Chapter I
"Welcome tae the crew!"
No survivors.
Strange way to run things when collecting souls was one's job. But sometimes the blood lust had to be sated, or glutted. And the captain of the Flying Dutchman's blood lust was sharper than ever, whetted to a savage keenness by a recent bout of moody reminiscence.
"Nothin' of interest, sir," came the harsh, gravelly voice of the bosun, his hideous head appearing over the railing as he addressed his captain, who was standing motionless on the quarter deck, looking across at the scuttled wreck before him. His crew had made quick work of the ship's population, sparing none. A pirate ship…normally the pirate vessels had a larger amount of men on them than merchants. The captain allowed a thin, sadistic smile to spread across his face. More men to kill.
But his bloody reverie was broken when he heard a shrill, wild howl coming from the wreck. He saw two of the Dutchman's crewmembers struggling to grab hold of a small wet figure with little luck, as the slippery little thing seemed to wriggle away from them with fierce strength and agility spurred on by terror.
He would have continued watching this interesting little scene, but he was interrupted by his coxswain, Koleniko, who was, like the bosun, mutilated into a sort of half-man half-sea beast form, "Sir…request fer a pistol, sir. That li'l cabin boy is too quick fer us."
He quailed as the captain looked down at him, his vast beard of tentacles writhing in a calm sort of annoyance, his electric blue eyes boring right into him. A slight twitch of a smile on the great sea captain's face as he clenched the powerful claw of his left arm convulsively.
"Tae quick for ye, eh, Mister Koleniko? Tae quick? Weel, let's put an end tae that, shall we?"
Maccus had never wanted to bury his axe into someone's face more than he did now. This stupid little boy…hellfire, he was fast! He had come out towards the end of the battle from below, armed with a broadsword that seemed almost too big for him but which he handled skillfully and with great effect. Maccus had set upon the boy quickly, only to find him a cunning fighter.
Ogilvey, the other crewmember clambering after the boy, currently had the broadsword lodged firmly in his shoulder. The boy had thrust the blade straight through the monstrous boarder's shoulder, only to have it wrenched from his hands. Now he was dodging about the deck, desperate to escape but not daring to jump into the wildly storming sea and risk being smashed upon the rocks.
Another swivel on his heel, and the boy whirled straight into the arms of Maccus, who clamped the struggling prisoner close to his chest. A feral snarl, and the boy sank his teeth into Maccus' arm, who grunted in surprise and loosened his grip. Pushing away, the boy turned to run again…only to feel his throat caught in a grip of iron. Pressure was placed on his chin, and he was forced to look upwards…and nearly fainted with fear.
The face that stared down at him was one that he had come to know through tales of the great sea legends…but all tales he thought were only legends.
Davy Jones!
The sea captain smiled, tilting his head slightly as he surveyed the boy, now hanging helpless in his grasp. A long, wild mane of pale hair, streaked with sea-foam and blood, obscured a small, childish face. Two staring eyes, almost abnormally large and stormy blue ringed with gray, widened and looked away from his own, terror evident. The Dutchman's captain was a bit taken aback by how young the face was, and how there was evidence of scars on the muddied cheeks and shoulders. And the shape of the face, the rounder quality of the chin and jaws, despite the hard lines of the Nordic race…
"D'ye like prolonging yer own doom, lad?" his voice, the heavy Scottish brogue harsh with the strange intonation, grated on the youth's ears, and he winced, but answered in a voice that attempted to sound brave while unable to hide the tremor of fear, "Go…go shove off!"
A harsh laugh that sounded like rogue waves crashing against cliff tops, "A brave one…tell me, lad…d'ye fear death?"
No answer, only a sharp kick from the lad as he swung his leg upwards into Jones' shin. He grunted slightly, dropping the boy to the bloodied deck. A mad scrambling, but he was pinned down by Maccus' foot. Jones narrowed his eyes at the miserable figure lying limply before him. He then noticed the slimness of the boy's waist, the smaller size of the shoulders, the slight slope of the chest.
