Page 11 of Stalking Wendy Darling

I lifted my chin, tension in the line of my jaw, the only outward sign of rage I would allow. The rest of it lived inside me, a tempest of murderous fury. It matched the tempest I saw on the horizon, clouds gathering in a swarm of darkest grey, edging towards black. It was a storm I really did not need right now, two days away from Feeding Day.

The ticking began in my ear, a delusion that made everything in my body seize. I fought a flinch.It’s not real,I hissed at myself.It’s all in your head.

I twisted away from the helm and strode across the deck, meeting the eyes of my crew until heads dropped and stares lowered, their fear palpable. They knew the price for dangerousmistakes like this. With frayed ropes and no way to hoist the sail on the mainmast, we couldn’t avoid the path of the storm, couldn’t sail into shelter. We couldn’t even sail into the damn thing; the winds were too volatile to rely on the mizzenmast and foremast alone, especially since they’d been shredded and patched one too many times.

It was probably time to board a ship and strip their sails for ourselves, but we were on a timeline and nothing could be done before Feeding Day.

When we cleared the deadly path of rocks that thrust from the dark blue ocean in these waters, I barked clipped instructions that had everyone running to steer us starboard. Striding back to the helm was an exercise in restraint when I wanted to explode, to tear into the men running around me in frazzled panic, their eyes either on the storm or on me. I wanted to draw my pistol and shoot them, just to bleed some of this rage from me, but a dead crew wouldn’t serve me. This crew, however blackhearted and inept, were all I had.

I closed my hand around the mahogany of the helm just as the first fat drops of rain splattered the deck, one driving into my hand, water sliding down my knuckle before it dripped to my feet.Calm,I hissed at myself,stay fucking calm.

The only thing that kept me in control was how quickly the crew jumped to follow my orders, even Wendell sprinting to secure the sail when the wind got hold of it. I narrowed my eyes on the newcomer, waiting for him to do something suspicious, but he was focused on the sail like any other crew member. But there was something about him, a glimmer in his eye, and that damn smirk. That sharp silver tongue. He was up to something.

“Drop anchor,” I roared when we were out of the direct path of the storm, the Banshee angled behind the sharp dagger of a black rock. It wouldn’t shelter us entirely, but it should keep the worst of the wind from catching the masts.

“Captain!” a rough voice yelled, and I turned, pinning the helm in place, scanning the deck until I spotted my quartermaster with a chilling note of alarm in his expression. “We’ve got another rope fraying back here.”

My nostrils flared. Incompetence—or sabotage?

“Fix it,” I barked. “Maceo!” A fast curl of satisfaction expanded in my stomach when the sailing master jumped, his fear enough to soothe my temper for the moment. “Check every damn rope on this ship. And in future, do your fuckingjob.One more frayed rope and I’ll be feedingyouto the monster.”

The colour left Maceo’s face, even knowing the monster only accepted women, and he leapt into faster action.

“Get that anchor dropped,now!”I yelled, hairs lifting all down my arms as pressure grew in the air. It had felt like this the day I almost died.

Gripping the helm in white-knuckled hands, I watched the carefully controlled chaos, the crew scurrying like busy ants across the slick wooden deck. The air smelled electric, full of energy and warning. It was a smell that heralded death, a smell that made my blood vibrate.

“Storm’s coming, captain!” Wynton yelled from the crow’s nest, his face little more than a dark smear against the grey sky.

Even without his warning, I’d have known it was here. Darkness rolled over the ocean, clouds blotting out the grey sky, and if I hadn’t known it was just past noon I would have thought it was midnight. The temperature dropped all at once, the rain sluicing the Banshee turning to hail that battered my head, my shoulders, and whipped my knuckles where I gripped the wheel. The rock shielded some of it, but the angle of the wind meant I had to fight to keep us from tilting.

Thunder filled the ocean with roaring noise, filled my head, and the energy in the air crackled, building to a destructive end. The bolt struck the water far enough from us that I let out asmall exhale of relief. In the brief reprieve that followed, I tied the helm in place, testing to make sure it wouldn’t budge, and strode for Maceo where he was frantically waving at Rolando and Lamont at the bow.

“Well, work faster!” he snapped, his eyes as fierce as the lightning.

“What’s our status?” I asked, taking sick pleasure in the way he jumped. Most people aboard were wary of Maceo’s legendary temper, buthewas afraid of me. To the crew of Death’s Right Hand, I was the bogeyman, a living nightmare. I loved it.

“Just the two ropes worn,” Maceo reported, standing straighter, unflinching as rain beat down on his head, plastering brown hair to his cheeks, making his green coat black. “I swear they weren’t like that during my last checks, captain.”

“They were deliberately cut?” I demanded, rage darkening my voice, dropping its volume.

“No, it looks like wear and tear, but—I swear they were fine.”

I raised an eyebrow, leaning over his shoulder to inspect the rope, where thread after thread had frayed until a single strand held it together. That was no clean cut, no intentional slice. He was right—wear and tear. Which meant my crew weren’t doing their damn job.

“I pay you each month, do I not?” I asked, my heartbeat deepening, a shiver in my bones as electricity built in the air again. I didn’t yell over the rain but Maceo heard me. So did Rolando and Lamont, both of them becoming incredibly focused on repairing the rope.

“You do,” Maceo agreed.

“And I give you a safe place to sleep, and food to warm your belly. Do I not?”

His throat bobbed. “You do.”

I grabbed the lapel of his green jacket, wrenching him so close that I could see the individual flecks of colour in his eyesbrighten with panic, every last nose hair in sharp detail. Close enough that he could see the murder in my eyes. “Thenwhy,”I yelled, “didn’t youdo your damn job?”

“I'm sorry, captain,” he rushed out. “It won’t happen again.”

I released him with a little shove. “No,” I agreed. “It won’t.”

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