"Ya look like yer about ta wretch on me table," Grace commented, bringing Edward back to the here and now.
"Just exhausted," he sputtered out.
"Go on, then, we're done 'ere."
Edward rose from his seat and left without looking back or saying another word. He closed the door behind him, ignoring Herbert's questions and calls. He rushed up to the weather deck, where the crew were just now beginning to start repairs on the ship, and he vomited over the side.
He was shaking, his head ached, and he felt his world closing in again. The trembling of his hand returned in full force, as though it had never left him. Images of the dead, those he'd killed and those who had died because of him, flashed in his head, and there was a new face added amongst them.
He slumped down to the deck and reached for the flask in his pocket.
15. Look Into My Eyes
The night was eerily still and calm. The winds over the sea had abated, and the water was quiet save for the occasional breeze creating a light chop. Thick clouds off in the distance hid the moon from view. Somewhere, far away, a storm had stolen the winds away from this island and left it in darkness.
The clouds obscured God's eye, and the earth and sea lost his protection. There were only devils in the sea this night.
These devils knew nothing of fear, or hate, or pain. The harsh cold of the seawater did not sap their strength as it might have for other men, and it did not hamper their movement. The sea they moved through showed the barest hint that they were there, only the slightest ripple extended from their heads as they waded closer and closer to their quarry.
A tremendous wooden beast loomed in the distance in front of them, stilled by the serene sea it called its home. Though the beast was not alive, those moving around on it were. The bellows of laughter and the hollow boom of boots against the beast's frame cut through the silence of the night.
The leader of the devils, with eyes touched by silver that was not silver, guided his minions to the beast's side. Those aboard the beast had not noticed the ripples in the waves. Their ears failed to hear the subtle drip of water cascading off clothes and back to the sea as the devils climbed up the sides of the beast. Without God's eye, they were blind to the enemy in front of them.
The leader had watched his minions the day before, had seen how they had been defeated. With his superior eyesight, granted him by one of the fingers of Midas, he knew how the wicked creatures of the light wrested control over his minions from him. And though he knew not a way to counteract it, he knew how it was done, and that was all he needed for his dark plan to succeed.
He and his minions boarded the beast, covered by the dark of the night and their dark clothing. One after the other, each of his men captured those who called the beast home, locking their arms and covering their mouths to stop their cries and their means of disabling his control.
After they had secured the beast's back, he went over to each man they'd captured. They squirmed and fought, but his minions were stronger, and so there was no escape. He gripped their shoulders, staring into their eyes, whispered the secret words he had learned over time, casting his spell over their mind to make them his.
Some fought, their minds stronger than others, but even the strongest were no match for his power. He had learned the secret ways long ago, practiced on many minds, and each one fell to him in the end.
All but one. The one who had given him his eyes. The one who had given him his new name and had let him loose on this island. That one had his own power, his own eyes that the fewest of the few possessed, that allowed him to resist. No, that allowed him to conquer. His blood was the blood of kings, and no man could overcome it.
One after the other, the men fell asleep. They would awaken later and serve a higher purpose than they had before.
Something unexpected stopped the leader of the devils from his work. A door opened to the beast's innards, and a young woman, two men—one holding a fiddle—and a wolf stepped out.
There was a silent moment where the three figures glanced across the ship, assessing the situation. Then, when they realized what was happening, they pulled out their weapons. The girl held twin daggers, one defensively to her side and the other up and ready to strike, while the man with the fiddle pulled out a pistol, and the other man his cutlass.
"Tala, tuer!" the young woman shouted.
The wolf, answering her call, ran forward and attacked one of the leader's minions. In one swift motion, it struck the neck, tearing a chunk of flesh away and letting loose a torrent of blood.
The leader ignored the wolf and raised his fist in the air. He needed no words to command his minions, and they obeyed the silent order in unison. They all pulled knives from their belts and placed them under the necks of the subdued men.
"Stop!" the girl shouted.
The leader held his hand in the air, unwavering, and he stared at the girl. He didn't want to continue the command if he didn't have to, as that was not his plan, and so he waited for the girl to act.
After another moment, the girl realized there wasn't anything she could do and lowered her daggers. "Tala, venir," she said. The French verb meant 'come,' a command to the wolf, which it obeyed by stopping its attack and returning to the girl's side.
The leader opened