"Ah…not a lad…"
The pale, frightened face tilted up to him, eyes widening with surprised fear at discovery. Maccus looked down at the prisoner now, his own eyes registering surprise, as well as disbelief, "Ye mean…a girl? Naw, cap'n, what would a girl be doin' here?"
Another struggle to get loose, but Jones stooped, lifting the limp figure to face level again. "Aye, Maccus, a girl. What she's doin' here, I cannae say. But I'm afraid we'll have tae sail off from here wi' a young lady's death on our conscience, eh?"
The blue eyes, still clouded with terror but sparking with a sudden desperate ferocity, met Jones' own cold depths. A baring of teeth, and a hoarse, shaky, "Go on, fishface! Do it, I dare ye! Go on!"
Jones lifted an eyebrow at her, slightly surprised by the spunk he sensed in this girl. Aye, she was afraid, terrified. But the impressive thing was that she was hiding it, or attempting to, and defying him nonetheless.
A hard spirit…what fun to break it…
Jones had no use for a female on board. But something about the fire in this whelp's eyes…he had an uncontrollable desire to quench those flames…perhaps because they reminded him so much of another flame that burned in a pair of eyes he had learned to hate over the centuries…yet this girl had a wilder, rougher sort of light. He tensed his lips, his grip tightening.
Why not? Why not have some fun?
Why not crush her?
Dropping her to the deck, Jones turned, passing an order to Maccus over his shoulder, "Lock 'er in the brig. I'll deal with 'er when we've set off." He smiled slightly as he heard the girl's feeble cry behind him.
Maccus looked across at Ogilvey (who was busy pulling the broadsword from his shoulder) and shrugged. He then stooped, grasping the girl by the shoulders and hauling her up. Her struggles had grown weak from blood loss and fear, but she still made an effort to resist. He looked at her disapprovingly, saying rather peevishly, "Wouldn't ye know it…when Cap'n lets us keep a woman aboard, she ends up bein' as ugly as a kelpie wi' a squashed snout." And with that, he and his mate bundled the girl over the side and to the Dutchman, not daring to voice their surprise at Jones' strange whim.
She didn't really feel the pain of her wounds. No, the dull throbbing and numbness of limb was nothing compared to the cold grip of steely fear that seemed to bind her heart with cruel bands.
She had never been lacking in vitality, the love for life, the crazed passion for seizing every moment of breath…but now she wished that she had died with the rest of the crew. For one thing, she was baffled at the strange choice to spare her. Out of the Goresail's crew of strong, tough men, most hailing from Yorkshire or Northumberland, and a smattering of Scandinavian giants, she, a single girl, a milksop by comparison to the others, was spared. Why?
Perhaps Davy Jones (she shuddered to think of him, to think of having to look at him again!) had some remnant of gentility about him…perhaps he was reluctant to kill a woman, or in her case, a female. She was hardly a woman.
But these musings were cut short as the brig was suddenly flooded with a sickly green light, as if the thin filtering shafts from above had been tinged with St. Elmo's fire. Then a death-knell, the rhythmic sliding scrape followed by a hollow knock upon the slimed wood. She felt fear overcome her in a clot of toxic despair, so strong that she became slightly nauseous. But her pride, her absurd, Napoleonic pride, forced her to raise her head, the long thick column of her neck straight as was possible with a heavy wound across her shoulder, and set her grimed face into an expression of dauntlessness.
It was pitiful to see how quickly the formerly effective mask (often put to use by the girl when facing a particularly trying problem) dissolved into sheer terror. Somehow, she was more frightened of him now, even though she had seen him on the floating remnant of the Goresail. But then her head had been at an odd angle and a curtain of blood had obscured her vision. Now, as he stood before her in the wavering half-light of the brig, his broad shoulders and terrifying head filling the cell door, the only true color on him the searing icy blue of his terrible eyes, she found every description of him from any seaman's tale comical and ridiculously subdued.
