8. Vinicola

8

Vinicola

“ T hought you were so sly, huh?” An older man without a front tooth hollers at me, his words punctuated by a fine mist of spit that—of course—lands squarely on my face. “That we wouldn’t catch your scrawny ass?”

Ah, the infamous pirate welcome. Really warms the heart.

I twitch, instinctively wanting to wipe the saliva off my cheek, but—oh right—the iron cuffs binding my wrists are not exactly cooperating.

The usual medley of pirate ship aromas—sweat, seawater, and stale rum—wafts around me, painting a vivid picture of how far I’ve fallen from grace. But a man’s spit dripping down my cheek? That’s really the cherry on top.

I glance up at my toothless friend. He actually wants me to engage. His gap-toothed grin is practically begging for a response.

“Oh, I never doubted your determination for a second,” I reply, flashing my most winning smile, even though the spit is now dangerously close to my mouth. “But... enlighten me—who exactly is this ‘we’ you speak of?”

The man bristles, his thick hands slamming onto the railing of my cage with a clang that makes me flinch. My smile falters, just for a second.

Then, he makes that god-awful noise—a sort of guttural half-choke, half-growl that men like him produce when they’re trying to sound menacing. It’s the sound of someone gargling gravel, choking on bad wine, or speaking a throaty language without knowing a word of it.

I’d much prefer he laughed. Laughter, I can deal with. This… this sounds like he’s about to cough up a lung.

“Show some respect to Dorian’s crew, you wet-panted rascal,” he growls, his bloodshot eyes bulging out of his head. “Or I’ll cut your tongue out before you meet him face-to-face.”

I swallow. My tongue suddenly feels heavier than it should. Losing it? No, not today, thank you very much. I need my tongue—it’s practically my second-best tool, right after my… charm.

As I shift on the rough wooden floor—bound to give me splinters, by the way—I try to jog my memory. Dorian? Dorian… Who is that? Wasn’t that Jules woman’s husband on Zephyr Island? No, his name started with a T, I think. Oh! Maybe Dorian was the tavern keeper whose rum I swiped before… accidentally setting his storage on fire. Totally an accident, mind you.

Accidents happen. Common knowledge.

I blink at the man standing in front of me. Dirty grey shirt, brown breeches, simple belt, and not a single ring on his fingers. His beard—medium-length and stained a lovely shade of red from too much wine. A pale kerchief wraps around his forehead in an attempt at style. Never seen him before today, at least not until he knocked me out cold with the back of his pistol and dragged me aboard this ship.

“I’d love to show some respect,” I say. “In fact, I could write a song about you, Dorian, and your fine friend here to really drive home just how much I respect you all.” I point at the second man, leaning against the wall. He’s quieter and cleaner, with the kind of face that looks like it’s never been immortalized in song. And boy, does it show. “Huh? What do you say?”

Mister Spit slams the rail of the cage with a loud clang again. I jump a little, then nod.

“Or not. Maybe you prefer to keep a low profile. I get it. Not everyone craves the spotlight.” I tilt my head thoughtfully. “No song, then. Perhaps a poem? A short one, if that’s more your style. I’m quite the artist with a pen, you know. Just ask any lass on the nearby islands. They’ve heard of my repertoire.” I raise a brow, feeling hope start to blossom in my chest. Surely these men would appreciate a little charm.

But no. Mister Spit’s face darkens to a shade just shy of beetroot, veins bulging, his brow furrowed with rage. “We are not interested,” he growls, and there it is again—the flutter of spit with every ‘s’. Lovely. It lands somewhere near my chin this time.

“Oh, I didn’t mean it that way!” I rush to clarify. “As dashing as you two gentlemen look, I swore an oath to bring bodily pleasures only to women. But hey, I do know a good male brothel if you ever find yourself curious.”

Words flow effortlessly from my tongue, as they always do, and for a brief moment, I start to believe I might win them over.

My mother always said, “Vinicola, you’re the heart that sets the rhythm for everyone else. You create the melody, and we all follow your lead.” Making friends is natural for me—well, it’s my second-best talent. My top skills? A tie between songwriting and… well, let’s say the finer arts of seduction.

Both are higher forms of expression, after all.

“I’ve made up my mind,” Mr. Spit declares, interrupting my thoughts. His voice cuts through the air, thick with the smell of stale rum and aggression. My smile widens—I’m hanging on his every word.

“I’m going to kill him right here and now. Forget the extra coin. Dorian wants him dead or alive anyway.”

My smile fades. “What? No!” I scramble to my feet, my chains rattling loudly as I pull at them, wrists bound tight in front of me. As I stand, I realize the chain’s too short, forcing me to hunch over awkwardly. My neck cranes just to meet the man’s gaze. “Why would you do this? We’re friends here, aren’t we? Whatever I did to Dorian, surely we can resolve it. A little heart-to-heart? Me and him, we can talk it out. I’m an excellent conversationalist.”

“After you stole his daughter, whisked her off to some faraway island, and left her there to fend for herself?” Mr. Spit leans closer to the cage, his rancid breath washing over me. “You promised her marriage, you scoundrel. One does not steal a pirate’s daughter and escape unscathed!”

