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There was one lesson Sakharine had known since before conscious memory: ‘Your ancestors were the most relentless pirates of their age. You take what you want.’ A skill for profiteering ran through his blood. It evolved over generations from pure piracy to the blade-sharp efficiency of illegal dealings. The family business was run in perfect counter to the bright and empty glamour of untouchable society. Sakharine was born to fit this duality, and he played the part with finesse.
Sakharine learned a personal version of history at his grandfather’s knee. He picked up old grudges that went so deep they saturated his blood. It wasn’t enough to watch while bad luck and personal vices destroyed the line of Sir Francis Haddock. They had helped through the years to smother opportunity and hope, thinning the Haddock bloodline down to almost nothing while searching for clues to the location of plunder that was once rightfully theirs. More overt actions would have their consequences, at least when taken against men who had somehow carved out a respected name in spite of their interference.
Watching his parents taught him more than any other manner of schooling. They brought him to know the clean carnage of a business deal as well as the more sordid trades that had lifted the family to the success they now enjoyed.
His parents were as ruthless as any Rackham could ever aspire to be, and more. They were both of them hard, polished, carving an impenetrable niche for themselves. They developed a reputation as patrons of the arts to counter darker rumors. Sakharine’s father (bless his black heart but he had only married into the Rackham bloodline), had called it putting a good face forward.
It was his mother who had taught by example many of the lessons Sakharine now based his life on. Never go unarmed. Always trust others to have their own best interests at heart. And, when he father tried to explain the businessman’s creed, ‘every man has his price,’ she refined it. Every man has not only his price, but also his currency. Some think they are above being bought with easy coin, but there will always be favors or even threats they cannot turn down.
In another life she might have been a pirate herself. A ruthless woman with a vicious streak that ran deep. She would not hesitate to utterly destroy anyone who threatened her success or her family. She was immovable and perfect as a marble statue, and Sakharine loved her dearly.
She encouraged his interest in fencing, and from the sport Sakharine gained a great deal more than physical prowess. The quick and merciless nature of the duel became a spiritual lesson as well, applied to other areas of his life. It was easy to think of each conquest as a well-placed final thrust. It also inspired him to bring his own sword with him, keeping it hidden in his cane and using the unexpected blade to better effect than he would have achieved waving a gun.
Following his mother’s lessons, Sakharine purged easily manipulated desires from his life. Model ships were the only private passion Sakharine allowed himself. It was a personal quirk, his close-kept weakness for beauty. His tastes could never be matched by easily-forged art, the cold glitter of precious stones, or the vapid emptiness of people. Only model ships tickled his fancy.
How could they not please him? Those tiny models, the best of them many times more rich in detail than the lives of the dull people who surround him, were designed for beauty. He had rapturously admired hulls polished smooth as taut silk, with brass and copper fittings that gleamed with golden fire in the light. He had often built for himself the intricate lace of rigging, and expertly arranged those pristine white sails. He had even coveted the nymph-like delicacy of carved figureheads.
A real ship, in contrast, could never be so beautiful. Never mind the metal hulks of modern tankers. Even the elegant ships of old would see their curved hulls crusted with barnacles, their white sails tattered and stained. A real ship soon become a tarnished and moldering tub swarming with filthy sailors. Real beauty had to be kept safe on a shelf, tucked away in a bottle, or locked securely inside a glass case where it could never be touched.
Since the family grudge began on the Unicorn, perhaps it was poetic justice that Sakharine’s own hunt began on a model of that ship. He found it when the original Haddock estate went up for auction, seized by creditors after standing long vacant. There was something delicious about snapping up the property. It was his chance to strike his own blow against his family’s age-old enemies. There, among the effects included in the estate, he had found the model. It might have been built specifically for a man of his tastes.
He recognized it as the Unicorn at once. The ship’s history was ingrained in his mind since childhood. For something supposedly made by Sir Francis, it was uncommonly beautiful, fine and precise in every detail. Hard to believe it was the work of a half-mad drunkard. Beyond Sakharine’s initial assessment, there was only one small detail that bothered him.
