Wicked tides

Port of Saint Virelle, Brume Cay – Shatterchain Isles, 1736

The crowd smelled of sweat and salt, thick with the kind of hunger that only comes when someone’s about to bleed.

Tied to the whipping post, arms stretched high and shirt already torn open, Raven looked half-dead and still somehow too alive. Her back was a map of old scars and fresh blood. Lips split. Hair stuck to her face in dark, wet ropes. But her eyes—green, sharp, and furious—never dropped.

The magistrate stepped forward, face red from the heat and the power of it.

“Raven. For the murder of six men in His Majesty’s service. For the killing of a colonial governor’s secretary and two customs officers. For impersonating a naval lieutenant and using that false rank to board and slaughter the crew of the HMS Meridian. And for the murder of private citizens whose only crime was standing in your way.”

He paused, savoring it.

“You are charged with treason against the Crown and the systematic butchery of both soldiers and civilians across three territories.”

Raven’s voice came out low and hoarse, almost bored.

“You left out the priest.”

A ripple moved through the crowd.

The magistrate’s mouth tightened. “What priest?”

“The one in Port Royal who sold girls to officers. I cut his throat in the confessional. That one was personal.”

Nervous laughter died fast.

The magistrate’s face darkened. “You’ll scream for that insolence.”

“I haven’t screamed in years,” she said. “I don’t plan to start for you.”

He gestured.

The lash cracked across her back.

She didn’t make a sound.

Her body jerked. Knees buckled. Blood ran in thin lines down her ribs. But she locked her jaw and took it. Like pain was just weather.

CRACK.

Another stripe opened.

CRACK.

She sucked in a breath through her teeth, but that was all they got.

From the edge of the crowd, a tall man in black watched without blinking. Shirt open at the throat, dark coat hanging off broad shoulders, a kraken tattoo curling from his wrist up his forearm and disappearing beneath the fabric over his chest.

Captain Killian Drake.

He’d watched plenty of pirates break under the lash. This one wasn’t breaking. She was storing it.

Gibbs leaned in beside him. “She’s either mad or already dead inside.”

Killian’s eyes never left her. “No. She’s the kind that remembers every name of every man who touches her. And she collects.”

The magistrate stepped closer, frustrated by the silence. “What’s your full name, girl?”

Raven lifted her head slowly. Blood smeared her mouth when she smiled.

“Just Raven.”

He backhanded her across the face. Her head snapped sideways. Fresh blood welled from her lip.

Still nothing.

The guards shifted, uneasy. She’d already lost enough blood to drop most men.

Raven’s head hung forward… then her fingers twitched against the ropes.

Steel flashed.

She’d somehow worked one of the magistrate’s own knives free. One clean motion. The blade opened his throat from ear to ear before he could shout. Blood sprayed across the front of her torn shirt.

Chaos exploded.

Raven cut the ropes, dropped to the ground like something that had never been human to begin with, and moved.

No battle cry. No speech. Just quiet, precise violence.

A guard went down with a pistol ball through the eye. Another with a sword through the ribs. She was already gone before the third man finished drawing.

Five bodies hit the dirt before anyone got a clean shot at her.

When the smoke cleared she stood barefoot in the middle of the square, shirt clinging to open wounds, a dripping cutlass in one hand and a stolen coin pouch shoved into her waistband.

She walked straight toward Killian like the rest of the world had stopped existing. Took the half-empty bottle of rum from his hand without asking, drank deep, and wiped her mouth with the back of her wrist.

Her voice was wrecked but steady.

“Now,” she said, green eyes locking on his, “where does a girl get a bandage in this shithole before the next round of redcoats shows up?”

Five bodies cooled in the dirt.

The square had gone quiet in that particular way crowds do when they’re not sure if they’re allowed to breathe. Somewhere a child started crying and was quickly hushed. The magistrate lay crumpled near the whipping post, throat opened like a second mouth, eyes still wide with the last surprise of his life.

