Pity is Tasty

In a million years I’d never have imagined myself having a conversation like this; it was so cliché. I had gone to the museum to sketch, like I did almost every Tuesday afternoon, my senses working together to transfer strangers to paper. In a setting like this I was forced to work fast, having no time to plan the image or nit pick the results, I didn’t have much time before the subject moved on, unaware.

Different things intrigued me about each person, and I tried to capture the facet that shined the brightest, letting my eyes convey them to my brain which then spoke to my hands and the image flowed out of the charcoal I held between my smudged fingers. Aged hands clutching a cane, the smiling face of a toddler, the gentle slope of an elegant neck or captivating eyes; all these things filled the pages of my sketchbook and I felt honored that I was able to take the best of these people home.

“Excuse me, Miss.”

The voice startled me and I jumped, my blue eyes wide as I looked up at the tall man standing beside my chair. He was not the kind of man I would have expected to talk to me: olive skin, high cheekbones, thick waves of dark hair and honeyed chocolate brown eyes; he was beautiful. I, on the other hand, was quite plain which is how I was able to sketch as I did, no one noticed me.

“Yes?” I replied, closing my sketchbook.

He stared into my face and laughed, a warm, rich sound like edible music, “No need to frown, I’m not a Hand That Rocks the Cradle psycho killer.”

“Isn’t that exactly what a psycho killer would say?” I asked, arching one eyebrow at him.

“Touché.” He smiled at me and pulled a chair up to face mine, lowering himself into it and leaning forward, elbows propped on his knees.

His expression grew very serious and he glanced around us before speaking softly, “I’ve seen you here every Tuesday, sketching in your book,” he reached out slowly as though he was afraid to frighten me away, taking my hand and uncurling my dirty fingers. “I watch you watching people and in your eyes I see longing. You see in others what you can’t see in yourself: unique beauty.”

I didn’t know how to react to him, to his touch, his words or his intense attention, and I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. “Are you mocking me?” I asked, reclaiming my hand. He smiled at me then; making me even more wary and I moved to stand up, wanting nothing more at that moment than to be as far from this man as possible.

His hands shot out, lightening quick, clutching my thighs and pushing down painfully, effectively pinning me to my seat. His face changed, the warmth in his eyes being smothered by something dark and sinister and my heart pounded painfully in my chest. He leaned forward, opening his mouth to speak but before he could utter a single word he was struck from behind with a baseball bat.

I gasped when his blood sprayed across my face, warm and smelling like a new penny, and I froze in place as he slumped to the floor. Screams broke out around me, one of them my own, as the assailant grabbed me by the wrist and pulled me abruptly to my feet. I stumbled after him, the fingers of my free hand trying to pry his away with no success; I could only follow as he led the way into the stairwell and down.

I finally found my voice and shouted over the echo of our feet on the steel stair treads. “Who the hell are you?!”

“Zeus,” he replied as we ran, and I’d have sworn I heard the sizzle of lightening in his voice. I tried to stop and yank my arm free, only succeeding in causing myself pain and he suddenly spun, pinning me to the wall, his hands gripping my shoulders painfully. “I am Zeus, and I am here to keep Perses from killing you.”

“What?” I was well versed in mythology, and knew that he was claiming to be the ruler of the Gods, claimed to be saving me from the God of Destruction.

“You are the incarnation of Eleos, Goddess of Pity and Compassion, and Perses would like nothing more than to rid the world of you, for without compassion mankind will destroy itself and that would feed his power. You yourself would be a particularly satisfying victory, he thinks pity is tasty.” He leaned in close, his breath warm on my face and his eyes sparking as he caressed his fingertips along my jaw, “Trust me; you must survive.”

Wednesday

“So you want just the facts, Ma’am?”

I stared at my new partner with annoyed eyes, his obvious glee at making what I was sure he thought was a clever joke only annoying me all the more. Being a detective with a last name like Wednesday made the Dragnet jokes inevitable but no less tiresome and I didn’t even bother sighing.

