Chapter Text
It was the screams that told Isabeau her luck was about to change for the worst. And that was a feat, since she was pretty sure her luck had already hit rock bottom.
The guy in the cell next to her, barely a few years older than her, if even that, began to whimper in terror, his fingers tugging at dirty red hair. The wrinkled old man with him started muttering prayers under his breath, the gaps of missing teeth flashing every now and then.
Pretty sure that's not gonna help anyone, dude. Isabeau sighed, then grimaced when her ribs protested the movement. The nasty bruise from the officer's boot would take a while to heal, especially since he hadn't bothered holding back when he'd literally kicked her into the cell.
Asshole. I hope he was one of the ones that screamed like a little girl.
Despite the tone of her thoughts, Isabeau was worried. Whoever had boarded the Victorious were going through the crew with lightning speed, and nothing outside gave away any hints of who the attackers were. For all she knew, they'd be worse than the British she found herself prisoner of.
Great. This day really can get worse. I honestly didn't think it could.
There was a couple of loud crashes up above, and a distinct sound of crackling that sent tendrils of alarm snaking down her limbs.
Fire. I smell fire.
Cinders began to float down through the cracks in the boards and she struggled to keep the primal part of her brain from sending her into a panic.
The younger guy apparently had less control and suddenly threw himself at the bars with a loud crash, screaming at the top of his lungs. The old man tried to calm him, to keep him quiet, but he was thrown off.
Mere seconds later, slow footsteps began to thump heavily down the stairs to the brig.
The screaming man instantly quieted, staring up at the deck above in horror.
Isabeau looked up from where she sat curled in the corner, surprised by the prickle of unease that skittered with spider legs across her nape.
Whatever was coming their way wasn't anything good.
All three of them froze as boots suddenly appeared at the top of the stairs, slowly descending to show a large man leaning heavily on a cane as he made his way down the steps.
It wasn't his sheer, intimidating size that made Isabeau's breath freeze in her lungs.
It was the way his hair wafted around his head in a halo of black strands, like he was underwater.
It was how flakes of ash floated in his wake whenever he moved.
It was his burnt and decrepit uniform, shifting and following his movements in a way that wasn't natural.
It was the grey skin, covered in ashen cracks and the splintered skull with sharp, jagged edges of bone.
It was the burning amber eyes, almost glowing with their brilliance in the dark.
They all stood staring at each other for a brief second, then the man was joined by more men, men that had similar appearances of unnaturalness.
Isabeau was grateful she was already sitting down, else she would have collapsed on the floor.
They had walked through the walls. They had simply walked the walls, as if it'd been empty space.
What...the fuck…
The old man next to her began to moan his prayers, a note of bleakness in his tone that said he knew he was about to die.
Isabeau wasn’t feeling much more optimistic, but she had bigger things to worry about. Such as why the apparent leader of the ghostly horde was now staring directly at her, and he hadn’t blinked since he’d spotted her.
In her short experience in an 18th century world, she’d come to the quick realization that women were simple commodities to be acquired, to be seen and not heard. To actually have intelligence as a woman was considered unnatural, a short step from being pronounced a witch or insane.
So the fact that any man, not merely a ghostly one, was staring at her with such unnerving focus was not a good thing.
She bit her lip, blood seeping on her tongue in an effort not to snap at the man to ask what he was looking at.
The older man’s moaning grew louder, the other man trying to figure out if he was going to fight while there was a distinct stain on the front of his pants, his blue eyes wide with terror.
Apparently, the imposing figure staring at her had had enough. A slight jerk of his head towards the other two prisoners and one of the ghostly apparitions behind him stepped forward, through the cell bars, and thrust a corroded sword straight through the moaning inmate.
Silence instantly echoed through the brig following the thud of his body.
And still the man continued to stare at her, making her skin itch under his perusal, making her want to curl into herself to hide from his burning gaze.
Finally, he stepped forwards, and no, she hadn’t been imagining things.
His entire body passed through the iron bars, sliding through them only a faint resistance and leaving them sizzling and smoking in his wake.
Definitely not human, definitely not human!
Isabeau pressed backwards into the corner, curling tighter as the man or whatever he was continued to move towards her with slow, steady steps. She kept her eyes lowered, so as not to seem as a challenge, and was surprised to find him crouching in front of her.
She squeezed further into the corner, bracing herself for another boot, or possibly a hand, when she heard a deep voice rumble, “Look at me.”
It should have sounded like rocks grinding together, as deep as his baritone was, but instead it sounded like liquid honey, like the purr of a lover, his accent making it roll through the air like music. She could hear a gravelly rasp to it that only added a smoky flavor, making her skin shiver and tingle in the wake of the sound.
Carefully, she slid her eyes up, taking in the once elegant uniform that still flattered his powerful body with its faded stripes, the tattered cravat that floated and swayed in a nonexistent breeze, until her gaze landed on a face that would haunt her dreams.
She sucked in a quick breath, surprised by how utterly handsome the ghostly man was, even in death. Her eyes skimmed over strong, mature features of a male in his prime, who would have been beyond devastating had he been alive.
