7. Gypsy

7

Gypsy

T hough Silverbeard’s crew cast me off, the serpent tattoo coiled around my forearm still marks me as one of his. To the Marauders, who control the other half of the island, it’s a target—an open invitation for them to run me through without asking questions.

I glance down at the ink, dark against my skin, like a curse I can’t shake. They see this, and I’m a dead woman. I yank my sleeve down over it and scan the jungle line behind me, then back to the sea. The Marauders might think they own the rest of this island, but I know these shores well enough.

There are smugglers who come through Skullcove, people with no allegiance to either side. Pirates who don’t care about the old feuds. If I can find one of them, I might just get myself a ship without anyone questioning my loyalties.

But that’s a big “if.” Not one of them shows their face this morning. Silverbeard’s side of the island feels dead, and I’ve got no choice but to cross into Marauder territory.

A year ago, I wouldn’t have thought twice about sneaking onto their side, even for something as meaningless as a stolen kiss with Zayan. But now? After everything’s changed, after the rumors have spread? I’m not sneaking in for sex and a laugh. I’m walking into a trap where half the island knows my name—and not in a good way.

Zayan’s name is bound to mine now, and the Marauders won’t just want my blood for being a Serpent. They’ll want it for consorting with one of their own.

Still, I need that ship. And that means crossing the invisible line that splits the island in two—Serpent land on one side, Marauder on the other.

The thought makes my fingers itch for my blade. Maybe I’ll run into Zayan. Maybe this time, I’ll finish what he started. Cali used to say the prettiest men were the most dishonorable. Damn, was she right.

I wasn’t looking for honor when I chose Zayan to warm my bed, but I never thought he’d be reckless enough to cross me, not when it’d put his own neck on the line. If there was one thing I thought I knew about him, it was that survival came first. But no—he just had to ruin mine out of spite.

And for what? To prove something? He’s a fool if he thinks Roche won’t hear the whispers soon enough. The Marauders don’t forgive consorting with their enemies, especially not with the Serpents. When the rumors reach Roche’s ears, Zayan’s punishment will be harder than mine ever was.

Roche doesn’t know the meaning of mercy.

I take a deep breath, the sun already burning high overhead. It’s still early, but if I’m going to make it across without getting spotted, I’ll need to move fast, stick to the trees. If anyone sees me, I’ll have to disappear before they can react. Lucky for me, I’ve been a ghost on these shores before.

The shape of Escindida—that’s how the island is officially called—works in my favor. Old Bayou’s dock, with its sprawling layout, offers plenty of places to slip in and out unseen. Skullcove Haven might be safer, more fortified, but here? There’s always an escape route, and as long as Silver and Roche both claim the island, no other crew dares to stir up trouble.

It’s the only place where Silver and Roche grudgingly share turf. Rumor has it, they grew up here, so neither can fully lay claim without sparking a war. It’s the one spot in the Whisperwind Sea where both their flags fly.

I’ve heard all the stories, but Silverbeard never told me much about his childhood. Just enough to make me think that maybe he took me in because we’re both orphans. Saw a bit of himself in me.

Too bad I didn’t turn out the way he expected.

I kick at the sand, watching it puff up in the dry air. Another scorcher of a day, and the sun’s barely risen. I wipe the sweat from my brow and squint at the jagged rocks up ahead. They look miles away, but if I keep pace and scale them without slipping, I’ll be in Marauder territory by midday.

“No rest for the wicked, huh?” I mutter, licking my cracked lips. One deep breath, and I start moving.

A couple of hours later, my hands hit the slick rocks sprayed with seawater. I haul myself up, fingers gripping anything dry enough to hold. Before long, I’m on the other side, dropping onto the sand, wiping my forehead with the back of my hand. The sun’s high and relentless, the air still as a corpse.

Shit. I’m burning through water faster than I thought. Can’t keep going dry like this.

I clutch my duffel bag tighter, tugging it closer, and head down the narrow, dusty path that skirts the market. In one swift motion, I pull the water skin from my bag and gulp down half before I even think to stop.

“Shit,” I mutter again, wiping my mouth. I don’t want to have to steal from anyone here. Buying is out of the question. The folk here? They’re loyal to Roche and his Marauders. He is like Silverbeard to the people in Skullcove Haven—beloved and feared. And the promise of his favor is worth a lot .

I can’t be seen.

I glance through the gaps between the shacks, careful not to linger too long. The market’s bustling, traders shouting over each other, fishermen hauling in their morning catch. Kids dart between the stalls, shrieking and laughing, carefree as birds.

I wonder if I was like that, once—carefree, running wild like them.

It’s hard to remember anything before Silver found me. I was ten, maybe, just a scrawny thing trying to survive. He always liked to remind me about how I tried to rob him when we first met. Told me I went straight for the biggest, scariest pirate in the port. Not some stumbling fool like Gibbons, who swayed on land like a drunk flamingo.

No, I aimed high.

“You always had wild blood in you, girl,” Silver used to say, laughing. “Even as a whelp, you went for the big score.”

“Maybe I felt sorry for Gibbons,” I joked back once.

Silverbeard had laughed so hard he nearly fell over. “You hear that, Gibbons?” he hollered. “Even the whelp thought you were pathetic!”

The memory stings now, sharper than it should.

I tighten my grip on the duffel bag until my knuckles turn white. The bitterness settles like bile in my throat, but I swallow it down and leave the hilly part of the village behind, heading for the docks.

The shoreline here stretches out like an invitation—plenty of space for pirates who’d rather stay out of sight. As long as you don’t run aground on the sand shoals, there’s always a hidden spot to drop anchor on Roche’s side of the island.

Perfect for poachers.