“Yes, Jensen, that’s what I want.” I folded my arms across my chest, the straps of my shoulder holster crisscrossing between my shoulder blades pulling comfortingly. He stared at me, his expression suddenly confused and I arched one eyebrow at him, cocking my hips to one side, clearly waiting.

“Ma’am?” he said with a frown.

“Give me your facts,”

His police training finally kicked in and he slipped into the routine rundown of himself: age, height, weight, ranking in his class; I stopped him with one raised hand when he was about to launch into the list of his accolades. Using my full six foot two inches of height to my advantage I stepped toward him, my blue eyes piercing the chocolate brown of his and he actually backed up a step.

For a full minute I simply stared at him, unconcerned with the sudden hush that had fallen over the bull pen behind me and the press of dozens of gazes against my back. When I finally spoke I kept my voice a whisper, “I hate Dragnet.”

Laughter erupted from the bull pen and Jensen looked confused for a moment when I smirked at him, giving him a wink and a playful slap on the cheek. Turning on my heel I grabbed my coat and headed for the door, smiling as Jensen was ribbed and teased as he hurried after me.

I slipped behind the wheel of my red ’69 Camaro and brought the 396 cubic inch motor to life with a growl that never ceased to make me smile. Jensen paused in his stride and simply stared for a moment, looking the car over from bumper to bumper the way he might check out a leggy blond. Taking up his post in the passenger seat he gave me a sideways look, his question clear on his face.

With a shrug I said, “I can’t stand police cars, that’s why I went for Detective, I wanted to drive my own car.”

“Not very subtle,” he replied, buckling his seatbelt as I pulled out into traffic.

“I’m not a subtle woman.”

As we drew closer to our destination our conversation dwindled, both of us focusing on the crime scene we were about to see. The little bit of information that had been called into the station was enough to already bother me; the city’s resident serial killer had struck again.

The scenery didn’t surprise me as I drove down the access tunnel and emerged into the concrete valley of the nearly empty canal, slaloming my way between piles of junk and debris until I reached the line of yellow police tape.

“We’ll have to ford the canal,” Jensen said and I looked over at him.

“Ford? Who talks like that?” I asked rhetorically, killing the motor and climbing out, wading my way toward the scene both knowing and afraid of what I’d see.

“Detective Wednesday,” the men standing near the body said in unison with synchronized nods.

“Jones, Maddock,” I replied, nodding back at them both. “Anything different about this one?”

“Not that we can see, just more of the same.” Maddock replied, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

Jensen followed me silently as I approached the victim and once glance at his pale face told me he’d never seen a dead body before, terrific. “If you’re going to throw up do it down stream.” I said matter-of-factly as I crouched down and stared into lifeless blue eyes.

The woman was tall, at least six foot, red hair and wrapped in what always reminded me of a burlap toga. The slowly moving water eddied around her, spinning in little whirlpools before continuing on their way.

“She… she looks like… you,” Jensen’s voice was steady despite his peaked face and I glanced over my shoulder at him before turning my attention back to the dead woman.

“Yes she does, they all do.” Rising to my feet I scrubbed my hands over my face, impatiently pushing my hair out of my eyes. “His letters say they are impersonating a Goddess and must die for their blasphemy.”

“So he sees you as the Goddess?”

I couldn’t help but sigh; I wasn’t good at being the focus of adoration in the best of situations, but this was sick. There was always a letter on the body, neatly folded and tucked inside the chest cavity where the heart once was. With a deep breath I pulled gloves from my pocket and knelt beside the body as I pulled them on. Pushing the burlap aside I exposed the open wound between her breasts, dipping my fingers into her chest and extracting the neatly folded, plastic wrapped note.

Taking it from the baggie, I stared down at the now familiar handwriting: I see you.

The gunshot echoed off the concrete walls of the canal, the sound more painful to my ears than the bullet itself was to my shoulder. With practiced focus I detached myself from the burning heat of the wound and shifted my gaze, scanning the area. My eyes locked on the gunman, this was the first time he’d shown himself and without hesitation I drew my weapon and fired.

I felt nothing as I watched his body drop and roll down the sloped wall of the canal, an evil rag doll landing gracelessly with a splash in the filthy water; he should have realized I was a Goddess who could kill.

