Tide of the Grave

Chapter 2: A Captain's Wrath

The wooden floorboards of the tavern were sticky with spilled ale and neglect, but Vesper Drake barely noticed the grime. He was currently hyper-focused on the sharp, serrated tip of a cutlass currently hovering an inch from his throat.

"I asked a question, mortician," the woman said, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous purr. "And I don’t like being ignored. It makes my skin crawl."

Vesper swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing against the steel. "I’m Vesper. Vesper Drake. And I didn't mean to be rude, really! I was just—well, I was being chased by Magistrate Sterling’s goons. They have this obsession with pirate gold that I genuinely do not possess."

Cassian Moore didn't lower the blade. Instead, she leaned in, her eyes searching his face. "Sterling’s men? The ones who spend their mornings kicking down doors and their afternoons looking for people to hang? What did you do to pique their interest, exactly? You look like you’d faint if a seagull honked too loudly at you."

"I accidentally animated a skeleton," Vesper whispered, his ears burning crimson. "And then I may have weaponized a closet full of janitorial supplies. It was a stressful afternoon."

Cassian blinked, then threw her head back and let out a short, sharp laugh that sounded like a ship’s rigging snapping in a gale. "You animated a skeleton? With that pathetic glow on your fingertips? You’re a hedge-wizard, then? A back-alley spook-talker?"

"I prefer the term 'mortuary technician'," Vesper corrected, his voice cracking. "And I’m not a wizard. I just… I have an affinity for the residual energy left behind by the deceased. It’s more of a burden than a career path."

Cassian sheathed her cutlass with a click that echoed in the quiet tavern. She pulled a stool over and sat, propping her chin on her hand. "A burden. Is that what you call it? I call it a golden ticket. Most men would kill to speak to the ghosts I’ve left behind. The ones who died with secrets tucked under their tongues."

Vesper scrambled to his feet, dusting off his shredded apron. "I don’t do parlor tricks for coin, if that’s what you’re implying. And I certainly don't traffic in dead men’s secrets. It’s unethical."

"Unethical," she mocked, leaning forward. "Sterling’s men are burning down your shop as we speak, probably destroying every record of your 'unethical' practice. You think they’re going to give you a fair trial? They’ll hang you for necromancy before the sun sets."

Vesper felt the blood drain from his face. "They wouldn't. My shop… my father left me that shop."

"Sterling doesn't care about your family legacy, darling," Cassian said, her tone softening into something almost sympathetic, which was significantly more terrifying to Vesper than her threats. "He cares about the Siren’s Call. My ship. The one he seized three months ago under the guise of 'tax evasion'."

Vesper shifted his weight, his fingers still sparking with that faint, sickly green light. "What does that have to do with me?"

"You’re going to help me get her back," Cassian said, standing up and closing the distance between them. She was taller than he’d realized, and the scent of ozone and sea salt that clung to her was maddeningly intoxicating. "I have a crewman—a quartermaster who died when the Magistrate boarded my ship. He saw where the manifest is hidden, where the proof of ownership lies. But he’s… unreachable. My methods of communication involve a lot of rum and shouting, and frankly, it’s not working."

Vesper took a step back, hitting a table. "You want me to commune with a spirit? That’s incredibly invasive! He’s resting!"

"He’s not resting, he’s tethered to the wreckage of my galley in the harbor, angry as a wasp in a bottle," Cassian countered, her hand coming up to rest on his shoulder. The heat of her palm sent a jolt of electricity through his frayed nerves. "Listen to me, Vesper. Help me, and I’ll get you out of this city. You’ll be safe on the high seas, away from Sterling’s reach."

Vesper looked at her, really looked at her. Her face was framed by messy curls, her expression guarded but desperate. There was a raw, aching loneliness in her eyes that mirrored his own sense of displacement.

"If I do this," Vesper murmured, his heart hammering against his ribs, "you have to promise no more knives at my throat. I have a very sensitive neck."

Cassian grinned, a flash of white teeth that made Vesper’s stomach do a slow, dizzying somersault. "Deal. Now, can you actually do it, or are you just a fraud with fancy fingers?"

"I’m no fraud," Vesper snapped, his confidence momentarily outweighing his fear. "Where is he? Your quartermaster."

"Down at the docks. Under the pier where the Siren’s Call is moored. Be ready to move fast. If the tide is low, we might be seen."

They slipped out the back of the tavern, the cool night air biting at Vesper’s skin. As they navigated the narrow, shadowed alleys toward the harbor, Vesper found himself walking close enough to brush against her arm. It felt like walking into a storm.

"You really hate him, don't you?" Vesper asked, gesturing vaguely toward the direction of the Magistrate’s estate.

"I’d burn this city to the waterline to see him go down," Cassian replied, her voice cold as iron. "He took everything. Not just the ship. He took the dignity of my crew. He’s a parasite, Vesper. And I intend to be the cure."

They reached the harbor, the water lapping rhythmically against the rotting wood of the docks. The air here was heavy with the scent of brine and decaying seaweed.

"He’s here," Vesper whispered, his eyes rolling back slightly as he felt the tug of the ethereal plane. He focused on the cold spot near a pile of discarded nets. "I can feel him. He’s… he’s furious. He’s talking about a ledger? Something hidden in a floorboard in the captain's quarters?"

Cassian gripped his arm, her eyes wide. "Ask him where the key is. The one for the inner vault."

Vesper closed his eyes, his breathing hitching as the spirit’s cold essence flooded his mind. "He says… he says it’s in the stomach of the fish. No, wait. He says it’s behind the portrait of the Admiral. The one with the missing eye."

"That’s it," Cassian whispered, a fierce triumph lighting up her features. She looked at Vesper, her expression shifting from tactical focus to something much more intimate. "You did it. You actually did it."

"It was… easier than I thought," Vesper admitted, swaying slightly. The toll of the contact was heavy.

"You’re shaking," she noted, her voice dropping into that low, melodic cadence that made Vesper forget his own name. She reached out, steadying him, her hand lingering on the small of his back. "You’re a better man than you think you are, mortician."

Vesper opened his mouth to reply, a flustered retort ready on his lips, when a massive shadow blotted out the moonlight.

A deep, rhythmic thrumming vibrated through the water—the sound of an engine-driven warship. A blinding spotlight swept across the docks, forcing them to duck behind a stack of crates.

"That’s him," Cassian hissed, her hand tightening on her sword hilt. "The Sterling’s Pride. He’s come early."

"We’re trapped," Vesper realized, his voice trembling as he looked at the massive hull blocking the harbor mouth. "He’s cut off the exit."

"Trapped?" Cassian looked at him, her gaze defiant, reckless, and utterly captivating. "No, Vesper. We’re just changing the plan."