It took some time for him to realize the problem. The main mast was just slightly fore of its proper place. Once he had realized that, Sakharine had to fix it. He didn’t care for the history or value of the ship (it almost made him doubt the authenticity, because how could Sir Francis have made such a mistake on his own ship with hands steady enough for such intricate work?), he only wanted it to be right.
The delicate work of shifting the mast was surprisingly easy, as if it had been designed to be moved. In the repair he discovered something else, something that would drive him to search beyond the truths he had always known about his family history. The scroll.
The Old Street Market was bustling with activity, crowds loitering around temporary stalls and forcing Sakharine to move slowly as he searched.
For weeks he had been engaged in ferreting out information on the Unicorn, the Haddocks, and what little the history books allowed to Red Rackham. There was little to be found that he hadn’t learned at his late grandfather’s knee, but enough to put together the pieces he needed.
There would be two more scrolls, in two identical models of the Unicorn. One had been easy to find, if not to obtain, the centerpiece in a famous collection. The other somehow eluded him time and again. It had passed from collector to dealer and back again like a bit of flotsam over the years. When he finally traced it to a pair of local antique dealers, the Bird brothers, he found they had gotten rid of it only days earlier in a lot of undesirable merchandise they had offloaded wholesale to a less well-appointed shop.
That move led him here, now only a few steps behind the slippery model’s progress. He had taken a personal interest in the matter, sure that his trained eyes would pick out the Unicorn faster than anyone he could send.
Strange, then, that the first thing to catch his eye was not the elusive model ship. Instead Sakharine’s eye fell on a young man among the crowd, and for a moment he caught himself studying the stranger. There was something about him that drew Sakharine’s attention. It might have been nothing more than his bright ginger hair, which stuck up in a whimsical quiff.
Sakharine had a certain appreciation–it couldn’t properly be called a weakness if he didn’t indulge–for young men, and this one was undeniably attractive. It wouldn’t hurt to take just a moment to appreciate the sight.
The young man crouched to take a better look at a collection of books piled on an old blanket, absentmindedly petting the little white dog at his knee. Even in profile he had an easy smile, careless and open with the confidence of youth, but that was not the only hint of confidence he showed. Sakharine could tell the youth had a slight build hidden under his coat, but he held himself with a self-possession many older men failed to acquire. Those few that did never seemed to carry themselves in such an appealing manner.
When the youth rose and moved on through the crowd, Sakharine’s eyes followed. He traced the retreating form with his eyes before turning his attention back to the search.
He needed to be going in the same direction anyway. It was mere coincidence if he followed the same path as the ginger-haired youth while he looked for the seller that had acquired his model ship. A look, now and again as he scanned stalls on either side, was unavoidable. The boy undeniably drew the eye.
Tidily short hair exposed the curved shells of his ears and the smooth skin of neck and jaw to Sakharine’s eyes. A turn of the head, and Sakharine was close enough now to glimpse a dusting of light freckles across his cheek. The more times he let his gaze flick over the youth he was coincidentally following, the more Sakharine wanted to dig deeper, to unearth secret details.
Just as Sakharine was drawing level, the young man stepped out of the main thoroughfare to greet a friend of his. Or rather, two identical mustachioed men he greeted as detectives before they shushed him. Sakharine’s attention sharpened for a moment, but they didn’t seem to notice him. They likely weren’t connected to a certain detective who had been dogging Sakharine’s business as of late, meddling in his affairs.
At the moment, the most important of those affairs would be securing a certain model ship before it disappeared again. With that in mind, Sakharine let the boy go and continued his search.
It took several more minutes to make his way around the west side of the market, stopping to inspect a mess of clutter that contained a handful of small model ships, but none of them the Unicorn. The seller was no help whatsoever, insisting that he wouldn’t find a finer model anywhere else in the market and wasting precious minutes.
Those few minutes, as it turned out, made all the difference.