The dock groans under my boots as I step onto the warped planks, the wood beaten by salt and sun. The water below is calm, almost too still, sky-blue with flashes of yellow, pink, and blue fish darting by. It’s early yet, so most of the ships are still anchored offshore. I spot a few big ones in the distance, but they’re no use to me. Too large to steal, too many eyes watching.

No, I need something smaller—quick, nimble, something I can slip away with before anyone’s the wiser. Something that’ll get me into open water fast, out of here before anyone even notices I’m gone. And once I’ve put distance between myself and this rock, I’ll figure out where the compass is leading me. From there, I’ll find a crew—one not weighed down by old grudges and dead legends.

A schooner or a sloop would do nicely. Something I can handle on my own, something that can slip into rivers if it needs to.

I keep moving, skirting the edge of the village where fewer eyes are watching. Then, my gaze lands on exactly what I need—a sleek schooner, moored out at sea, not even docked at the pier. Her white sails are furled, her wooden hull gleaming in the sunlight. She sits still, anchored beyond a stretch of sand shoals, perfectly hidden from prying eyes.

I squint, calculating the distance. Three cannon shots out, give or take. If I can just reach her without being seen, I’ve got a shot. The shoals will keep anyone from following too close, and anything bigger than a schooner won’t be able to navigate these waters fast enough to catch me. Maybe today, the weather’s actually on my side for once.

I scan the docks, looking for any eyes on me. A few fishermen are nearby, but they’re too busy with their haul to care. They need to get their catch to market before it spoils. A couple of men loitering about, but they don’t seem like trouble.

If there’s ever a time to act, it’s now. I just have to hope the crew on that schooner is too smart—or too lazy—to be baking in this heat on deck.

I move fast.

There’s a small fishing skiff abandoned on the shore. No ropes, no ties, just sitting there with a couple of buckets and an old net. Whoever owns it is probably already at the market. I raise an eyebrow, give the docks one last glance, and shove the boat into the water.

The damn thing’s heavier than I thought, or maybe it’s just the exhaustion from yesterday’s ordeal catching up to me. But soon enough, the waves lift the skiff, and I jump in before my boots can get soaked and the compass in my pocket gets ruined.

The boat reeks of fish—stale, rotting fish. I wrinkle my nose, but the moment the sea air hits, it’s like a balm, washing away the stench and pulling me back to where I belong. One day on land, and I’m already aching for the sea. The endless sky, the waves rolling beneath me—it’s the only thing that ever makes sense.

This is where I’m meant to be.

I grab the oars and start rowing. Shouts break out from the shore—the skiff’s owner, no doubt, realizing his boat’s gone. He’s yelling, but I’m already navigating the shoals, too far for his voice to matter.

“Sorry, mate,” I mutter. “I need this more than you.”

More precisely, I need that schooner. It’s just too damn perfect to let slip through my fingers.

Whether I make it or not? That’s down to luck and timing. If the crew catches me, I’ll have to cut my way through. If they don’t, I’ll still be fighting, but at least surprise will be on my side. Either way, someone’s bleeding by the end of this. But at least they’re not Marauders.

First, though, I’ve got to make it through these cursed shoals.

I guide the skiff into the narrow channel, watching as the water grows shallower with each stroke. Can’t rush it now—one wrong move, and I’ll be stuck. The seabed’s clear as day, every stone and ripple showing in the sunlight, so I keep my eyes wide open, following the current. My hands stay steady on the oars, even as the skiff scrapes the sand beneath me. I shift my weight, push off, and get clear.

The water deepens, and the skiff glides forward, cutting through the sea like it’s meant to.

Hell yes.

But this is the easy part.

The schooner’s close now—too close to risk the skiff bumping against its hull. My hands move without thinking, pulling the compass from my pocket. It glints in the sun, catching the light like a beacon, dazzling for a second. I press my lips to it, a quick kiss for luck.

“Don’t you dare fail me,” I whisper to it before tucking it securely into my boot. Then I strap my duffel to my waist. My supplies might get soaked, but if there are more provisions on board, it’ll be worth the gamble. I draw my dagger from the sheath on my thigh and clamp it between my teeth.

And then I hit the water.

The shock of the seawater against my skin is a slap in the face, cold enough to wake up every nerve. It sharpens me, brings everything into focus. But nothing, nothing could prepare me for what happens next.

Something yanks at me from below, pulling me toward the schooner before I even have a chance to kick. My body twists, my head dips under, and I’m swallowed by the sea. Salt stings my eyes, my pulse hammers in my chest, and my clothes drag at me like dead weight. There’s a hum, deep and bone-rattling, vibrating through the water, right into my core.

What the hell…?

Panic claws at the edges of my mind, but I force it down. It’s just a current. Just the sea playing tricks. But that sound—it felt like a heartbeat. The ocean’s heartbeat.

I’m fucking losing it…

I shake it off, kicking hard to break the surface. I’m too damn tired to listen to the foggy thoughts in my head right now. Two days without sleep, and I’ve walked more in the past day than I have in the last month. My senses have every right to fail me. I just need to focus on swimming, that’s all.

So, that’s what I do.

As a result, the schooner looms closer, faster than I expected, and now that I’m near, the details come into focus—polished brass, sleek lines, and that fresh scent of pine and salt. She’s a beauty. Too much of a beauty, actually. Too new for these waters.

I dive under again, surfacing in the shadow of her hull. My fingers latch onto the rough wood, and I start to climb. Every muscle in my body screams from hauling that crate yesterday—not to mention scaling those goddamn rocks and shoving the skiff into the sea. But it’s manageable enough that I don’t fall down.

I drag myself over the railing, keeping low, crouching as I press against the side of the ship. The slick wood is cold under my palm, and for a moment, the only sound is my ragged breathing.

Then, I hear it.

“Thought you were so sly, huh?”

The dagger I’d been holding between my teeth slides smoothly into my hand.