Raven stood barefoot in the middle of it all, shirt torn and clinging to the open welts on her back, a dripping cutlass in one hand and a stolen coin pouch shoved into her waistband. Blood—some of it hers, most of it not—ran down her ribs in thin, steady lines.

She turned in a slow circle, green eyes sweeping the ring of faces that had come to watch her die and instead watched her work.

“Anyone,” she said, voice rough but clear enough to carry. “Where does a girl get a bandage in this shithole before the next round of redcoats shows up?”

No one answered at first. A few people shifted. Someone near the back muttered a prayer. A fishwife crossed herself.

Then a low, amused voice cut through the quiet from the edge of the crowd.

“Blackbone Inn. Three alleys up from the east dock. Tell them Drake sent you and they’ll let you bleed on the furniture without asking too many questions.”

Raven’s gaze found him immediately.

Tall. Broad. All in black, shirt open just enough to show the dark curl of a kraken tattoo climbing from his wrist up his forearm and disappearing under the fabric over his chest. He stood like the violence hadn’t touched him at all, one hand loose at his side, the other holding a half-empty bottle of rum. There was something almost lazy in the way he watched her—like he’d already decided she was the most interesting thing that had happened in this port in months.

She studied him for a second, head tilted, still breathing a little hard from the fight.

“Drake,” she repeated, tasting the name. “You make a habit of directing half-dead women to safe houses, or am I special?”

The corner of his mouth curved. “You’re currently the only half-dead woman in the square holding a sword and a coin pouch that used to belong to the magistrate. That puts you in limited company.”

A few nervous laughs flickered and died.

Raven wiped the blade on her already ruined shirt and slid it through her belt. The movement pulled at the open lashes and made her jaw tighten, but she didn’t let the pain show beyond that.

“Appreciate the tip,” she said. Then, louder, to the rest of the staring crowd, “The rest of you can stop looking at me like I grew a second head. Show’s over. Go home before the redcoats get here and decide you’re all accomplices.”

She started walking.

The crowd parted for her without being asked. No one wanted to be the next body on the ground. She moved through them like she still owned the square, bare feet leaving faint red prints on the packed dirt, spine straight despite the blood soaking through what was left of her shirt.

Killian Drake watched her go, that same half-smile still playing at his mouth.

Gibbs muttered beside him, “That one’s going to bring the entire navy down on this island.”

Killian took a slow drink, eyes never leaving the dark rope of her hair as she disappeared between the buildings.

“Good,” he said quietly. “It’s been too quiet around here.”

Raven turned toward the east side of the square, coin pouch heavy at her waist, cutlass still warm from the last kill. The crowd kept giving her space. She could already taste the whiskey waiting three alleys away. Clean bandages. A door that locked. One night of not looking over her shoulder.

She made it four steps.

Then the sound rolled in—boots, dozens of them, perfect and heavy. Not militia. Royal. Drilled. Expensive.

Fifty redcoats poured into the square from three streets at once. Muskets leveled. Bayonets catching the dying light. The crowd scattered like rats. In seconds the open dirt had become a cage of scarlet and iron.

Raven stopped cold.

She didn’t raise her hands. She didn’t drop the blade. But something in her posture changed—shoulders tightening, breath going careful. She turned slowly, counting angles, exits, how many of the soldiers looked green enough to hesitate.

A path opened through the ranks.

Captain Sterling walked through it.

Uniform immaculate. Gloves white. That long scar from temple to mouth looked carved deeper by the fading light. He stopped ten paces away and looked at her the way a man looks at something he has already broken once and is fully prepared to break again.

The second her eyes met his, the old, cold terror slid up her spine like a knife.

Raven stood in the center of the square, cutlass still in her hand, blood drying on her torn shirt, fifty muskets pointed at her heart.

Sterling stopped ten paces away and looked at her like a man who had finally cornered something he had been hunting for years.

“Do you realize how long I’ve been chasing you, bitch?”

His voice was quiet, almost conversational, and somehow that made it worse.

He took another step. The redcoats tightened the circle with him.

