AN: Hello folks. Remember what I said at the beginning of chapter…four, I think? How I'd apologised repeatedly? Well just put that here, and add the fact that if you wish, I will allow to you to cut off my head as you do the sacred dance of some evil Hawaiian god of…bad updaters. Does anyone else notice I can only write this fic in threes? I hope you don't abandon me just because I don't post as regularly as I wished, but I'll try this time, I promise.

Random person: And where, I wonder, have we heard THAT before?

Author: Shut up or I'll hit you with a mackerel.

A Witch's Daughter

Chapter Seven: An Irresistible Offer

"There it is!" The sudden yell from the otherwise silent woman caught Lozano off guard. He turned to her to find her leaning over the railing, green eyes wide and burning with anticipation. "I've never seen the ship before, but that must be it."

Indeed, it was the Silver Chimera. The small vessel was slowly sinking deeper and deeper into the merciless clutches of the ocean, as though through quicksand: sails naught more than charred rags, majestic mast snapped cleanly in half, lying limply, broken, on the stained, scorched deck. The Scourge of the Mediterranean, indeed.

To say that Santiago was pleased would have been the greatest understatement known to mankind. Perhaps he had no need for this unnerving woman; perhaps a brave merchant vessel was able to overpower the mediocre pirate crew, at long last. But oh, how he'd craved to watch Avarice and that whore hang…

But then again, how could he be positive that, at long last, they all were dead? Moving closer, the Spaniard could see movement, and unless the Chimera harboured oversized rats (metaphorical vermin excluded), he was willing to bet that those shadows were human. Where was his spyglass? (Ah yes, thieved by a certain Frenchman…) He'll have to go with the depressing possibility that a particular pair of captain and crewmate's hearts still beat. "She must be on there," he proclaimed confidently, finger unconsciously tracing the scarred cheek (a habit she found irritating).

"Perhaps. It would be unwise to be certain, Captain Lozano." The Englishwoman rested an elbow on the wooden railing, cupping her cheek as she tilted her head pensively. Santiago immediately took note of the cut of the cloth (what better way to discern a person's background than by the clothes they wear?); a fingerless glove of deep moss green covering only her slender thumb disappeared under a cream lace-embroidered sleeve of jade; it hung a good four or five inches beyond her elbow evocative of a medieval court. Or perhaps it was reminiscent of the Renaissance?

His midnight eyes left her palm, travelling to her pale throat, where a lovely silver choker embedded with cream pearls and pale Asian jade rested, taking note of the elaborately-wrought metal. The coal eyes journeyed ever higher, to the pale hair messily piled atop her head; light, flaxen strands cascading down her neck and over her cape-covered shoulders (why was she still wearing that thing?). The only facts he could establish was that she was a woman of means with a fetish for pearls, jade, and all things cream and green.

And speaking of green…her eyes were unsettling. The colour was highly unnatural and slightly unnerving, in his opinion. Just like Woodcraft's, even if it was from another side of the colour spectrum. And she did look like Catriona Woodcraft; it could not be denied. But there were many differences, most subtle, others not so. Like the colouring of the hair and eyes; this woman's was evidently lighter. If the pirate's locks were the rich gold of early sunlight, than this woman's — whom he believed to be Señora Woodcraft — was the paler yellow of the waxing or waning moon. Call him a romantic (and he'll blast your brains out), but that was the only way he could describe the two women.

"Someone's on there!" She spoke quietly, a grim smile slowly unravelling, but so suddenly did she voice her thoughts that the man found himself starting yet again. "A girl, a seventeen-year-old girl is still there…" Now that was unsettling.

"That does not mean that it is Señorita Woodcraft, Señora," Santiago reminded. There was another pirate fitting that description, a runaway slave, of all things, and then there was the infamous gentlewoman that had been abducted from Port Royal; a handsome reward for her return had been offered, and he fully intended to claim it.

"Stop calling me that, Captain; I am not a married maid." She whirled around, those fiery orbs meeting his inky black with a stubborn conviction. "It has got to be her; she's the only blood-witch to have ever become a pirate."

Blood-witch? Sangre-bruja? "¿El perdón? I'm sorry?"

