[A/N: Long time no see any PotC stuff from me, eh? After watching OST more times than I'd care to admit in theaters, I had a goal of finishing this lil' piece before the DVD release date. Last night was a crazy push to get it done, and done it now is, even if it's getting posted a little later than I'd intended (hey, it allows for more editing time!) And yes, any playing around with actual historical events/timelines and/or languages is intended and recognized-goodness knows Ted and Terry do plenty of that with the movies. :P At any rate, I hope you are able to read and enjoy. Cheers.]

With a satisfied smirk Jack leaned back in his chair. He occupied a dark corner of the tavern where he could watch the goings-on and remain unobserved by all but the most astute clientele. Given the lateness of the hour and the rate at which alcoholic beverages were dispensed he felt confident that no one would take notice of him. Not that he had any cause for concern; he could recall no recent slights against anyone that required him to be on guard.

A crash rose from across the room followed by thunderous hysterics. Jack looked composedly in the direction of the disturbance. A man, drunk off his feet, managed to stand with the aide of two of his fellows. A portly whore cackled unattractively and followed the trio upstairs. Jack took another swig of rum and grinned. Saint-Domingue may have a very different flavor from Tortuga but clearly it sported the same heart. He brought the tankard to his lips once more, only to find it empty.

Heaving a sigh born of laziness instead of irritation, Jack stood in a deceptively smooth motion. Once on his feet he swayed in place for a moment before snatching the tankard and swaggering toward the bar. Along the way he dodged numerous patrons varying in condition from slightly intoxicated to comatose, carelessly discarded bottles, spilt liquids, a mishmash of unidentifiable foods, and a brawl. Voices were raised in slurred conversations and often he caught snippets of lewd suggestions, ill-advised marriage proposals, and foul curses in more languages than he cared to count. Somewhere in the establishment, or just outside of it, a pair of novice fiddlers strummed discordantly on their instruments.

Jack smiled to himself. Just like Tortuga, he thought fondly. A tug of nostalgia pulled at his heart. Though he was still in the Caribbean, being alone in an unfamiliar port and devoid of his beloved Pearl brought him near to discomfort. He shrugged inwardly to dispell the unwanted sensation and approached the counter. All would be well, he reminded himself, once he caught up to that mutinous, scurvy-eyed, iniquitous rotter and reclaimed what was rightfully his. Beneath his amiable countenance his blood boiled at the very thought of Barbossa and what that wretch had done.

"Oy, un más, ay?" Jack drawled, slapping the tankard down on the counter. He gave the barmaid, a homely girl in her late teens sporting an inconceivable amount of freckles, a charming golden smile and elicited a blush and flustered giggle from her. She took the cup and turned to fill it from one of the many barrels stored behind the bar. As she returned the beverage, hand shaking with nervous energy, Jack gave her another smile. "Muchas grazie," he purred, sliding a coin across the countertop.

She nodded without meeting his gaze, pushed a lock of hair behind her ear, and turned away to buff the counter. While she was thus distracted Jack snuck the coin back and pocketed it. Turning his back, he took a swig of his drink.

A second later he spit out his mouthful. A voice, horribly familiar though he had not heard it in years, sounded from the tavern entrance. Jack stole behind one of the bulky support posts, clutching the handle of his mug with white knuckles. Cautiously, he peered around the side of the beam, his kohl-rimmed eyes wide in distress.

It was her.

"Oh bugger," Jack muttered under his breath as he pulled back behind the safety of the beam. Chewing on his lower lip, he darted another glance around the column, to be sure his eyes were not playing tricks on him. She had drawn nearer. He pulled back and drained the stein. His heart was racing furiously enough that his hand jittered in time with his pulse.

Escape through the front entrance was hopeless as he could not sneak past without her seeing him. That left retreating to his room and waiting her out or leaving by the rear door and finding alternate arrangements. Both alternatives were accessed by the back hall of the building. Jack decided that hiding out in his room would be the safer course. Taking a fortifying breath, he dropped to hands and knees and began crawling toward the stair, using tables, chairs, and miscellaneous decorations for cover.

