The heavy fog was making those near him anxious, and their chattering was enough to make him fling his hair back and turn his face into the wind, letting the low, death-coloured clouds stroke his cheeks. There was nothing to be frightened of in the weather, and the slight chill to the touch would put colour in his face, and put an end to Mirena’s nagging all at once.

Something shifted in the fast-moving sea of clouds that had surrounded the ship in the early hours of morning; something that was not merely a trick of the eye or the roll of a low wisp of vapor, and René narrowed his eyes, searching through the haze for what he wanted. It was there, and his chest seized to know it.

 Mirena’s words were more than boasting then. If he lived another day, perhaps he might praise the swiftness of her vessel, or perhaps just take it. His fingers curled around the hilt of the weapon Mirena had loaned him. The sword was spotted with rust and unbalanced, but the blade was sharp, and it would do until he took another.

“It is them,” he remarked without turning, and heard Mirena’s chuckle.

“Then it is time,” she returned with barely a pause, placing one hand on his shoulder. “I do not like this sky. This fog…” She shuddered, and René could almost imagine her crossing herself as peasants did whenever God presented them with one of his creations that failed to please them.

“Hell is on the other side of the clouds, Mirena.” René smiled as he stepped forward and her hand fell from him. He felt light without it, as though he could ascend into the sky now like the highest thrones of his mother’s angels, and he clutched at the wooden rail at his finger tips to keep himself down, sliding his fingers into the smooth wood and staring all the way down through the clouds to the water so far below.

There were dead men dancing from the limbs of mangrove trees that had more colour than these clouds, and his smile grew. “We must strike now.” Before the other ship sighted them and Marechal had a chance to prepare himself for what was to come. He would be taken unaware and the pain would be exquisite. He was already shaking with it, a harder joy perhaps than the feel of an innocent mouth on a cock but with an end much the same.

“Some of your men will fight,” Mirena repeated what she had already said to him the day before, in the hot space of her cabin once James and the child had left him.

“Then some of them will die, as will the cowards, who will watch today and do nothing.” The back of his neck seemed to throb and grow hot, the sky and the sea spinning like the winds of a hurican. A moment later it was gone, and he opened his eyes to see the ocean flat and waiting.

Mirena said nothing, and René took her silence as approval, and wondered if she would still agree when she saw their bowels being fed to the sharks. She preferred a quick death for most, unless they crossed her as Marechal had done. But she would control her rage for now and be careful not to stand in his path. They both knew who owned Marechal’s soul.

“Pull alongside her!” Mirena suddenly turned and began shouting in a mix of tongues, directing her words at anyone near her. René could see no order to her crew, and yet men moved and ropes were pulled, wood creaking above them as the ship raced toward their victim.

“Faster.” René swore under his breath, pushing into the railing worn bald by a thousand hands. They did not hear him, straining their filthy collection of bodies to do Mirena’s bidding, shivering at the wind like children hearing their father’s voice, and René glanced away from their bent forms out to the dark shape of his ship.

“Guns,” he murmured just as Mirena ordered some men below deck to man her cannons, and he could just make out the tip of her bow, where no flag flew. So close, and yet not enough. “Ready?” he asked no one, but the fog answered him, clearing away and showing the path to his vengeance.

The men on the lower deck were pulling at their swords, and filling rusted flintlocks with shot, nameless all of them, fodder for his own guns if Thierry were smart enough to get to them before René boarded the ship and cut out his lying heart and made him taste it.

Two did not move, and René cursed one for being there when it should have been plain that he was no longer wanted.

Yet he remained, standing at the railing just as he had done months ago, staring off into the sky as if just waiting for some lover to meet him there, all when he should be down and hidden like the child.

He had stood there for most the night as well, dreaming his foolish dreams, joined only by the boy and then by Mirena, who had tried to lure him into her bed no doubt, and had been forced to settle for the tall man that stood close to James now when James had not seemed to see her beguiling looks. The tall man held two swords, and René slashed his cutlass through the air as he handed one to James, who took it trustingly and held it aloft. No doubt he called the man friend now, after their closeness at the harbor James would follow the pirate as though he were a bosom companion, and lay down his life to save that of his friend.

The blade seemed to drag, and René twisted his lips as he moved the cutlass to his other hand and yanked one dagger from his belt, following Mirena’s steps down to the lower deck.

They were trying to turn now, to crawl from this on their bellies, but they would not escape.