Ah. That explains it. Dorian is Nicoleta’s father. Of course. Well, now things are making sense.

“You gentlemen don’t even know half the story when it comes to me and Nicoleta,” I say, trying to sound serious while my heart pounds in my chest.

Then, it hits me—something my mother used to say. “Vinicola…” she would smile, savoring her favorite wine, “your heart beats so loudly for everyone around you that sometimes people want to join in.”

“Do they want their hearts to beat in sync with mine?” I’d ask, watching her swirl the deep red liquid in her glass.

“Sometimes yes,” she’d reply. “But sometimes… they want to give a beating to you instead.”

She wasn’t wrong. My heart’s always been big enough to welcome everyone in—too big, some might say. And Nicoleta? She’s just another beautiful soul who found her place in it. Can I blame her? Not at all. But this whole crew chasing me down? Big misunderstanding, gentlemen, I swear.

“Miss Nicoleta told us everything, you rat,” Mr. Spit hisses, his eyes glinting with a kind of vicious satisfaction. “She begged you not to leave her. Said you took the last of her money and ran off. Now there’s nothing to keep Dorian from flaying your hide.” He sneers, and I catch a glimpse of the other man—the quiet one—nodding along. He seems to be the silent-but-deadly type.

I swallow, hard. Nicoleta, you little mastermind. You really spun a tale this time.

“Wait, wait!” I lift my bound hands as high as I can, hoping the gesture buys me a few seconds. “Look, I can explain. Nicoleta might’ve… exaggerated a little.”

“Exaggerated?” Mr. Spit repeats, his sneer growing. “She was half-starved when we found her. Crying your name, you bastard.”

Oh, Nicoleta. Her talents for theatrics are as impressive as my own. “I didn’t take her money. If anything, she took mine! I helped her escape. She wanted freedom from dear ol’ Dad. Who was I to deny her that? Live a little, right?” I try to shrug, but it comes off as more of a nervous twitch. “B-but she was the one who wanted to part ways! Said she could handle herself! I mean, who am I to argue with a lady’s independence?”

“Your lies are filthier than you,” he spits, and this time—yes, more spit lands on my cheek.

I chuckle. Filthy? Hardly. Look around at the rabble on this ship—unkempt pirates with their greasy hair and stained clothes. Me? I’m practically pristine by comparison. My shirt, pure white and tucked under a leather vest. The top few buttons undone, giving just a hint of neck and chest—just enough to show them I know how to make an impression. And let’s be honest—he knows it too. I bet it eats him up inside.

Jealousy is an ugly thing.

“You dare laugh?” The quiet one steps forward, and suddenly, the humor dries up in my throat. My palms are sweating against the cold iron of the cuffs.

“N-no, I…” I stammer. Impossible. Words never fail me. Not now, Vinicola. If words can’t save you, nothing will. I clear my throat, struggling to summon my usual charm. “I was just thinking—uh—about how highly Nicoleta spoke of her father’s crew. Always mentioning how brave, how noble you lot are.” I flash a smile, though it feels weak. “And look at you now! Caught me, the big bad guy. Impressive, huh?”

No, that’s not it. My usual charm is slipping like sand through my fingers.

The quiet man, still staring at me with eyes sharp enough to cut, pulls out a knife. A long, wicked blade. He holds it up, the metal glinting as the dim light catches it. My breath catches too.

He’s coming closer. There’s a glint in his eyes. Oh, he really wants to kill me, doesn’t he?

“Hoist the anchor,” he tells Mr. Spit, not breaking eye contact with me. “We’ll deliver Dorian the body before it spoils.”

My mouth goes dry. My tongue feels like sandpaper against the roof of my mouth.

“What about the merchants he sent with us?” Mr. Spit asks, turning slightly.

“Their ship’s faster. They’ll catch up. Sound the trumpet. Let them know.”

“Aye,” Mr. Spit replies.

I watch them, heart racing, chest tightening with every word. But then, something changes. The ship creaks, and I hear the drip of water hitting wood. A steady rhythm. Drip. Drip. Drip.

Her voice comes before I see her.

“I don’t think you’re going anywhere,” she says, her tone rough but cool, like the sea itself.

From the shadows, she emerges, water dripping from her long, wet curls onto the deck. Her grey shirt clings to her soaked form, and I can’t help but gasp—a reflex, really.

For a split second, her eyes meet mine. There’s a twitch in her eyebrow, and one corner of her mouth lifts ever so slightly before she shifts her glare back to Mr. Spit. Both her hands are outstretched, pistols gleaming, one pointed right at Mr. Spit’s ugly mug, the other aimed... more or less in my direction.

Not ideal.

“Who the fuck are you?” the quiet guy finally groans, shifting like he’s preparing for a fight. “Some kind of friend of his?” He jerks his chin toward me.

Oh, no, mate. This wild beauty is definitely not my friend. I’ve never seen her before in my life, and trust me, I would remember.

