the coin; I don't like to lead it."

"But you're here."

Theron shrugged. "I occasionally am willing to nudge fate to go where I want it to," he admitted. "You could rule. And I would rather follow you that Daryl."

"Fine." There was something fateful about that single word.

Late in Chapter 5

New Midnight

2002 (minutes after the end of Midnight Predator)

(yes, I'm aware I forgot her arm was broken)

(just pretend it wasn't) <---notes from the author

He tracked Audra to the room she had once occupied as a slave, which had not yet been given to a newcomer. She was doing what Audra always did when she was furious: pushups.

"Audra."

"Leave." Her voice was cold. "Oh, I'm sorry." Words were accented by her breath hissing out as she pushed away from the ground. "Please leave. Master. That is. The correct. Response. Isn't it?"

His anger rose. Anger, supplanting guilt, supplanting the horror he had felt when he had first seen her in the doorway. Anger. What right did she have to hate him for this?

She owned him no more than Jeshickah.

So why was he twitching at her censure?

"You're not a slave to me, Audra." He said the words to remind himself as much as to tell her. Not a slave. No matter how much he wanted to throttle her right now. "You never have been."

"Haven't I?" she responded sharply. Still pushups.

"Would you stand up and look at me?" he demanded.

"Is that- an order?"

Oh, hell. One sharp movement, he knelt beside her, placing a hand on the back of her neck to hold her down at the low point in her pushup. "You have no idea of what you speak."

He knew. Knew enough to know this was a bad position to be in. Knew enough to know that if he wanted to preserve any relationship with this woman short of ownership, fear and hate, he should not be on the floor next to her prone form, his hands on the bare skin of her neck, angry to the point where it bordered on cool amusement.

Audra let out a hiss, and nearly too late was he reminded that she was not only a beautiful, intelligent human woman. She was also one of the highest ranking members of Crimson.

As she spun, a knife in her hand, he might have been able to stop her. But part of him knew he deserved it.

The silver blade dug into his gut, cut up, was stopped by his ribcage with the blade inches from his heart. If she changed the angle she could kill him.

His scant self-preservation kicked in finally. He ignored the knife, and grasped the wrist of the hand that held it, pulling the human attached up as he stood and pushed her back against the wall.

A second knife was employed, but she hadn't expected him to not even be delayed by the first.

Back against the wall, body pinned by his, Audra shook hair from her face and spat, "You're lucky I wasn't trying to kill you."

"Then what were you trying for?"

He stepped forward, making the seam between their bodies tight, and saw Audra wince as the hilt of her own knife dug into her stomach.

"Just to make you hurt," she answered, breath short. "After what I saw, you deserve it."

"What you saw?" he repeated. "What did you see? Another woman in a place you have shown no desire to occupy. I've put no claim to you, Audra. And you don't own me." Anger crackled bitter in the air. Anger like that which can only be formed when other strong emotions are in place. Lust and maybe more, who was he to judge?

"Once a trainer, always a trainer, isn't that the way it goes?" She tried to push at him for a moment, then gave up when she realized he wasn't about to release her. "Or is it just once a slave, always a slave? Your Mistress beckons, and you go to her like a faithful pet-"

He checked the impulse to hit her, but knew when her voice cut off that she had seen the image in his eyes. "If I believed those words," he answered, "they would make you a slave, Catherine."

She tensed, rigid at the sound of the name to which she had been born. "It's how you treat me. I don't matter except when I amuse you."

She knew that wasn't true. They both did. But more than anger was hot, more than fury was sparking. Danger warnings were choking both their brains and neither had the presence of mind to heed them.

"Is that so?" He heard his own voice go oh-so-calm.

The expression in her eyes answered the tone in his words: predator facing predator, prey facing prey. "Isn't it?"

"I don't think so," he answered.

"I amuse you," she repeated. "I was your little pet while I was here. I bared my throat to you when you asked. After I left, when you called, I came to meet you." Her beautiful turquoise eyes were liquid with fury. "You say fancy words about freeblood, but you have always treated me like a slave."

"Three days, Audra. With all your training, all the resistance from your time with Daryl... I would say three days would be enough, if I took you in my cell. Maybe less."

[a couple pages cut for length and content]

"Once a trainer, always a trainer, Audra. Jeshickah says the traits come in the blood, or in some lack of the soul. I have them- I always have. I know you in a way only a trainer can know you, every soft spot in your armor, every hesitation in your mind." She didn't speak, just waited as he continued, "You're beautiful, intelligent, a fond companion when you let down your guard. But beyond that, you're an adrenaline junkie. Daryl broke you long ago, but you won't admit it. After you left his house, you became a hunter because you were too terrified to return to your real world. You define yourself by what controls you like a slave defines herself by her master, and you need that definition to survive. So you are ruled by your Bruja, by your employers, even by your prey. You think what they tell you to think, do what they prompt you to do. When you're faced with a real-world choice like your human Greg offers, you back away, because you don't want that kind of control. You call yourself a predator, but in reality, you have made yourself a slave to that definition."

Audra had gone very still, eyes turned away from him and from the harsh truths he was speaking.

"How many times, Audra, have you fantasized about the fight where you're too slow? The fight you lose?" She took a deep, shuddering breath, but did not say anything. "It's hard to fight. It's painful. Every minute of every day you fight just to keep your head above water. How many times have you dreamed of... letting go? How many times have you found yourself thinking of how simple things were when Daryl owned you? When he told you what to wear, what to say, what to do, what to think?"

Chapter 5

The next day

"Tell me," Audra said, "why I haven't killed you."

Her voice was calm, but he could hear a nearly-hidden tremble beneath the careful tone. Audra was torn by confusion mixed with fear and fury. She didn't understand what had happened the night before, but like most humans, she felt guilty because she knew that every word he had said was true. And she despised herself for her own weakness.

"Which answer do you want?"

"What are my choices?"

"I can give you a kind one," he offered, "or I can give you one every bit as cruel as the words you heard last night."

Her voice was so soft, a human might not even have heard the words she said. "Those words were true."

"In a way," he admitted.

"There is no ‘way.' True is true."

He sighed. Half-truths were easier to sell than full-truths, because they preyed on the fears of the listener. "Daryl killed Catherine's family. If she had gone home, he would have found her, and repeated the slaughter with anyone else she loved. So Catherine disappeared.

"You became a hunter because you feared to return to your human life- true. So you struggled to make yourself stronger, so some day maybe you wouldn't be afraid any more. You seek definition in the eyes of your employers, your prey- true, but who doesn't? We define ourselves in terms of our family, our friends, our homes, if we have them; when we don't, we need alternatives." Like Midnight, and Jeshickah, and Gabriel. "The idea of going back to someone like Greg terrified you- also true. Because he knew Catherine. He knew, and is, an innocent; you aren't any more. You can't become one again, so your only choice would be introducing him to this world, our world, dragging him into it every bit as permanently as Daryl did you. You don't want that kind of control- over someone else's life.

"You call yourself a predator, and allow that definition to entrap you, because it makes you feel safe." He let those words linger in the air for a moment, before dismissing them. "You live by that definition because you can't live as it. You aren't a predator. What you are is a protector, one who once failed to protect her charge and has never forgiven herself for it.

"So you shove yourself into this frame, trying to make yourself better, so you'll never fail again. And sometimes you dream of letting go- but you never have. I have broken thousands of women and men in my life, Audra. The ones who never dream of giving up are the ones who break first, because they are the ones who refuse to acknowledge that there is something to fight against."

#nyeusigrube #tdos #the den of shadows #jaguar #ebony #the ebony series #Jade #clips/scenes #theron #gabriel #kyle lostry

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qqueenofhades · 7 years

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The Dark Horizon: Chapter XXXVII

summary: AU. The Caribbean, 1715: Royal Navy Lieutenant Killian Jones and his brother, Captain Liam Jones, have just arrived to help pacify the notorious “pirates’ republic” of New Providence. But they have dangerous allies, deadly enemies, and no idea what they’re getting into when they agree to hunt the pirate ship Blackbird and the mysterious Captain Swan. OUAT/Black Sails. rating: M status: WIP available: FF.net and AO3 previous: chapter XXXVI

The hangings started soon after nine o’clock. From their vantage in the trees, Jack, Anne, and Emma could see the line of prisoners marched out into the square, fettered at wrist and ankle, and up onto the gallows by redcoats with muskets, four at a time. A periwigged lawyer read the indictment, a further few soldiers pulled down the heavy hemp nooses and placed them around the necks of the condemned, and to the accompaniment of a long tattoo of drums, the captain pulled the lever. Four pairs of feet dropped through the trapdoor, four ropes jerked, and four men, if they were lucky, died more or less instantly. Of the three sets already accomplished, at least two of them had strangled slowly, jerking and kicking, until boys from the crowd darted forward and hung onto their legs, in hopes of breaking their necks faster and earning a few pennies for the service. Once they were finally dead by one means or another, they were cut down and piled into a cart, the ropes were restrung, and the process began again. Clearly, the intent was not to leave the corpses up to rot, but rather to impress the efficiency and extent of the operation. That the British army and Governor Woodes Rogers could hang all the pirates they wanted, and there was not a damn thing anyone could do about it. That they were very much going to wish that they had not decided to throw the offer of clemency back in his face. That now, regrettably, they had made him angry. Very angry.