The first thing he spotted was a far less benign police presence. Barnaby Dawes, the same interfering FBI agent who had been trying so hard in the last few months to give him trouble, was here already. Sakharine knew his interest in the Unicorn models had been picked up by the investigation, but he had never expected Barnaby to track them this far so quickly.
Opposite the agent was the same youth Sakharine had been admiring only minutes before. And in that boy’s hands was his missing Unicorn. Would wonders never cease?
Barnaby spied him over the boy’s shoulder and practically bolted, abandoning his young friend.
“What people?” The boy’s question went unanswered by the retreating agent.
Up close he was even more of a beauty. Sakharine drew near enough to see down the collar of his coat, eyeing a few hidden freckles at the back of the boy’s neck.
“Wonderful! Oh, it’s just wonderful,” he was speaking of the boy who had nearly backed into him, which would not have been entirely unwelcome, as much as the ship itself.
Lovely, but also an obstacle. This boy was holding the Unicorn, after all, and might mean to buy it. Sakharine would have to discourage him.
“Don’t bother wrapping it, I’ll take it as is. Does anybody object if I pay by check?”
His attempt to muscle the ship into his own possession was met with a confirmation of exactly what he had been afraid of. “If you want to buy it, you’ll have to talk to the kid.” He’d been just a moment too late. The Unicorn had already changed hands once again.
“I see.” Sakharine transferred his attention completely to the young man in front of him. He was met with uncommonly fine features, from bright eyes to a cutely rounded little nose. Maybe it was only beauty, or the close proximity of his goal, that put him in the mood to be generous rather than trying to haggle or threaten. “Well, let the ‘kid’ name his price.”
The offer caused some consternation for the original seller, but Sakharine couldn’t bring himself to care.
“I’m sorry,” the boy refused, not batting an eye at the offer. “I already explained to the other gentleman.” Barnaby. ‘All hair oil and no socks’ was an accurate enough description, but more importantly it seemed the boy wasn’t acquainted with the meddling agent. All the better for him. “It’s not for sale.”
“Then let me appeal to your better nature. I have recently acquired Marlinspike Hall, and this ship, as I’m sure you’re aware, was once part of the estate.”
“Of the late sea captain,” the boy offered.
Sakharine found it most pleasant to have those bright eyes fixed on him as he outlined a bit of the Haddock’s family history, the publicly shaming bits. The boy was obviously interested, listening intently even as Sakharine moved closer.
There was a temptation to put his hands over the boy’s where he held the model. There was no need to physically intimidate. He just wanted an excuse to touch. He was sure of victory. With the boy watching him so seriously, surely he would give in.
“I’m sorry,” he interrupted, right as Sakharine was getting into it. “But as I told you before, it’s not for sale.”
And then he hugged the ship to himself, cradling the hull in his hands as if he knew Sakharine meant to take it from him by force. Sakharine was momentarily struck dumb by the sight.
“Good day to you, sir,” he said, firmly. With that he went on his way, leaving Sakharine once again watching his back.
“That young man, what’s his name?” Sakharine was aware of his own voice coming out hard as a clenched fist. Once again the second Unicorn had slipped right through his fingers.
“Him? Everybody knows him. That’s Tintin.”
Tintin. The name suited its brash owner.
Sakharine watched until Tintin was completely out of sight among the crowds. This would not be their last meeting, not by a long shot. He wouldn’t allow either the ship or its new owner to get away so easily.
It was easy enough to have the second model of the Unicorn stolen from an unguarded flat. Sakharine had been more than generous, perhaps swayed by that pretty face when he offered the ginger-haired youth a chance to name his price. He would have the Unicorn either way.
He had been surprised when Tintin refused his offer, though. He couldn’t know the secret, or he should have taken more care in where he left the model. He might be one of those irritating people who only wanted something more because it was desired by others, becoming more stubborn the more he was offered. Or perhaps, a small part of Sakharine’s mind suggested, perhaps he was simply taken with the model’s beauty.
Tintin had actually hugged the Unicorn against his chest when he refused to sell. It was a vision that kept returning to Sakharine’s mind. A beauty holding a beauty. Unforgettable.
