Oh yes, this will be good.
Anders steps up next as the “first” officer. To be honest, I still don’t really understand the ranking situation here… not since Conrad.
For the first time since that night, a cold sweat doesn’t break out on my brow. I’m still not exempt from a reaction, however, and a thirsty rage shrivels my heart. The horror of that night has turned from fear to rage, and it’s a welcome switch. Fear is debilitating and can send me running to a cruel man’s cabin.
Anger enlivens me and makes me want to rise to my station.
I’ll hold onto that anger for the rest of my days.
Anders shoots me an uncomfortable glance as he walks over. He’s finished organizing the men. They have been arranged in a row.
“Well-er-Maddie, the way this works—” he starts, but I hold up a hand. They’ve explained it to me before.
“All right. So,” he stalls uncomfortably, “we’ve paired you with the second engineer, Francois. There are 24 crew members, including the captain. I’ve been informed he won’t be fighting today, and of course, we need the medic on standby. There will be five rounds of pairs until we find the end. Jeffrey will sit out two rounds to fight the last winner. He’s the only man ever to beat Erik, so he gets that right.”
I nodded, sizing up the hulking man who is standing on the deck with no shirt. He stares at me with a look of indifference.
A short, squat man comes forward. The man, Francois, is not much shorter than I am, actually. But I see exactly what this is. They’ve sent the weakest among them to gauge my ability.
I let out a silent snarl and glare at Anders.
The short man doesn’t seem afraid, although he definitely should be. He seems put out. I narrow my eyes. He doesn’t want to be here and doesn’t care about the outcome of this fight.
He doesn’t anticipate much damage. He will pay for that.
Anders stands to the side of the ring and says, “Remember the rules. No head shots; don’t hit hard enough to incapacitate; you win once the other player has been down for more than ten seconds.”
I grit my teeth when the men start to count down from five and beat out a drumroll on the crates. My skin is itching to begin.
Silence prevails once the men finish counting down. I allow myself to focus in a way I haven’t since the last time I really fought... before Henrick died. The man stares at me. He clearly expects me to make the first move. His arms have come up in a lousy fighting position and he starts circling around the ring. The waves lap loudly against the ship.
Stop playing around, I warn him with my eyes. He doesn’t heed me, so I punish the sailor. A few men groan when my left arm hooks right into the man's nose. My arm strikes like lightning, something near impossible with water resistance. The crack is louder than I expected. Underwater, such sounds have layers, traveling at a much slower rate to my ears. Here, I live in the impact.
I grin, cracking my neck.
Francois yells and stumbles back as he grabs at his face. Blood is pouring out faster than he can staunch it. He spits out curses that would make most women blush, biting his tongue when the nastier ones directed at me are about to come to the surface.
The wounded sailor makes a move to exit the ring, but I’m not done. The rules say he has to be down for ten seconds. And I know how much the captain of this ship values rules.
Using my inadequate legs, I sprint over while Francois’ back is turned and knock him down, face first. My knee is still pressed against his back when he starts yelling, “Yield! YIELD!”
My mouth curls in disgust. He is weak, and he underestimated me. I stand up, daring the sailors to say a word. I look each one in the eye, letting them see how restless I am, how the fun, silent siren has been replaced with one whose future birthright power could end them all with half a glance.
There is no sound, save the second engineer spitting blood and grumbling about how “barbaric” these training sessions are as he walks over with the medic.
My blood is pumping through my veins so fiercely, I want to fight again. That was barely a morsel, and I am half-starved. Anders sees the hunger in my eyes, but he shakes his head. I have to force myself to get out of the ring as the next fight starts.
I watch the men, placing silent bets with myself on who will win. I’m almost always right. Except for when I see one of the men who carried me and Erik the night of the storm. The crowd has warmed up, and the cheers cut off his name. He is thin, almost gangly. He appears more academic than warrior.
His brunette hair is cropped and his facial features are sharp in a pleasant way. His smile stretches across his face arrogantly, despite his stature. For some reason, I think of Henry’s notes in his worn book. Perhaps this man is him.
My lips quirk up.
When the sailor’s opponent, a man corded with far more muscle than him, saunters into the ring, I almost feel bad for him.
And then the lanky sailor beats the much larger man in less than ten minutes by ducking around the ring and jumping on his back. From my semi-secluded place near the crates, I clap slowly. As I stand there, the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. Without turning around, I know a presence that I am beginning to recognize well comes up behind me.
“See something you like?” Erik asks gruffly. “You don’t seem like the kind of female to praise subpar fighting.”