Charmed Vengeance

better days, age lining her face, breasts sagging in her low-cut blouse.

“I’m looking for employment. I’m a fair gunner and have some experience in fieldwork. If not a job, then passage to someplace where I might find one.” He downed the bitter beverage, trying not to make a face. Fieldwork was air pirate slang for obtaining a take and protecting it while it was delivered to the customer. Did he even have his pistol in his rucksack?

The server, realizing he wasn’t looking for companionship, left. A short while later, a young, spindly man with an eye patch sat down across from him.

“Hear yer looking for a job, stranger.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “I know of a few ships looking for crew, but none of them are in port here.”

Kevighn looked at the unnamed man and took a drink as if to say then why are you here?

“I can offer a lift to Chicago if you assist me and my crew by guarding some cargo we aim to take on here.” The man cocked his head. “You pull a fast one and you’ll be tossed over the side of the ship.”

“Fair enough. If you’re sure there’s work in Chicago.” Air pirates had rules–simple rules, but rules nevertheless. Here a man was true to his word until proven otherwise, which generally resulted in said man being tossed off the side of an airship midflight.

The man shrugged. “Can’t promise, of course. Depends on who’s in port. But in Chicago I’ll give you the names of the ships I heard are looking for crew—especially gunners. It’s easy to lose good gunners to the Pineapple Rebellion.”

“That war is still going on?” Kevighn took an absent sip of bad ale. Last time he’d been trolling the skies, Hawaii had been also battling for their freedom. The United States had decided to annex the country, but luckily for the island nation, a group of air pirates helped the Hawaiians out, birthing the Pineapple Rebellion.

“Hawaii did win a couple years back. But the U.S. keeps nipping at their borders since the natives kicked us off their land.” He grinned, revealing a gold tooth. “Guess the powers that be hope this second attack will force them to become part of America. The islanders keep a well-stocked air force and treat their gunners well. It might be a big hunk of dirt, but I hear it’s a pretty hunk of dirt with some even prettier women.”

Kevighn raised his glass in a mock toast. “To pretty women.”

The captain raised his. “Here, here. Name’s Red. Let’s discuss what I need from you.”

“Noli, Noli, are you awake?” Jeff whispered.

“Mmm,” Noli rolled over in her hammock. She didn’t open her eyes.

“I need your help. Please?”

Noli eyes cracked open as she turned toward the voice. “Wha?”

Jeff stood in the doorway of her little room, desperate etched on every inch of his face. “It’s my turn to cook. Only I think I broke breakfast.”

“Broke breakfast? You mean you burned it?” She stretched, trying to make sense of her brother’s words.

“Nooo. I didn’t burn it, but it’s not turning out right. Will you fix it? Please? If we have a nasty breakfast again they’ll toss my boots in the head.”

Her slippered feet touched down on the floor. “Let me dress and I’ll take a look and see how we can save breakfast.”

“Air pirates don’t wear ruffled nightdresses.” He flicked the ruffles on her collar.

Noli shoved him out the door. Recalling Vix’s teasing about her clothing, she donned one of the simple green gowns she’d brought back from the Otherworld. The design was feminine but it easy to move in and do things such as climb on the roof and build sewing machines.

Dressed, she rebraided her hair, slipped on her boots, and made her way upstairs. She yawned as she entered the kitchen area, or the galley as Jeff called it. More sleep sounded divine, but odds were Vix wasn’t one for lie-ins and the last thing she wanted was to garner more disapproval from the captain.

“Now, what exactly is wrong with breakfast?” Noli didn’t smell anything burning.

“How can oatmeal be lumpy and runny at the same time?” Jeff stood over the cast iron stove, stirring a giant copper pot with a long wooden spoon. A bucket of sand sat nearby.

Noli peered into the pot and frowned. Whatever he made, it wouldn’t be oatmeal unless they started over. Like at home, wasting food probably wasn’t an option. However …

She opened cabinets, taking stock of what they had. “Anything off limits?”

“Only if it has someone’s name on it.” Jeff leaned against the counter. “We stocked up in port, but go easy on what you use.”

“Of course.” She eyed the spices and selected a few with no one’s name was on them. Jeff probably didn’t realize how good she’d gotten at making meals using as little as possible. Flour, sugar, baking soda, and a bottle of oil took their place on the counter. A sad looking pouch of dried fruit—sound but hard as a rock—got emptied into a pot of boiling water on the other burner. She turned to Jeff. “I need a frying pan, a colander, and a mixing bowl–a colander is a pot with holes in it that you use to drain things.”

Jeff rummaged through an upper cabinet, then held up a strainer. “You mean this?”

“That’ll do.” She strained the oatmeal. One thing she didn’t see was an icebox or any place to keep food cold. “Do you have any eggs?”

He shook his head as he took a bowl and a frying pan out of another cabinet. “We don’t keep many perishables onboard; when we do we usually cook them up right away.”

Pouring the congealed lumps into a bowl she mixed in some flour, soda, spices, and a dash of sugar. A splash of water from the pot with the fruit in it helped smooth out the batter. The now soft fruit went in as well.

While the oil heated, she formed little cakes and tossed them into the sizzling pan. The fruit water continued to boil and she added sugar and vanilla to make a simple syrup. Someone has purchased good spices. Not what she expected from a group of air pirates.

“Oatmeal pancakes?” Jeff washed the dirty pot in a little sink next to the stove. Where did the water come from? Where did it drain?

“Beats whatever you made.” Noli flipped the cakes over with a fork so they’d cook evenly on both sides. The soda made them puff up slightly and hopefully lighten them into something edible. The thickening syrup bubbled and she stirred it so it wouldn’t burn.

Jeff made coffee and she finished breakfast, pouring the hot syrup into a little pitcher and placing the steaming cakes on a plate. She covered them with a clean dishcloth to keep them warm. The pitcher and cakes went on the table where Jeff had already stacked mismatched plates, forks, mugs, and napkins.

“I suppose you have no milk for the coffee?” Noli preferred tea and she definitely couldn’t choke coffee down without milk.

“I suppose you drink tea?” Vix stood in the doorway between the bridge and the galley, dressed in black trousers and a black shirt. That blue lock of hair still hung in her eyes.

Noli set the table properly. “Mostly, my mother never was one for coffee, even if it is fashionable.”

“There’s nothing wrong with tea.” Jeff rang a metal bell which hung on the wall, the loud clanging made Noli wince. “We have powdered milk; it’s not bad in coffee.” He took a bowl from one of the cupboards and set it on the uncovered table next to the sugar.

Thunderous footsteps followed as two large men bounded up the stairs. Both were the epitome of nefarious, from their wrinkled pocketed vests and trousers, to their tattooed biceps and scars, to their very large frames. One had an eye patch, scruffy brown hair and an equally scruffy beard, the other was darker than she’d ever seen before. “Asa, Thad, this is Noli,” Jeff introduced.

“Nice to meet you, I’m Asa.” The dark man had a British accent. Dark eyes gleamed nearly as much as his bald head. “Thad.” The man with the eye patch had a guttural voice. He jerked his head in greeting.

“Nice to meet you,” she squeaked, not sure what to do. She never was around men of much—especially giant men of dubious nature.

Vix took a seat at the head of the rectangular table. The man with the brown hair and eye patch looked at