It could not have escaped anyone, whether the soldiers or the men being hanged, that they had simply had the spectacular bad luck to be caught on the wrong side of events outside their control: they had turned themselves in as pirates in due course, expecting pardons like everyone else, but today that meant a noose around the neck, rather than a parchment in hand. If it was intended to stoke resentment against the diehards who kept fighting and resisting English authority, that their brash and ill-advised actions were forcing their fellows to suffer in retribution, it might have done that very well. Twelve – no, make that sixteen – men had died by the time the executions were temporarily called to a halt at noon, and Anne was pacing relentlessly, white and sick with rage. “Can’t believe I missed the shot on Rogers. Two inches lower, I kill the fucking bastard, not just scalp ‘im. Then none of this would be happening.”

“It’s not your fault,” Rackham said, running a distracted hand through his hair. “They’re punishing us for rescuing Hook, and Charles’ fiery destruction of their blockade, not just Rogers’ injury – though I don’t doubt that’s part of it. This is the catch in the bargain. Either we all should have taken the pardons when we had the chance, or they’ll grind us into dust.”

“I shouldn’t have asked you to risk yourselves.” Emma swallowed heavily, trying to look away; even at a distance, the scene was grisly, as the last of the sixteen men had all had lingering, painful ends. She tried to stop her ears to the sound of chopping as they were cut down for the gravedigger’s cart. “If I could have gotten Killian out any other way – ”

“No,” Killian said hoarsely, eyes closed, from where he had been settled in a makeshift hammock between two palms. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have been so foolish as to propose we treat with Rogers. But I thought – he was my acquaintance from Bristol, I didn’t realize. . .”

“We didn’t have a choice,” Rackham said, after a moment. “We had to distract him somehow, and at least we got the gold dug up and moved aboard the Jolie Rouge. If you’re able to make it back across the island, we can. . .” He hesitated. Clearly, sailing away with Vane’s treasure aboard their uneasily shared vessel would result in Vane being very angry when he got back from Charlestown (if he got back from Charlestown), and there was nowhere for them to go that was certain, or even very likely, to be safe. They could find some remote island and hope to hide out until the English got bored and went away, but that was signally unlikely. Besides, with such provocation as this, the whiff of decay starting to reek ripe in the hot wind, nobody felt in any mood for running like cowards. It had been intended to frighten or guilt them into surrendering, but it was having decidedly the opposite effect.

“Still, though,” Rackham went on, voicing their dilemma. “Charles has helpfully smashed up half their fleet, yes, but they have at least six ships still in fighting order, and while the Jolie could most likely take out a few more, we’d eventually be overcome. They could hang all of Nassau while we were brawling it out in the harbor, and finish up with us. We need more help.”

“We need Flint and Sam back here.” Emma sat down on the log next to Killian. “Vane might retrieve Flint, and if Sam finds David Nolan – ”

“We’d still need more men,” Rackham completed. “Even if Blackbeard finished up in Antigua and returned as well, we have no army, and no obvious place to acquire one.”

“There might be, though.” Killian sat up slowly, grimacing and wiping his mouth, as Emma regarded him anxiously. “Remember when we were crossing the interior of the island and needed to avoid the plantations? There must be a few hundred – or more – slaves on those. Slaves who have no reason to love their brutal English masters any more than the pirates do, and we already have someone who could talk to them. Lancelot and his men are still on the Jolie. If we send them to approach the slaves, sniff out the possibility of an uprising – ”

Anne, Jack, and Emma all stared at him. “That’s your plan?” It was clear that Rackham couldn’t decide whether to be more impressed or incredulous. “Provoke all of New Providence’s slaves into throwing off their chains and joining forces with us?”

“Do you have any other ideas about where we could find a force of similar size and motivation, in the very short time we have?” Killian’s eyes were fierce. Emma knew that this was personal for him, the former slave, the man so deeply scarred by the experience that it still informed everything he was and did and felt, the boy held in indenture and captivity and the price that Liam had paid to free them. “I realize that I myself am not the most popular individual among them right now, for what I. . . what I did to Ursula, but Lancelot – ”

“That’s a dangerous favor you’re asking,” Rackham said, frowning. “He’s a good quartermaster, I don’t want to hang him out like a hog for slaughter – ”

“He and his men left the Maroons’ island because they wanted to fight their tormentors. Not just hide away in safety.” Killian let out a long sigh. “It was in the bargain we struck. And the alternative is sitting here and continuing to watch the hangings, doing nothing, hoping Flint or Sam or Vane or someone gets back in time to pull our arses out of the fire. I don’t know about you, but after what I went through yesterday thanks to bloody Rogers and Jennings, I’m not inclined to do that. We need to try.”

“Can you make it across the island to the Jolie again?” Emma asked worriedly. They had patched him up as best they could, but he was still in no shape for extended travail, or really much travail at all. “If someone saw us, if the redcoats caught up. . .”

“Then you’ll give me a gun and I’ll die fighting.” Killian continued to hold her gaze. “I’m not in the mood for peaceable surrender, Swan. I doubt you are either.”

“I can try to find us horses,” Anne said. “Riding back’d be faster n’ walking.”

Rackham shot her an anxious glance, as he was clearly not sure that this was the time to risk horse thievery on top of every other outrage they had committed recently, but also forced to admit that likewise, one more thumb of their noses at English authority could hardly make much difference. They were destined to hang one way or the other, so they might as well be sure that they had thoroughly earned it. “Fine,” he said with a sigh. “Be careful, won’t you?”

Anne gave him a look as if to say that she was offended that he thought she would be anything but, and disappeared without delay into the underbrush. Left to wait until she returned, Jack and Emma did their best to ensure that Killian was ready to travel, which was mostly an academic exercise; either he would or he wouldn’t. They sat tensely, ready to spring up at any sign of trouble, until the sound of clip-clopping presaged the reappearance of Anne, riding one dusty-looking horse and leading another on a short rein. She swung down with a look of grim satisfaction as Rackham, spotting the fresh bloodstains on her coat, rushed over. “You’re not – ?”

“Not mine. Took these off a pair of redcoat messengers. Figured wherever they was going, best they didn’t get there.” Anne smiled sourly. “Cut their throats, so they won’t bring their news one way or the other. There’s this, though.” She thrust a crumpled parchment at Emma, clearly filched from the saddlebags. “What’s it say?”

Emma broke the seal and scanned the slanted, hasty scrawl. “It’s from Rogers,” she said, mouth dry. “A notice that the pirates have broken the king’s peace and nullified the offer of pardons, and that he will be applying appropriate disciplinary measures until Charles Vane’s outrageous actions are fully recompensed. Bloody hell, it’s addressed to Gold. Lord Robert Gold. He says that he has been wounded in the discharge of his duty, but not life-threateningly, and is asking for more reinforcements to be sent from Antigua at once.”

They glanced at each other sidelong as the implications of the letter sank in, and the fact that indeed, on no account could it be allowed to reach its destination. It was clear that Rogers regarded the events of yesterday as tantamount to a declaration of open war by the pirates on the Crown, and as such, would not scruple in doing this the hard way, no matter if he might be personally inclined to a quick and bloodless takeover. Especially since Vane was the main culprit, and as Eleanor was now sleeping with and siding with Rogers and her love-hate relationship with Vane had turned entirely to hate, that added a personal kick in the teeth to the whole thing. In his audience with Killian and Emma, Rogers had told them that he was not necessarily bound to follow Gold’s dictates without question, but obviously there would be tighter cooperation between the two English governors in the wake of one attempted uprising. Trying a second, to rouse the slaves of New Providence to fire and fury, would mean still harsher penalties. If they failed, even the very memory of their existence might be eradicated.

There was another pause as they considered this. Then Killian said, “Well? Are we going?”

“I didn’t steal the horses to look at ‘em.” Anne crossed the clearing and gave him a hand to his feet, a small but significant gesture given the fact that she even as recently as a few days ago had still not trusted him, and from the look on Killian’s face, it was clear that he recognized it. He nodded briefly in thanks, steadying himself on the nearer of the horses, as Emma came to mount it. She then hauled him up behind her, as Jack clambered up behind Anne on the other one. With a final glance around to ensure that their exit was not observed, they cantered off.

Even with horses, the trip back was still a delicate prospect, as they could not be sure how far the English had proceeded in expanding their presence beyond their tenuous foothold in Nassau Town. The colonists in the interior might well be on heightened alert, guarding against any such potential slave revolt as the news of Vane’s memorable exit trickled in, and as Lancelot and the Maroons could not visit all of the plantations at once, garnering their support would by no means be an easy or immediate process. If that did not work, well. . . Emma supposed that they wouldn’t have much choice but to sail away in the Jolie, God knew where, with the Spanish treasure in the hold. In that scenario, Vane’s wrath would be literally the least of their problems.