Herald Of The Zombie Prince

My eyes fluttered open but I found myself still covered in darkness. I blinked several times to clear my vision but not a single pin-prick of light found its way to my retinas, but of course for all I knew the beating I’d taken over the past few days could have caused some ocular damage.

The chair under me was bare steel, cold and hard, but still a welcome break from hanging from a chain by my wrists as I had since being brought to this place. My body ached from the myriad of tortures they had visited upon me in an attempt to get the information they wanted, yet I hadn’t broken and I attributed that to my years of training.

The skin across my stomach was red, blistered and burnt from electrocution, the tips of three fingers were crusted in blood where my nails had been, and the simple act of breathing made me acutely aware of at least two broken ribs. They wanted that information badly.

I heard a door open somewhere, the metal hinges grinding just before the sound of boots echoed through the air. Less than a minute later the door to my cell opened and the sudden flood of light stabbed at my eyes, making them water and giving me an instant headache.

Fluorescent lights flickered on around me, giving off their watery glow and casting deep shadows into the corners of the room. When opening my eyes seemed like something I could do without dying I lifted my lids, letting myself acclimate slowly before fully opening my eyes.

Before me stood the most unassuming man I’d ever seen. No taller than five foot eight, average build leaning toward plump and thinning, non-descript brown hair that was cut short but shaggy. His face held not a single remarkable feature, and I knew this is what made him efficient; five minutes after seeing him most people wouldn’t be able to recall what he looked like.

“Good morning, Simone.” His voice was just as forgettable as the rest of him, but I was surprised he knew who I was since I hadn’t even given up my name to my captors. He stepped toward me, his stride slow and deliberate, hands in his pockets, stopping when the tips of this polished shoes bumped my bare toes.

He spent a full minute staring at me, his brown eyes narrowing periodically as he cocked his head from one side to the other as though trying to puzzle something out. “Do you know who I am?” he asked, folding his arms across his chest.

“I don’t care if you’re the herald of the zombie prince Jesus.” My voice was raw from screaming, and having to speak made me want to whimper like a wet kitten.

His smile was humorless, bordering on sinister, and I actually had the wherewithal to be afraid. The lackeys who had beaten me over the last few days didn’t instill the kind of fear in me that this man did, and I knew that I either had to escape or he would kill me.

“I can’t quite figure you out, Simone,” he said, rocking from the balls of his feet to the heel and back again. “It’s almost as though you enjoy the pain when all you have to do is tell me what I want to know. Easy peasy, right?” I remained quiet, which brought a frown to his face. “Very well, have it your way.”

The next day and a half pit my will against his, and in the wake of a new level of pain there were many times I was hair’s breadth from telling him what he wanted to know just to bring the agony to an end. I slipped in and out of consciousness, welcoming the spells of utter blackness where I felt nothing, and wondering if this would be the one from which I wouldn’t wake.

When I woke it took me several moments to process the fact that I was no longer in that dark cell, no longer cold. I was still in pain, but it was muted, the edge dulled by medication that was being fed to me through a tube. I moved my head slowly, taking in the white walls, white sheets, white floor and white lights, slowly recognizing the sector medical facilities and feeling a sense of relief I hadn’t expected I would ever feel again.

Glancing to my right I stared at the sleeping form of my partner where he slouched in a chair at my bedside, his long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle, arms folded over his chest. His sandy hair was unkempt, and his clothes looked like he’d been wearing them for a week; I would have smiled if I knew it wouldn’t hurt.

“Darren?” My voice was less than a whisper, but it was enough to snap him upright in his chair, his hazel eyes darting around the room before coming to rest on me. He scooted the chair closer and gently took my hand, being careful of the needles and tubes plugged into it.

“Simone.” He said my name like an answered prayer.

“How long….”

“Three days,” he answered, brushing my hair out of my eyes. “I thought I might lose you.”

“It’ll take… more than…. torture… “

Darren laughed, shushing me. We stared at each other for several minutes, and in my eyes he read my question. “We got the information we needed. Sheridon is still alive, but he’s being held only until you’re well, then he’s yours to do with as you please.”