The irresistible clink of coins drew Jack up short. He craned his neck to look at the counter. She was handing a pouch to the proprietor, who in turn counted the contents and marked the guest's name in the ledger. "Rooms are that way, up the stairs," the owner instructed with a heavy accent, waving toward the back of the establishment. Jack scuttled under the nearest table and peeked out from between the legs of the chairs. "Yours is at the end of the hall. When your companion arrives I will show him up."

"Gracias," she said as she accepted the room key. Her voice also sported a strong Spanish accent. Jack watched tensely as she passed and ascended the stairs. He waited several long moments, unable to discern if she was locked safely in her room.

"¿Señor?" the barmaid asked hesitantly, bending over to look at him beneath the table. "¿Estas bien?"

Jack managed a golden grin, though he was distinctly pale. "Aye."

She questioned him again in Spanish. Jack stared at her blankly. She gestured to indicate he should come out. He shook his head. "It's quite comfortable under here," he whispered unconvincingly. He cleared his throat in an attempt to strengthen his voice. "Did that lass make it to 'er room yet?" The barmaid shrugged, maintaining her upside-down posture. It was unclear whether or not she had understood the question. Her face was flushed, making the freckles disappear. "I'm quite all right 'ere then, thank ye,"

She spoke to him again and Jack struggled to separate the words. He always struggled with the swift speech of the Spanish; all the more so since he had never bothered to learn much of the language. "Eh?" She repeated herself more slowly, this time accompanying the speech with a forceful gesture at the stairs. Jack managed to pick out "hour" and "drink". At least he thought he had.

"Make it a bottle." Reluctantly, Jack crawled out of his hiding place. He waited impatiently as the barmaid filled his order. Every sound made him jump. He flipped the girl a coin and took the bottle, fairly running up the stairs.

Jack ghosted down the hall and ducked into his room. He swung the door shut, hastily bolted it, and then leaned his back against it with a sigh.

A light flared across the room. She sat on the edge of the bed, holding a lit candle. Jack's eyes went wide and the bottle slipped from his suddenly slack grip. Jack recovered slowly, offering her an awkward grin. "'ello Angelica," he managed in a strained voice.

"Hello Jack," she returned in an icy cold tone.

Her accent was still as strong as he remembered, her hair as dark, skin as delectably smooth…he jerked his mind back to the present. Stooping to retrieve the bottle, which had mercifully not shattered, he tried to feign indifference. "How did you find me?"

"I followed news of the Pearl. Everyone knows that wherever she goes you are soon to follow. It was just a matter of checking the ledgers at all the lodging houses I happened across. You really should diversify your list of aliases, Mister Smith," she purred dangerously, playing with the corner of the upturned sheet.

Jack's lip twitched in discomfiture. His mind was racing, looking for a way to get out of the situation alive and intact. His eyes darted from side to side searchingly.

Retreating back into the hall was almost certainly a lost cause; he was fairly confident in her ability to shoot, knife, or…or otherwise detain him before he made his escape. At any rate the ensuing flight down the stairs would leave his back exposed far too long. The window was a viable alternative. He had chosen this room after noting the habit of a driver to leave his hay-wagon beneath the window for hours while he indulged in the various wares the town had to offer. Of course with his present run of luck he would jump only to find the wagon absent…

His mind was yanked back to the predicament at hand as she rose and started toward him with that unnerving catlike gait that he found so fascinating. It took a great deal of mental energy to rein in his errant thoughts and address the situation. He held out his hands to dissuade her but she ignored him and continued to approach. "What do you want?"

Angelica chuckled. Her voice was low, gentle, but mirthless. She was within a foot of him now. "You ask too many questions Jack." She reached for him, locked her hands behind his neck, and rested her forearms on his shoulders. She smelled of lavender and the sea breeze. Jack conceded her point with a small shrug and uncertain grin. "It's been a long time, Jack. I was beginning to think our paths would never cross again."

"Wouldn't that have been a tragedy?"