It occurred to him, in the scant time he needed to wait for the second Unicorn to be delivered into his hands, that he might delicately remove the hidden scroll as he had done for his model. With a little care he could repair the mast with a near-invisible seam. If Tintin loved the model that badly, it could easily be returned to him. He need never know the scroll had been removed.
Tintin could have the model. Already Sakharine was beginning to make plans. He could call on Tintin to press him over the sale, perhaps invite him to see the identical Unicorn and appreciate the rest of his collection. What a delicious world it would be if he could use his first love to seduce this intriguing new beauty he had found.
The world was never so good as optimism insisted it should be. While he was spinning fantasies in the clouds, Tintin had lost no time in breaking the mast and removing the scroll. Obviously he knew far more than he was letting on.
Sakharine could barely even hear his bumbling henchmen trying to babble out excuses. It was like that when they found it, exactly like that, they didn’t do it.
He could almost feel warmth under his fingers, the imprint of Tintin’s hands when he had cradled that same smooth hull scarcely an hour ago. How had a beautiful young face blinded him so?
Unthinking, Sakharine smashed the model of the Unicorn to the floor. He brought down one heel square in the center, slamming his full weight into the deck. The model might be masterfully made, but it was old and delicate, not meant to be put to such abuse. Wood cracked and splintered, decks caved, the hull split, and the Unicorn was crushed in two.
Heavy silence fell. Sakharine stared down at the wreck of the Unicorn, sickened by his sudden lack of self control. The bow had tilted back under the onslaught, raising its tiny figurehead as if to stare reproachfully at him for what he had done.
At least it was only a copy he had destroyed, one of three. As long as his own Unicorn was still safe in its glass case, the other two were expendable. He might have liked. . . but no. He must forget that insane burst of infatuation and return to the most pressing and profitable business at hand.
“He’s already taken the scroll. Go back and search his rooms! He hasn’t had long to hide it.”
It was at least pleasing to have the antsy men jump to his bidding. They were eager to be out of his presence. Sakharine allowed himself one last moment to gaze down at his handiwork. Tintin would end up like this if he continued to tread on Sakharine’s turf. Even the most beautiful things were not immune to an ugly death.
“Nestor,” he snapped, knowing that crazy old fool had to be lurking about somewhere, still serving the house even in its disuse and ruin. “Clean this up. I don’t want to see it again!”
He would have to move on to other business himself. There were other, less enticing noses than Tintin’s poking around in his business as of late. Barnaby had gone from a mere annoyance sniffing around his smuggling operations to trying to interfere in anything Sakharine set his hand to. Even today Sakharine’s henchmen had been unable to get close to Tintin after he left his flat because of that agent shadowing him.
It was time to flex his muscles a little, drop a few threats, and see what it took to make an FBI agent really sweat. After that it would only be a matter of time until Sakharine got his hands on exactly what he wanted.
The last thing he had expected was for Tintin to come to him. He was actually indignant enough over the theft of the second Unicorn model to break into the estate in search of it. ‘Brash’ was not strong enough to describe the boy.
For a moment he had worried that Tintin would discover the place where he had mended the mast, once he finally won his little tug-of-war with Nestor. The low light, or perhaps a lingering wooziness from the blow he had suffered to the head, was enough to camouflage any trace. Still, Sakharine wasn’t comfortable until the Unicorn out of Tintin’s hands and safely back in its case.
He had offered an explanation for the state of the mast on his own model at the same time. Perhaps it really had been an accident and the missing scroll would soon be retrieved from his flat. Or perhaps the young reporter had decided to pick up where Barnaby had left off. Sakharine had taken the time to do a little research of his own. Tintin had a reputation for digging up information on extralegal businesses and exposing or even destroying them.
At least Tintin had the decency to look properly shocked when he admitted, “This isn’t my ship.”
“No. Indeed.”
“I’m sorry. It looks identical.”