I shook my head slowly and Darren frowned at me. “Kill him. I won’t…. be… like him.”

It was his turn to shake his head, smiling softly at me. “As you wish, I’ll gladly mete out his punishment, and he’ll pay for almost taking you from me.”

Agitated Garden Gnome

I’d wandered through the forest in search of Wiley for three days. He had disappeared inexplicably and my baby sister had thrown a fit, waking the whole clan with her tantrum, and my mother begged me to look for him. So here I was, tromping through part of the woods I knew belonged to another clan, my feet cold and wet and my tummy growling for food.

With an exasperated sigh I sat down on a fallen log and pulled a strip of venison jerky from my pack, gnawing at it and savoring its savory flavor. Wiley had only ever been trouble from the moment he showed up, always getting into places he didn’t belong, eating things he shouldn’t be eating and causing enough mischief to give our leader a perpetual headache.

He had only been allowed to stay because my sister adored him, and from the time she was born we were all told she was fated to deliver our people from our forced nomad lifestyle so she got what she wanted. Unfortunately, all the doting had turned her into a spoiled brat, and I was counting the days until I turned 21 and was free to leave the clan.

I was tired of wandering, hoping the place we settled wasn’t owned by people who were afraid of us or felt threatened to the point of chasing us off at sword point. I wanted to live in a real house, eat at a real table and sleep in a real bed. I’d only been in a regular bed once, just over a year before with the daughter of a landowner who didn’t mind us camping on his property.

That single spontaneous night was spent entangled in Anne’s willowy limbs. The feel of her skin against mine, softer than the silk of her sheets, made me hate my own bed roll and it pained me to leave her when the sky blushed pink. She had laced her fingers into my hair and kissed me, hard and bruising, making me swear I would return; it was a promise I made willingly.

And now here I sat, more than a year later, searching for a mangy fox to pacify my spoiled sister when I wanted nothing more than to wrap myself in Anne’s warmth and passion. With a sigh I rose to my feet, brushing leaves and dirt from the seat of my breeches as I set out again, following the faint signs Wiley had left behind.

The sound of yelling floated through the air, a high pitched voice speaking so rapidly I couldn’t clearly make out any one word. Following the sound I emerged into a small clearing and stared wide-eyes at the small agitated garden gnome who was fending Wiley off with a stick.

“Hello?” I said, drawing the gnome’s attention as well as the fox’s. Wiley turned, and recognizing me he bounded through the grass to lay at my feet, rolling onto his back in the hopes of some tummy rubs. Bending down I scooped him up, looping a rope around his neck to ensure he wouldn’t get away again, all the while the gnome watched me with angry black eyes.

“Thatbeasttriedtoeatmyfaceoff!!!” he screeched, his rapid speech making a single word out of many, and I fought back the urge to laugh.

“My apologies, good sir,” I said, bending at the waist and bowing to the tiny man. “This creature belongs to Aurora, destined savior of the Wanderers. I’ve been hunting him three days now and I thank you for your help in capturing him.”

“Justgoanddon’tcomeback!” the little man shouted, turning on his heel and disappearing into the undergrowth, still cursing about Wiley all the while.

I made the trek home in a day, not having to take the time to look for signs, clues or trails to track the sly red fox, and I emerged into camp to a cacophony of noise. Greetings and cheers rose up around me as I walked past lean-tos and sleeping pallets, making my way to my family tent.

My mother and sister emerged and looked around, clearly trying to figure out what all the ruckus was, and spotting me my sister ran toward me and pulled the red fox from my arms. I didn’t get so much as a thank you from her or a welcome home from my mother, and the lack of such a simple nicety pushed me over the edge I hadn’t known I was at.

“Mother, I’m leaving, and I won’t be back.” My voice was very matter-of-fact and the look on her face told me she didn’t believe me; her look changed however when I turned and headed back out of camp.

No one tried to stop me, I suspected they all thought I was bluffing and would be back when I ran out of food or the weather got bad. What they didn’t know was that I was dead serious, only this time what I was tracking had long ebony hair, emerald eyes and slept on sheets of silk with arms open and waiting for me.