"No."

Jack put his hands on her hips and applied pressure. She readily gave to his suggestion and backed away from the door, though she kept her arms around his neck. "Dearest Angelica, you're not still upset about Martinique, are you?"

"Are you referring to the woman or the location?"

Jack flinched but recovered quickly. "Either or," he said with a slight dismissive shake of his head. He watched her face carefully for any sudden change of expression; he had been the victim of her ever-changing temper once before and did not care to repeat the experience. "In any case I have an exquisite explanation."

"I'm sure you do," she replied evenly. Too evenly, he thought.

Jack's eyes narrowed. "Whatever it is you're after you can count me out. I have no time to waste on wild goose chases or cons, no matter how lucrative."

She took a half-step nearer to him and their bodies pressed together. She lowered one hand and toyed with the strand of beads tied in his hair. "I know how much it hurt you to lose her, Jack," she whispered sincerely, "and I know you will not rest until you have the Pearl again. I, too, am questing for something."

Despite the logical part of his mind screaming for him to resist her charms, Jack was finding himself drawn in. He lowered his head ever so slightly to brush her cheek with his lips. "And what is that, love?" he whispered against her skin.

She grabbed a handful of his hair and pulled his lips to hers. They embraced for a long moment. The bottle of rum clunked to the floor, forgotten, as Jack wrapped his arms around her. She pulled back for a breath and Jack caught her mouth quickly, kissing her hungrily. He pushed her toward the bed and she went willingly.

As the backs of her knees struck the bed's edge they toppled onto the mattress. Angelica took a firm hold on his coat and rolled him onto his back, never breaking contact for more than a breath. Jack's hands traveled up and down her sides from hip to breast and back. With one hand she mussed his hair, sending the various trinkets clinking and jangling, and with the other she fumbled blindly at his belt. Jack groaned pleasurably and opened his eyes to mere slits.

As abruptly as she had initiated the action she drew back. Jack's eyes shot wide open. He raised his arms defensively a moment too late. The butt of the pistol cracked across his face with punishing force.

Jack inhaled deeply as he began to wake. A small smile played across his lips at the visions flitting through the shadows of semi-consciousness. The motion amplified the ache that had been at the edge of his awareness. His brow furrowed and the grin dropped from his face.

The scene that greeted him when he opened his eyes was perfectly familiar. The candle still illuminated the room from the floor. Jack sat up with a start and regretted it as pain flared in his head. He pressed his palm to his jaw where the pain was most intense. The skin was tender and swollen.

Grumbling under his breath, Jack looked about the room. Angelica was nowhere to be seen. His features settled into a contemplative scowl. He took a brief inventory of his effects: cutlass and hat were in their proper places; the pistol, with its single shot unspent, lay beside him on the bed; his coin-pouch was absent as he had expected; the compass…was missing.

Jack looked down and fumbled at his waist, searching frantically for the absent item. He let out a shaky, disbelieving breath as the realization sank in that his only tie to the Pearl was gone. A knot formed in the pit of his stomach and he felt suddenly sick.

For several moments he sat numbly on the bed's edge, staring vacantly at the far wall as thoughts spun chaotically through his mind. His breaths were shallow and his body trembled, afflicted by the emotional turmoil caused by losing the enchanted compass. He swallowed dryly, his brows coming together as he wracked his brain for a course of action.

A sideways glance out the window reminded him of the time. Dashing out into an unfamiliar town in the dead of night would almost certainly prove fruitless. Better to wait until morning and conduct a thorough search by daylight.

He ran a hand down his face, feeling exhausted and defeated. Jack looked about the room once more and this time his gaze lighted on the discarded bottle of rum. Again the sturdy glass had resisted the destructive forces applied to it. Licking his lips, Jack retrieved it. He pulled the cork with his teeth, winced as his jaw protested, spit it out, and took a satisfyingly deep drink.

