Lions of the Sea

38

It was a bunk, not a hammock. Meaning he was on land. Maybe that was why he felt dizzy—the ground didn't sway. The sun sparkled through leaves outside a window, casting a changing pattern of shadows and light on the whitewashed walls of the small room.

Castillano looked around to confirm he didn't recognize the place. Another bunk under the window, a stool like a nightstand between it and his. A wooden cross on the wall. A simple table with two chairs. A chest for clothes.

He tried to roll over to his left, toward the window, and a sharp pain in his chest stopped him. He kept still until the pain receded, then he touched his chest. A tight dressing was wrapped around it and his left shoulder. But there it was, the stab wound only an inch away from his heart.

His blue eyes stayed on the window while his right hand lingered on the dressing. But he didn't see the sun, nor the leaves brushing the window in the soft breeze.

All he could see before his eyes was the child in black. The one who had beaten him twice already. The one who had left him to die but hadn't killed him off.

He could almost hear her voice full of resentment. Her words in fluent Spanish, with only the slightest French accent. Her coal-black eyes glaring at him in the morning sun.

She'd told him her name.

Had she really said Velazquez? Or had it been a fevered dream caused by the loss of blood?

He closed his eyes, repeating her words to himself: "I'm Marina Velazquez. Daughter to the man your father shot in the back." How could that be? His father had killed only one man in his whole life: the Ghost. Velazquez? Could it be that the infamous French corsair was actually Spanish? And that he'd left behind a family? Children?

"And niece to the man you yourself shot in the back." What did she mean? Castillano didn't remember ever killing somebody from behind. The child had been at the battle against the Sovereign. Maybe then? No, not even in such a dangerous situation. He liked to look his enemies in the eye.

His hand left the dressing to go up to his head and brush the hair off his face, still sweaty and fevered. He tried a sigh, but the pain dissuaded him to think it over before trying again.

Marina Velazquez. The Pearl of the Caribbean. The tales were true. A corsair woman commanded the Ghost's ship under French colors. No, not a woman. A child. Yet she was one of a kind, so bold and skilled. And she was as able and cold with the sword as the best swordsman Castillano had ever met. Bolder than the worst seadogs he'd faced since he'd come to the Caribbean. She'd turned her father's ship into a fearful weapon. The dogs followed her recklessly, like they said. And she was beautiful as they said.

In the shadows behind his closed eyes, he saw her face again, her black eyes, her ruby lips pursed in a daring smile. He knew he'd seen her more than once in his dreams since she'd hurt him. And he knew he'd keep seeing her.

He opened his eyes again. Why hadn't she killed him off? Did she mean him to survive and remember her? So every day he could also remember how she'd beaten him and humiliated him, at sea and with the sword? Maybe. Men were straight in their vengeance, but a woman could be much more subtle and cruel.

Smile didn't hurt, so he allowed himself a mocking smirk. To mock himself. There he was, Hernan Castillano, who many called Lion, who had grown to be the scourge of seadogs. Wounded and defeated by the Pearl of the Caribbean. And alive to tell the tale only thanks to her.

He decided it was enough self-pity and tried to sit up, slow and careful, to rest on his right elbow. How long had he lay there—wherever there was—for his head to spin at something so simple as sitting up? Bringing his legs down from the bed was a true tour de force.