It was not much less of a chore than last time, but they finally came into sight of the Jolie, anchored where they had left her on the far side of the island, and picked a cautious course down to the beach. They picketed the horses in the mangroves and hailed the ship, which sent the launch out to retrieve them, and there were noticeable murmurs of concern as Killian had to be helped onto the deck. No matter their new career and command under Rackham, these were, after all, largely still his old men who had followed him into piracy to avenge his mistreatment at the hands of Gold and Jennings. They were thus, to say the least, not at all impressed to hear that Jennings (and Rogers) had had the chance for a second extensive go-round. “Jesus. Isn’t that vile bastard ever going to have the fucking good sense to die?”

“Doubtful,” Killian said grimly. “The Devil Himself was never going to be easy to kill.”

Someone muttered that they weren’t sure even the Devil was as bad as Jennings – which, all things considered, Emma was inclined to agree with. News of the ongoing imbroglio in Nassau was likewise not well received. The Jolie’s crew wanted to know what was going to be done. Surely they weren’t just intended to sit and twiddle their thumbs, and as former Navy sailors themselves, they wanted a crack at their own revenge. Emma had wondered if any of them might have second thoughts, consider going back over to their old employers as things were going from bad to worse for the pirates, but as all the men who wanted to return to the Navy had already mutinied and been killed or imprisoned, the only ones left were the diehards who were determined to cling to their new lives at any cost. Even if they were outnumbered, they had sixty guns. They could assuredly cause a great deal of further trouble in Nassau Harbor, still reeling from Vane’s inaugural volley. Their vote was to proceed to a second attack at once.

Given this atmosphere of heated bloodlust, it was therefore a bit of a finicky matter for Killian to suggest that Lancelot and the Maroons try to recruit help from the interior plantations. There were hisses of disapproval – surely they weren’t just going to wait and see whether a bunch of slaves decided to fight for them? Pirates were dying right now, likely more if the executions had recommenced after their midday lull. Nobody else was around to handle it. Why not them?

“We’ll think about it.” Killian was clearly aware that trying to keep a lid on this for too long would be dangerous, and he glanced at Lancelot. “Do you think there’s any chance?”

“Of persuading the slaves to join us?” The Maroon quartermaster weighed his words carefully. “Some of them might want to fight, yes. But farmhands with threshing knives and pitchforks are no match for trained redcoats with muskets and bayonets. Can you protect them from the wrath of their overseers and the British army together?”

“No,” Killian said simply. “Not if we lose. Then again, we’ll all die if we lose, and what’s the alternative? Dying in bondage?”

“They’ll have family members on other plantations,” Lancelot warned. “The owners do that for exactly this reason: dissuading them from starting revolts. If one plantation rises up, their fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, wives, husbands, sons, daughters on the others will be punished. Hating the same masters isn’t enough on its own for them to fight with the pirates. There’s only one captain that we know and trust as a consistent friend to us, and that, Hook, is not you.”

“Who?” Emma asked, having more than an inkling.

“Sam Bellamy,” Lancelot confirmed. “If I approached the slaves in his name, could swear by what he has done for the Maroons and that he would be a wise choice to ally with. . . well, as I said, it would still be no sure thing, but there might at least be a chance. The obvious difficulty being, of course, that he is not here on Nassau, and we have no idea when he might be again, if at all. And I can hardly ask them to risk their lives for the possibility of his return.”

Emma and Killian exchanged a troubled look. Their odds, already slim, seemed to be whittled thinner at every turn, and since Killian was still not the captain of the Jolie, he did not possess the authority to order and enforce any course of action anyway. As he turned aside to cough, with an unpleasant squelching sound, Emma could see splatters of blood on his sleeve where he pressed it to his mouth. He was bearing up well, because that was Killian for you; his own suffering was unimportant when there was so much else to worry about, and because he had grown so used to squashing it down and foraging bravely onward. It was clear, however, that his working-over by Rogers and Jennings had been dishearteningly thorough, and just as Emma was not entirely repaired from childbirth, Killian was not in much state to be leading any skirmish parties. They could be reasonably certain that Sam would decide to rejoin them once he made contact with David, or even if he didn’t, but as he did not know that the place was occupied by the British, he could sail in with too little caution and wind up as a fat prize for Rogers. Given that Sam had already just escaped hanging by the very skin of his teeth, nobody was in any hurry for him then to be trapped in a similar situation for the second time.

Nonetheless, they could not sit here and do nothing, they could not approach the slaves without Sam, they could not let any of their friends arrive unprepared, they could not stray too far from Nassau, and nor could they permit Rogers’ request for reinforcements, and information in the situation to reach Gold. Therefore, after a rather rancorous caucus, the vote was taken to strike out and try to intercept any of the surviving Navy ships that might be setting sail to Antigua. Anne had killed the messengers, but that alone was no certainty of stopping the news from traveling, and in fact might have provoked another round of retaliatory hangings, if their bodies had been discovered. So the Jolie weighed anchor and moved out from the lee of the island, into the lengthening shadows of evening. They would have to do this carefully, if they did not want to tip off the British as to their presence. Moved into the sea lane south of Nassau, and waited.

A few uneasy hours passed. There was nothing but dark, empty water and the moon rising brilliant overhead. Then someone shouted, a pinprick of lanterns appeared on the horizon, and through the spyglass, they spotted an oncoming frigate, flying full canvas and clearly in a tearing hurry. This, then, would be the target. Had to catch it up and take it down.

The Jolie had snuffed all her own lanterns, so the other ship would have no warning or advance notice of their presence, unless they were watching very hard. Rackham and Killian ordered the guns loaded, as quietly as possible, and directed the men to their stations. Holding, holding, until the frigate was so close that it seemed impossible for them to remain a secret an instant longer. Then, and only then, did they raise their voices to bellow the command in unison. “FIRE!”

The night lit up like an inferno as the full might of the Jolie’s broadside spoke their piece, screaming and hailing into the Navy frigate at nearly point-blank range. There were howls of rage and shock from the other ship, crashes and splinters as they struggled to get to their own guns; they had, of course, had no idea that there was any other pirate vessel remotely nearby now that Vane had buggered off so dramatically. By that time, the Jolie had a second volley prepared, and one of the heavy thirty two-pounders struck a direct hit on the mast. Five minutes later, the ludicrously one-sided battle was over, the frigate slewed and shattered, smoking and gutted, the Union Jack ripped clean through with chain shot and sprawled on the deck. It, however, was not about to be left to peaceably sink. The Jolie drew up directly alongside, and the men threw ropes and grapnels, binding the damaged ship to them. Then they slid down and landed on the deck with whoops and hollers, brandishing pistols and cutlasses, as the stunned Navy sailors did their best to mount any kind of defense. This, likewise, did not last long.

Killian and Emma, neither in much fit state to fight themselves, watched from the deck of the Jolie as the officer who looked to be in command (or else had been abruptly promoted) was forced to his knees at the point of a gun. “What’s your name? What ship is this?”

“Go to hell, pirate scum.”

This answer earned him the crack of a musket butt across the face. “Try again.”

The young officer watched them mutinously, blood trickling into his eyes, as the rest of the Jolie’s crew continued to round up survivors. Finally he spoke with coldly correct decorum. “My name is Lieutenant Arthur Geoffrey, of HMS Halifax. You brigands have assaulted and destroyed a ship of the Royal Navy and deepened your already unforgivable crimes against – ”

“How many men did that shit Woodes Rogers hang?”

Lieutenant Geoffrey hesitated briefly, but apparently saw no need to hold back with this particular piece of intelligence. “Twenty-four all told,” he spat. “Sixteen in the morning, and eight more before evening. And when he hears of this immensity, I don’t doubt he’ll hang at least as many again.”

“I don’t doubt you’re right.” The Jolie’s men appeared to be enjoying this, even as a faint shiver went through Emma. Lieutenant Geoffrey looked almost hauntingly like Killian had, down to the dark ponytail and searing blue eyes, now standing among the wreck of his ship and life – a man who, if he lived, might choose the same method of revenging himself, from the other side of the coin. Does this ever end, or only go in circles, devouring itself and reborn from the ashes? “Which is why we’ll have to make sure he doesn’t. First, though. We’re going to hang twenty-four of your men, and you get to watch.”

At Emma’s side, Killian made a convulsive movement. He started to say something, then stopped. The similarity could not have escaped him, or the fact that he had no authority, real or imagined, to stop this. His hand tightened white on the railing, as Emma reached over to take automatic hold of his hook. They could not do much more than watch as the ringleader of the Jolie men ordered the others to fashion nooses out of the torn rigging and shrouds of the Halifax, force the Navy sailors into them, and string them up to dangle grotesquely among the hellish glow of the smoldering ship. “We’re Captain Hook’s men,” one of them happily informed the sailor he was in the business of vigorously strangling. “We did Antigua and Jamaica before, you know. Murdered the whole fucking lot of the Navy out here, so the fucking Admiralty had to send you cunts in replacement, and now we’ve done for you too. Funny, eh?”