Vengeance was his.

“Fire!” he shouted in a voice already hoarse though he had only whispered with James, and felt the sting of the cold air on his skin, slowing the ache in his skull. If anyone heard him above the sudden shouts from the men around him, he did not know, but the ship lurched, and the boom traveled from his feet to his chest, leaving him deaf as it seemed to fly from his fingertips.

He only stopped for a moment, slapping the hard knife between his teeth and reaching for another to fill his vacant hand, and then continued to move when another roar followed the first, and he could see the smoke and powder bleeding from his ship’s hull, smell the singed flesh, sour and fetid and strong. He wondered briefly that others did not seem to taste it on their tongues but turned his eyes away from Mirena’s men at the rush of blood down his veins.

The masts creaked, and Mirena shouted commands, and ropes fell before his vision, eager men slithering up them like serpents. They reached for the sky, but René knew there was no haven in such a place, and swore at the body in his way, shoving aside men to view his ship.

Figures ran about his deck like chickens in the streets, and René heard the whistle of a single cannonball, flinging back his head to watch as it flew too wide and splashed into the ocean. Not Thierry, for his navigator was not so careless. Perhaps he would be spared, if one of Mirena’s men did not slice him first.

“Closer,” René murmured, and felt the sting of his tongue against the blade, salted and hot in his mouth as the floor beneath him shook once more. His eyes grew dry watching the heavy ball tear across the deck of the ship, and his ears seemed to sharpen on each howl of pain that carried across the waves. Mirena was slow and sloppy to give them such time, and René would make her eat her boasts.

“Yes,” he hissed as spray burned his cheeks and eyelids, and wood scraped onto wood all around him. His muscles ached as he leapt onto a plank ahead of all the others and thrust out his dagger, feeling his hand hard on the stomach of the fool in his way. The hot rush came then, but he was already pulling out, letting the body fall away and pulling the knife from his teeth.

Another shape of a man appeared in front of him, stopping as he approached as though surprised, and René grinned when the shape fell back on its own and his way was clear.

“René!” His name, as useless to him now as when it had been called through the streets near his home, begging him to come back for vespers, before it grew dark.

He heard it and did not pause, his flesh itching as he heard it yet again, trying to call him back to some world above. The voice of his belle-mere perhaps, for it could be no other, distant and quiet amid the yelling and the curses of her crewmen, at his back and eager for battle. They would clear his ship of rats and there would be no need for any others to step foot upon these boards.

Familiar faces crossed before his eyes, faltering to see him when they had thought him dead, wondering if he was the Devil to still be alive, and René laughed as he parried away a clumsy swipe at him and slashed his cutlass through a man’s chest. They had the truth before their eyes, and the blood burned as it soaked through his borrowed clothes and stained his crawling skin.

Smoke still blew in all directions, drying his eyes as he darted underneath a man’s arm and turned on one foot to plunge his dagger through the ribs to find his heart. The man choked and gurgled like a fountain, and René yanked free his knife, breathing loudly.

His eyes took in his wounded ship and the men struggling on it as his mind fought for stillness. Men were surging around him, bodies pressed together with grunts and moans that were almost passionate, but he could see the flower blooms spreading from man to man, little tastes of death, faces going pale. None of the faces were the one he sought, and he looked up, to the masts, to the poup deck, but they were empty of men.

“We didn’t know you were alive!” Someone cried fearfully into his ear, and René cursed his carelessness, spinning about and seeing just a flash of midnight black colour as the speaker was dragged away and a sword split through his middle. His blood seemed pale, unnaturally so, and René stepped away from the mess of it, watching as a broad man with a scarred face struck down another with his bare hands.

Around him, things grew quieter, and René saw the known face of his navigator near that of the scarred man, both watching him wide eyes. His lips curled, and he raised his sword to the sky, letting them view the blood on it and know their Fates. Thierry’s mouth opened, and something came from it that René could not hear, did not need to, with the Alsatian’s hand thrown up in a warning.

His skin quivered with the heated air moving at his back and he started to turn, going absolutely still to feel the weight of eyes on his neck. Shoving aside the mess around him, he moved, dragging himself from the ache at his back so that he might see it.

Blood covered the wood of his ship, too deep to ever be cleaned, and he seemed to walk on it as James would walk on the water, floating heavily toward the blackened, smoking doorway leading below the deck, now empty.