She scoffed; a corner of her lip turned up in disdain. "Do not think to insult my intelligence, Santiago. You knew there was something different about her." She arched a pale eyebrow. "How else do you think she was able to earn such a fearsome reputation at that age? And no, she did not use spellcraft to gain it." When he didn't reply, choosing instead to look down upon her in contempt, she audibly sighed before smirking, "She's different. Even the most mundane of people sense that." Turning back, she continued, "And I most certainly am not mundane. I sense a strong presence remains on that ship."

He was harbouring a witch; he had teamed up with an evildoer in order to catch another of her kind. He should have realized it from the beginning. Had he really been so consumed by vengeance that he hadn't stop to think as to why this woman had been so eager to help catch a close relative? Did he really wish to ally himself with el Diablo himself, just to watch the sinful swing?

"You're not having second thoughts, are you, Captain?" The polite mocking of his title made his blood boil. "Do not think I need you nor your crew any longer; I have gained what I wanted, and if I can survive a massacre, I most certainly can survive the oceans."

"What do you want from her?" He was surprised at the defensive tone in his voice; had he taken his sworn enemy's side?

"Something you will not be able to comprehend." She was facing him once again. "Shouldn't you weigh anchor? If you get any closer, you will burn."

"As will you, bruja." Santiago growled out. She merely smirked again.

"A common misconception: true witches do not burn." She moved towards him. "I am beyond flame or torch; I am the inferno." Her hand reached out, almost caressing his scar; he'd half expected her touch to sear his face, setting him alight. "I am going to be generous, Lozano," she whispered confidently. "You will get your revenge, I promise that. But I need her alive for the time being, and if you'll grant me that kindness," her voice grew lower as she moved closer, "not only will you obtain vengeance, but I'll help you gain what was taken from you. What you always dream of…"

"That's impossible," he rasped out; she was playing on his emotions, manipulating him, but the fact alone was not enough to stop him from remembering; the images flashed before him, taunting him with their authenticity.

"But I know about them," she continued, growing ever more persuasive as the memories gained more and more actuality; he could smell the sweet scents of the blooming Spanish flowers, the dry grass; he saw the blinding sunlight, heard the joyous laughter of the innocent —

No.

"You lie, puta." It was the second time since their meeting that he'd accused her of falsehood.

"But how could I know? 'Tis not a well-known fact that you had —"

"But can you do it?" That cold smile once again; like a sharpened blade of steel encased in ice, it bit him to his very core. "But of course, Señor. All you have to do is find a way of occupying yourself in the Caribbean until she is no longer of use to me. Then I will call for you, and you may have her head." The grin grew. "As soon as she has taken her last breath will I fulfil our agreement. Do you think you are capable of doing that?"

"Yes, witch." Grinning, he turned to his crew, some of which were openly watching their bargaining. "¡Baje el ancla!" He turned back to the dishonest witch. "There is a pirate ship I've set my sights on, in my tongue it is known as la Perla Negra —"

"The Black Pearl?" she spoke sharply. "With Jack Sparrow as captain?"

"S, I believe that is his name."

"Do not harm him."

Lord Almighty, now what? "And why not?"

"Because I need him alive, you Spanish imbecile; I need him alongside Catriona." He paused, allowing her time to elaborate. And to his surprise, she did, although she gave away no information of use to him. "I cannot have one without the other; they will be of no use to me if one is alive and the other dead."

The lowering of anchor and rowboats was spent without another word exchanged between the two of them.

-!-!-

Come on. Come on. Work, damn it.

The mental mantra did little to help her calm her temper, and she knew she had to be in a certain state of tranquillity in order for this to work. Allanah had been able to acquire this skill instantaneously; why the hell couldn't she, Catriona, who was raised as a witch, do the same thing?

Her blue eyes flickered back towards the double doors of the cabin, away from the bright flame of the candle. He could be here any minute…

Allanah, if ever there was a time for you to show off your psychic, skills, now would be it!

Surprisingly, there was an answer.

Catriona?

The proximity and volume of the voice startled her; the candle was knocked to the floor. Oh, shi —

Now's not the time for expressing yourself, Cat. The reply was panicked but amused.

Where are you? Her amethyst eyes again flickered to the door.

A horrible, wet place known as the brig.

Relief flooded through her. So Allanah was alive and uncomfortable; at least they were on the same ship. The knotted stomach relaxed ever so slightly; there was still something wrong…

And Avarice? she pressed.