Nor had he missed her interest, something flaring visibly in those burning amber eyes that made her swallow convulsively.
The man straightened, towering over her, and turned to gesture at another of the men that accompanied him, one with an eyepatch over one side of his face.
Unfortunately, the other inmate still alive had apparently found his courage, if not his brains.
He slammed his hands into the bars, one of his fingers crooked as if he’d broken it, and sneered at the man standing in front of her, “What use do you have of some whore, Spanish dog? You can’t-”
He never got to finish before the man whirled and his hand flashed out, instantly wrapping around the inmate’s throat. He was lifted off his feet in a frightening display of strength, while the man in the striped coat hissed, “She’s mine, and you would do well to remember that.”
Isabeau honestly thought he was going to kill him, but instead he only held him for a few seconds more, just long enough to make sure his point got across, then dropped him, leaving the man in a crumpled heap on the filthy floor.
Wait. What does he mean, “she’s mine”?
“Moss, bring him.” The man before her whirled around with blazing speed, reaching down to grab her arm and hauled her to her feet.
Isabeau gasped at the feel of his icy fingers on her arm, as unbreakable as any manacle, before she was dragged after him.
One of his men broke the cell lock and he continued to yank her along, making her ribs scream in protest.
“...wait,” she gasped as he headed towards the stairs. “Wait!”
She threw herself backwards, no mean feat when her weight was being continuously dragged forwards, and the man holding her whipped around to glare at her, his eyes a burning crimson.
“I will not wait, chica. You are my prisoner now, and I do not wait for prisoners!”
Prisoner. That hated word burned in her gut. She’d heard it more over the past few days than she ever cared to again, along with a good many more slurs against her simply for her gender.
Fury made her hiss up at his face, “I’m not your fucking prisoner, now let - go of me!”
With a burst of frantic strength, she managed to wrench free of his grip, which had slackened a hair in his surprise at her outburst.
She turned and bared her teeth in a snarl at the one-eyed ghost that stepped in front of her. His eye flickered over her shoulder and he moved out of her way, staring at her with such hostility that her anger faltered.
Two others paused in the act of dragging the unconscious man out of his cell, his dirty red hair hanging lank about his face.
Isabeau shuddered, glad she hadn’t been put in the cell with him, and limped towards the room where her bags had been carelessly tossed. Sighing at the sight of her clothes thrown haphazardly on the bench, she closed her eyes wearily, just wishing this day had never begun.
She heard wheezing breaths behind her and knew that the man had followed her. The one who had claimed her as his prisoner. The one who stared at her with uncomfortable intensity.
Squeezing her eyes harder before opening them, she stepped forwards and began picking up her things, the smell of smoke gradually growing stronger.
“You are not English. What are you doing in an English cell?” the man asked suspiciously, stepping around to peer curiously at her belongings before swinging his gaze back to her.
“You wouldn’t believe me even if I told you,” she muttered, then finally couldn’t take it anymore and pulled her shirt over her head, not caring if she was being watched or not.
She heard a wheezed curse and felt her face burn in embarrassment, then quickly grabbed another of her shirts and slipped it on.
Grabbing the rest of her things and tossing the strap on her big bag over her shoulder, she turned to see the man had given her his back out of some form of courtesy.
Claiming her as his prisoner or not, she appreciated the gesture.
“I don’t even know your name.”
He turned to face her, his stance proud even with his slightly hunched back. “Capitán Armando Antón Salazar de Estrada. And yours, chica?”
A spark drifted down from the ceiling and she sidestepped it warily, suddenly realizing just where they were. And what was happening to the Victorious. “Isabeau Revanne. Okay, fine, I’m your prisoner, take me to your brig.”
She’d been trying to expedite matters to get off the burning hulk, but apparently the only thing she’d managed to expedite was Capitán Salazar’s temper.
He stepped forwards, towering over her even without a straightened spine, and glared down at her. “Sí, you are my prisoner, and prisoners should know their place.”
Isabeau swallowed as she struggled not to stare at his face. “My place is in your brig, isn’t it?”
Salazar stared at her for a good long minute, making her grow more and more nervous as heat began to filter down to the room, before he suddenly smiled.
It was a smile that made her extremely uneasy.
“Perhaps I have another purpose for you. Your companion in the brig had a good idea, no?”
Her companion? Wait, the one who had called her a-
“I’m not a whore!” Isabeau spat indignantly, gritting her teeth in outrage at the suggestion. She’d been called worse since she’d been tossed into that cell, but honestly, she’d somehow been under the impression that Capitán Salazar was different.
His burning gaze flickered over her, taking in her clothes that must seem incredibly strange to him. “That remains to be seen.”
Both their attentions jerked upwards at a loud crash, but Salazar was quicker to recover.
Isabeau yelped as she was suddenly lifted into the air, wheezing as a broad shoulder was wedged into her stomach.
Salazar turned and snapped an order, one of his men slinking forwards to pick up her belongings.
Clinging to the back of his coat, Isabeau struggled to breath as she was carried along.
Salazar paused at the top of the stairs before moving over to the railing.