He could hear splashes, and then thuds, some movement behind him, but he did not turn, just glimpsing the sudden surge of bodies around Thierry as Mirena’s men finally decided the odds favored them enough to take a risk. He knew none of their faces, and shook them free of his mind, jerking his arm back to dismiss them all just as the terror of their dreams arose in their midst and felled them with a fierce grin.

Another devil come to join him, they would think, when the lives of men weighed down their souls and splattered across their faces. They would fear and then pity, as though it would erase the sin of blade sticking from their middles.

Again he could hear shouts, different from the screams of pain and the curses of furious men, echoing from board to board, bouncing from the masts and floating away before they could find what they sought.

One more body would soon join those in the heap before Deniau’s lust would be appeased, René knew it in his soul, and though it hurt he turned partly from the steps. His mouth opened, and he thought he heard words above the din, thought he spoke, but could not be certain, and he shifted suddenly, twisting away from the darkness and crying out his distress.

Hard across his shoulder, the force of the blow knocked him nearly from his feet, and he reached out as he fell forward, catching himself on the door. Sharp blades of rage stabbed through his arm and then there was nothing to feel, and he fell at last, stumbling hard down the few steps, stopping only when his shoulder hit the wall.

He screamed, or thought he might have, something drowning out the sound of his dagger slipping from his slick, stiff fingers. He was hot, far too hot, and he widened his wet eyes, turning his head and baring his teeth at whoever had dared to follow him here.

But no figure stood outlined in the door, and René kept his breaths shallow as he turned back, searching the small space before him. A few doors and another set of stairs to choose from, quickly, he had to hurry.

Curving his fingers loosely around the hilt of his cutlass, firming his grip as the sword master had taught him, he stepped into the dimly lit corridor, observing useless, abandoned cannons in the first room, one still sending streams of smoke through the air, burning his skin. Cowards, traitors all of them, for allowing this, he thought dismissively, and he would make them suffer, they would all suffer for what had been done until he chose to end their pain.

He coughed, just once, and felt the claws in his chest, but this time he did not scream.

His arm throbbed as though it might pound apart his body, but René did not stop to look at his wound, feeling the heat of eyes on him, pouring out to cover him like blood. But he was not a child to be frightened of what might be in the dark.

“You are here, Marechal.” René named him, shaking with the need, straining to see through the smoke of his gutted ship. It was too dark, too black, unfamiliar though he knew it well, and the space around him grew wider as he left the wall, the hall large enough to fit a thousand men of Marechal’s size, squeezing around him, pressing into his side.

René gasped, and flashed up his cutlass at the sound of raspy breathing from the shadows. He held it out, keeping his gaze sharp on the slight movement just beyond the tip of the blade.

“You are hurt, René,” the man answered, rumbling like cannon, and René shivered. He wanted to be hot again, waking up sweating and confused to find himself surrounded loosely by James the fool.  He had not meant to fall asleep, just as he had not meant to touch the body lying there before him, like a weakling sinner.

His chest burned with his sudden pull of air, his heart fluttering and sick inside of him as he trembled and shook away the memory of arms tight on him.

“Englishman!” Mirena’s fevered swearing was loud enough to have made a corpse twitch in pain, calling up thoughts that he had put aside, and he howled.

“I am not a child any longer!” The words came suddenly and he shouted them to the shape at the end of his sword, his voice in the echoing space so small that he could see his father cringe. “I crawl before no masters now.”

As though he had not spoken, the man came forward, his eyes not on René but on the passage behind him.

“You will look at me!” Wildly, he swung the sword down, slashing the air before the man’s broad chest and his arm shook, too weak to support the heavy weight. There was only a moment as he struggled to raise it, and then he was reeling backward, surprised a moment later to find himself still on his feet.

His face pounded, stinging and flushed, and he blinked away the lights before his eyes, looking up into Marechal’s face, watching how the man’s powerful shoulders moved as he pulled himself back. He could just see the ripple of broad muscle, though Marechal wore his thick peasant’s coat.

He had not taken such a blow since he had been fifteen, stupid enough to bite the hand holding him, and he could not free a hand now to press into the soreness and feel the damage as he had done later. How that man had paid, how he had quivered and screamed for mercy when he had been torn apart for touching what did not belong to him. And the breath had been hot upon René’s cheeks later, hot as he had been caressed and soothed and petted until his body had spilled his seed.