The pleasant burn of the alcohol cleared the dregs of depression from his mind. He allowed a characteristic smirk to slide across his face and took another gulp. Sauntering across to the window, he tapped a finger languidly on the bottle and listened to the rhythmic clink of his ring against the glass. He paused at the aperture, looking out into the night. The moon shone sickly pale above, a mere sliver of light against the star-pricked sky. He narrowed his eyes with a sense of grim certainty. He would retrieve the compass and, eventually, his beloved Pearl, no matter the cost. There was no question of that.

Jack lay awake for the remainder of the night. Occasionally he would close his eyes to rest them but his thoughts were never quiet. Scenario after scenario passed through his mind; he played each one out to its conclusion, searching for a satisfactory end. More often than not, he came up empty.

No doubt Angelica was still in Saint-Domingue. She had planned her theft poorly, for no conveyance could be contrived, no trap could be hired in the middle of the night; inns would not let rooms when their proprietors were abed, and no ships or boats dared cross the dangerous reefs rimming the harbor without the aid of daylight. It was possible that she had a means of transportation all her own but Jack very much doubted it for she was a slipshod sailor, unskilled in navigation, and even if she had somehow acquired those talents, the reefs would tear out the bottom of her boat. High tide would not come until morning. Alternately, retreat into the interior of the island was akin to suicide, especially for a lone woman, no matter how dangerous she, herself, was.

Logically, then, his first action come morning would be to search for her in the locality. He felt confident that he could exclude this particular inn, as even she would not have the audacity to remain so close to him after such a blatant theft.

Jack heaved a sigh.

The surrounding buildings were the likeliest places to hide. He rolled onto his side and made a mental listing: there was the Grey Horse Pub, the mill, half a dozen private homes, a few public inns, the dockyards, the livery stables, the—

His eyes shot open. The stables. Of course. That would be his choice of hiding places were he in Angelica's position.

Jack looked to the window. It was still dark. Clouds flitted across the moon, smothering the silvery light. He doused the candle and tensely waited for the clouds to overshadow the moon. As soon as the light died he deftly slipped through the window and dropped onto the hay wagon below.

His landing roused a choking puff of dust and he shook his head, coughing. The sweet scent of alfalfa floated around him as he floundered his way out of the hay and dropped to the street. Without pausing to brush the chaff from his hair and person he stalked down the lane, heading unfalteringly toward the stables.

Overhead the clouds passed, letting moonlight drench the land once more.

Jack circled the stable, searching for a subtle entrance. As he rounded the short end, he stopped and eyed a rope that dangled from the loft. Grinning with self-satisfaction he grabbed hold of the rope and gave it a careless tug. It held securely. He gripped it with both hands and began hauling himself up toward the loft.

As he neared the zenith the rope suddenly played out several inches. Startled, Jack looked sharply upward. The silvery moonlight revealed that the rope on which he was suspended was actually attached to a pulley and pinned precariously between the wheel and tackle-block. His weight, though insignificant enough at first, combined with the tugs of his ascent, was slowly wrenching the line from its locked position.

Jack eyed the contraption as he dangled precariously. As if in slow motion, the rope pulled further through the tackle. Jack's eyes went wide and he shook his head shortly as if to discourage the inanimate object. He was dropped another foot before the rope caught again, halting him with a violent jerk. Jack choked on a scream.

He hovered another second before acting. Hand over hand he scrambled up the rope, pulling as quickly as he could and trying to ignore the rope meting out. He was within inches of the loft before he ran out of cable. Desperately he jumped for the threshold and managed a lucky, though weak, grip. The rope hissed through the air and landed with a dull thud below. Jack looked down with a gulp. Straining, he fought to gain purchase and pull himself up into the loft. His boots scraped ineffectively against the wooden panels of the barn. Inside, a horse whinnied.

Jack bit his lip and tried once more to lift himself. His left foot slipped and his fingers slid from the edge. With a startled shout he plummeted to the hard-packed earth. He hit the ground hard and let out a string of curses that started as a loud explicative and dwindled to a grumble as he recovered his wits. Rubbing his rear, he haltingly stood and glared up at the loft, expecting to see Angelica peering down at him with a smug grin.