What is he-
Her thought vanished as he leapt over the railing, the sudden shock of it sucking the scream right out of her throat as she saw pitch-black water rushing towards her.
She squeezed her eyes shut, only to feel herself suddenly jolt to a stop.
Confused, she cracked open one eye, then both went wide in shock as she still saw water beneath her, yet it wasn’t getting any closer.
Salazar was walking on water. He was walking on water.
An explosion of fire and noise drew her attention away from this new knowledge and she hissed in pain when one chunk of burning debris grazed her arm.
Salazar instantly jerked to the side, swinging her out of the way of another piece of debris before breaking into a run.
Another explosion and she looked up to see a cannon sailing straight towards them. “Look out!”
The massive metal construct whistled by them as Salazar swerved at her warning, his pace increasing to a lithe run as he put distance between them and the exploding wreck of the Victorious.
Finally, he began to slow down to a rolling jog, then coiled his big body into a crouch before springing upwards.
They landed lightly on the deck of a rotting hulk of a ship, a vessel twice the size of the one she’d been on, if not bigger, but all she caught was a quick glimpse, catching sight of the red-haired man sprawled on the deck where he’d been dropped before Salazar turned and carried her down a corridor,
Indignation began to fuel a burning strength. She’d spent the last several days locked in a cell, she’d woken up in this hell hole of a time period with no warning, she had no idea how to get back, and for the icing on the fucking cake, she had been kidnapped by a stupidly handsome ghost whose intentions she didn’t have the slightest clue about.
And she was tired of feeling his shoulder digging into her stomach!
“Put. Me. Down!” Isabeau thrashed and threw herself back against his restraining arm, ignoring the screaming in her ribs at the sudden movement.
Salazar grunted at her unexpected struggling, then shoved his way through a door, slamming it closed behind him.
Isabeau found herself flung into the air with a squeal and she flailed wildly before landing on something plush and slightly lumpy. She laid there for a second, sucking air into her lungs as her bruised stomach ached, then carefully sat upright, staring at the ghostly captain warily.
But to her confusion, he wasn’t looking at her face. Instead, his gaze was somewhere lower, and she glanced down in alarm, only to see that her shirt had ridden up when she’d been tossed onto the settee. And the bootprint bruised into her ribs was clearly visible.
“Which one?”
Isabeau’s attention flashed back to Salazar, his deep voice ominously quiet, rage turning his irises a bloody crimson. Black blood ran down his chin as he bared his teeth in a snarl. “Which one?!”
Slowly, she inched her shirt down to cover the bruises. “One of the officers. I’m pretty sure he’s dead now.”
Sanguine eyes flicked to her face. “Did he touch you - anywhere else?”
She quickly shook her head, even as she wondered why the mere thought of it enraged him. Surely such a thing was commonplace in this time period.
Salazar made a noise in his throat, almost a growl, his face still stern and unyielding in his anger. His fist tightened around the hilt of his rapier, which she just now noticed was still gripped in his hand.
Isabeau edged backwards along the settee warily, then yelped in alarm when he lifted it up and plunged the tip into the floor with a loud thud, the blade quivering from the force of the blow.
They were both frozen for a second, then Salazar straightened and sent her a harsh glare. “Do not move.”
And with the ominous implications of what would happen if she didn’t obey his orders hanging in the air, he whirled and walked through the door without opening it, leaving wisps of ash trailing behind him.
Isabeau didn’t feel like moving from her spot on the settee. She had seen how deep the blade had plunged into the floorboards and felt it was wise not to incite the captain’s temper. Though that didn’t stop her curiosity from lifting its head and creating questions about the man.
She didn’t realize that she’d dozed off until she felt weight depress the cushions next to her.
Something cool was spreading soothing bliss over the aching bruise on her side, making the pain fade to a background hum.
She cracked open bleary eyes to see a man sitting next to her, huge and imposing, yet his touch was gentle as he feathered calloused fingers over her skin.
“Thank you.”
Salazar paused at her words, then resumed rubbing whatever it was into her bruise. “You are welcome.”
Isabeau was quiet for a second, watching him groggily before blurting, “Why are you helping me?”
This time he didn’t pause, merely pulled away for a second to wipe his fingers off on a rag. “You are my prisoner, therefore my responsibility.”
She couldn’t help but be fascinated by his smooth, efficient movements, the complete unnaturalness to him. He shouldn’t exist, but here he was. Still, questions continued to bounce around in her mind.
“Why did you bring that other man too?”
He chuckled ominously as he suddenly leaned over her, those eerie eyes fixed on her face. “Because I always leave one man alive to tell of me. And since I’m not letting you go, I needed someone else.”
She swallowed nervously as she felt his fingers stroke her hair back behind her ear, felt his weight depress the cushions around her. “What do you mean, you’re not letting me go?”
His hand slid under the back of her skull, huge and powerful against the bone, and he held her still as he leaned closer. His hair flowed downwards to tickle her cheeks when he stopped, his nose almost touching hers. A black grin spread across his lips. “You’re mine, now. And I don’t let go of what is mine.”