At that, Killian could no longer hold back. He had of course wanted the loyalty of the Jolie’s crew again, jealously and reflexively tried to pull it back from Rackham, but was clearly being starkly reminded of why he had traded it away in the first place, how he could not go on in this life while building anything remotely real and true and good with Emma. For this, he wanted no part of the credit. “That’s enough!” he shouted. “Bloody hell, you bastards, stop! We don’t need to do it like this!”

Heads turned to look at him still up on the Jolie’s deck, white-faced and furious. There was a brief and evident confusion, as the men clearly saw no good reason why Hook himself would stop them from doing terrible things to the Navy, especially when that had been his raison d’être in the heat and madness of his fall. Rogers had hanged twenty-four pirates; they should be, at the least, perfectly entitled to hang twenty-four Navy sailors in return, as well as repaying Killian’s torture at the hands of Rogers and Jennings. But Emma felt, as deeply as Killian must, how sorely he did not want this to go on, the sordid exchange of an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth, blood and vengeance and violence on either side until it no longer was clear which of them was in the right, or if there was any call to pride themselves on being better than Jennings in any way. Killian remained where he was, staring down at them, as his gaze locked with Lieutenant Geoffrey’s. “I am Captain Hook,” he said. “I imagine you’ve heard of me.”

“I have, sir.” The lieutenant spat blood and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “And indeed, what you and your mongrels feel justified in doing to the king’s men, especially since you so foully turned your coat and joined the king’s enemies.”

Killian did not rise to the bait or appear inclined to fight with the young man. “I apologize,” he said, not loudly, but his voice still carrying on the night wind, “for what we’ve done to you.”

“Queer hour for it.” Half the lieutenant’s face was starting to turn black and blue from where he had been clubbed with the musket, but he was still holding onto his dignity for all he was worth.

“So it is, at that.” Killian inclined his head fractionally, then turned to regard the Jolie’s men still on the deck, interrupted from the business of hanging the Halifax’s. Again he said, “Enough.”

“We can’t leave them alive, Captain. Can’t let them tell Gold or Rogers or anyone what we – ”

“Their ship’s destroyed, they’re not going anywhere anyway. It’s a bloody long swim back to Nassau from here, but I suppose they might try. Still, though.” Killian shrugged. “If you do want to cross me, you’re welcome to do it, if you really think that’s wise. Otherwise, you’ll get back on the Jolie now, and await further orders from myself and Captain Rackham.”

More glances were exchanged. The moment hung from a tenuous thread. Killian had already been disastrously mutinied upon once before, after all, and he could well be inviting it again. But after a very long moment, slowly, his men – if grudgingly – did as ordered. They left off from their grisly work, climbed the ropes from the Halifax back onto the Jolie, and cut the lines loose, backing water. Without the Jolie’s support, the smaller ship quickly began to list and veer, too damaged to sail but not quite ravaged enough to sink. It was there that it was left, as if for the fates to decide how to play with it. The Jolie put up her canvas again, taking the wind a few leagues south and east until they were well out of sight, and the night was dark and calm again.

Killian blew out a long, ragged breath, as Emma could feel both Jack and Anne watching them. She was unsure whether they concurred with the decision or not. Rackham was not innately bloodthirsty, preferring to talk his way out of tight corners rather than fight, and while Anne had no compunctions about doing whatever was necessary, she was not of a temperament for the unnecessary. All she said, however, was, “You sure of that? They tell someone, and we’ll – ”

“Their ship isn’t going anywhere, and we’re far enough away from Nassau that Rogers and his ilk will assume they’re on their way to Antigua to warn Gold.” Killian looked at her calmly. “I was not interested in being the justification for another massacre. The war does not hang on whether or not we killed them.”

Anne considered this for a moment, still inscrutable. Then she jerked her head once and turned away, heading for the cabin, as Jack paused, then followed her. Killian and Emma themselves made their way down to a berth below, crawling in together with a mutual sigh of pain and devoutly grateful to stop moving. Fearful of hurting him further, but still wanting to be close to him, Emma nestled her head onto his chest, and he moved his hand up to stroke her hair. Into the quiet, she said, “You did the right thing.”

“I did what was before me. No more. No less.” He shifted with a sigh, looking up at the low ceiling. “I don’t know if there’s anything that’s right any more.”

Emma didn’t answer, keeping her head on his chest, resting her hand on his stomach as if to be sure that he was still solid, had not been broken or dissolved in the ether. There was not much more either of them could manage in their respective enfeebled states, but they nuzzled together nonetheless, arms around each other, and fell asleep.

They were woken early the next morning by the sound of thumps and shouts and general industrious clamor from above, which briefly led them to fear that they had been boarded or ambushed unawares in the night, until they glanced out the porthole, saw the familiar shape of another ship, and then practically fell out of the berth in their haste to jump out and sprint topside. They emerged into a warm, salty summer morning, and thus saw possibly the most wonderful sight of their whole lives: the Whydah anchored alongside, and Sam Bellamy, deeply sun-browned and salt-lashed black hair spilling out of its untidy ponytail, leaning against the railing of the Jolie in intent conversation with Jack. At Killian and Emma’s entrance, he looked up, then grinned. “Miss me, eh?”

Both of them rushed as fast as was physically possible across the boards, and he hugged them each with one arm, holding tightly. He kissed Emma’s head, then Killian’s, and stepped them back to have a proper look. “I heard what that bastard did to you, Killian. Are you – ?”

“Aye. Better now. Fine.” Killian hugged him again. “Did you find Nolan? What’s going on? Did Jack tell you about the idea with Lancelot and the others, that you could – ”

“One thing at a time. Aye, I managed to cross paths with the Windsor, and – well.” Sam pulled a wrinkled parchment out of his pocket, sealed with the golden wax and signet of Lord Robert Gold’s personal correspondence. “David gave me this. Something he was supposed to carry for Gold, but. . .well. He was persuaded that I could make better use of it. He also apparently refused the posting to Nassau with the rest of the fleet, said he should most properly return to Boston and resume his station there. I don’t know if he’ll fight for us, but he won’t fight against us.”

Killian and Emma glanced at each other, as this was at least better news than the worst. The Windsor matched the Jolie in guns, after all, and could have given them considerable difficulty if David Nolan decided that no matter what, he was honor-bound to follow the Navy’s orders. “What’s the letter?” Killian said instead. “Have you had a look?”

“Aye. It makes no bloody sense – it’s in some kind of cipher. Not surprising, since Gold knows his mail might be intercepted and read by anyone before it makes it to its destination. Have a crack, though, if you think you might be able to make some sense of it.”

“I will at that,” Killian said distractedly, taking the parchment as Sam handed it over. “Did you hear of what’s. . . going on in Nassau? Aside from my misfortunes, that is?”

Sam’s lips tightened. “Aye,” he said again. “And that Vane gutted half of the Navy’s power there, but there’s still far too much left for comfort, and that Woodes Rogers has made himself a most dangerous enemy. As for the plan you mentioned with Lancelot, well, I’ll need to speak with him. Could be we can pull something together, but it’ll be dangerous.”

“Not surprising, surely. On your sailing, have you. . . had any news of Charlestown?”

Sam hesitated. “Nothing definite,” he said, after an uncomfortable moment. “There was a packet boat, though, we caught it up late last night, shortly before we ran across you. Said that Lord Peter Ashe had some pirate lord or other in his custody, and he meant to make an. . . example.”

“Flint?” Emma said urgently. “Vane left just a few days ago, he can’t have made it all the way to the Carolinas yet, unless he had a truly legendary wind at his back. Do they have Flint?”

“Christ, I hope not. But I was having a hard time thinking of who else it might be, and – wait. Did you say that Vane was going to Charlestown too? To save Flint, or kill him himself?”

“The former. I hope. We told him that the pirates had to join together, put aside old rivalries, that he needed to get to Flint and he was the only chance we had.” Emma’s stomach did an unpleasant somersault. “Did they say anything about a woman? Anything about Miranda?”

“No,” Sam said. “Nothing.”

“So they could still be alive, or they could both be dead.” Killian’s face was grim. “Or she’s dead, and they’re saving Flint for a spectacle. Jesus.”

“Vane might be able to get to him in time,” Emma said, more as an attempt to convince herself than anything. “But if Miranda – ”

She stopped. She did not want to think about a world without Miranda, the one blow that she had always known that neither she nor Flint would be able to bear. That so soon after giving up her daughter, losing her mother as well was utterly, unthinkably, unfathomably cruel. “Miranda has to be all right,” she said, in a sheer and simple statement that she rejected any circumstance whatsoever in which she wasn’t. “She has to be.”

Sam and Killian glanced at each other silently, as if trying to gird themselves, and her, for the fact that Miranda might well not be. Killian said, “Love – ”

Emma shook her head, as if to say that she did not want to hear otherwise, and he stopped. A heavy silence hung over the three of them, until Killian cleared his throat. “I’ll. . . have a look at this, then. Gold’s letter.”

They nodded distractedly, and he headed toward the cabin, limping, as Sam’s eyes followed him with concern. “It was worse than he’s letting on, wasn’t it?”

