The Turncoat's Gambit

  “Run, Charlotte!” Jack shouted as he struck the sailor again.

  Freed of their initial shock, the other men rallied to Robbins’s aid. They charged at Jack.

  As much as Charlotte abhorred the idea of leaving Jack with these brutes, she knew she had no chance unarmed against almost half a dozen men. Jack’s best chance was for her to get help. Charlotte scrambled out of the surf and ran toward the dune.

  “The lass is running!” She heard the call close behind her.

  Someone slammed into her back, and Charlotte fell to the ground. She rolled over to see one of the sailors about to seize her. Charlotte grabbed a handful of sand and threw it in the man’s eyes. He shouted an oath and stumbled backward.

  Charlotte managed to stand up and start running again, but another sailor was already chasing her. He grasped her forearm and pulled hard, swinging Charlotte around. She stayed on her feet, but couldn’t free herself. Charlotte looked at her assailant and pretended to quail. The man laughed. With his guard down, Charlotte landed a kick in his groin. The man buckled, falling to his knees.

  “Oy! Mermaid!” Charlotte knew the sound of Robbins’s voice meant things had gone badly for Jack. She gritted her teeth and bolted to the rise of the dune.

  “You’d better stay if you don’t want your boy here to end up in our chum!” Robbins shouted after her.

  Charlotte halted and whirled around. To her left, two men held a struggling Jack between them. Robbins’s face was bloody. He had a knife in his hand, which he pointed at Jack. The man Charlotte had kicked was still on the ground, moaning. But the sailor she’d blinded with sand was stalking toward her, rage on his face.

  Chest tight and blood churning, Charlotte stood rigid. She could see no way out that wouldn’t endanger Jack.

  “Just go, Charlotte!” Jack’s shout earned him a punch in the gut.

  “Don’t!” Charlotte took a step toward Robbins.

  “We don’t need to hurt him.” Robbins spit into the sand again. This time bright crimson was mixed with the tobacco juice. “Not if you’ll keep us company for a little while.”

  Charlotte didn’t move again. She glared at Robbins; a hatred like she’d never known burned beneath her ribs. If only she had a gun or a knife, even a solid piece of wood.

  “I think you should let him go.” Grave stood on the edge of the sand dune, looking down at the scene.

  Robbins shifted his gaze from Charlotte, surprise taking over his features, but soon enough a smirk returned to his face. “I think you’d better turn around and go back where you came from. You look ill. Tangling with us will only make you worse.”

  Grave ignored Robbins. He came down the slope to stand beside Charlotte.

  “Are you hurt?” Grave asked her.

  “I’ll be fine,” she said, then lowering her voice. “Jack.”

  Grave nodded. He looked at Robbins again. “Please let Jack go.”

  “Manners don’t carry weight with our lot, boy.” The sailor gave a snorting laugh.

  Tilting his head, Grave regarded Robbins with a slight frown. “Why not?”

  Bewildered, Robbins snarled, “To Hades with you and your freakish face.”

  He took the place of the men holding Jack, keeping his knife against Jack’s throat, and told them, “Get rid of him.”

  One man had his knife drawn, the other held a club. They rushed at Grave.

  Grave put his hands out in front of him, palms facing out. The men slammed into him as if they’d hit an iron gate, then reeled back. The knife-wielding sailor wheezed and dropped his weapon. He hunched over, arms wrapped around his ribs, desperately trying to draw breath. The man with the club was wincing, but came forward again. This time Grave lifted his arm and made a fist. When the man reached Grave, swinging his club at Grave’s head, the boy brought his fist down on the sailor’s shoulder. The crunching sound made Charlotte’s stomach seize up. The man screamed and fell to the sand, clutching at his shoulder.

  “Bastard!” The man nearest to Charlotte ran toward Grave. He dove low to avoid any punches and instead wrapped his arms around Grave’s calves in an attempt to bring him down.

  Grave didn’t so much as sway. His attacker came to a sudden stop, grunting as his belly met the sand. Grave jerked his leg free and brought his foot down in the middle of the sailor’s back. The sound wasn’t a crunch but a crack, and the man’s scream was more of a screech. He didn’t move again.