Instead he saw the stable boy leaning out from the loft. Clouds had drifted over the moon once more, an unexpected boon for which Jack was grateful. Sorely, he limped away to the shelter of deeper shadows near the building's foundation. Already the first hints of dawn were graying the horizon.

The next morning Jack hobbled down the stairs, grumbling under his breath with each hitched step. His loud descent drew the attention of the proprietor who stood behind the bar, readying for the day's business. The man watched Jack's approach with unconcealed curiosity. "Are you injured Mister Smith?"

Jack started and looked up. In his distraction he missed a step and fumbled to regain his balance. He eyed the other man warily for a moment before continuing down the stairs. "No, no, not at all mate," he said gruffly. He waved his right hand in the air. As he progressed he focused more on concealing his limp and reestablishing his nonchalant façade. "Just, eh, had a wild night if you get my meaning."

The proprietor raised his eyebrows. "Of course." He tipped his head to one side as Jack came closer and looked at him in confusion. "Were you in the stables?"

Jack froze and stared at the man like a trapped animal. His eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Why would you think that?"

The man gestured with his hand, the expression on his face making it clear that the answer should be obvious. Jack continued to stare at him, dumbly, and shrugged. "There is hay in your hair," the proprietor explained, speaking as if he were addressing someone of deficient wit.

Jack pawed at his dreadlocks. His hands came back clutching a few pieces of straw. "So there is." He tossed the fodder on the ground with a dismissive flick of his wrist. The proprietor watched it fall with a disapproving frown. "Might I see that fancy lil' ledger-book of yours? I'm wondering if a friend of mine has taken to their 'eels yet." Jack leaned toward the man, invading his personal space. Conspiratorially he added, "the lout owes me money. Money for me rent, in fact."

The other leaned away from Jack, instinctively reestablishing the social distance appropriate for strangers. "Of course." He reached under the bar and pulled out the worn leather volume. He plopped the book down before Jack and resumed his preparations for the day.

Jack opened the ledger-book and flipped to the last marked page. He leaned near to it, squinting. His finger drifted down the ruddy paper, hesitating briefly at Angelica's name—her first name only, but shockingly her real name—before continuing on to the final entry. He tapped the book. The entry, scrawled in a wiggly hand that suggested the writer was either not well versed in his letters or was deep in his cups, recorded her departure and, shortly thereafter, the room being let to a Mr. Thomas Criss. His mouth tipped in a displeased line. So, she was gone after all. He resolved to check the stables again and if he failed to turn her up he would continue down the list of establishments he had formulated the night before.

He clapped his hands together and bowed briefly over them in thanks to the proprietor before striding with a hitched gait out into the street.

Thomas Criss wandered the streets of Saint-Domingue. He looked at each building with great interest and progressed casually, wavering back and forth across the lane as he inspected each structure. His dark hair was tied back respectably but the rest of his appearance was less refined; his sailor's clothing was old, worn at the seams with a hole in the left knee of his trousers; the kerchief at his neck was ratty and tattered; a threadbare overcoat was stained with mud at the hem; his brown leather hat was likewise crumpled and worse for the wear; stubble covered his chin and cheeks and there were shadows beneath his brown eyes.

As he passed the Grey Horse Pub a man called out what sounded like a greeting in Spanish. Criss looked in his direction, curious. The squat gray-haired man was perched precariously atop a ladder, hammer in hand. He was adjusting the tavern's sign. Criss returned the elder's wave with a tip of his hat.

He continued on his way with a touch more haste. Frequently he would stop and casually glance at his surroundings. His hand was tucked carefully into the pocket of his overcoat and he carelessly played with the coins contained therein.

Since the hour was still early by the standard of the locale only a few pedestrians passed him in the lane. A wagon heavily laden with hay rumbled slowly past, drawn by a tired-looking team of mules and driven by an equally exhausted old man. Criss noted that the pile of hay seemed disturbed; he assumed a drunk or some unfortunate had taken refuge for the night and had since made him- or herself scare. Either way it was no concern of his.