“I – don’t know exactly, Rogers and Jennings had him to themselves for most of the day, they threw me out.” Emma swallowed, trying to fight the overwhelming sense of guilt that she should have done more, done better. “I don’t think it was pleasant, though, no.”

Sam crunched a fist and hit the deck railing. “So it’s just trading off which one of us gets to be hurt the most by those bastards? Me, you, Killian, his brother, now Flint and Miranda? Bloody hell. I’m sorry you two had to go through that alone.”

Emma put a hand on his arm. “I don’t think it would have made much difference,” she said quietly. “Killian didn’t talk to protect you and the others. If you’d been there, they would just have hurt you too, and you’ve had enough, Sam. You’ve had enough.”

He managed a lopsided smile. “I’d prefer to be hurt myself,” he said. “Rather than letting it happen to either of you. That’s easier to bear.”

They stood there in silence for several moments, looking back toward the Whydah. Then Emma said, “How’s Charlie?”

“Taking to the whole thing like a duck to water.” Sam raised a dark eyebrow. “Natural, really. Still, I can’t help but feel, doubtless like you, that a lad like him should have a better future than piracy – especially if Rogers is now hanging them by the wagonload. I tried to tell him he should go back to Virginia and resume his studies, but he doesn’t want to hear it now. He’s had a taste of this life, and he doesn’t want to give it up.”

Emma doubted that Charles Swan, invigorated by the thrilling experience of the very vocation he had once blamed her for partaking in, would be in any sort of temper to listen to his elder sister on this – the same paradox that Killian had faced in trying to call off the Jolie’s men from butchering the Halifax, the seeming inevitability of stopping the turn of the wheel and the repetition of the cycle. Still, though, Killian had tried, so she supposed she could not do any less with Charlie, as soon as she got a chance. She started to say something else, then stopped.

“How are you?” Sam asked, softer. “After – everything?”

“I’m. . . I’m fine.” Emma knew it sounded trite the instant it was out of her mouth, but even now, she didn’t think she could face up to admitting the weight of everything. Of the small, dull, impossible pain of missing Henry and Geneva, sometimes ignored but never vanquished, and the way her body seemed to feel the lingering wound, slow to heal or bounce back or be like it was before, knowing it couldn’t be. It was her turn to do her best brave smile for Sam. “Promise.”

He raised the other eyebrow, but knew her too well to press for anything more. Instead, he put a hand over hers on the railing, squeezed hard, and they stood there like that, not speaking, until they were at length interrupted by the reemergence of a flustered-looking Killian. “Here,” he said. “I might have found something.”

Emma and Sam turned around to bend over the parchment with him. As promised, most of it was an elaborate, crabbed cipher that they had little chance of decoding without the key, but the part that had attracted Killian’s interest was the small seal that Gold had inked at the bottom. It was a five-pointed star in a circle, with the Latin words camera stellata squeezed in tiny script around the boundary. Furthermore, the letter was addressed to a Mr Plouton, which sent a jolt like a lightning bolt through Emma. “Plouton – isn’t that the man who – ”

“Yes.” Killian’s lips were thin. “Gold’s friend, the crooked assurance agent from Bristol. The one that Liam made that infernal bargain with for our freedom. Sink the Benjamin Gunn for him, and he’d pay off our bonds and commissions. He was there at Gold’s mansion the night Liam and I were accused, when Jennings cut off my hand. So they’re more than business partners profiting off the misery and desperation of others. They’re fellow members in – this. Camera stellata. Star Chamber.”

“Star Chamber?” Sam blinked. “As in the Court of Star Chamber? Can’t be. It was disbanded. Over fifty years ago.”

“Wasn’t that the court started exactly in order to convict the rich and powerful of the crimes that a lower judiciary couldn’t hold them to account for?” Emma was not well versed on English law, but that name was sufficiently infamous that it did not take an expert to recognize. “Isn’t that an ironic organization for him to be a member of?”

“No,” Sam said. “Given that the Star Chamber became, especially under the Stuarts, an entity unto itself that could arbitrarily destroy anyone it pleased, a vessel for the personal tyranny of the monarch. King Charles the First used it in the eleven years he ruled without Parliament, a good deal of the reason they chopped the bastard’s head off and stuck Cromwell in there instead. As I said, though, it was disestablished by the Commonwealth – or it should have been. If Gold and Plouton have started it again, I doubt it answers either to King George or to the tattered, defeated remnants of the Jacobite cause.”

“So this would be it, then.” Killian looked almost feverish. “The answer to the question of who Gold is truly loyal to, and what he’s doing all this for. It’s not England, it’s not the Jacobites, it’s not Rogers and the army, it’s not the Navy, or even the Spanish. It’s none of that. It’s a shadowy secret society that thought it had the power and the right to overthrow even the mightiest people in the world, and answer to nobody in doing it.”

“Fitting,” Sam muttered.

“Aye.” Killian smoothed the parchment. “This is high treason. As Sam said, the Star Chamber was outlawed over half a century ago, and was well hated before it was. So we – what? Hand this over to Rogers as proof that he should be fighting Gold instead, order him deposed and dragged back to England in chains? I’m bloody well not going near him again.”

“I could, then,” Sam suggested. “If someone had to.”

“No,” Killian and Emma said together. “Absolutely not.”

“Very well. I can’t say I was terribly enthused by the idea either. I could give it back to David Nolan, though he might have set out for Boston already, but by the sound of things, I’m needed here to help Lancelot with rousing the slaves. Still. David is the only Navy captain with enough standing to make this accusation, the proven desire to listen to us, the power to arrest Gold, and get him back to London for trial. We need to tell him, not Rogers.”

“Emma and I could go,” Killian said slowly. “You stay here, Sam, with the Jolie, and we take the Whydah after David. If you’d agree, of course, but you’d need the firepower of the Jolie, and the Whydah’s considerably faster. Where’s Lord Archibald Hamilton, by the way?”

“He stayed on the Windsor. Found it a more congenial atmosphere than a pirate ship, even mine.” Sam looked wry. “David isn’t in a hurry to hand him in for being a Jacobite, so I suppose he sees it as his best option of winning back his position if this should all happen to blow over. I’d be willing to lend you the Whydah, aye, if that’s what you want to do. But are you sure we shouldn’t better stay here together, rather than splitting up again? Yes, if we can topple Gold, that’s the head of the snake, but the battle here on Nassau – ”

“If we don’t topple Gold now, we might never have the chance again.” Killian tightened his grip on the railing. “I hear you about not parting ways again so soon, believe me, but nothing is going to come of sitting on this, especially if David is still nearby. It can’t be that long of a voyage to catch him up and give this back. Any news of what Blackbeard might have done to Antigua?”

“No. I caught the Windsor at sea, we didn’t get near Antigua.” Sam glanced at him. “Meaning that if Blackbeard managed to sack it after all, Gold might be dead anyway, without us having to run this risk? Could be, but I doubt it. There were several ships left behind to guard it – the Navy is going to take absolutely no chances with a second incident like yours. If anything, Blackbeard could have sailed into a trap, expecting easy pickings, and met them all waiting for him.”

“Shit.” Killian ran a hand through his hair. “So that’s it, then? A quick voyage to overtake Nolan, hand this off, and then we return here. If Flint and Miranda don’ t – ” He stopped. “Well. We’ll have to fight with the two of us, then. It’s all we can do.”

“I suppose.” Sam didn’t look particularly more enthused, but also couldn’t demur. “All right. I’ll take you over to the Whydah and inform them of the arrangement. No sense, I suppose, in wasting time.”

That part, at least, was more or less straightforward. Killian and Emma boarded the Whydah, checked the charts against the last position where Sam said he and David had crossed paths, and determined they could most likely make it, assuming the wind cooperated, in a day or two. Sam, meanwhile, would stay with Jack and Anne on the Jolie, and confer with Lancelot as to whether there was any possibility of making contact with the slaves in the interior. It was far from a perfect plan, but it was the best they had, and now that it was decided on, they did not want to waste time dithering. With a final warning to the other to be careful, as if that would make any real difference, they raised canvas and set out.

The Whydah’s crew knew their business, and did not need Killian and Emma breathing down their necks, so they gracefully retired. Emma went to talk to Charlie and Killian went into the cabin, more thankful than he wanted to admit to lie down on the bed and not move. He ached all over, pummeled and bruised and raw, and as much as he had done his best not to make Emma and Sam worry, he still felt as if he might abruptly fly apart if a single thread snapped. It hurt to breathe too deeply, it hurt to close his eyes. He couldn’t pay undue heed to his own suffering when so much else was at stake, not yet, and he was still not convinced that he did not deserve it. The offenses on his account remained well outstanding, and what he had done last night was not, to his mind, terribly efficacious in settling the debt. There was still too much. Too much.