  The two remaining sailors whom Charlotte had tussled with stared at their fallen shipmates, then bolted away.

  That left only Robbins standing. He held the knife to Jack’s throat and had Jack’s arms pinned.

  Grave turned toward Robbins.

  “Stay there!” Robbins’s voice quaked. “Don’t come near, or I’ll kill him.”

  “You need to let Jack go,” Grave said in a calm voice.

  Robbins watched Grave in horror. “What are you?” His hand trembled so strongly he could no longer grip his knife. It fell to the ground, and Robbins staggered backward. “What are you?” he said again.

  Then he ran.

  9.

  THEY DIDN’T LEAVE the tavern for two days. They spoke quietly and kept away from the windows. Jeannette brought meals to their rooms.

  Charlotte and Jack discussed leaving. But they had nowhere to go, and in the end they decided that they’d be more likely to be seen on the run than if they stayed quiet and hidden at the Weir. They asked Thomas and Matilde to listen for any news or gossip that would suggest someone had discovered their whereabouts, but the tavern keepers reported no word other than that some visiting sailors had gotten into a brawl on the beach.

  The truth of that “brawl” haunted Charlotte. She’d seen plenty of fights, and she’d killed when she’d had to, but the ease with which Grave could devastate his opponents left Charlotte deeply unsettled. She tried to resolve her qualms by reminding herself that the sailors had instigated violence and had threatened her in particular. But Charlotte could still hear bones snapping and shattering. The agony of the men’s cries lingered in her memory. So ugly, so jarring. They stole the brief, sweet thoughts that Jack had planted in her heart—thoughts of a new beginning, a life that could be a sanctuary after so much strife.

  But Charlotte knew the truth now. There was no paradise. No place apart. Even the beauty and tranquility of this refuge had been marred by cruel and random brutality. Her sleep had become fitful, marked by visions of broken men and bloodied sands. So when she woke that night, she assumed that once again her mind had managed to pull itself free of another nightmare.

  Charlotte propped herself on her elbows and waited for her fluttering heartbeat to settle. She looked out the window, hoping the gentle gleam of moonlight or the sight of winking stars might soothe her. But the moon was either new or snuffed out by clouds. Only darkness, cold and empty, floated beyond the pane of glass.

  She lay back, resting her head on the pillow, and gazed up at the ceiling.

  The floorboards in the middle of her room creaked.

  Holding her breath, Charlotte went rigid. She listened, waiting for another sound or for silence to confirm that her ugly dreams were manifesting frightening noises in her waking imagination. All quiet.

  Charlotte let go of her breath and closed her eyes.

  Scuff. Scuff.

  So soft. Almost imperceptible.

  Scuff. Scuff.

  Charlotte sat up. Her gaze swept the room, but her vision couldn’t pierce the unbroken dark. When she drew her next breath, she caught the scent of brine and tannin.

  She quickly rolled over, reaching for the dagger she’d stowed beneath her pillow. Her fingers brushed the sheath.

  A hand closed around the back of her neck, holding her down. Another pushed her face into the pillow that swallowed her scream.

  Someone grabbed her arms. Rope bit into
her wrists as they were bound together.

  She was jerked up. As Charlotte gulped air, the hand clamped over her mouth before she could shout for help. Another rope circled just below her sternum and pinned her arms to her sides. Charlotte still couldn’t make out her assailants’ features, even when they pulled her to her feet.

  “You sure you tied her up good, Cooper?” A man’s hoarse whisper. “’Cause that’s what he said, remember. We have to control the girl, or we’ll never get the other one.”

  Charlotte felt the tip of a dagger between her shoulder blades. “She’s not going anywhere,” Cooper answered. She felt breath against her ear. “One thrust and you’re dead, so you’ll do as you’re told. Understood?”

  The blade bit into her skin, and Charlotte gasped. “I understand.”

  “Gag her,” Cooper ordered his partner. “Then put the collar on.”

  The kerchief he stuffed into Charlotte’s mouth tasted of dirt and sweat. Cool metal encircled her throat, close fitting but not tight enough to choke.

