Lorelai stood face to face. The heat of the barrel melted her forehead, her sweet breath tickling his sweating skin. A growl vs a smile, daring him, tempting him, inching that trigger.

  “I wonder how much Centaurs’ pelts are worth,” She pressed, “worthless, I imagine.”

  Matthias roared, “The term is Batrakin, you Valkar!”

  Lore smiled, “How polite, aren’t you too soft to be a pirate.

  His gun pressed to her chin, the hot crystal about to fire.

  “I’ll show you polite!” he said.

  Then—

  A boot.

  A second.

  Followed by another.

  Heat wrapped the deck in steam.

  It burned the planks.

  It smoked skin.

  And it oozed molten steam.

  The crew step back, Matthias no longer aiming at Lore, but at the storm behind her, his eyes shaking.

  “Nah, it can’t be,” Beaumont whispered.

  Lore felt her tail straighten, her breath halt as even she hesitated, the storming pressure like some dragon breathing down her neck—a Daemon or worse.

  But swallowing her dry tongue, she turned.

  Her eyes fully registered it for the first time.

  She already knew, or had her suspicions, but to see it, a complete diamond skeleton, black eyes and a presence that made her want to tuck her tail.

  “Inquisitor?” whispered Matthias.

  All guns pointed at him, the melted man she knew as Marshal. His skin barely existed, his near-unbreakable bones glinting in the turbulent wind, his icy blue eyes hotter than any flame. It was hard to believe this hobo-looking man was hiding this.

  He might actually match his title—the dragon slayer: a demon knight wielding the stare of a monarch.

  But oddly, it seems he was looking at her.

  And her fingers instinctively covered her neck.

  Not again, that vampire had already caught her off guard once.

  She opened her fangs, with a quip on her lips, but something seemed off—her words halting mid-breath.

  How was he standing with a body like that? Dripping in crimson, decorating the deck like an artist with too much paint, splattering his uniform and her rags in burning red that still smoked.

  His eyes met hers, and she knew without words or even Neurite.

  She swivelled to the crew, their pale expressions too stuck on the monster behind her.

  “That’s right!” she shouted, loud enough to drag all eyes her way, “He is an inquisitor, in flesh and blood. This is your last chance. Listen to me if you want to live.”

  Matthias’s fangs jittered in his skull.

  And Mutt whispered, “I ain’t got enough guns to break diamondino.”

  A false observation, Lorelai knew; Marshal was in no state to fight—the man was melting, the cracks deep enough to blow apart, from a well-placed kick. She shivered just looking at him; how was this tower still standing? Did he know how to brood so hard that it granted him self-healing bones?

  He huffed, eyes not taking a moment off her, her arms itching just to run and catch him, to stop his fall. But she knew better. She had to think of both of them now. She still had some questions for him after all.

  So spinning, she flashed her chin up like a proper noblewoman, with too much entitlement.

  And she resumed the play.

  “Is that it?” she snapped, “You should be offering service, not staring.”

  She raised her finger, Marshal shifting in time with her gesture.

  “Wait, wait!” spluttered Matthias, “you can have all it, take anything, tell us a destination.” He turned to the rest of his crew, “What are you doing? Mutt! Beaumont! Greet our guests!” he yelped. Then back to her. “My quarters are the third room on the left.”

  He pointed, doing his best not to look her in the eye.

  She almost wanted to poke the bull, see what made him shout at her. Kick the little horse. But a grunt from Marshal halted her.

  Ah, yes, the plan she needed to stick to the plan.

  This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author's work.

  She gave her companion a side glance and met Marshal’s searing gaze. Her eyebrows mimed a super detailed plan that had no flaws. At least she hoped he thought that.

  He said nothing—No words. No Neurite. But still. He nodded.

  “Ready?” she sighed, half expecting a mountain to drop on her.

  They stood… barely. Gravity pulled. Her knees locked. Her arm braced under his weight.

  Mountain? Try three. The deck groaned like it might split. But at least he’d stopped smoking. So she took a step, then another.

  The Mutt watched—wide-eyed, tracking every limp, every drip of red, every glint of exposed bone. An Inquisitor, barely standing… but still an Inquisitor. That an Mutt was clearly pissing himself right now.

  Her lips twitched, her bones warping under pressure, her face pulling the best poker expression at her disposal.

  “Marshal?” she whispered, arms shaking. “Not now. Just a few more steps. Marshal—come on…”

  But Marshal’s lids flickered. No motion; his core was starting to wind down. The mass of muscle, diamond, and man creaking her spine.

  “Did you get heavier?” she hissed, fumbling to grip the man. “Fuck, I can’t—”

  Her tail curled.

  She glanced at Beaumont. The beetle’s brow twitched. Suspicion tightening.

  Shit. She couldn’t drop him. Not now. Not in front of them.

  An inquisitor, a monster given demon form, flopping to the planks?

  And what did pirates do with liars?

  She felt her core, the musk of power, empty. Her reserve. Used up.

  Sweat glazed her palms. Her slick fingers slimeing against blood, slipping against his bones. She was losing him.

  She gritted her fangs, fingers wrapping into his belt, her hands searching for any and all anchors. Not yet! She couldn’t—

  Then a fluffy slim hand weaved around Marshal’s other arm—the half-wake inquisitor hanging in a Krukk woman’s grip, her light brown eyes inspecting her catch.

  “Weren’t inquisitors immortal?” asked the woman, “And I swear they had no souls.”

  Her fuzzy pointed ears tilted as she spoke, her face taking a close examination of Marshal’s eyes. A far too close examination… the whole crew and the shotgun-wielding Matthias lingering in their shadow. All, waiting for the following words.

  Lore’s breath reeled. Her fangs jittering in the sockets, her claws clicking at the ready.

  This was it—her vs an entire crew.

  The woman leaned in—so close Lore could count the wrinkles bagging her eyes.

  Then—

  At last…

  She smiled?

  And before Lore could scratch her head at what exactly, the woman’s arm tightened around Marshal, the metric tone of a man shared between the two.

  “Inquisitors are heavy,” the woman said. “You need at least two people to carry one.”

  Lore stuttered, unsure of her game. Enemy? Ally? Neither fitted the bill.

  And facing Matthias and his crew, the woman slung a growl.

  “What are you staring at? This ship won’t fly itself.” She hissed. “Or do you want me to stop bandaging you all?”

  The younger boys fluttered to life, scrapping at their stations, Matthias not even uttering a single command.

  “Serena?” he said.

  “It’s fine, Captain,” Serena huffed, “I can handle myself.”

  “Let me add a guard at least—”

  She bared her wolfish fangs, “Don’t forget, it’s me that kept your crew alive. Now get! Before I really stop offering up my services.”

  Matthias hesitated, then sighed. “I’ll give you thirty minutes before I ready the guns.”

  His lips formed a line, and for a moment, Lore thought the young captain looked older.

  “Scream if you’re in danger.”

  Serena waved a dismissive hand and started walking, Lore and Marshal heading into the lower quarters.

  She wasn’t sure if she’d just been saved… or recruited. One step. Two. The ship creaked beneath them. Who was really in charge here?