Killian dozed uneasily, too uncomfortable to slip under into real sleep, as the day whiled interminably away. They sailed hard, making up time on a strong nor’western, and as the Whydah was also faster than the Windsor, it seemed reasonably likely that they could overtake her soon if she was still bound for Boston. At some point he heard Emma come in, and wondered if he should wake up to talk to her, but that likewise seemed a considerable difficulty. She lay down next to him, quietly so as not to disturb him, and it crossed his mind to wonder if he should ask her to marry him. There was, as Blackbeard had asked him once, no chance he would meet someone he liked better, they already had a daughter, and perhaps Emma would want that, that promise, for whatever it could be worth. But they had watched Flint and Miranda married a few weeks ago, then promptly thrown into the maelstrom of Peter Ashe’s betrayal, and there was no surety that either of them were still alive. Asking Emma, with that as a precedent, and Killian’s own sense that he was nowhere near through atoning for his crimes and could not presume to have such happiness until he was, seemed more like a curse than a blessing.

Eventually, sheer exhaustion must have dragged him under like a boulder around his ankle, because he woke in darkness with someone knocking on the door. “Captains? We think we’ve sighted the Windsor. You’ll be needed.”

Gritty-eyed and sore to the bone, but at least devoutly grateful that something had bloody worked right for once, Killian pried himself upright with a tremendous effort of will. Emma sat up beside him, yawning and tousled, and he smiled at her quickly, leaning in to kiss her cheek, before they made themselves more or less presentable and trudged out onto the deck. The night was clear, calm, and lucent with stars, and when he peered through the spyglass and agreed that it was indeed the Windsor, the crew moved to hail her. Killian thought of his last encounter with a Navy vessel, the sight of the burning Halifax and the men dangling in the rigging, and grimaced, pushing it away. He’d better bloody hope David Nolan did not know about that, or he might lose whatever slender tether of loyalty was binding him to assist, or at least not openly hinder, the pirates’ cause. Most of it must be because of Sam, anyway.

In either case, it was time for the moment of truth. As David appeared on the Windsor’s deck, somewhat confused to see the Whydah again and clearly expecting Sam, Killian stepped forward instead. “Captain Nolan?”

David blinked. “Killian Jones?”

“Aye. We’ve come to return something to you. You gave it to Sam the other day, and I, well, I had a look at it. If you can put off going back to Boston, there’s something for you to do.” Killian dug in his coat and produced Gold’s letter. He was aware that this was a fairly thin piece of evidence on its own, but David could swear that Gold had handed it to him personally, and given the Star Chamber’s notorious association with the Stuarts, and flagrant despotism and abuse of power, the Hanover regime would not require much more proof of duplicity. “This?”

“I gave that to Sam, yes.” David looked wary. “Did you get anything out of it?”

“I did. That’s this.” Killian removed a second piece of folded parchment, in which he had written out as much of an indictment and explanation of Gold’s crimes as he could. The English authorities would care more about the possibility of association with the Jacobites, but even as venal and corrupt as the system might be, it would not stand for everything Gold (and Plouton)had done in the name of seizing power, wealth, and absolute authority for themselves. If David could just get this to Antigua, it meant the end of Lord Robert Gold at long bloody last, and Killian could do nothing more than pray that he would, at this final juncture, be willing.

David considered him for a moment. Then he said, “We picked up a ship’s boat earlier. Survivors from a frigate attacked last night, so they said, by pirates. HMS Halifax. Do you know of them?”

Killian hesitated only briefly. “Yes. The Jolie Rouge attacked – we attacked them. The men. . . treated the captured Halifax sailors dishonorably, and in my name. I have no excuses.”

“It was a Lieutenant Arthur Geoffrey who had command.” David was still looking at him closely. “He said that you ordered them to stop.”

“I. . .” Killian wasn’t sure if this was a trap or not, but nor could he lie. “I did, yes.”

“Even though there had been pirates hanged on Nassau by Governor Rogers?”

“When we were in Antigua, and you approached us to offer a bargain in saving Sam,” Killian said. “You requested that we not destroy St. John’s, and so we – Sam, Flint, and I – prevented Vane and Blackbeard from it. I have not changed my mind so much, between then and now, that I am any more eager to return to my old habits. I do not ask for praise, believe me. I know it is barely sufficient. But please. Take the letter to Antigua. Whether or not you care for me.”

“Lieutenant Geoffrey was surprised, in fact. That you would.” David continued to look at him. “He had been assured that Captain Hook was a monster, and indeed when his vessel fell under the Jolie Rouge’s attack, saw every reason to believe it so. So to hear this is. . . not what we expected, admittedly. Sam trusts you, as well. I admit I am not entirely sure why, but he does.”

“I know it’s a good deal I’m asking of you,” Killian admitted. “But Gold’s a traitor no matter what creed either of us believe in, and I know you’re not afraid of standing up to defy the Admiralty, to do what is right no matter what the law says. You did it to save Sam from Hume, and you did it again on Antigua to help us save him. I know you’re a good man. I don’t know what I am, but if you don’t help us, no one else can.”

“For a. . . for a pirate.” David smiled wanly. “You’ve grown on me a bit, I suppose.” He hesitated an instant longer, then said, “Fine. I’ll take the letter.”

Killian let out a barely-muffled heave of relief. “Thank you.”

David nodded. It seemed as if there was something else he wanted to say, however, and after a moment he finally said, half in a rush, “Your cause. Your. . . I suppose they must be your friends. That was the other news we had. About Charlestown.”

Killian distinctly felt his heart skip a beat. “What? What about Charlestown?”

“I’m sorry.” David, at last, could no longer quite hold his gaze. “They had Captain Flint prisoner. They – well, I don’t know what happened exactly, but it’s so. He and his wife are dead.”

------------------

Liam Jones had not intended to sail for Charlestown. Indeed, it was the last place he had ever planned to go anywhere near, well aware of what was about to befall it and not wanting any delay in reaching Paris, and safety. He also saw no reason to test the veracity of his pardon while they were still anywhere close to someone who could dispute it, and wanted to be far away from the Caribbean, and the Americas in general, before the hammer fell. And indeed, they had made it several days out, doing as well as could be expected given the circumstances, before the wind had abruptly turned contrary, stalled or slacked, and left them in the doldrums for several more. Liam was edgy, as he did not want Geneva fed from the nanny-goat longer than she had to be. The best thing to do, after all, was to engage a human wet nurse for her as soon as possible, and if the goat stopped giving milk before then, it would be, clearly, a dangerous situation. At least the weather had more or less held up, but they needed bloody wind.

Still. Charlestown had not figured in any way in his calculations, and likely never would, if it was not for the tender ship that had crossed their path the other evening. They were not far off from Bermuda, which lay almost directly due east of the Carolinas in the Atlantic, when they spotted it. Tenders were supply ships usually found close to harbors and ports, not intended for sustained open-sea travel, and that was why this one caught Liam’s attention. He frowned, ordered her to be hailed, and when they had drawn near enough for conversation, noted that the ship looked as if it had been driven pell-mell away from – well, something terrible, as fast as humanely possible. The captain likewise only insisted that he had no choice, he had to get away. “Pirates. Pirates burned it. Killed Lord Peter Ashe, sacked it, would have done God knows what other horrible things to me and my men if we hadn’t fled! Madness. Madness!”

“Charlestown was sacked?” Liam was certain he could not be hearing correctly. “By who?”

“There was one Ashe had prisoner – Flint, I think – and then another turned up. Some bleeding madman called Vane. They took the city to pieces, between them. Not sure which of them killed Ashe, but one of them did. Sailed away only once the lot of it was on fire.”

“Charlestown.” Liam knew he sounded foolish repeating it, but he was staggered. He hadn’t precisely expected Flint to sail in and make fond reparations with his old friend Ashe, magnanimously forgive him for the betrayal, but something on this scale suggested that the calamity was far greater than anyone had planned for. “Did you hear anything about a woman? Miranda Barlow? She would have been with Flint.”

The captain gave him a very strange look, as clearly the proper response was not to ask about whichever harlot the pirate had with him, but to commiserate about the ordeal they had suffered and agree that the outrage was indefensible. “No idea. Heard there was a woman shot in the Governor’s house, aye, but couldn’t say who. We weren’t interested in waiting about for details, not when the bloody place was burning to the ground.”

Liam and Regina exchanged a long and troubled look. Neither of them were certain how to ask for more details, which the captain clearly did not possess, without giving away their position on the whole thing. Once the two ships had drawn apart, Regina said, low-voiced, “He could be mistaken. About her.”

“He could be.” Liam grimaced. “I don’t know that we should wager that he is.”

Regina’s lips went thin. She would never admit out loud to caring about anyone, but Liam could see well enough that she was worried about Miranda. He felt the same, as the two of them had not survived Jamaica, Jennings, storm, shipwreck, and being set adrift with her only to feel that this was any sort of just ending for her. If she was already dead, there was of course nothing they could do, but Liam was not altogether sure that they could simply sail away without knowing for certain. He knew as well that Miranda and Emma were very close, and that as this was Geneva’s grandmother for all intents and purposes, they still had a duty to their family. He looked at Regina again. “Is there any way it would be worth it?”

She glanced down. “Geneva isn’t feeding well from the goat’s milk,” she said after a moment. “It’s keeping her alive, but she isn’t gaining weight or growing, and she cries half the time. She still could get to Paris if the wind cooperated, but. . . if nothing else, there would be a wet nurse in Charlestown. It wouldn’t be that long of a voyage from here.”