Criss took to whistling a jaunty tune as he strolled along the road. Dust coated his boots but he hardly took notice. He swung his head from side to side, checking to see if he was being overlooked. Seeing no one, he reached under his coat and pulled an object from his belt. Letting the tune fade away, he flipped the compass open and watched the needle spin.

He watched with baited breath as the needle swung round one way, paused, flitted back the other way, stopped…and then swung in the opposite direction. Slowly Criss turned, keeping the compass stretched before him. The needle held its course.

The compass led Criss on a winding path through Saint-Domingue. Sometimes he would travel a main thoroughfare, other times he would be forced to duck down a grimy alleyway, squeezing between buildings. As he emerged from one of these tight spaces, the compass pointed sharply to the right. Brow furrowed, Criss looked up.

In that same heartbeat he jumped back into the alleyway. He slipped in the muck and cursed under his breath, arms braced against the walls to keep his footing. Breathing heavily, Criss looked warily over his shoulder and waited.

A man, obviously a pirate by his dress and distinctive swagger, lurched down the street hastily sporting a mild limp. His features were set in a hard line, his kohl-rimmed eyes steely. Trinkets strung generously in his hair chinked and jangled as he walked.

Criss chewed on his lip. Sweat stood out on his brow as he watched the pirate pass his hiding place by. His grip tightened on the compass that he held close to his chest. Tensely, he waited for the sound of footsteps to fade away.

Slinking back into the street he looked in the direction the pirate had gone. There was no sign of Captain Jack Sparrow. Cautiously, Criss glanced down at the compass that he held cradled in both hands. It pointed to the right, opposite the direction Jack had taken. With a relieved sigh Criss trotted down the street.

The compass continued to point in a straight line as Criss jogged block after block. Finally, feeling he was safely away from the pirate, he slowed to a walk. The day was already growing warm and humid and sweat trickled down his face. He brusquely swiped his sleeve across his forehead and focused on the compass face. Peripherally he noted that the buildings were becoming spaced further and further apart and vegetation began to close in as he progressed. He soon found himself at the edge of town.

Abruptly the needle swung around and led him right back into town. Growing irritable, Criss stomped down the street, kicking up large clouds of dust. He sneezed. The compass directed him left around the blacksmith's shop. He followed the lane almost to the town borders once more before swinging right and crossing through the town square. As he passed one of the finer residential structures he jerked right. A block later he made a rapid series of right-hand turns before emerging onto the main thoroughfare.

Criss stopped, frustrated. His cheeks were mottled red from exertion and he breathed heavily. The compass needle swung once more, pointing directly behind him. He cursed and snapped the device shut. Shoving it into his pocket, he turned around and froze in sheer panic.

The pirate captain stood at the side of the lane, conversing in broken Spanish with a pair of men. Struggling to regain his composure, Criss took a deep breath and forced himself to walk slowly past, on up the road toward his lodgings.

Jack's attention was drawn to the man in rag-tag clothes that passed hastily. He had heard the man's exclamation and subsequent rushed motions. He eyed him closely as he walked by. There was something suspicious about the man's actions. Jack tipped his head to the side and watched the stranger closely.

One of the men tapped Jack's shoulder. He started and looked back at the men. They appeared to want an answer from him; he had not heard the question. Even if he had, he probably would not have understood it. "Eh…bien, bueno, ta!" Turning his back on the men, Jack turned to shadow the suspicious young man. He was gone.

Jack clicked his tongue in frustration and stared down the empty street.

Angelica cursed and chucked the compass at the bed. It landed on the mattress and bounced to the floor. The lid flipped open. "Bloody thing," Angelica growled to herself as she also threw her hat and untied her hair. She slipped out of her tattered overcoat and whipped that at the ground as well. Coins spilled loudly from the pocket.

Panting in fury she glared around the room, searching for something else to vent her anger on. Finding nothing to fuel it, her rage gradually ebbed. She heaved a sigh and approached the washbasin. Angelica splashed water on her face and neck, enjoying the cooling sensation.