Fool's Journey

We are all of us fools, paupers and princes alike. I’d forgotten where I’d heard this, but with this phrase making endless circles through my mind I waited patiently for the airplane to touch down in Rome. I was the fool, more the fool for letting myself get lost in another person’s identity, thoroughly losing my own in the process.

Samuel was a force to be reckoned with, his personality so overpowering it was all but impossible not to feel like clover in the shadow of an oak, and I had allowed myself to cushion his feet for six years. Sometimes he stepped lightly, like butterfly kisses across my cheek. Sometimes he stepped hard, fists and stone words bruising me inside and out.

I had managed to toss a few things into a single suitcase after he’d left for work: clothes, toiletries, a handful of photos, everything else was left behind. I felt like a coward, slinking out of my own home as though I had no right to expect better treatment, and yet the moment the door had clicked shut behind me I felt like I could finally breathe.

I didn’t think Samuel would miss me, and I was fairly sure he would quickly find a replacement on which to inflict himself, but I couldn’t think about that poor woman’s fate; I couldn’t save them all. I was focused singularly on rediscovering who I was, so much so that I hadn’t even noticed our descent until the tires hit the tarmac.

To choose a destination I had quite literally spun the globe on my way out of the house, closed my eyes and jammed my finger against it, bringing the textured sphere to an abrupt halt. Under my finger was Italy, and without a second thought I made that my destination, determined to create a new life for myself.

It was hard at first; learning the language and learning the city, but learning to live was the hardest part. It was months before I stopped jumping at every raised male voice I heard, and even longer before I could bring myself to go on a date.

Italian men were much as the stereotype described: they talked with their hands, thought very highly of themselves and assumed that every woman wanted them. But, as with all stereotypes there were many things that outshined the small percentage of common perceptions, and I eventually found myself hopelessly in love with a passionate, kind and gentle man.

Mario’s hands talked all right, they talked to my body with feathery touches. He thought highly of himself, but wasn’t arrogant. He did think every woman wanted him, but that was fine with me because to him I was every woman. I was amazed on a daily basis that it was possible to be so happy.

The day I opened the door expecting the pizza delivery man and instead found myself staring into Samuel’s face instead was the day I experience real fear for the first time. In all the years I’d spent being abused, I’d never experienced true terror because it was only me that was in danger; now there was another target.

“Briana.” Samuel’s voice was absolutely even, no rise or fall in the tone, and I knew from experience that he was at his scariest and most dangerous when he used that voice.

“Samuel,” I replied, absolutely certain he could hear my heart hammering against my sternum. “What are you doing here?” I mustered every ounce of will I had and stayed in the doorway, blocking his entry as best as I could.

“Is that question even necessary?” he asked in the same even tone, his pale blue eyes boring into my brown ones.

“I thought you’d have just moved on,” I said, “Found someone else.”

Before he could reply Mario’s voice drifted from the back of the house, asking in Italian what was keeping me, and panic was plain on my face. Samuel moved as though to come inside and I stepped into his path, leaving one sweaty palm on the doorknob and laying the other on the doorframe.

“You need to go,” I said quietly, “There is nothing for you here now.”

Samuel’s blue eyes narrowed on me, and it felt like he was looking for a chink in my armor through which he could hurt me, and I lifted my chin a notch, hoping the apparent defiance would prove to be a successful bluff.

“What’s going on, love?” Mario asked, appearing behind me and laying his hands gently on my shoulders.

I could feel the press of him at my back and was both relieved to have him there, and terrified Samuel would hurt him. Before I could reply; however, Samuel spoke, a polite smile splitting his face.

“I seem to have the wrong house.” He shifted his eyes to lock with mine. “The person I was looking for isn’t here anymore.” With a small nod he turned on his heel and made his way down the walk, passing the pizza delivery man on his way.

Mario paid for our dinner and carried the box into the kitchen, pulling me along behind by the hand. As he busied himself with getting plates and pouring wine I stood and fought to keep from trembling, very aware how close this fool’s journey had come to ending.

