Captain Bjorn (Tales from The Compass Book 1) (3 page)

Mother pinched my cheek. “You’re a darling.”

Marc threw a scarf at me, laughing. “Put that down your front.”

“Hardly need to add bosoms—”

“It
would
hold the dress up better.”

“Mother!” I said scowling, and stuffed. “The things I do for you.”

She picked up the hem and needle and stitched the finishing touches on her intricate embroidery. “Much better,” she said, trimming a hanging thread. Then she giggled—a sound I hadn’t heard since Father. “I should get you to help me more often.”

If it made her laugh every time, I’d do it, too.

A sharp rap came at the door.

Marc answered hesitantly, then opened the door wide to let the caller in—

“Serrin,” I said, surging toward the man sauntering in like he owned the place, staff snapping against our creaky floorboards. “What are you doing here?”

My dress scored a curious raising of his brow. “What are
you
? Never mind. I’m here for what you owe me.”

Mother crossed the room with cool, calculating steps. “If you’re referring to our due rent, we have until the end of the month. Pass our regards to Sir Walter and be on your way.”

Serrin glanced at mother and pinned me with another glare. The snake on his cane glinted. “You know what I want and where to find me.” He spun and strode out the door, throwing over his shoulder: “The color works on you.”

“Well I never,” mother said, frowning as Marc shut the door. “Sending his men like that . . .” Worry flickered in her gaze.

I wrapped an arm around her. I did not intend to cause her more anxiety by confessing my gambling debts. “We’ll be all right,” I said. “No one is taking this house from us.

Another knock; we all stiffened, but this time when Marc opened it, a smiling Lauretta stood at the door.

* * *

Pirates and their bottomless pockets.
That
was the only reason I was at Dwharfs, sitting at a window-side table across from Bjorn. A few gold coins. Enough to save my house. Save my mother. Then I’d be out of there.

Bjorn rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt. Black ink peeked out, strong lines, thick and steady. A star?

I glanced up to find Bjorn staring at me. The query died on my lips and I gestured toward the ships through the low fog outside. “Which one’s yours?”

“Second from the right.”

Not lowering his eyes, he shuffled a deck of cards. I shifted. Folded my arms. Dropped them and leaned both elbows on the table. “Do you have a personal cabin on board?”

“I
am
the captain.” Bjorn dealt a mixture of face-up and face-down cards.

I gestured to my rather average spades. “Reckon there’s an ace in this hole?”

Bjorn’s lips twitched. “Not yet. How many exchanges?”

“Three.”

“Want this over with quickly, I see.”

I peeked at my cards. “I’ll take your money and run. What do you bet against my apology?”

Bjorn revealed a pouch of gold and silver pieces, pouring all of it into a heap on the table. Coins clanged with satisfying
tinks
and jingles.

“You really think you’ll win,” I said.

“Play a straight game, and I will.” He leaned forward, pitch softening into something dark, predatory. “And you
will
play a straight game.”

A shiver skated to my stomach.

Despite the bustling tavern, the flickering lamps, the rowdy cheers and grunts, this table—this tight alcove—isolated us. Made us the center of our own world. Sea versus land. Pirate Captain versus . . . me.

“I’ll play straight,” I said, blinking away from that deep, steady gaze. “You didn’t look at me like that the first time we played.”

“The first time we played, I didn’t believe a charming young man would stoop to cheating.”

Charming?

Bjorn continued, “What did you stake against Serrin’s gold? What did he want?”

“An invitation to the earl’s ball.” The one tucked into my belt. “He dropped by for it earlier.”

Bjorn tensed, fingers stilling on the back of his cards. “He called on you?”

“At a rather inopportune time.” I eyed the captain’s whiskey, set to the side of the table. I plucked it up and unstopped it, throwing Bjorn a smile of thanks before taking an eager mouthful. I wiped my lips, hoping the fiery liquid would settle the jitters in my stomach. “What is with that staff of his? The snakehead makes me shiver—and not the good kind of way.”

I offered Bjorn the whiskey, and he took it with an amused smirk. “It is mine, you know.” He drank, his throat working with each swallow.

Whiskey stirred up my stomach. Perhaps I’d taken a mite too much.

Bjorn set the drink down. “Nothing about a Giftsnake would be cause for the . . . good kind of shiver, as you call it. The sea snake is the most deadly of any kind. Its gift is a slow kill. Time enough to say goodbye to loved ones—if they understand past the agonized cries.”

Another shiver.

I cued for an exchange of card, and Bjorn discarded the top from the deck and passed the next.

Then exchanged and rearranged two of his cards, drawling, “This Lauretta? She a . . . friend of yours?”

“She’s the earl’s daughter. Yes, a . . . friend.”

Lips flattened, and he angled his head, eyeing my cards. “The invitation,” he murmured. “Why’d he want that?

“Your third card,” I said.

“For your fifth.”

We swapped accordingly. One exchange left.

“I can guess why he wanted the invitation,” I said.

Bjorn lifted a brow.

“The earl has a gallery of sleepers under his estate.”

He rubbed a hand over his arm, revealing more of his inked skin. Yes. A star. “I’m not convinced. Why the invitation? Serrin would just as soon force his way in.”

“Because he’s a pirate?”

Bjorn tapped the deck and my first card for the next exchange. “Because he’s
Serrin
.”

“Are you saying such behavior is beneath you?”

“Depends on the circumstance. I don’t make a habit of intruding.”

I laughed. “What kind of pirate are you?”

“A person. One who abides by a code of conduct. Honor.”

“But you steal.”

“May I remind you of our first introduction? Here at this very table, no less. By your definition,
you
are a pirate.”

“Except I don’t sail the high seas.”