“The last living person of Black Bart’s blood. Right here.” He gestured at her like she was already a trophy. “Your father’s little secret. The daughter no one was supposed to know existed. I’ve spent years burning ports and hanging men just to get this close to you.”

Raven’s stomach dropped, but she kept her face hard.

Sterling’s smile was slow and ugly.

“Now me and you are gonna have some fun together. I will use any means necessary to get the information I need out of you. Then you will die a painful death.”

She opened her mouth—

He moved faster than she expected.

One gloved hand shot out, locked around her throat, and slammed her backward. The cutlass fell from her fingers. Before she could even bring her hands up he cracked an open palm across her face hard enough to snap her head sideways and fill her mouth with the taste of blood.

The world tilted.

Boots and rough hands were on her instantly. They forced her down into the dirt. Rope burned across her wrists, her ankles, her elbows, her knees. They didn’t just bind her—they folded her, hogtied her so tight her shoulders screamed and her spine arched unnaturally. Every pull of the rope made the open lashes on her back tear wider. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t even thrash properly. The more she tried, the more the ropes dug in.

Sterling stood over her, brushing imaginary dust from his glove.

“Now get her on the ship,” he ordered. “Tie her to the mast. I want to watch her suffer all day and all night.”

Raven forced her swollen lips apart. The only sound that came out was a wet, broken version of “Fuck you.”

Sterling’s boot came down on the side of her face, pressing her cheek into the dirt, then drew back and kicked her hard in the temple.

White light exploded behind her eyes.

The square, the muskets, the sky—everything went black.

The last thing she heard was Sterling’s voice, calm and satisfied, speaking to his men.

“Well, men. Let’s head out. We got secrets to pull out… and a bitch to kill.”

His laugh followed her down into the dark.

Got it. We stay with them.

The square emptied fast once the redcoats started moving.

Killian didn’t move.

He stood in the mouth of the alley with his arms crossed, watching the last of Sterling’s men haul Raven’s limp body toward the docks like she weighed nothing. The ropes had been pulled so tight her shoulders were forced back at an ugly angle. Her head hung forward, dark hair dragging in the dirt. Blood from the fresh cut on her temple left a thin trail behind her.

Gibbs exhaled hard through his nose.

“Well,” he said. “That escalated.”

Killian’s jaw worked once. He didn’t look away from the docks.

“Black Bart’s daughter.”

Gibbs glanced at him. “You catch that too.”

“Hard to miss when the bastard announced it to half the damn port.” Killian’s voice was low, almost thoughtful. “Elias Roberts’ blood. Everyone thought the line died with him. Turns out the old wolf had a girl hidden somewhere, and she’s been carving her way across the isles under a different name this whole time.”

Gibbs scratched at the stubble on his jaw. “Explains a few things. The way she moves. The way she doesn’t break. That brand on her back.” He paused. “Also explains why Sterling’s been chewing through crews and ports like a rabid dog for the last few years. He wasn’t just hunting a pirate. He was hunting the last piece of unfinished business.”

Killian finally turned his head. His eyes were flat.

“He put his boot in her face and kicked her out cold in front of fifty witnesses. Then laughed about killing her once he’s done pulling secrets out of her.”

“Aye.”

“She’s tied to a mast by now.”

“Most likely.”

Killian was quiet for a long moment. The kind of quiet that usually meant someone was about to lose teeth or a ship.

Gibbs watched him carefully. “You’re thinking about it.”

“I’m thinking about a lot of things.”

“You’re thinking about going after her.”

Killian’s mouth curved, but there was no humor in it. “She’s Black Bart’s daughter, Gibbs. The same Black Bart who once took three navy frigates in a single week and left their captains hanging from their own yardarms. That kind of blood doesn’t go quietly. And Sterling just announced to the entire square that he’s going to peel her open for information and then kill her slow.”

Gibbs snorted. “And that bothers you because…?”

“It bothers me because men like Sterling always think they’re the smartest bastard in the room. They get loud. They get theatrical. They make speeches about bloodlines and painful deaths.” Killian’s gaze drifted back toward the dark shape of the British ship at the end of the dock. “And while they’re busy making speeches, someone quieter usually slips in and takes what they want.”