A knock sounded on her room door and she jumped. Eyes wide, she grabbed up her coat and hat and put them on. She glanced in the mirror, assuring herself that she looked right. She did not intend to answer the summons but wanted to be ready in case the lock was forced—not an uncommon occurrence in disreputable locales.

After several long minutes she heard footsteps retreating down the hall. She let out the breath she had been holding in. Repenting her earlier fit of temper, Angelica bent to retrieve the compass. As her fingers brushed the wooden case the needle whirled and fixed, pointing at the closed door.

Thomas Criss left his room with the compass in his pocket, determined to try his luck on the streets of Saint-Domingue once more. He walked through the inn with more confidence than he felt, expecting to run into Jack Sparrow at any minute. Upon entering the common room and finding it devoid of customers he chose to pause and have an early lunch.

He received a plate of pork and bread and a tankard of grog from the proprietor's wife and took a seat in the tavern. Criss ate the food slowly and neatly, taking delicate sips of the grog. He took his time with the meal even though it lacked flavor. Outside the sun had reached its zenith and was beating unmercifully down upon the town.

Criss leaned back in his chair and propped his boots on the tabletop. His plate sat empty and he had the tankard cupped in his hands. As he relaxed other patrons began to file in to the common room, some coming off the street and dripping sweat, and others descending from their rooms. Among the latter was Jack Sparrow. Criss dropped his gaze instantly.

Jack sauntered out of the inn without sparing him a glance. Criss let his pent up breath out in a loud exhalation. The dining room was growing ever more crowded and he soon found his thoughts being drowned out by the background noise of mingled conversations. In his coat pocket he ran his fingers over the smooth wood case of the compass. He closed his eyes for a long moment, focusing on his one true desire.

When he thought he had the perfect thought in mind he tossed some coins on the table and trotted out of the pub. Once outside he drew the compass from his pocket and flipped it open. The needle twirled rapidly. Abruptly it stopped, pointing dead to the right. Criss turned his head.

"'ello Angelica," Jack murmured with an amused grin. His gold teeth glinted in the sunlight.

Angelica flushed red. She coughed gruffly in an attempt to hide her discomfort and maintain her disguise and hastily tucked the compass away. It was too late. Jack extended his hand expectantly. Angelica turned away but Jack caught her arm and spun her back.

Keeping his grip firm, Jack wiped at the grayish mottling on her face. "Charcoal? Very clever my dear." Angelica fought against his hold but gained no ground. She settled on averting her gaze. "What are you after this time luv?"

"That is none of your business Jack," she retorted in a low voice.

"I beg to differ, seeing as how you bludgeoned me like a common scoundrel."

"You are a common scoundrel."

"Obviously you do not know where what you're looking for is located, since you went to all that trouble to get the compass that reveals the location of undisclosed treasures—or, in your case, desires." His grin widened as his amusement overcame his irritation. "Point you wrong did it, luv?"

Angelica snorted. "Don't flatter yourself Jack. The compass wasn't pointing at you."

"Uh-huh," he purred with laughter in his voice, "then tell me why it led you a merry chase about town earlier, always bringing you back to me?"

Angelica's eyes narrowed. "What do you know?"

"A great deal more'n you, apparently."

"Unlikely."

"Oh, you think you know it all, do you?"

"At least I don't spend my life perpetually drunk."

"You'd have a whole lot more fun if you did!"

"I have had plenty of enjoyable experiences."

"Too bad you were being paid for most of those; I'm sure they would have been far less pleasurable had you not—" Jack rolled his jaw. The sting of the slap numbed his face.

Angelica glared heatedly up at him. "You should have never come near that convent."

Jack rubbed his reddened cheek tenderly. "I suppose I deserved that," he muttered to himself.

"You certainly did." She turned out of his grip and tramped away.