“What?” Bjorn furrowed his brow. “There’s
more
to being a pirate than desire for gold?”

I scowled and tapped his fifth card. “Trying to tell me you don’t steal?”

“I don’t
need
to steal. Or cheat. I play the best hand of cards in the East.” He swapped the card I’d chosen and revealed all five of his cards. A straight flush.

I sank into my seat and swore.

Bjorn scooped up his gold and leaned back. “When you’re ready.”

“But you do want Serrin’s brother because he killed yours.”

“Who said anything about killed?”

“Wait, but—” I thought back to our conversation in the woods, and slammed my mouth shut.

With barely the blink of an eye, Bjorn spoke—and more softly than he was entitled. “I want Serrin to find Andor. Want him to lead me to my brother.”

I stole Bjorn’s whiskey again, hiding a flush behind a hearty swig. “Serrin holds your brother captive?”

“In a manner, yes. Where were you pierced when the Heart of the Needle shattered?” I lifted my chin and touched my throat where a shard of crystal nestled under the skin. Bjorn stroked the delicate lump, his gaze hooking with mine. “Such a little thing, and yet without it, we would not function.”

I briefly closed my eyes on the memory of that frightful day, not six months ago . . .

Bjorn dragged his thumb off my skin, but the ghost of his touch lingered. Rubbing it only made the shivers worm deeper.

“Many of my crew yielded,” he said softly. “I’ve not had the heart to replace them.”

I grabbed for the whiskey, and he caught my hand, stopping me from taking it and hiding within its burn. “I’m sorry for your losses,” he said.

I snatched my hand away from the warmth of his. “What does this have to do with your brother?”

“Serrin has the power to remove that crystal. Has the power to make you wake or put you to sleep. Like he did to Jack.”

“He did that? He has the power to save . . . the cursed?”

“Crystal shards aren’t easy to come by.”

The stool grated over the floor and I stood. “If someone dies, their piece—”

Bjorn shook his head. “The crystal dies when a person does. Becomes useless. Powerful as a pebble.”

“How do you know?”

“I’ve watched him try.”

Outside, ships rocked with the swells of the sea, and a group of pirates sauntered past the tavern. “A life for a life, then.”

“No problem for a pirate, right?”

A scathing look flirted over his face. The pockmarked table begged my attention, and my sigh skipped the distance between us. “I was quick to judge you, Bjorn. Forgive me my
frustrating stupidity
.”

“Frustrating,” he said, eyes impossibly dark yet softened in the ambient light. “Inconvenient.”

“Inconvenient?”

A laugh snapped from him, and he got to his feet. Air thickened, warm with our mingling breaths. “I should be tailing Serrin, not in here playing games.”

“I distract you,” I said and headed for the door. “My apologies. For free, this time.”

His words curled over my ear as we spilled onto the damp wharf. “I’m not sure I want them. This time.”

* * *

When the night swallowed Bjorn, I changed direction, heading back down the wharf. Serrin’s ship was indeed easy to spot—the figurehead mimicked the snake of his cane, curling up the bow, forked tongue frozen mid strike. Railing and narrow steps led to the darkened deck. I jumped the last step on board.

Serrin lounged on the foredeck, watching me. The bastard had the nerve to wear my coat and to smile as he lifted the lapels against a sea breeze.

“The invitation, as promised,” I said, slinking over to him, envelope it hand. Serrin plucked the invitation and tucked it into the inner pocket of father’s coat, while I gritted my teeth. “Must say, I expected more pirates.”

“I caught sight of you wandering the wharf and sent them away.”

“The exchange hardly warrants secrecy, surely?”

He smiled. “Perhaps not. But this transaction is not the reason I requested privacy.”

I folded my arms, sword heavy at my hip. Banged up it might be, but I knew how to wield it. Father had spent many an afternoon teaching us how to fight.

“No need to fear,” Serrin said, words slick, slithering. “If I wanted to kill you, I’d have done it by now.”

“Kill me? Or make me sleep?”

“Bjorn told you.” Serrin shifted, resting back against the ship. His breath fogged the air and clawed towards the glimmering green and blue of the Northern Lights. A tight smile crossed his face. “Believes me the worst kind of man.”

“Are you?”

Staff held high, he motioned from the sky to the ocean. “What is the color of the night?”

“Black.”

The staff touched the back of my head and urged me to absorb the night. “May look black to the undiscerning eye, but I see navy and violet and midnight blue.” He dropped the staff, drawing my gaze back to him. “You cheat to pay family debts, correct?”

“My family has nothing to do with you.”

“Ah, but I could make all your worries disappear.”

I narrowed my eyes. My pounding heart begged for a quick retreat, but the prospect . . . Mother and Marc secure . . . “In return for what?”

“Distracting Bjorn.”

“Excuse me?”

“I have eyes and ears everywhere, Aaron. Bjorn is stubborn and relentlessly follows me; it’s vexing and painfully obvious.”

“Wouldn’t the worst of men have other means of
distracting
unwanted followers?” Like throwing them overboard, weighted with rocks.

“Wouldn’t they.” Serrin’s smirk widened. “So how about it? You keep Bjorn occupied until this ship departs, and I’ll make sure you keep your home.”

* * *

After a morning singing in the town square, I walked the cliffs with Marc and Lauretta. At a row of benches, Marc steered Lauretta to a seat drenched in sunshine for a moment’s rest.

I stopped at the trunk of a young oak, gaze darting toward the steep steps that led down to the wharf.

Could I really mislead Bjorn when his brother was at stake?

“I was wondering,” Marc said, addressing Lauretta, “whether it might be possible to procure another invitation to the ball? Seems I . . . quite misplaced mine.”