Talking with the captain. Quite a good-looking bloke, actually. The observation amused her as much as it did exasperate her. The fact was, Catriona was inclined to agree. Ever so slightly so. But now was not the time for girl talk.

Catriona, you've gotta listen, I don't think we've got much time: something really bad's going on, something evil, I swear I'm not exaggerating; I saw this woman, and Cat, you wouldn't believe this, but she looked like — The panicking thought was cut off as suddenly as its owner had appeared.

Allanah? Allanah? "Allanah!"

She was gone; vanished. The bright light that was her best friend's presence had evanesced, replaced by a darker, sinister presence. Catriona felt eyes on her: hungry, hateful eyes that seemed to be sizing her up, that wanted her dead. Their owner seemed to be constructing a malicious plan: how she knew this, she'd no idea, but that plan seemed to involve…her.

And unexpectedly, she was choking: her lungs desperately needed the oxygen. Her hands flew to her throat, but the suffocating phantom didn't seem to be concentrating on her neck alone; her very organs were compressing, her stomach, her lungs, her heart

Her pulse quickened — she couldn't see; all of her senses had been encased in darkness, and her mind was searing with pain, as though it was burning…

Something was in her head.

And then it was over; the spectre had released her from its murderous grip. That first breath was heaven to her deprived lungs… She was on her hands and knees, hair flowing around her like a veil as she breathed rapidly, trying to slow her racing heart.

See you in Tortuga…

She almost didn't hear that voice: neither male nor female, too consumed by hatred to decipher, to match it to a person…

She couldn't just lie here, fearing for her life. And she knew, now that her brain was functioning, that they were sailing towards Tortuga, where she would undoubtedly confront…it. She would not spend the voyage in dread of the destination.

Fear was a useless emotion unless it was converted into anger or hatred: Gervaise Avarice had taught her that, and she was not going to disappoint her mentor, even if he was not here to see her do so. So that was exactly what she did, trying to conjure a face to go with the voice. Her mind flashed to Santiago Lozano: the perfect candidate. He was a powerful man, a dangerous man, and she knew that she could harm him, so he was the obvious choice. Pretending that it was him she was to face helped her change the overwhelming emotion into something useful; so well in fact, that rage filled her every fibre, begging to be released. Her eyes travelled over the cabin as she slowed her breathing. Only one thought remained in her mind:

She was Catriona Woodcraft, and if she refused to be ruled by law, then she would not be ruled by fear.

-!-

"I've missed you so much," she murmured into his chest. The warm arms encircling her waist were comforting, protecting. This was her favourite place in the whole world, more so than any soft mattress or fancy ball.

Will. Her Will.

"So did I," he replied, placing gentle kisses on her brow. He was acutely aware that Elizabeth was clad in only her slip, and he pushed the thought away.

"You must think it ridiculous that I managed to be abducted twice in less than a year."

"I suppose there's something about you pirates are attracted to." And men, for that matter…

"Mr Turner," she gasped, pulling back to look him in the eye, "is that why you're marrying me? To impress your pirate friends?"

The corner of his mouth lifted ever so slightly. "But of course. Why, did you think I love you?"

"Well in that case, I might just have to sleep with you."

It had slipped from her lips long before she could even consider thinking the statement through. A very awkward pause hung in the air, causing them both to flush.

"I didn't mean to —" she began, before stopping. Why was she apologising? The fact was it was what she wanted. And she'd said it so bluntly because Will, wonderful though he was, could be rather thick at times. "Well, actually I did mean to."

She could see his brown eyes darkening, burning her with their heat. "And you want it too."

"We should wait," he said, tearing away from her hypnotic gaze. His cheeks were growing warmer; he wouldn't be surprised if his skin was to melt right off his face. "After the wedding: that's how it's done." Her father was right: William Turner seemed to have a very high sense of propriety. His refusal just made her love him more, if that was possible. Ironically, it also made Elizabeth want him all the more. When she was on the Chimera, one of the ways she'd stopped herself from dying of boredom was to think of Will. Replaying their memories was nice, but fast became tedious, so she'd entertained herself with thoughts of their wedding day. Which led, whether it was because of her presence on a pirate ship, or simply because her sense of propriety didn't quite compare to Will's, to the wedding night…

But why wait until the wedding? And she knew Will had thought about it (last she checked, he was a man), so she'd nothing to be ashamed of…

As she opened her mouth to argue, a sudden yelp from above caught both of their attention; as one, their heads turned towards the ceiling, directly below Jack's cabin.