  “There’s a chain attached to this collar.” The man’s face was right in front of Charlotte’s. His breath a mélange of cloying rot and stale tobacco. “If it’s pulled hard enough, something very unpleasant will happen to you. So no fighting us.”

  Charlotte gave a stiff nod. Her eyes were beginning to adjust to the darkness. She made out the tall, broad shape of Cooper’s body.

  “Good,” Cooper whispered. “Let’s get the boy. It’s the sickly looking one that we want, Wallace. Get the other out of the way as quick as you can.”

  Charlotte cursed into the gag.

  “Hush now, girl.” Wallace shook the chain. It made a metallic tinkling noise that belied its sinister purpose. “It’d be a shame if I had to hurt you.”

  Wallace guided her to the door. When they reached the hall, Cooper lit a gas lantern. Charlotte squinted through the sudden light. At first the lantern confused her, as did her captors’ lack of concern about muffling their approach to Jack and Grave’s door, unlike the stealthy entrance they’d made before abducting Charlotte.

  Then the troubling realization struck her. The knife against her back, the way she was bound and gagged, the collar. Wallace and Cooper wanted Charlotte to be seen. She was on display.

  We have to control the girl, or we’ll never get the other one.

  Grave. They were after Grave, and somehow they knew about his loyalty, his need to protect Charlotte. Who were these men?

  Cooper turned the doorknob and pushed, letting the door swing inward. The lantern light spilled into the room, and Jack sat up. His hand swept under his pillow and then he was on his feet, revolver in his hand, aimed at Cooper.

  Wallace dragged Charlotte forward, putting her between Cooper and Jack.

  “Not a good idea.” Wallace pushed the knife into Charlotte’s skin until she cried out. Even with the sound muffled by her gag, Jack knew its meaning. The muscles in his neck and jaw were tight, straining with his anger.

  “That goes for you too.” Wallace’s voice was directed at Grave, who was sitting up on his bed. “Stay right there until we tell you otherwise.”

  Cooper pointed at Charlotte’s neck. “A little prick from a knife won’t do harm, but this will. Want to know what it does?”

  Jack peered at Charlotte; his eyes traced the chain from the collar to Wallace’s hand.

  “Get that off her.” Jack’s voice shook.

  Wallace laughed. “Ain’t going to happen. But you are going to put that gun down and kick it over here.”

  Jack bent and placed his revolver on the floor, then kicked it toward Cooper.

  As Cooper picked up the gun, Grave asked, “What does the collar do?”

  The eerie calm of his voice spooked Cooper, who jumped back and aimed the gun at Grave.

  “No need for that, Cooper,” Wallace said. “He’s a strange one, is all.”

  Cooper lowered the gun. “So you don’t know what a Parisian Ribbon is?”

  Grave shook his head.

  “See that chain my partner has?” Cooper waited for Grave to nod. “One good tug, and the chain will come free, but when it does, a lever inside the collar is flipped. That sets the tiny parts inside in motion, and what they do is open up the inside of the collar so a wire comes out and the little gears spin and tighten that wire. And they won’t stop until all the wire is wound up.”

  Grave frowned at Cooper. “That would cut her head off.”

  “Well, you see, the French were fond of folk losing their heads for a few years,” Cooper replied. “Hence the name.”

  Like Grave, Charlotte had never heard of a Parisian Ribbon. She desperately wished she hadn’t learned what it could do to her.

  “I won’t let you hurt her.” Grave stood up.

  “That’s why we’re having this conversation,” Cooper told him. “So we understand each other. There’s a lot of money being offered to bring you in. Money we want. You don’t want us to hurt your friend. If you come with us nicely, we both get what we want.”

  Sick with fear and anger, Charlotte despised being silenced by the gag. She couldn’t speak to Grave, whether to offer words of reassurance or to tell him to ignore the threats and attack the men with the hope that Athene would show mercy to her in that fight. But she could say nothing.

  “I’ll go with you,” Grave said.

  “Put the shackles on him,” Wallace said to Cooper.

