It was time to give up on the guns. Despite the havoc they wrought upon The Temptress, wasting more ammunition was not worth it. As Belladonna already mentioned, Cornelius Blackfoot was her real enemy, not his ship. 

Ephraim Howell withdrew the dagger he carried on his left side and the sword he kept on his right. Blackfoot’s men had approached him from all angles, attempting to prevent further fire on their brig. This was Ephraim’s first hand-to-hand combat as a true pirate. He was not blowing holes in a merchant ship. He was playing a part in a providential phenomenon that the balance of the world depended upon. The urge to destroy all around him who opposed his captain—and now lover’s—destiny reached its peak. Since his time on the Zodiac began, he learned much about Belladonna Skylark, the Dragon Majestics, the Demonclaw, and the Isla del Dragón. The quest that she was set on had become his as well. Ephraim liked to think he desired the quest as much as Belladonna, but this would never be the case. No one could desire the quest more than the one it relied upon.

Before Ephraim left his place behind the gun mount, he needed to get rid of the three men who set their sights on him. Each fought to remain in one of his blind spots, but he was too highly trained to ignore blind spots. He felt each man’s presence around him; the hair on the back of his neck stood up. It was in any soldier or pirate’s nature to look out for their backside to protect themselves from a rear attack. Those natural inclinations were beginning to become part of him. First, he needed to get rid of the two blokes that flanked either side of him. Then, he would take out the man behind him to keep him from striking while Ephraim was occupied.

Quickly, he turned in the swivel seat and extended his arms to his sides, stabbing the man on his left through the throat with his dagger and the man on his right through the middle with his sword. Stunned, the third man now stood before him, jaw hanging open in awe of Ephraim’s dexterity. Ephraim withdrew the dagger and the knife from the two men and placed them on each side of the third man’s neck. The man looked at him, ready to beg for his life, but it was too late. Ephraim ran his weapons crossways through the man’s neck, and his head rolled from his shoulders. The headless body sunk to its knees and bowed forward at Ephraim’s feet, worshiping his executioner. 

As he went to move from his seat and help the other crew, Ephraim’s head was jerked backward by some force he was previously unaware of. He felt the back of his skull make contact with the large gun at his rear and heard the metallic, hollow sound blast through his eardrums. His jaw clacked together, and he tasted the tang of blood on his tongue. Mysterious hands crept up to his neck. One of the hands, cold and dead, grasped his throat while the other disappeared behind him. Ephraim struggled, wanting to turn to see who wrestled him. His weapons dropped to the deck as his body reacted to the hand clasping his neck. He needed to pull himself out of this stranger’s grasp. 

With his hands clutching madly at the fingers around his neck, Ephraim saw the other hand of the man who held him come around to his face with a stained rag. The stranger held the cloth to Ephraim’s nose and mouth. Now, he began to panic. His heart quickened, and his lungs fought for air. Whatever the rag was doused with was noxious. A chemical burn penetrated his nostrils, and his eyes watered instantly. With every breath his body attempted to take, his vision weakened as the fumes seeped further up his nose to his brain. His body spasms began to slow. All he wanted to do was close his eyes, if only for a moment. Surely, that moment would be enough to last for eternity. It struck Ephraim what was happening to him. In mere moments, the fumes from the rag would render him unconscious. Whoever the stranger was, they would have their way with him after that.

Seconds before his body gave in to the toxic fumes, he searched the ship and the battle before him. Feigning sleep, his thoughts were fuzzy, but he knew he was looking for someone.

Belladonna . . .

In a moment that he wished to glimpse his lover’s face before complete darkness, she was not there. Before the disappointment set in, his heavy eyelids closed, and Ephraim descended into nothingness. 

————

Bright sunlight pulled Ephraim out of the nothingness, except he did not remember how he had been sucked into that dark place. As he started to make sense of the world around him, he realized it was not familiar at all. He was on a ship, but it was not the Zodiac. None of the men that milled about did he recognize. Time elapsed, but how much? Had he been floating in darkness for hours, days, weeks even? He couldn’t begin to guess. Sweat drenched the sorry, tattered clothes that still clung to his body. When he could finally begin to make sense of his surroundings, he noticed how parched he truly was. Licking his lips, he tasted that they were dry and cracked. His tongue was like lead in his mouth. Dehydration had claimed him. Not only that but when he looked down at his legs, they were a harsh shade of red. And then there was searing pain that seemed to come from everywhere all at once. Ephraim’s chest rose and fell slowly, his body worn out from its time baking in the sun. When he looked down at the source of the burning on his chest, where it felt the worst, he gasped. Branded across the middle of his chest was the word “PRISONER.” The letters were raised and puckered, screaming up at him and blistering around the edges. Whatever darkness he slept in, it was far enough away for him to not feel the hot iron that branded his skin. 

Though he knew he should not, Ephraim wanted to touch the brand on his chest. The word was formed more like boils now rather than letters and touching them would surely set them ablaze. His brown curls fell on his face. Then he wondered why his hands would not come forward and why they were so numb. Looking behind him finally, he saw that his hands were bound behind his back around the base of the mainmast. 

This was how it was then. Ephraim was a prisoner. The letters across his chest were true. And whoever his captor was sought to put him on display for all to see. He was the current prize.