"Oh dear…" Elizabeth said, although she couldn't help but smirk slightly.

"What was that, darling?"

She lifted her head to give him an evil grin. "Catriona."

More yelling came from above, most muffled, more of the unpleasant statements sounding clearer, and Elizabeth giggled as she tried to interpret the words sputtered out by the irate pirate captain.

"What the —" It didn't take a genius to figure out what obscenity was to come next.

-!-

Catriona sat contently on the desk, legs crossed as she watched in amusement the captain's face.

"The décor of this place is terrible; just tasteless," she smirked, enjoying the change of expression. "It needed a feminine touch to straighten up the place." Her already sore ribs ached further as she continued to withhold her laughter, the dark expression on the man's changing into a mask of disbelief as her words registered.

"Fifteen minutes," he muttered to himself. "Fifteen bloody minutes…"

"Amazing, ain't it?" she continued, Allanah and Avarice forgotten as she concentrated on his dark face.

"That's one way of putting it — What the hell did you do to my bed?!" Jack Sparrow rushed over to the aforementioned furniture, tripping gracelessly on a rum bottle he was certain had not been there before. He gaped in horror at the shredded mattress, the sliced pillows, the ripped cotton sheets. Fifteen minutes… "And a lifetime of good memories," he finished the thought aloud, smirking slightly. And undoubtedly more to come… He couldn't resist sliding his gaze over to the pirate, who visibly straightened.

"I'm not a memory!" she snapped indignantly.

"No, you're not, are ye? Well not yet, anyways…"

"Are you trying to distract me?" She retorted.

"Are you trying to anger me?"

"Where's my captain?"

"Where's the weapon?" Jack threw back, face showing a mischievous enjoyment at the banter.

She let out an animalistic growl he couldn't help but pay attention to. "Do you ever answer a question directly?"

"Do you?"

"Stop it!"

"Stop…what, exactly?" Her dark eyes narrowed. "You're very mature for your age," he said insincerely. He couldn't help but catalogue this small victory, insignificant as it was.

"Why, thank you kind sir," she hurled back, ignoring his sarcasm. Her hand reached behind her back; a small glimmer of metal caught the light of the dim candles she'd lit as the object landed on what was once one of his favourite places in the world.

Once again, he stared at the diminutive item in incredulity. "You did all this with a spoon?"

"Oh, like you've never used crockery as a weapon," she muttered. "Y'know, spoons are underrated; they can be deadly if you shove it —" She hesitated. "How 'bout we don't go into that?" He nodded his agreement, staring at the female in disbelief. Spoons? he mentally repeated, trying to figure out how the hell that worked out. Knives and forks were understandable, but this… He was certain people would find cursed monkeys more believable than this.

"So, sweetheart, why'd you wanted to see ole Jack in his bedroom? Obvious aside…"

"I wanted to know exactly where a girl named Allanah Dove and a Capitaine Avarice are, sir."

Sitting on the bed, he thoughtfully picked up the abandoned dinnerware, before realizing it'll look a lot more intimidating if he was fingering a dagger instead of an instrument used only for the consumption of soups. Or so it was believed… "Isn't that a sin?"

"Huh?"

"Avarice," he repeated, looking at her from under his hat. He was able to hide his disappointment that the only clothing tight on her body were her breeches, belt and boots. Her sash was wrapped around her right hand, and her vest hung off of the back of a chair. That was strange, he hadn't remembered any part of her wounded…but now that he was looking closely, he could see that some of the dark patches on her shirt clung to her skin; a sure sign that the blood was her own, as a few of them seemed to be growing slightly darker.

"Do you have them? Are they locked in the brig?" Was this an interrogation?

"I'll be more concerned about those scrapes on your pretty self if I were you, lass, than a couple of dead crewmates." The sudden look of horror that passed over her features was unmistakably cutting; the slight flush to her cheeks that had appeared during their little discussion evaporated, replaced by a white as pale as what were once his sheets, her eyes grew larger still; her jaw gaped open as she inhaled sharply.

"…Dead?"

"Aye; that's usually what happens when folks choose to remain on a burning ship instead of accepting the generous offer of a dashing rogue pirate captain." He shrugged dismissively. "Fact o' life, love. We all kick it in the end."

"That is impossible."