  Charlotte knew shackles didn’t matter. If Grave wanted to, he could break free of the bonds. But he wouldn’t because of her. She was a prop, being manipulated and used. And it was working.

  Wallace jerked his thumb toward Jack. “What about that one?”

  Jack’s drawn features told Charlotte that he was feeling as helpless as she and equally outraged.

  “Put him in the cellar with the others,” Wallace said. “The contract said no killing, or they’ll withhold half the bounty.”

  Jack’s mouth twitched, and he took one step forward.

  He jingled the chain. “Don’t be getting any ideas, boy. Just ’cause I don’t want to kill her don’t mean I won’t. Half a bounty is better than none. You do as we say, she don’t get hurt.”

  Jack froze.

  “Now, get on your knees,” Wallace said.

  He nodded to Cooper, who came up behind Jack as he knelt. Cooper took Jack’s gun by the barrel and struck Jack hard in the back of the head with the butt of the revolver. Jack slumped to the floor. Cooper bound Jack’s wrists and ankles, then heaved the limp body over his shoulder.

  “Come along now,” Wallace said to Grave.

  They followed Cooper out of the room. Then Wallace waited with Charlotte and Grave while Cooper proceeded to the cellar. A minute later, Cooper reappeared without Jack. Wallace took them out the back door.

  Cooper’s lantern offered sparse illumination against the pressing dark. The wind had picked up. Charlotte’s nightdress billowed around and slapped against her body. Cooper and Wallace were taking them toward the sea, but away from the docks and fishing shacks. As they walked, Charlotte fought against the frightening questions chasing through her mind.

  What if she or Wallace stumbled and the chain released accidentally? Where were they being taken, and did certain death await at that place? That the Empire had set a bounty for Grave wasn’t surprising, but the detail they’d provided to hunters was alarming. It confirmed everything Lachance had suggested about a turncoat in the Resistance. Who had given them up?

  Charlotte was certain they’d walked a mile or more when a hulking shape loomed ahead. As Cooper’s lantern cast light on the object, it looked as if a giant manta ray had been stranded on the beach. But this manta shone in hues of copper and brass, and its back had been hollowed to accommodate a pilot and passengers. Glass enclosed only the front half of the vessel; the rear was exposed to the open air. br />
  Wallace assisted Charlotte up the small set of steps into the craft. He directed her to one of the rear seats and buckled her into a harness. Wallace took the chair beside Charlotte while Cooper ordered Grave into one of the seats opposite them. Cooper made his way to the front of the craft, strapping himself into a taller chair at the helm. He began turning wheels and hauling back levers. The manta rumbled beneath them. Their chairs began to vibrate, and the entire vessel hummed as it slowly lifted off the ground. Cooper flipped more switches, then took hold of the throttle. The manta swept forward, buzzing only a few feet above the surf as they raced along the shore.

  10.

  CHARLOTTE KEPT HERSELF upright, but inside, a part of her quailed at the sight: the Empire had reduced Boston to rubble, yet left skeletal structures so the devastation could never be forgotten. The only colors that remained were those of death—black char, gray ash. Rumors abounded with regard to Boston’s barrenness. Some said the Empire had poisoned the land, ensuring that nothing could ever grow again. Others argued the land was cursed, that Athene abhorred the razing of the city, and her grief had kept life from returning.

  The manta sped into the harbor toward the lone dock the Empire had constructed to receive and transport prisoners to the Crucible. A pair of gun turrets capped the end of the dock to dissuade trespassers. Cooper eased off the throttle, and the vessel slowed, gliding toward the shore. No ships were in port, but a cluster of men stood on the dock awaiting the manta’s arrival. All were dressed in military garb except two dockhands. Cooper steered the manta alongside the men and cut the engine. The craft settled onto the surface of the water as Wallace threw a line to one of the dockhands.

  Once the manta was tied on, Wallace directed Charlotte to the edge of the craft. The size of the squad awaiting them surprised her. She guessed it was twenty or more men. One of the soldiers reached down to lift her from the vessel, while Wallace clambered up onto the dock to keep the chain of the Parisian Ribbon slack. Cooper disembarked with Grave.