Old Glory

I pulled into the parking lot of my old high school, nosing my car between painted lines and killing the motor. I sat in the quiet interior for several minutes without moving, just staring at the campus before me, and when I finally climbed out and my feet hit the asphalt a flood of memories washed over me. I paused and took several deep breaths before making my way up the main path.

The school was made up of separate hexagon shaped buildings, the cedar shingles black with age and I was overwhelmed at the vivid images that raced through my mind as I walked. There were the stairs where me and my one friend ate lunch every day, there was my senior locker, and there was the pay phone from which I’d call the office posing as my mom to excuse my sister when she ditched.

There wasn’t much that had changed in the 20 years since I’d graduated, and pausing by the office door I looked up at Old Glory flying overhead, feeling sorry that it was fated to be in high school forever. I walked the entirety of the campus, reliving so many memories both good and bad that by the time I climbed back into my car I was emotionally exhausted.

I drove back to my friend Wes’ house and flopped down onto the sofa with a sigh. Wordlessly he appeared and offered me a beer, taking his and sitting down beside me, an inquisitive yet knowing smile on his face.

“So, how was it?” he asked, taking a swig of Corona from the bottle.

I sighed and took a drink of my own beer, turning in my seat to face him, staring intently into his brown eyes. He was one of my wisest friends, and I relied on his insight and intuition to keep things in perspective lest my crazy imagination get the better of me.

“It was the same, and yet vastly different,” I finally answered. “Why did everything then seem so earth shattering when it was really unimportant? And why do the things we eventually recognize as stupid continue to impact us even all these years later?” It was an earnest question, I really wanted to know and my plea for an explanation was plain on my face.

He smiled slyly and shrugged one shoulder before taking another drink. “At that age there’s no perspective; few people have experienced at 17 what they have experienced at 40. It only continues to impact us if we let it, but it takes work to slough off those scars.”

I took another swallow of my beer and dropped my head back against the cushions, closing my eyes and trying to imagine what the evening would be like. It was my 20 year reunion and the idea of seeing people who had either ignored me, or who had been downright mean, was enough to tie my stomach into knots. Wes had agreed to go along as my date even though he graduated the year after me, but it was a small town and he knew everyone from my class.

“Come on, get up,” he said, rising to his feet and holding his hand out to me, “It’s time to start getting ready.”

I took his hand, letting him haul me to my feet and push me toward the bathroom to shower. As the water poured over me my mind wandered in every crazy paranoid direction it could find, refusing to see that we were all adults now and no one was going to throw gum in my hair again.

As I slipped into the new dress I’d bought just for the occasion I sipped at my beer in an attempt to calm my racing heart. Make-up applied, jewelry carefully selected and hair done I emerged with a deep breath. Wes was leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets with one foot crossed over the other, looking stunningly handsome in his tux. My movement caught his attention and he turned his attention to me, a smile spreading slowly across his face, and I felt like I was finally going to prom.

“You look very handsome,” I said, my heels clicking on the wood floor as I crossed the living room to throw my beer bottle away.

“As do you,” he replied, taking my hands and holding my arms out to the sides to boldly get a better look at me. “You ready?” he asked, pressing a kiss on the back of each hand.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” I answered, taking a deep breath.

We walked out to his car and made our way to the Tanaya Lodge where my classmates were waiting, and as I climbed out of the car I braced myself in the face of learning if high school ever really ends.

Compass Rose

She was barely tall enough to see over the railing, having to stand on piles of coiled rope to get a glimpse of the sea. Her hair was bound at the base of her neck with a satin ribbon, the long strawberry blonde curls bouncing with each touch of wind, and the heavy layers of her pink dress billowed around her legs.

The sound of the Captain’s door opening drew her attention and she eagerly hopped to the deck, her hard soled shoes clip-clopping across the planks as she ran toward the bridge deck where Captain Harris unrolled his maps, gathering her skirts and trotting up the stairs. Captain Harris saw her coming and smiled, stepping to the side to make room for her, lifting her onto a box so she could see the maps.