As the light fell on his figure like some murky spotlight in a demonic stage play, she could see the writhing swarm of tentacles swaying lazily at her, almost mockingly. He was smiling, if that half twitch of the lips could be called a smile, and assessing her, nodding in what she almost took to be approval. She tried to mask her fear, to meet his eyes. She prided herself on her courage, her spunk, her fearless belligerence…but it fell flat on its face under such a hellish stare, cold as winter rain but burning into her very soul. She averted her eyes, unable to stop the strangled sob of fear from exiting her salt-scarred lips.
A strange guttural sound…no, that was laughter. She shivered again, wanting to withdraw into herself, to disappear, to die suddenly…anything but face this legend held equal with the Devil himself. But she was not granted any of these desires. Davy Jones' words cut the damp air, his deep Scottish brogue turned into something hideous by the quality of his voice, "Sae…what am I tae expect from ye, lass? Ye're crewin' a pirate vessel, carryin' a Highland sword an' dressed like ye forgot ye're noo a lad. I dinnae know what tae make of ye."
She didn't answer, obviously unable to control the wild tremor in her jaw but desperately attempting to mask it. Jones chuckled mirthlessly, stooping slightly and reaching out with his massive claw, clamping it around the girl's neck. She gave a strangled noise that passed for a sob of surprise, and Jones forced her to look up, enjoying the evident fear that shone from those wide eyes. He smiled again, feeling her shudder against his claw. He brought his face closer to hers, speaking in a low ultimatum.
"Young ones are ne'er keen on dyin'. I ken ye aren't either, eh?" She didn't need to answer the captain for him to know that what he said was true. He continued, "Bargain, lass. What say ye tae a hundred years aboard this craft, a hundred years atwixt ye an' whatever demons await ye for th' wicked life ye've led?"
She tried to swallow, and Jones watched in wicked amusement as her throat squeezed painfully in the grip of his claw. She then managed, in a voice cracked by the elements, "What…what…"
Jones leaned in closer, speaking slowly as if to an idiot, "Will ye serve, an' delay whatever punishment awaits ye in th' life that comes after?"
No answer. She seemed too stricken with horror. Jones wondered if he had made a mistake about her. Would she be this subdued? Should he just kill her? What use was a girl on a ship like this? Where was the spirit he had seen?
It was almost as if the girl sensed his thoughts. A defensive light came into her eyes, and her hackles rose. Jones saw her jaw tense, and he recognized the spark that flew to her cheeks.
"Ye're noo a coward like the others ye sailed with? Serve. Serve or meet their fate."
The girl then met his eyes steadily, the blue depths clouding suddenly. Serve this man? Man…he wasn't a man. He had killed all her mates, scuttled the Goresail on those rocks…why should she serve him? She banished away tears as she remembered the grief that had broken on her when she saw Petros, so like a father to her, lying dead, horribly mangled by some hellish blade. The anger at the injustice, the mingling of sorrow and fear made her strong. Her brows lowered, her lip rose in a sort of snarl, and she growled out, "Go to hell!"
Jones snorted, releasing his grip on the girl, and she fell back clumsily into a sitting position. He shook his head at her, his tentacles waving jeeringly at her, "Brave words, lass. Will ye noo consider it? What hope have ye that the Judgers will be lenient tae ye?"
Now the girl spoke, her voice stronger. Jones was slightly taken aback by the feral quality of that voice. It was almost too deep to be feminine, but far too expressive to be male. He also recognized a Scottish tint, more of a northern accent, as if the girl were from the highlands, though it was tempered with clashing accents. A life at sea often muddled one's speaking tone. The wildness of her voice seemed to enhance her words.
"Why should I fear the afterlife? Ain't that better'n servin' a slug-faced murderin' gull-crap? Same as bein' pressed, ye horse-arsed-"
She was interrupted mid-sentence and slammed violently to the ground as the claw swung full-force into the side of her head. Stars burst in her vision, and she vaguely heard the monster's voice saying in a tone that might have been mistaken for acceptance, as if she had assured him of something, "I appreciate yer input, lass. An' moreso, I appreciate ye're spirit. Though it'll do ye no good here."
