The Abyss Surrounds Us (The Abyss Surrounds Us #1)(31)

I almost ask Swift. When I glance up at her, the words building in my throat, her gaze is fixed on the distant horizon. Not toward the shore where the ship’s disappeared to, but somewhere farther than that, out on the open sea. Her lips are set in a bitter line.

Better not to show my hand now. Better to let her dwell on whatever it is that has her thoughts.

We wait out the rest of the afternoon, me on Bao’s back and Swift in the Splinter, until the Minnow appears on the horizon again. I stay on the pup while Swift jets back toward the ship, but Bao can’t resist his imprinting. He swims after her, nose pointed directly at the boat he’s come to identify as his home and charge. I watch from his back as claws on tethers descend from the ship, scooping the Splinter back up into its resting place. Swift gets out to meet Code and Chuck, who wait for her on the deck with packages in hand. She snatches the goods roughly from their grasps, and something clenches inside me as she moves out of sight.





17


I always knew the Minnow kept its looted treasures locked up somewhere. What I didn’t know—at least until today—is that the place doubles as a training ground.

“Welcome,” Swift says in that half-baked tour guide voice, “to the Slew.” She claps me on the back, and a jolt runs up my spine. Recently, she’s been trying to make up for the way she treated me in the days after we hit the unescorted bucket. Most of the time, it’s by inviting me along whenever the lackeys do something dangerous. It’s sort of unnerving, but I can’t deny that these little excursions past the trainer deck make me feel … well, at home.

It’s weird to say that about a pirate ship, but embracing that sort of weirdness is the only way to keep going around here.

The curve of the ship’s hull bows out around us as we descend the steps to the mats, which have been nailed in haphazardly amid stacks of cargo. My gaze fixes on a bright floral suitcase tucked behind a crate, and on the wads of cash stuffed in its pockets. It’s child-sized.

The hold is packed with crew. Swift makes for a corner, where the four other lackeys are gathered in a knot. As we approach the wall, I spot a familiar face among the crowd—the girl who was in Swift’s lap the night we sunk the bucket. For a moment, I fear that we’re headed for her, but then she spots Swift and glares. And Swift glares back.

And something triumphant lifts inside me before I can stop it.

As we reach the lackeys, Code taps Chuck on the shoulder and a feral grin curls its way across her face. “Fists?” she asks.

“Anything for you, princess,” Code simpers.

Varma’s lip curls, and Swift jabs him in the ribs as she takes her place next to him. I hang back, a nervous energy humming through me. When Swift invited me to see the best show on the ship, I didn’t anticipate anything like this.

As Code and Chuck step onto the mats, they tip salutes upward, and I spot the captain perched on a stack of crates in the ship’s prow, her son at her side. Santa Elena bares her teeth and salutes back. The boy sits up straighter.

“Slew fights,” Swift mutters over her shoulder, beckoning me closer. “First rule: if the captain says it’s over, it’s over. Second rule: if a crew member calls it, the captain has to finalize the call. Third rule: if you break someone bad, you fight the captain. Rest of it’s pretty straightforward.”

“You ever fought the captain?” I ask.

Swift snorts. “If I’d fought the captain, I wouldn’t be standing here.”

Varma’s lips twitch another notch upward, though his eyes never leave the lackeys on the mats. “Captain took this ship single-handedly. You fight her, you come out in pieces.”

I can feel Santa Elena’s gaze on me even before my eyes flick up to meet hers. She flashes me a wicked grin and tilts her head toward the mats, a question in the quirk of her brows. A hollow, sinking feeling floods me as I understand exactly what she’s challenging me to do.

I pull back into the shadows.

Under the harsh glare of the industrial lamps, Chuck and Code square off. There’s no opening bell, no whistle, no countdown. Code simply leaps forward, and Chuck’s forearm is there to parry. The crack of knuckles on flesh snaps through the hold, and the fight is on.

But I soon learn that a good fight is mostly about waiting. They dance around each other, Code with quick, elegant steps, Chuck with smoothness and deliberation. When one of them makes a move, the other matches it. Chuck has power, but Code has speed. Chuck has endurance, but Code’s reflexes are faster. Her shirt stains with sweat before his does, and on the sidelines, Varma’s muscles wind tenser and tenser.

“Don’t look so moon-eyed, loverboy,” Swift growls, nudging him with her shoulder. “Your princess still has gas in the tank.”

Because the captain’s attention is fixed on the fight, I feel bold enough to speak up. “Is she … is she actually a princess, or are you guys just saying that because she’s … ”

Varma raises an eyebrow, but Swift shrugs and says, “Chuck was the only daughter of the man who owns Art-Hawaii 5. Took to mechanics early. Father didn’t take too well to that—Islander princesses should be running businesses, not sneaking off to repair engines, you know? So when it got to be too much, Chuck stole down to the docks and begged aboard the first vessel she found with an engine that … what was the phrase she used?”