"Not really, we all have to snuff it sooner or later —"

"They can't be dead; I'll know if they were… I'll know if Allanah had…" She jumped to her feet. "Turn back."

Jack arched an eyebrow. "Are you ordering me?" he asked in a low tone that she would have recognised as dangerous had she been paying full attention.

"I… No, it's… Please, I… I'm asking if…" But then again, Allanah had been suddenly cut off. Had it been her fault? Had she distracted her? Had she murdered her best friend?

Her breathing was quickening; coupled with her pallid skin and widened eyes, Jack would have thought that she was about to…

Thud.

…faint.

He looked at her crumpled form in pity — he doubted the floor had suddenly softened when she'd hit it — and approached her unconscious form. He half expected it to be a trick; that she would jump up any minute and whip out — what, a teaspoon? — and threaten him into telling her where her crewmates are.

He honestly did not know. And a part of him knew it was cruel to tell her they were dead, when he had no idea for certain. But another part told him that it was probably the truth, but because of that she'll probably appreciate him one day, and hadn't she redecorated his room without permission? He picked her up easily and unceremoniously dropped her on the bed. It wasn't as if she'd feel anything, and there was no point in pretending to be gentle and caring if no one was there to witness such an act. He did, however, pause to unwind the long sash from her palm.

The material was already red, but as he grew closer to the skin, he could see the colour darkening, growing deeper. What he'd finally discovered was a deep gash across the small palm, contrasting greatly with the white skin around it. Jack was guessing she'd gained it when she'd tried to defend herself from the swipe of a sword, and took a moment to marvel at two things:

Her bravery at her willingness to experience pain whilst defending herself, and;
Her idiocy at getting such a deep cut on her hand.

The smell of a certain alcoholic beverage met his nostrils; a glance at the desk confirmed his worst suspicions.

She'd taken some of his rum. The nerve of her. Making a face of annoyance, he rewound the cloth, tying it tightly. He supposed that between tearing out his drawers, breaking open his cabinet, turning over his chairs and massacring his bed, the pirate had found time to check her wounds. All over her body. He was quite peeved that she hadn't allowed him that honour.

Swinging his legs over the bed, he tugged at his right boot. Hard. The thing just would not budge; maybe it had shrunk? Growling, he gave the shoe one final pull, and with a yelp of surprise and fell backwards, head resting on a warm abdomen. Jack allowed himself the small pleasure of feeling the warmth of a female body emanating through the thin cloth (even if it was skull to stomach) before attempting the impossible with his left boot. (He must have hopped around the cabin for a good five minutes or so before it finally gave.) For what was probably the first (and last) time in his life, Jack was glad that the female in his bed was dead to the world.

After the footwear, everything became much easier; the blade clattered upon the wooden planking, the pistols slipped under the remains of his pillow (how much feathers do they use?), and the belt and sash joined the cutlass.

He'd had no idea how tired he was. How long had it been since his last battle at sea? Barbossa hadn't counted, seeing as all he'd done was run around a couple of decks after a monkey he was the namesake of. And the banter with the teenager, however short it was, had amused him: he hadn't met a girl with looks like that and a stubborn streak in a long time (unless you counted Elizabeth and Anamaria; but Jack wasn't sure if the latter was female and if the former hadn't had a mental illness or two, so he didn't).

Before sleep overtook him, he slipped the soupspoon alongside his two pistols. Just in case.

--!--

AN: Well, hope this makes up for the long wait. Personally, I think that's my best yet, but I'll leave that up to you to judge. If anyone was curious, I've spent most of this school year gloating about how I spent my summer in Thailand, and now all my friends have turned away from me in my gloating-ness, so now I'll turn to you. Actually, I won't, because I'm getting sick of hearing myself, but I just had to get out that I spent most of my summer days lying on a beach drinking…non-alcoholic fresh coconut juice. (That completely goes against pirates, doesn't it?)

Readers: Thank you for reading, and congratulations for staying with me this long (your patience is limitless). As you may have noticed, I've just decided to cut the research and, ahem, 'accuracy' of this story, simply because it'll help move the plot along. Come back sometime soon; somewhere next month I might have torn myself away from my homewor—SOCIAL LIFE to write. And I hope people appreciate my attempt at humour, unnatural though it may be. Does anyone like my pen name (whatever it's called) change? (Yes, that's just me baiting to you to press that button.)