She could only lift her head slightly, gasping out in a broken voice, "Go ahead an' kill me, fish-face! I'd be nothing' but trouble to ye, an' I swear me oath on that!" She tried to struggle up, only to be grabbed about the neck again and dragged forcibly to her feet. She saw a blurry form that must have been Jones's head leering close to her. Then she was forced back to the wall, her vision clearing when Jones spoke, "Try, lass. I dare ye tae try."
Then the girl felt a cold, slimy touch on her arm. She gave a shudder as the captain's tentacles wound about her forearm like slimed eels, tightening suddenly once they reached her elbow, then drawing away with a sickening sucking noise. She groaned, looking down at her arm, marked by the suction cups of the tentacles.
"Welcome tae th' crew. May ye prove a better seaman than yer fool of a captain." Jones laughed cruelly, adding, "An' a better fighter than yer mates."
She stared dumbly at her arm for a moment, the meaning of his words not fully reaching her. Then her eyes seemed to turn a darker shade, and she slowly rotated her head upward to meet the eyes of her new captain. Hatred caused her pupils to dilate madly and her teeth to grind together. Her eyes lowered as if on instinct, and she saw the barnacle-crusted hilt of a broadsword, very similar to her own, hanging from the captain's belt. A mixture of horror, despair and pure rage seemed to possess her, and she acted on the burning impulse.
Giving out a strangled roar of fury, the girl sprang forward, her shoulder tilted and her head down. She slammed into Jones with such mad force that he was knocked back a full three paces. Leaping around the cell door and into the dimly lit expanse, the girl, her teeth bared and her eyes blazing with a blurring of wild terror and vengeful hatred, ran forward, grasping the sword hilt and tugging upwards violently. The blade came loose from the scabbard with a scraping hiss, and she quickly changed hands, bringing the sword back and then stabbing forward with a wild shriek.
The sword plunged into Jones's chest, going in all the way to the hilt, the point protruding from his back. The girl released the weapon, staggering backwards and panting, her eyes wild. Seconds that seemed like hours passed. Jones was simply standing there, looking dumbly down at the sword hilt. Then his face slowly rose, meeting the desperate and confused figure before him. He then lifted his good hand, grasping the sword hilt and pulling outwards.
The girl watched in agonizing horror as the blade came free with a sickening squelch. Jones smiled, smug but not amused, his eyes freezing her very marrow.
"I cannae say ye didnae try. But I'd advise ye tae try harder, whelp."
Her reaction was predictable. Horrified beyond words, she bolted forward, and Jones did nothing to stop her, simply turning with the same smug smile on his cruel face. He watched as she tore wildly up the hatchway to the main deck, then began to follow slowly and almost nonchalantly.
When he arrived on deck, he found the girl pinned down by the joint weight of Maccus and Angler, two of the heftier members of the crew. Only her head, shoulders and arms were visible (her arms were held down by Penrod, who had attempted to make himself useful) and her face bore a new bloodied scar. She was sobbing for breath, a pitiful figure of a female, her face crushed to the hard barnacle-crusted planking.
Jones limped to the prostrate figure, setting his bad leg down right beside the girl's head. She was too tired and afraid to react. He contemptuously pushed the girl's head to an uncomfortable angle that forced her to look at him. He knelt down slightly, raising a brow at her.
"Noo quite quick enough, Miss…" He tilted his head in a mocking sort of politeness.
She refused to meet his eyes, looking over his shoulder, but she answered, though the answer was barely discernable from the blood that clogged her mouth and dribbled onto the deck, along with her tears of pain and disappointed fear, "Bree…m'name's Bree…" Her head sank down again, exhausted. However, once the weight of the two crewmen was lifted from her back, she was pulled harshly up and half-dragged to the grating. She was lashed down, heard the sound of a whip being tested. The first stroke landed, and she gave a short gasp. Bree's vision began to leave again, and she felt her limbs growing weaker. The last thing she heard before she blacked out under the lash was Jones' voice, seemingly amplified over the deck as his simple statement became a threat, a threat that remained with Bree far longer than the scars of the whip.
"Well then, Miss Bree, ye've certainly chosen tae make things hard for yerself. Very…very hard."