Jack started back to his senses and bolted after her. She took off running and he gave chase. Pedestrians jumped out of their way as the pair thundered through the streets of Saint-Domingue. Angelica snuck the compass out of her pocket and concentrated hard. The needle swung to and fro, jittering wildly as her gait jarred it. Finally it fixed on a point and Angelica adjusted her course accordingly. She was spurred on by the sound of Jack's footfalls behind her.

As the town fell away behind them the compass needle flicked to point in the direction of the thickly grown jungle. Angelica sprinted along the tree line, following a poorly maintained path. The sun beat down on them. Angelica felt rivulets of sweat trickling down her back. To her left the jungle rose sheer to the sky, leafy, green, and thoroughly impenetrable. She panted as she continued to run, eyeing the foliage for a break.

Finally she found it. A moderate sized stream intersected the path and parted the undergrowth, forming a tunnel that would admit a crouching human. Angelica splashed into the water and ducked. She moved as quickly as she was able up the stream, shoving her way through low-hanging vines. The amount of noise created by her passage made it impossible for her to tell if Jack was still on her trail or not.

The trees blocked most of the sunlight and she had to strain her eyes in the dimness to read the compass. Faintly, the edge of the needle glimmered. It was still pointing dead into the jungle. Angelica followed the stream, which offered the only break in the dense vegetation, faithfully. It twisted and turned, deepened and became shallower. Water flooded into her boots with each step and sloshed up onto her pant-legs. Vines and moss-coated branches hung low over the water and her back soon began to ache from proceeding at a crouch.

Angelica gradually became aware of a constant, muted roar emanating from somewhere ahead. She fingered the pommel of her cutlass and advanced more cautiously, never once forgetting the danger that presumably still trailed behind her through the jungle.

She stepped unawares into a deep gulch in the stream and sank to her waist. It was far colder than she had realized and she took in a startled breath but pressed onward. The overgrowth on either side of the stream began to retreat, replaced by moss-strewn boulders. Angelica waded to the smallest of these and, struggling on the slick surface, clambered out of the water. She paused a moment to catch her breath.

The break in the vegetation allowed more light to seep through the canopy. Angelica eyed the compass. The needle pointed obliquely to the left. Belatedly she realized the ominous roaring crash was louder now—much louder. Strain her ears though she might, she could not determine if Jack still pursued her.

Cutlass drawn, she inched around the treacherously dampened rocks. As she reached the top of the pile she froze on all fours, staring at the scene before her in unconcealed awe and delight. The ominous sound was a waterfall, cascading a good fifty feet over a collection of downed trees and boulders, all turned a brilliant emerald by the thick growth of moss that covered them. The water fell in transparent, feathered sheets and created a fantastical veil of mist that seemed to hang, unchanging, in the clearing. At the base of the falls an enormous clear pool divided the forest. Tropical flowers bloomed in vibrant gold, magenta and lavender from their unlikely positions amid the deadfall surrounding the cascade. This was the source of the stream she had followed.

Angelica slid down the face of the boulder upon which she sat and landed with an audible squelch on the damp, cushiony moss. She sheathed her weapon and approached the pool. Checking the compass, she was disheartened to see that it pointed straight across. The water, though crystal-clear, was dark and she could not see the bottom of the pond.

Just as she was steeling herself to take the plunge she noticed a series of boulders rising from a shallower area, creating the semblance of a stepping-stone pathway across the water. She eyed the rocks carefully. Some were huge, large enough to accommodate several people on their exposed surfaces, while others were tiny, barely large enough for one to fit both feet on. Curiously, all presented relatively flat surfaces unlike the rounded or strangely angled stones that surrounded her. The path was not a single line of rocks; there were several divergences that either dead-ended too far from shore or made an arch to arrive back on the original trajectory.

She paced down the shoreline until she reached the first boulder. As she stood gauging the path she was to take, the forest parted behind her. Angelica swung around, drawing her cutlass in the same movement. Jack stood in a shaft of sunlight, stretching his back. Belatedly realizing she had spotted him, he reached for his weapon and drew, leveling the pistol with deadly accuracy.

Angelica narrowed her eyes. "You wouldn't dare," she hissed slowly, deliberately.