Staring with wide blue eyes, she watched as Captain Harris pulled a small, round brass object from his pocket, opening its lid and peering at the bobbing needle within.

“What’s that?” she asked, excitement plain in her songbird voice.

“It’s a compass, Rose.” He answered, lowering it so she could see it more clearly. “That needle inside always points north, so no matter where we are we can always find our way home.” It had been strange at first having a child on the ship, let alone a female one, and it had taken some smooth talking to get the crew to accept her and not think of her as bad luck. But now, three weeks into their journey, he had become quite fond of the little girl.

Rose was betrothed to a foreign Duke who was at least twenty years her senior. The arrangement, while none of the Captain’s business, set his dander up. What kind of parent was so eager to be rid of their child as to send them off to be married before the blush of womanhood was upon her?

Captain Harris sat the compass on Rose’s small palm, watching her eyes light up as the needle bounced and danced under the crystal, and she looked excitedly from the compass to the Captain’s face and back again. He couldn’t help but smile at her unabashed enthusiasm.

Shouting erupted from the crow’s nest and everyone looked up to find the crewman posted pointing to port and shouting pirates. Chaos engulfed the ship, men running to and fro to prepare for a possible battle.

“Hold onto that, little one,” Captain Harris said, scooping Rose up and running down the stairs, ducking into his own cabin and depositing her behind his desk. “Stay here,” he said as he made his way toward the door, “And don’t come out no matter what you hear.”

Rose crawled under the desk and pulled her knees up, wrapping her arms around her legs and squeezing the compass tight. The sounds of yelling, gunfire and tromping boots overhead created a cacophony of noise that made her head hurt, but slowly the noise eased until only the creak of the hull filled the air.

Trepidatiously Rose crawled from beneath the desk, climbing to her feet and walking to the door. Grasping the brass handle she turned it and pulled the heavy wooden door open, letting out a startled scream when she was roughly grabbed and hauled onto the main deck before being dropped unceremoniously at the feet of a stranger. Opening her hands to break her fall, the compass hit the deck and rolled, stopping when it met the black leather of the stranger’s boots.

Rose looked up into the deeply lined face of who she could only assume was the pirate captain. He wore a red scarf on his head that matched the sash at his waist, gold embroidered breeches and tunic hung on his thin frame as though made for someone else, which they undoubtedly had been.

Reaching out to reclaim the compass, the pirate Captain bent down and snatched it away from her, laughing when she glared up at him. Climbing to her feet Rose seethed at him, oblivious to the sea of pirates surrounding her and the ship’s crew.

“Give that back,” Rose ordered, her tiny hands fisted at her sides. “That doesn’t belong to you.”

The Pirate Captain laughed, “You hear that boys, it doesn’t belong to me.” His mocking tone made Rose’s blood feel like fire in her veins. He bent down to be at eye level with her, his breath rank with whiskey and rot, “But that’s never mattered much to me.”

A smile spread across Rose’s face, slow and sinister, and it was enough to back the Pirate Captain up a step. The calm wind that had been steadily blowing picked up, but only on the deck where they stood, the ocean swells remained small and didn’t break. Rose slowly opened her arms wide, her little fingers flexed straight out and palms up, seeming to will the wind into action.

The Pirate Captain shouted an order to one of his crew, pointing at Rose as he spoke, his words lost to the wind. With a nod the crewman drew his sword and pushed his way through the wind, his menacing snarl paling in comparison to Rose’s and with one quick motion of her hand the blade of his sword curled up like burned parchment.

Captain Harris watched wide eyed as Rose fended off every armed man who tried to cut her down, their weapons twisting, torquing and melting at her command. It only took a few minutes before the men fled back to their own ship, and as their Captain stated to move Rose stopped him with a look, holding her small hand out to him.

As though approaching an unpredictable animal he stretched his arm out as long as it would go and gently sat the compass in her hand, backing away as Rose curled her fingers around it. The pirates scrambled away, severed the ropes that bound the two ships together and made a hasty departure.

As their ship made its way toward the horizon, Rose turned to Captain Harris and smiled sweetly, holding the compass out to him, “Now we can get home.”