That had pleased, and he had been rewarded, allowed to sleep though he had not, staring at the rows of bodies only feet away from them, fighting down his heaves.

His tongue was thick and dry in his mouth, and he swallowed before leaning his head back and wetting his lips. He tasted his blood, red on his mouth like rouge, and nearly closed his eyes to know that Marechal now saw only him.

“You hide here like the coward you are.” He whispered it and it was not enough, and he spit out the metal taste from his mouth, though he could never be rid of it. His gut twisted, and cramped, sending sickness tickling through his empty veins.

“Why did you come, René?” Marechal dared to speak to him, to say his name, and he could not have it. Marechal would not plead now, he would beg, and be cut to pieces and burned until there was not even ash. “You are hurt,” the larger man said again, as though René could not feel each drop of his life as it left him, as though his blood had worth, and he bit at the air.

“I am not your concern.” His teeth chopped up the words, gave them a foreign sound, and he could see the frown of confusion that twisted Marechal’s ugly face into something monstrous. Angry, yes, he would be angry now, and this pleased.

With sudden ease, René darted to one side, nearly into a doorway. With the wall at his back he twisted his wrist in a smooth movement, and he laughed at the slight drag that meant that his blade had cut through flesh. Another slide in a new direction and he had enough to space to view the hint of fresh blood that painted the end of his weapon. But no sound of pain emerged from Marechal, and René leaned his head all the way back, eyes wary on the familiar face.

“Not mine?” Just a murmur as Marechal lifted a hand to his stomach, streaking his thumb through the thin line of crimson that just slashed across his middle, cutting the cloth of his shirt. His thumb moved restlessly, growing slick as he pressed on his wound and then halting abruptly. “Not mine?” he said again, growing louder, and his dark eyes passed from René to the space behind him and then fell back to his face; René could feel the weight on him, pressing from all sides, urging to stay where he was, and let it happen.

He could not move, could not slow his heart as it pushed the blood out of him, and his hands were growing cold. Bewildered, René flexed the fingers of his left hand, knowing the others were frozen. It was strange to be so cold, and he watched Marechal lose and then regain his shape as he squinted. Marechal would warm him, if he grew cold. He had only to ask, or remain silent and curl into the large man’s heat and close his eyes at his offer.

But he threw himself back when Marechal moved toward him, and flung out his sword just as the thick blade in Marechal’s hand came down. The noise deafened, and the dark blood on both weapons gleamed in the small bit of light before Marechal pulled his knife away and snarled like a frustrated beast.

René recalled enough to search the darkness, but there was no sign of a cutlass, just the boucan, and with the reach of Marechal’s arms, no sword was needed.

Even the knife was hidden by the shadows now, and René shook his head, watching the colours of red and black blur until they were almost white. White like milk, and he frowned, hints of James’ impassioned whispers tricking his senses.

Milk, he gave the child milk as though the whiteness would wash the sin from his lips, could ever soothe away the taste of others, of one.

“I am not yours,” he snarled over the sound of harsh breaths and the smell of thickening blood, delighting in the seizure of air in Marechal’s lungs. He held his breath like a man about to come, and his shuddering body wanted more.

Lunging, he slipped under Marechal’s guard and stabbed the tip of his blood into the side of the big man’s chest, yanking it down so hard that he nearly lost his footing. It cut through flesh, not deep, but painful as it slid across the bones of ribs.

“Not…yours,” René repeated, and the air would not come to give him the voice to say more. But he felt the rage this close, and ducked his head as Marechal brought up one giant hand, and thrust his fist down onto his shoulder.

Devil-coloured pain, the same misleading white, not black as he had thought. It filled him as he screamed and tore away from Marechal, struggling to focus on the hand that had struck him. He still had his sword, his tutor would have been pleased, though it was not the way a man fought, with these fat, clumsy, peasant blades.

“Not at my back this time,” he whispered, startled to hear himself speaking, and the surprise in Marechal’s eyes made him hesitate. He thought perhaps the pain was beautiful now, echoing through his tired body like the voices of angels, and he smiled. “I am going to kill you.” He promised it slowly, and the chorus of angels hissed like devils, telling him of his own Fate as though he had not known what he had turned from.

“I saved you.” Marechal dared to argue what René knew to be real, and René slashed out blindly, speaking through his teeth and letting the sharp points cut his tongue.