Her beauty isn’t the kind you find in the local villages—no dainty wildflowers tucked behind her ear, no rosy blush on her cheeks. Instead, her hair’s wild, freckles scattered across her sunburnt nose, and her smile… oh, that crooked smile. It reminds me of glass shards smoothed by the sea—sharp but somehow impossible to look away from. And, judging by the way my bones are tingling, I’m pretty sure she’s got the guts to kill all three of us and then head to the nearest tavern for a celebratory drink.

Yeah, if I’d met her before, I’d definitely remember.

I clear my throat, trying to muster some of my usual charm. I need at least a little. “Miss, I don’t know who you are, but I have to say, you certainly know how to make an entrance.” I shift, attempting to stand a bit straighter despite the cuffs. “If you’re here to rescue me, your timing couldn’t be better. I was just about to negotiate my way out of this… but a good, old-fashioned rescue works just as well.”

She smirks, her eyes never leaving the men—cold, calculating, and, dare I say, mildly amused. “Rescue?” she drawls, like the word itself is a joke. “Who said anything about a rescue?”

Mr. Spit’s face twists into an angry grimace. “Drop the weapons, girl, and maybe we won’t kill you too.”

Oh, Mr. Spit. Wrong move, my friend.

She laughs—a sharp, joyless sound that shoots straight through me, sending an ice-cold shiver down my spine. “Bold words for a man staring down the barrels of two pistols. Do you even know what they can do to you? Doesn’t seem like you do.”

Oh, she knows exactly what those pistols can do, and she knows that Mr. Spit knows it too. She’s just toying with him, poking at his pride like a cat batting at a trapped mouse. And it works, of course. His face turns a glorious shade of red, and suddenly he’s holding his spit in, a task that must require Herculean effort for a man like him. Since I woke up on this delightful ship, shackled like a common criminal (which I am absolutely not, by the way), he’s been shouting and spewing saliva like a leaking faucet. But now? Now he’s struck dumb.

I raise an eyebrow, studying him. All that smugness has drained from his face, replaced with pure, concentrated, fear-induced rage. If I could paint his expression, I’d call it “The Silence of the Spit-Spraying Berserker.”

A smile tugs at my lips. Oh yes, I feel the muse creeping in. This woman... she’s a living, breathing inspiration.

“I could write a song about this,” I mutter to myself, but apparently not quietly enough. Mr. Spit turns to glare at me, and only then do I realize I’ve spoken aloud. It happens a lot—talking to myself, lost in the moment. Mother always said I had the soul of a poet, unashamedly expressive like the wind whipping through colored sails, while the rest of the world prefers to be plain and neat. The smartest woman I know, truly. She always captured my essence perfectly.

The other guy, the quiet one, finally makes a noise, hissing like a snake as his tongue darts out to lick his lips. His eyes flick up and down the wild woman, lingering on the barrel of her gun. Her hands, steady as stone, don’t waver.

“Your hair’s wet,” he sneers. “Your clothes are soaked. Which means your gunpowder must be wet too. That makes those pistols nothing but toys. Oi, Paulie, don’t be scared of her. She can’t do us any harm now, can she?”

She tilts her head, just a touch, and her eyes glint like stars that know exactly where they belong in the sky. Then her mouth forms a little ‘o,’ and her eyebrows rise, all innocent-like.

“Oh no,” she murmurs, her voice lilting up as if she’s talking to herself. “Wet gunpowder? It can’t be. Oh dear.”

The quiet guy snickers, puffing up like a rooster who thinks he’s won the day. “See? Told you, Paulie,” he sneers again, his confidence swelling. He shifts his knife toward her, taking a bold step forward. “A little birdie flew onto our ship, but bad, bad pirates might just rip out its wings.”

His step forward is his last mistake.

In a blur of motion, she lowers her right pistol and, with a fluid grace that could put dancers to shame, fires her left. The sound explodes in the small space, echoing off the wooden walls, and I jump back so fast I hit the boards with a thud.

The quiet guy’s face twists in surprise before he crumples to the ground, blood pooling beneath him. And then, the scream. I don’t know whose it is—his, mine, Mr. Spit’s—probably a chorus of all three.

“Fuuuck! My fucking knee!” The quiet guy’s alive and he’s definitely not quiet anymore. He writhes on the floor just outside my cage. Oh shit . His blood is pooling my way. “That bitch fucking shot me! Paulie!”

But Paulie—oh, Mr. Spit—can’t help him. He’s too busy staring down the barrels of two pistols, his face now a lovely shade of burgundy. I slide down the wall, fingers trembling, fear surging through me like waves crashing against the shore. But even in the midst of terror, something stirs within me, a seed of inspiration. If only I had my notebook, I’d write it down:

A wild beauty, fierce and free,

With midnight waves for hair,

She holds her pistols steady,

With courage bold and rare.

Her smile is swift and treacherous,

A glint that’s hard to tame,

The sea’s own daughter, strong and brave,

To save my soul, she came.

Paulie’s face contorts with terror as the wild woman steps closer, her pistols still aimed true.

“Now, Paulie , was it?“ she purrs, her voice a deadly whisper. “I suggest you hand over the keys to this cage. Do it now, and maybe—just maybe—you’ll get to keep that miserable excuse for a life long enough to grab your friend and scuttle off this ship.”

The inspiration keeps flowing with each word she says.