“Aye.” Liam had certainly noticed the baby’s inconsolable crying, as had most of the ship; it was not that large, after all, and it was hard to shut the noise out. “But if it’s been sacked, it can’t be terribly safe. Or – ”

“If it already has been sacked,” Regina pointed out, with a certain acerbic edge in her voice, “there’s hardly very much that anyone can do to it again, can they? You could pull off one of your usual heroic actions and rescue some poor woman who needs to get away from the city and can provide milk for a newborn as payment. And at least know what happened for certain, instead of relying on whatever he’s telling us. Or if not.” She shrugged. “By all means.”

Liam gave her a cold look. The two of them had grown decidedly fond of each other in a way that went much deeper than mere sex, but he knew that meant that if for any reason he decided against it, Regina would bash him over the head, tie him in the hold, and ensure they went anyway. This seemed an easier way for all concerned, and he was not sure any of them wanted to risk a crossing without being sure of Geneva’s welfare. “Very well,” he said at last. “We’ll go.”

That was how, therefore, he found himself making bearings for Charlestown, against all odds. The Jolly Roger was fast and light, and the wind, as if in a sign that they were indeed supposed to be going in one direction and not the other, strong at their backs, which sped the journey. It was clear as well that Geneva had all but stopped taking the goat’s milk, which sharpened the urgency to make it in haste, and Liam worried himself to distraction about what he could remotely tell Killian and Emma if their daughter died in his care. It was, therefore, with something perversely close to relief that he finally breathed the first distinct whiff of soot and smoke and char in the wind, drew around the headland, and beheld the scorched and scarred waterfront of Charlestown. It was as comprehensively destroyed as Kingston had been, when he and Regina had arrived there on their search for Killian the first time.

“Jesus,” Liam muttered reflexively. Flint and Vane had undoubtedly been very thorough and very angry, and after a brief discussion, he, Regina, and Will decided to risk rowing ashore. Will would find a wet nurse and bring her back to the ship with all dispatch, while Liam and Regina would do their best to sort truth from rumor. The sun was going down as they launched the boat, made it across the harbor inlet, and dragged it up on the sand. It was heaped with broken planks, fallen stone, and rotting bodies. The smell was like a punch in the face.

Will, gagging slightly, pulled his shirt up to breathe through the fabric, not that that did much to help, and hurried up toward the city, while Liam and Regina did their best to start combing through the wreckage. They didn’t want to find Miranda here, or anywhere in this abattoir, but now that they were here, they could not leave without knowing for certain. It was quickly getting dark, so they lit a torch and Regina held it overhead while Liam dug through the mess. It looked as if this was where the Charlestown citizens had dragged out the snapped debris and detritus from the burned streets, and whatever corpses had not been claimed for proper Christian burial. Liam’s gorge rose in his throat as he kept working. Hopefully Will had had better luck than they had, would be back by now, would have found –

Oh, bloody hell.

He shifted aside a shattered heap of rubble, and his breath shriveled in his throat.

Miranda had been shot glancingly along the skull, as if someone had been aiming for the middle of her forehead, but she had been shoved aside in just the nick of time. The blood was crusted and red-brown down her face and shoulder, and her dress was filthy, stained with rubbish and offal, as if people had thrown things at her. Perhaps her body had been carried out for triumphant display, to prove that this was what became of pirates and those who fraternized with them, and both Liam and Regina uttered small, choked sounds at the sight of her. She certainly looked quite dead, but on some mad whim, Liam held the buckle of his sword close to her lips, hoping to see a mist. Nothing.

“Come on,” he muttered, pushing Miranda’s hair aside to inspect the wound. It was serious, but he couldn’t conclude decisively that it had been fatal. She hadn’t started to rot either, so there had to be some tiny spark left, somewhere. Maybe. Maybe. He found himself whirling on Regina. “Your vodou medicines, your potions. Whatever the Maroons did to me – they saved me, I was as good as dead too, and they did some ritual to bring me back, when Killian went down and pulled me out. You have something, you can do that. Can’t you?”

“I don’t – ” Regina looked shaken. “I’m not sure.”

“Miranda survived being shot once before, when it should have killed her. Asleep, but alive, for weeks.” Liam was, as well-attested, extremely stubborn. “Didn’t she?”

“As far as I know, yes, but – ”

“We have to try. We have to try.” Liam shouldered aside the wreckage and lifted Miranda carefully in his arms; she was as light and insubstantial as a wraith. “Come on.”

They made it back out to the Jolly, whereupon they reconnoitered with Will, who had in fact just returned with a wet nurse. Geneva was suckling vigorously, since the poor child had after all been more or less slowly starving, and with a hearty sigh of relief, Liam kicked open the cabin door and carried Miranda inside. Regina fetched her potions and drugs, which he had been extremely dubious of when she thought she could control Jennings with them, but were the only hope they presently had. She burned something in a bowl, which filled the cabin with soporific, stupefying smoke and made Liam think he heard bells, then muttered something under her breath, concentrating intensely. He wasn’t quite sure that this was how Merlin and the Maroons had done it, but then, he had been unconscious for most of that, so he wasn’t exactly in a place to judge. And he wouldn’t quibble with bloody anything, if it worked.

This went on well into the night. Regina had tried everything she could think of, in some cases twice, and still nothing. At last she sat back on her heels, flushed and upset, hair falling in her face. “I can’t do anything else. I – I’m sorry, Liam. I think she’s gone.”

Liam passed a hand over his face, telling himself that he could at least comfort himself, however coldly, with the knowledge that they had done everything they could. But he still did not want, could not simply take this as an answer. “Killian saved me! It’s possible!”

“It might be,” Regina said. “But I’m not Merlin. I don’t know everything he does. I doubt she’s make it on a return voyage to the Maroons’ island, or that they would necessarily agree to another full vodou ritual. It’s difficult, and it’s dangerous. Or – ”

At that moment, a slight wind passed through the cabin, though the windows were closed, making the candles flicker and gutter. It was cool and sourceless and strange, and it made Liam think, briefly and incongruously, of drums. He blinked as if only just waking up, had to check to see if he was still standing and not lying down, not sleeping. He glanced at Regina to see if she had felt it, and found her looking just as unsettled. “What was that?”

“I don’t know.” Regina swept her tangled hair out of her eyes. “I wouldn’t be surprised if this place is swarming with ghosts. Or worse things.”

Liam wasn’t sure how to respond to that, as the practical, logical, rational side of him wanted to insist that there was no such thing as ghosts, but given that he had some experience with vodou magic and indeed owed his life to it, he supposed he shouldn’t be too hasty in throwing those particular stones. He opened his mouth, but didn’t remember what he was going to say. He was interrupted instead by a harried knock on the door. “Captain. Captain!”

He turned with a start. “Aye?”

One of the crewmen ducked inside. “Captain. We’ve spotted a ship.”

“Flint? Vane?” Liam hoped they weren’t returning with the intention of making another pass over the flattened city, though if it was Flint, he could at least – well, he wasn’t sure. It didn’t seem particularly well-omened in any case. “Or no, not a pirate. Someone sent to examine the damage? See how bad it is, report back?”

“Aye. Imagine so.”

“Who?”

Instead of answering, the man simply stared at him, with an utterly foreboding expression.

“Oh,” Liam Jones said. “Fucking hell.”

#captain swan #cs ff #cs au #jewel queen #the dark horizon #black sails

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coldkingdomzac-blog · 7 years

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4.21

The tour with Shinedown and As Lions officially ended 4 days ago.

My initial intention was to sit down and blog every day of the tour. That clearly didn’t happen. I knew that a tour of this magnitude was going to be a lot of work; just how much work was something I wasn’t entirely prepared for.

I’ve always known that touring life was something that I want to do. Hell, I’m currently writing a book that highlights all of the highs and lows I’ve experienced while being a working musician. Reflecting on a lot of the shit that I’ve done/gone through while working towards the ultimate goal of being a paid musician really puts a lot of things into perspective. This business is an unforgiving fickle bitch. Most people see the aspect of being on the road as nothing but a party. Better yet, the perception of being a touring musician encompasses a life of glamour and constant vacation. It’s really anything but.

Life on the road is not only tough on a personal level, but it’s also difficult when you’re thrown into a van with 5 other people of whom you’re unfamiliar with their regular/daily routines. Tensions can run high and annoyances deep. Working through those circumstances is really the true testament of a band.

I found myself with very little free time this entire tour. Believe me when I say; I’m not complaining. When it comes to band life, I’m a fucking workaholic. I put my nose to the grind stone and push for every opportunity afforded to us. One will rarely find a moment where I’m not constantly searching for the next step for the band to take. I figured blogging about our experiences was going to be a good outlet to really showcase all of the hard work we have been putting into this band. We know we’re not entitled to or owed a goddamn thing. What we have we worked very hard for. We’ve been blessed that we’ve made some pretty clutch decisions.