The panic that Ephraim felt when still fighting onboard the Zodiac came back to him. The hands that he fought with must have been the hands of whoever bound him here. In a sad effort to stand, he started flailing his legs, willing himself to shimmy his back up the mast. The pins and needles set in, and he collapsed almost instantly, the taut skin around his crisp knees cracking painfully with the effort. Certainly, someone would help him. 

Desperately needing water, he opened his mouth to shout for help, but his swollen tongue would not let him. The only sounds Ephraim could make were grunts and groans.

The men who worked on deck began to turn their attention to him and smirk. He did not find his suffering to be a joking matter. Who would be the one to have mercy on him, to free his hands from behind him and let him go? But it seemed the more he struggled, the more amusement the sailors around him got out of him. Several laughed at him, others whistled like he was a dog. Tears of pain began to slide down Ephraim’s cheeks. The more he tried to help himself, the more his pink, burnt skin stretched.

Behind him, thumping boots were approaching. With each footfall, he cringed away. He suddenly had a dark idea of who his captor might be. Closing his eyes, he thought about the Zodiac. He thought about the things that brought him joy—the promise of adventure, the taste of hard liquor, the tangles of Belladonna’s hair—in an attempt to settle his nerves. Alas, his nerves prevailed. 

He felt the man come around to face him, crouching before him. The man breathed his rancid breath on Ephraim’s face, just inches away. For now, Ephraim was grateful for the veil his long curls cast over his vision. 

“You will refuse to look upon your new captain, lad?” the man rasped, grabbing Ephraim’s chin to force him to meet his gaze. When Ephraim decided to face his foe, he bared his teeth. Before him, just close enough to run a knife through his neck if his hands were not tied, was the ragged and wretched face of Cornelius Blackfoot. Ephraim had only seen him at a distance before this exchange. The man had long, greasy black hair that cascaded down his shoulders. His mustache was curled at the ends. Ephraim took in all the details of Blackfoot’s face: a scar above his right eye, bluish lips, gray teeth, and most notably, his black eyes. By the stars, his irises were black. The black eyes seemed otherworldly, foreign to any man. No matter the power that Ephraim could undoubtedly see in Blackfoot, he would not submit to fear. Fear of him would only make Belladonna’s enemy stronger.

“Ah, so there you are.” Blackfoot grinned. “A pretty lad, I do say so. You one of those womanly men? You prefer a man’s touch over a woman’s bosom?” Now, Blackfoot’s crew laughed along with him. People always told Ephraim he looked as if he was birthed out of a scene in an oil painting, what with his lean figure, sharp cheekbones, soft hair, and shining eyes. He would not answer to Blackfoot. “It be like that for now, I see. One day, you will talk. But for now, I have got you right where I want you, which means I have got Belladonna Skylark right where I want her. Weakened and hollow once again from loss. ‘Tis such a shame she let herself find love in you, young man. Don’t you know that she destroys all she ever loves?”

“She does no such thing,” Ephraim croaked, even though his tongue kept him from saying it with the authority he desired. 

“Oh! He does speak!” Blackfoot shouted to his men. “But he speaks lies and deceits. You been fed lies by that captain or whoever in bloody hell has got that into your head. Which is why I have you now. Now you will know the truth of it all. You will come to find that your lover is selfish and prideful, and everything she touches finds its ruin at her fingertips.”

“She will find me,” Ephraim growled.

“You really think so? Truly? Well, we will see about that. Methinks she might forget you after a few days of weeping and whatnot. Then she will go back to being the wench she has always been, full of bloodlust for anyone who stands between her and that island. When she does not come save you, you will know her truth, that she is incapable of caring for anyone other than herself and her useless family history. Then, just when she thinks I don’t suspect her and she is too blind to suspect me, that is when I will end her, and along with her the dominion of the Dragon Majestics. I hate to disappoint you thus, but in time, you will see it come to pass.” Blackfoot stood, towering over Ephraim’s place, and started to leave him there. 

Ephraim had not thought this way until Blackfoot spoke the words. Would Belladonna come for him? Or would she continue on and let whatever would happen to him happen, moving on with her journey? If Blackfoot knew that Belladonna was on to him, he might kill her. After all, that was what he wanted. He wanted Belladonna to follow him, to keep his enemy close. That was the best place to keep one’s enemy. Taking away what Belladonna loved would indeed weaken her. Ephraim knew of her insecurities. Though he loved her, she was not yet strong enough in herself to harden her heart against Ephraim.

I pray that she will come for me. I must trust that it will be so. But I don’t want her to endanger herself either . . .

Now filled with conflicting thoughts, Ephraim tried to push them aside. He would not let Blackfoot pity him as a coward. He would stay strong and wait for the day Belladonna would rescue him, if that day would come at all.

“I take it that this brand puts me under your care until my captain comes for me?” he yelled across the deck, where Blackfoot was now busying himself. The word stamped on his chest throbbed and tingled. The demon turned and bore into Ephraim’s eyes. His boots marched toward him once again. All of Blackfoot’s crew followed his lead, crowding around their prisoner.

Cornelius Blackfoot offered Ephraim a bone-chilling sneer. “Aye, Master Howell. Welcome aboard The Temptress.”