Gibbs raised an eyebrow. “And what exactly do you want, Captain?”

Killian was silent for another few seconds.

Then he said, almost mildly, “I want to know what information is so valuable that a Crown captain is willing to make a public spectacle of torturing Black Bart’s last living child to get it.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only answer you’re getting right now.”

Gibbs studied him. “You’re going to board a British ship. In port. After they just dragged a high-value prisoner through the middle of town in broad daylight.”

“I’m considering options.”

“Options that end with us swinging beside her if it goes wrong.”

Killian’s smile this time was sharper. “Then we make sure it doesn’t go wrong.”

Gibbs let out a long breath and rubbed the back of his neck. “Christ. First she steals your rum, now she’s about to steal the entire crew’s life expectancy.”

“She didn’t steal it. She borrowed it. There’s a difference.”

“There’s really not.”

Killian pushed off the wall of the alley and started walking toward the darker streets that led away from the docks. His voice stayed calm, almost conversational.

“Find out which ship Sterling’s using. How many men he brought ashore versus how many are still aboard. Where they’re keeping her. And whether that bastard plans to sail with the morning tide or stay anchored while he works on her.”

Gibbs fell into step beside him. “And if he’s already started ‘working on her’?”

Killian’s expression didn’t change.

“Then we move faster.”

They disappeared into the narrow lanes of Saint Virelle, two dark shapes against the growing night, while somewhere out on the water a British ship sat quiet and lit, a woman tied to its mast, and a captain who believed he finally had everything under control.

Lots of dialogue, all on them, no cutting away to her yet.

Got it.

Killian kept walking, boots quiet on the wet stones, until the glow of the docks was only a dull orange smear behind them. Gibbs matched his pace, waiting.

Finally Killian spoke, voice low and certain.

“We follow at a distance. I have a feeling that girl is going to figure out her own way out.”

Gibbs shot him a look. “You’re serious.”

“Deadly.” Killian’s eyes stayed forward. “She’s Black Bart’s blood. You saw what she did in the square with a whipping post and a stolen knife. Sterling can tie her to a mast and make all the speeches he wants. That doesn’t mean he’ll keep her there.”

“And if she doesn’t break free?”

“Then we reassess. But I’m not betting against her.” He glanced sideways. “Get the men ready. We are leaving.”

Gibbs slowed half a step. “Leaving as in… sailing after a British ship that just took a high-value prisoner in front of half the port?”

“Leaving as in we raise anchor the moment that ship does. We stay far enough back they never see our colors. We watch. And if the moment comes where she needs a door opened or a distraction or a blade in the right back, we’re close enough to provide it.”

Gibbs blew out a breath. “You’re taking the whole crew into the wake of a Crown captain because a half-dead woman with a famous last name looked interesting.”

Killian’s mouth curved, just barely. “I’m taking the whole crew because that half-dead woman is the most valuable piece on the board right now, and Sterling is too arrogant to realize someone else might want to play. Get the men ready, Gibbs. Quietly. No shouting, no rushing the docks. I want us slipping out of the harbor like smoke the second that British ship moves.”

Gibbs studied him for another second, then nodded once.

“Aye, Captain.” He turned to head toward the men, then paused. “You really think she’ll get herself free?”

Killian looked back toward the dark water where the British ship sat waiting.

“I think anyone who survived being Black Bart’s daughter and still has enough fire left to spit ‘fuck you’ with a boot on her face is not going to die tied to a mast. Not if she can help it.”

He started walking again.

“Now move. We’ve got a ship to ready and a storm to follow.”

Gibbs shook his head, already breaking into a faster stride toward the crew’s usual haunts.

“Mad bastard,” he muttered under his breath, but there was no real heat in it. “Following a pirate’s daughter into the teeth of the navy because he’s got a feeling.”

Behind him, Killian’s voice carried just far enough.

“Not a feeling, Gibbs. A calculation.”