Showing up to the first show really highlighted exactly how much work was going to go into making these dates as successful as they possibly could be. Here’s a little light shed on what goes into being an opening band on a national tour:

Load in

We were instructed to show up at 1 o’clock every day to every venue we were playing. Shinedown had a full production team behind them. What this includes is two Prevost buses, a semi truck containing all of the gear/lighting rig/sound stations (monitors and front of house), stage crew, merch crew, tour managers, stage managers, etc. Shinedown shows up at 11 to the venue and the crew gets to work. The lighting scaffolds get set up, the sound engineers start to run all of their lines and stage hands are present to get the drum riser and guitar rigs in place for proper performance. Both As Lions and Cold Kingdom wait in the wings until all necessary items have been loaded in to the venue and are in proper placement for the crew to take over initial setup. When given the instruction, both bands are afforded hired stage hands that assist in bringing all gear into the venue. Our gear is then set in a specific spot in the venue where it will be out of way of all working personnel in the Shinedown camp. The drums get set up with their appropriate mic placement clipped on to each individual drum; the guitar rigs are plugged in; in-ear monitors are set up and ready for soundcheck; merch is unpacked and set up appropriately for highest point of sale; guitars are restrung when necessary and we play the waiting game.

In Between

Once all gear has been accounted for and ready for loading on stage given the instruction, the band has plenty of time to roam the halls/basement/upstairs of the venue. We’re given what’s called a “God Pass”. The pass allows us to move about the venue with little to no question. Sometimes, as in Reno, there’s so much to explore that we’d run out of time to find all of the nooks and cranny’s available to wander into. Other times, there’s very little to see in a venue; a green room and the show floor. Very rarely would we get the chance to leave the venue in “fear” that the stage manager would require something from us. Should we not be available to comply with the requests of the stage manager, it reflects poorly on how we are handling our business. Being a baby band on our first national tour, it was of utmost importance for us to portray nothing but a professional demeanor.

Stage Load

After Shinedown completely their soundcheck for the evening, the drum platform was disassembled as well as the ramps set up on each side of the stage for Zach and Eric. The lighting crew would remove the mirrors set up at the front of the stage that reflected the lasers provided by the Shinedown camp. Once all necessary performance pieces were removed from the stage, it was time for As Lions to load their gear onto the stage and prepare their soundcheck for the evening. Being from the UK, the bands management rented them a driver/tour manager/sound engineer to handle those pieces of the business every night. Inevitably, there would be a bit more time involved to get the pieces into place for him to set up his pieces of the puzzle. Mic snakes would get changed out and different lines would be patched into the main sound board in order to facilitate their sound through his equipment. Once all of their equipment was set up, properly mic’ed and ready to roll, the band would run through two of their songs to make sure everything was up to par for when they took the stage. We became very good friends with these Brit boys and did everything we could to help in moving the process forward more smoothly.

After the two songs of sound check, it was now time to tear down their drums, find a place for them to strike that was easily accessible for when we completed our set, set up Chris’ drums and wheel out our rigs for placement. Some stages took a little more intricate thinking to be able to accommodate all of our gear and others were more than ample amounts of space for us all to fit and be able to dance around. We would run all mic lines to the drum mics so graciously provided to us from Electro-Voice, plug in DI lines into our guitars rigs, run the in-ear monitors for Dani and have a main mic line and a backup mic line ready for that rare instance the main mic goes down during the show. Some nights would be behind schedule and only allow us enough time to run one song for sound check. Other nights, we’d find ourselves with a plethora of time and be able to really dial in our monitors for show time. Regardless of the amount of time we had for sound check, we always found ourselves with a maximum of an hour before showtime. It wasn’t uncommon for us to finish with our sound check and start to see bodies flowing through the doors. Our sound check would always finish damn near the exact same time as doors being opened for people to file in.

Show Time

The hour before playing the show always seemed to be the time that would progress the quickest throughout the entire day (with the exception of the actual stage time, of course). This interval of time was always most brutal for me to go through. I was excited to play the show, but was also always nervous about how many people were actually going to filter in through the door to be able to see our band play. These crowds, after all, were ultimately what was going to afford us to continue this tour. If we weren’t getting in front of as many people as we possibly could, we weren’t going to be able to sell merch to self fund what we were doing, not to mention be able to successfully come back to these areas to be able to play for reasonable crowds. A band only survives by word of mouth and its fan bases willingness to “sell” your band to their friends. I eventually realized it was in my best interest to not venture out onto the floor to see how the crowd was filling out. It was smarter for me to wait until I actually took stage to witness the influx of people there to witness the carnage we produce on stage. I never play a different show due to the amount of individuals in attendance, but it’s always nice to know you’re playing for a relatively good amount of people. Especially when we’re this far away from home in a market who doesn’t know us from Adam.

Every night when I’d take the stage, I’d look out into the audience and feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude for this experience. There was never a show I’d look out and think, “Dammit...I wish there were more people here.” The crowds were always amazing. We played to multiple sold out venues. Not a lot of bands, local or not, can say they’ve had that opportunity on their first tour. We’d get on stage and deliver our 25-30 minute set of rock with as poignant of precision as possible. We were playing for keeps. This was cut throat and we weren’t taking it easy. Every night of this tour, I walked off the stage feeling as though I stepped out of a swimming pool. There will never be a time I don’t give it my absolute all. I feel everyone in Cold Kingdom delivers the same sentiment every time we get on stage. To me, that’s what really sets us apart from most other bands trying to accomplish the same feat as we are.

Every night, it felt that as soon as it had started; it was over. We’d end with The Break every night, and every night I’d hear the cheers from the audience I’d get a feeling of “Bummer....that went far too quick” and I’d find myself wanting more and wanting to get to the next night to do it all over again.

Load Out

We just threw down for 30 minutes giving all of our exhaustion and efforts and leaving them on stage. At a typical local show, even the opening band would have the opportunity to simply tear down their gear off stage, put it to the side and enjoy the rest of the evening. When the headlining band is finally done with their set, that’s when tear down occurs and every band loads their shit out the door. A national tour is a completely different story.

Once our set ended, it was a mad dash to get all cables wrapped up, drums dismantled and everything Cold Kingdom related off of the stage. Once our gear was removed from the stage, we’d typically help the As Lions crew get their drums on stage and positioned in order to make a smoother transition for all parties involved. Then, we’d have to stand back stage and quickly assemble all of our gear back into order so we could load the trailer up. With the exception of San Diego where we got to leave all of our gear in the venue overnight, it wasn’t uncommon for all of us to miss their entire set. The guys were loading the trailer and Dani ran back to merch to make face with possible new fans and “sling” merch. Sweating our asses off and being drained from the set we just played, we were still required to move quickly and get all of our equipment out of the venue ASAP. When As Lions was done playing, our shit needed to be free from the hallways so they could do the exact same thing before Shinedown took the stage. It was always a mad scurry to get this accomplished in the amount of time allotted.

End of the Night Push

I never missed a Shinedown set. I watched them decimate the stage every night. I watched as they taught me what it meant to be a real working musician and be successful at what you do. The second the note of the last song would hit, the band knew they needed to be present either at the merch table or standing with a handful of CD’s out front of the venue. While we know it’s important to sell merchandise to a new market, we also believe in the notion of connecting with the people who will ultimately be our support system.

Once Shinedown ended their set, it was a chaotic mad dash for everyone to either exit the building or congregate around merch. Some people wanted to purchase merchandise, others wanted a picture, or some wanted both. We got to a point where we had to open multiple CD’s every night before the show to keep the movement of bodies flowing steadily so we didn’t have a slew of individuals trying to open CD’s asking for signatures. Which, let me tell you, is a weird and new feeling to me to have people want to take pictures with me and ask for signatures. It’s a humbling experience and one I’ll never take for granted.

The final body would leave the establishment and our job of packing up merch would take over. Every night involved a count in and a count out of all merchandise brought in to the venue by the band. There we were, three bands, counting merchandise and calculating the amount owed to each place we played and to the promoters involved with the show. Luckily, we had a seasoned vet in Mike Grothe that came along with us on the tour who took care of all of that shit for us. God bless that man!

Once merch was packed up and the venue/promoter were paid, it was time for us to file into the van and make our way to our next destination. We’d either find ourselves driving through the night to get half way/full distance to the next show, or we’d post up at a hotel and wake up early the next morning to drive to where we were playing next and be there no later than 1 o’clock.

As I stated in the earlier part of this post....I have found myself with very little free time this entire tour. Even now, as I sit at a hotel in Las Vegas, I find myself scouring for the next piece of opportunity for Cold Kingdom to work towards. There is so much for us to take advantage of, it’s just a matter of finding the right way to reach out and take hold of it. I refuse to settle for less than what I feel we’re worth. However, I know that’s going to take nothing but hard work and dedication. This is what I do best. It’s the salesman in me. I’ll always push and always reach for more. This industry can tell me “no” as many times as they want. It’ll be me laughing when I’ve surpassed their expectations of what a successful band should be.

Thank you to everyone who supported this from the start and who continue to support CK. Thank you to the new-comers who are putting their faith into our brand of rock and roll. Thank you also to the haters; I need your fuel too!

Onward and Upward.

#shinedown #aslionsband #coldkingdomband #tbgincglobal

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