“Saved!” His fang found skin and muscle, and he reveled in the howl of pain, easily blocking the knife that flashed at him now. “Damned!” If he had yelled it did not reach his ears, though his throat was raw and burning like his torn flesh.

Someone spoke, pleaded, and his soul fed on the sound, pressing forward with his weapon. He was so much smaller than Marechal, how he had loved that, and now he could not fight it, too big and too slow.

“René,” Marechal groaned, back to a door, ducking the low ceiling, and his belly lay there, heavy and waiting. His sword found that once more, another long slice to match the first, and the blood spurted out like his spirit escaping.

“Damned!” René told him because he would not see, and longed to reach out with his broken arm and twist a hand into the man’s stomach. His soul would spill over him as he yanked free his innards, hot and steaming and stinking of rot and rum, and he would close his eyes at the feel of that body falling over him.

One more cut, so fast that he had pulled the sword away and was fighting for his breath before the red appeared through the torn lines of Marechal’s shirt.

Marechal stumbled forward, not yet feeling what René had done, for he had cut deep.

The boucan clattered as Marechal extended his arms, grasping toward René with huge empty hands, and René’s went still at the terror in Marechal’s face as he came nearer.

His breath and blood were hot enough to sting, and René pulled away from it though he had not meant to, straining to keep Marechal’s eyes on him as he fell back.

“No!” A single angel graced them now, and René twisted his head away from Marechal as those hands found him and pressed knowingly at his shoulders, encircling him.

He forced one arm up through the sticky air, hard into the steaming mess that burned across his hand and felt another wet sting across his cheeks. Marechal’s body jerked, crushing him for one moment, and René studied the way the man’s face contorted into something like what he had seen often, years ago.

The lips curled into a near smile as his body trembled, pushing against René until his knees buckled.

Hands shaking, René released the cutlass, pushing back against the mound of flesh smothering him, inhaling only when the heat of it was gone. Marechal still stood on his feet, swaying much as the sword in his middle swung from side to side. His eyes were wide, as heavy on René as his body, and René swallowed, stepping forward.

“Not…yours,” he murmured through his teeth just once more, and grasped the dripping handle of his sword with both of his hands. Marechal did not move as he did this, and René cursed him for ever leaving him alive before he clamped his teeth down through his lip and tore the sword free of Marechal’s stomach.

Guts poured from the wound, peeking obscenely out of Marechal’s body at René as he stood there and watched, pleased to look up into the man’s face as he stood dying.

If his own body was pained he could no longer feel it, though he put out a hand as he stepped back, wondering if he would fall, for he could not even feel his feet.

Marechal’s mouth moved, working over familiar words, but no sound came from him, or from anyone else. The angels and devils were silent now, their work done, and it was left to René to pray for the dead.

“Damned.” That hurt, an explosion of pain through his chest and belly, and the floor roared beneath him as Marechal stumbled back, his hands and arms limp on the ground, his head cracking on the old wood. Scarlet already stained the boards, and René stood still as the great chest moved once, breath sighing out between two pale lips. If the man spoke, it was not a confession but the name he had uttered before, and René screamed at him silently, nothing but fury that scrambled clumsily over to an empty body and plunged the cutlass point into the cooling flesh.

The blade found its mark between the dead thighs, already well bloodied and René heard it slide into the quiet tissue, unsatisfied to find that it made so little noise. He pulled the sword free to stab at it again, and then down once more, grinding the tip until there was nothing but purple, fleshy meat, panting with each pull on his shoulder, frustrated at the silence from his Marechal.

“No!” His voice was torn like red cloth and flesh as his weapon punctured the oozing spot and the body beneath him twitched, dead fingers flexing for one last caress. “No,” René addressed them in triumph, shouting it so that all of those in the streets could hear, and felt the world spinning around him, sickening his stomach already full of the stench of the charnel house.

His fingers loosened their hold on the sword hilt and he turned his head and then his body, seeking the direction of the tilting world, trying to point himself like the needle of a compass.

The points crossed, and he blinked the wet from his eyes, seeing a group of strangers standing in the small space before him, watching him. Would he be absolved now that Judgment was at hand, he wondered vaguely, the words soft in his mind as he studied each face, from the light to the dark and then settled on one, serious and golden as it moved toward him, untouched by any of the red or lying white of pain.

“James,” he tried to say, and it was only the spinning air that let him know he was falling, the long sigh of the dying heating his cold lips.

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