Vengeance of the Pirate Queen
Tricia Levenseller
Chapter 1
YOU CAN’T BE AFRAID of the dark when you’re the monster lurking in the shadows.
I’ve lived by these words since I was five years old. They’ve served me well through many cold nights spent alone. They’re doubly useful when I find myself killing, which is more often than not. The pirate queen has many enemies, and I’m the one she sends to take care of them.
Tonight’s target is the pirate lord Vordan Serad.
This is the first time in my career I’ve had to track down the same target twice. I don’t like it. Would have been far better if we’d gutted Vordan the last time we caught him, but the late pirate king had wanted him alive.
Vordan’s been busy since he escaped. He commissioned a ship under a false name, hired himself a new crew, and slowly began to grow his prestige, starting on the island of Butana. I have no doubt he hoped to raise enough forces to eventually usurp Alosa’s throne.
He should have known better. He should have kept running after he managed to free himself during the scuffle between the land king and former pirate king. Might have had a nice, long life that way.
Instead, he has no idea that I’m curled up under his bed.
He prepares for the evening by lantern light. With my limited view from the ground, I watch him kick off his boots and throw them in the direction of the closet. A white bit of clothing joins them. His shirt, I think. Thankfully, he keeps his britches on. He riffles through one of his pockets, and a soft chink sounds a moment later. He must have pulled out that coin he likes to fiddle with and placed it on the bedside table.
Vordan seats himself on the floor, leaning his back against the edge of the bed, mere feet from where I hide. My heart pounds out a too-fast rhythm at the threat of discovery.
I could do it now, I suppose. Just roll over, grab my dagger from its sheath at my side, and slice his throat.
But Alosa wants him to know on whose orders he’s being killed, and I’ll be in a better position to keep him quiet if I can attack from above rather than below.
Killing is easy. The tricky part is being quiet. Being patient. Waiting for the right moment. That’s what makes me good at my job. Being an assassin is not always about the easy kill. It’s about the best kill.
I hold perfectly still and watch as Vordan stretches out his bad leg. Alosa once used her siren song to force him to jump from a two-story height. I’ll bet he thinks about her every time it stiffens from the cold. He leans over to rub at the muscles near his knee before standing. He takes a drink from something at his nightstand, puts out the lantern, then sits on the bed.
I extend my arm until it is only inches from Vordan’s left ankle. My fingers tiptoe ever closer, until my pointer finger is directly behind his heel. It would be so easy to slice his Achilles tendon. He’d never walk again. Instead, I draw circles against the wood slats on the floor, allowing Vordan to think the last thoughts he will ever have. Eventually, he sighs, pulls his legs onto the bed, and fidgets with the covers.
When he finally goes still, I listen to his breathing, waiting for it to slow. Then I wait some more. If I stay my hand until my marks are deeply asleep, they’re less likely to rouse from any soft sounds I might make in the room. I don’t want them to wake until I’m in position. Until it’s too late to fight back. Not to mention, the longer I wait, the more likely it is that everyone else on the estate will be asleep.
I slide out from under the bed and stand, watching Vordan’s sleeping form for any movement. When his breathing doesn’t change, I draw a dagger and tread to the bed. Scant light from the moon slants through the window. I stand on the opposite side of the bed so my shadow isn’t cast upon Vordan. He sleeps on his back, hands at his sides atop the covers, face pointed at the ceiling.
He’s unremarkable in appearance, with a medium height and build. Brown hair and beard. No distinguishing features. It’s how he stays hidden. Stays alive, really. We pirates don’t typically have long life spans. At least not under the former king’s rule.
As I let my dagger drift closer to his throat, I replace the face before me with one from my memories. One with lighter skin, a beauty mark on the left side of his forehead, a single gold hoop high up on one ear. Straw-colored hair and a clean-shaven face. A cleft in the middle of the chin.
My first kill.
I pretend they all are so I can savor it over and over again.
As instructed, I let my dagger rest on the skin of Vordan’s neck. His eyelids twitch twice before shooting open. Without moving his neck, his eyes veer to the right so he can take me in. “You,” he says. “You’re one of hers.”
“The pirate queen sends her best wishes. You’ll need them where you’re going.”
“Wai—”
Before he can finish the request, I slice deeply, nicking the carotid artery. Blood drenches the sheets, drips quietly on the floor.
And I watch as the life leaves Samvin Carroter for the eighty-ninth time.
I clean my dagger on an unmarred section of blanket and sheathe it. Then I retrieve my rapier from under the bed and reattach it to my waist. Most pirates carry cutlasses, but I prefer the speed and dexterity of the rapier. Besides, I am noble-born, and I like to retain that remembrance of my family.
I exit Vordan’s room, letting myself into one of the hallways of the exquisite mansion he’d been living in. He killed the family who owned it. Bribed or threatened all the staff. Set up what few men he had in the comfy rooms. It was the pattern I had to look for while tracking him down.
He learned the first time that if he stayed in one place, Alosa was sure to find him, so he’d take up residence in some fancy estate, stay there a month at most, frequenting the big cities and rallying supporters. Then he’d move to a new city on a new island within the Seventeen Isles and do it all over again.
Unfortunately for him, a discernible pattern is just as bad as staying in one place.
The door makes the softest of clicks as I shut it behind me before treading down the carpet-clad floor. I round the hallway and take the main staircase, stepping toward the outside of the steps, where they’re less likely to creak. Three levels down and I reach the main floor. Thinking to leave the same way I entered, I pass through the kitchens.
“Hello?” a voice calls out, and I drop into a crouch.
Everyone is supposed to be asleep, but someone must have grown hungry in the night.
I might not be done killing. The thought sends a delightful shot of warmth to my sword arm, my fingers itching to reach for a weapon. As I crawl behind the nearest table, my heart races again. It’s a wild percussion that I’ve grown used to, even crave at times. The thrill of the hunt.
“Did you hear something?” the same voice says.
“No, but it was probably Miss Nyles coming by the kitchens. Probably turned tail the second she spotted us.”
The first man grunts. “We gave her a good beating last night, didn’t we?”
“Not so good as the tupping we gave her the night before that.”
Their laughter fills the corners of the room like a disease infecting a body. I peer over the edge of the table to get a look at them. Two brutes, mostly dark silhouettes next to the meager candle they have on the table between them. They’re spearing cold meats with a knife before filling their gobs and passing a flask back and forth.