“Well, looks can be deceiving.” For example, Tintin managed to look so innocent, well-bred and neatly pressed, not the sort who would normally give him any sort of trouble. Sakharine slipped a hand under Tintin’s arm, drawing him away from the model lest he notice the near-invisible repairs.
“Yes, indeed,” Tintin agreed. He looked up at Sakharine, his sharp eyes and slightly furrowed brow hinting at what he really meant. It seemed he had some idea what might rest under Sakharine’s polished public persona.
The suspicion was quite charming. Already they were understanding each other, practically bonding. Sakharine tightened his grip with the intent to bring Tintin closer.
“But I don’t understand!” Tintin suddenly broke out of his grip, returning to circle the model as he poured out pointed questions. “Why did Sir Francis make two ships exactly alike? And you have one already. Why do you want another? What is it about this model that would cause someone to steal it?”
Sakharine moved to join Tintin in front of the model, wanting to corner his young ‘guest’ against the glass. So many questions. But was that just his nature as a reporter, or did he already know more than he should? How had he hit upon the idea to come and bait answers out of Sakharine himself? Where had he learned about the Haddock’s ‘curse?’ Sakharine had only implied that the Haddock’s bad luck was due to their own vices and failings. Tintin was surely sniffing around where he didn’t belong.
More irritating, he kept moving away every time Sakharine stepped close to him. He pushed Sakharine’s cane away from his neck as if the gesture was no more than an annoyance.
“I’m looking for answers, Mr. Sakharine.” Tintin remained cool, utterly unintimidated. Such cheeky behavior in anyone else would have been an invitation for Sakharine to use his cane. Instead the slight quirk of those plush lips seemed like an invitation for something else entirely.
“Are you sure you’re looking in the right place?”
Sakharine tapped the tip of his cane under Tintin’s chin in warning, which only made him lift his head with a sharp little breath of pride. Oh, but his bold attitude made him inviting, positively irresistible.
“Where would you suggest I look?”
“I suggest you stop looking,” Sakharine said, pacing closer until he was gazing down into Tintin’s face.
“And why,” Tintin challenged, “would I want to do that?”
Sakharine lay a firm hand on Tintin’s shoulder, offering up his most benevolent smile. Tintin glanced down at the hand, but otherwise didn’t shift.
“Why? Only for your own safety of course. You live alone, don’t you?” Sakharine’s voice dropped to a purr as he bent ever closer. It wasn’t a threat, not precisely. Not yet. “And you’ve already had some bandit make off with your property. Next time they may be after more than a cheap little model ship.”
“I suppose you have nothing to worry about yourself.”
“I think you saw tonight I am not quite so vulnerable.” Sakharine lifted his hand from Tintin’s shoulder, moving to cup his jaw as he stressed the last word.
The floor creaked as Tintin shifted his weight to his heels, but he was obviously determined not to flinch back from Sakharine.
“I would hate to see anything unpleasant happen to such a fine young man.” As he said it, Sakharine realized it was true. The youth before him was terribly tempting, and he would hate to be forced into drastic measures to remove Tintin as he had other thorns in his side over the years. He would much rather continue to appreciate this rare beauty.
“And what makes you think something will happen?” Tintin jerked his chin out of Sakharine’s hand and paced sideways a few steps, but Sakharine only followed.
“Now, now. I’m only asking you to humor me, for my own peace of mind.” Sakharine caught at Tintin again, this time sliding his hand around to cup the back of the boy’s neck and pull him close enough to whisper in his ear. “You must know what happens to nosy little parkers who stick their necks out too far. Why don’t you tell me exactly what you’ve found out about the Unicorn, and I’ll see you stay out of harm’s way.”
Belatedly he realized that Nestor was watching him. The man was a frustrating enigma, so silent it was easy to forget he was around. There had been something in his late master’s will asking him to look after Marlinspike’s next owner. There must have been some sort of salary involved, because Nestor had indeed stayed on, though how the creditors never laid claim to these set-aside funds Sakharine wasn’t sure. At the very least he made an impeccable butler, even as Marlinspike itself fell into disrepair.
Yet when Sakharine looked up he felt as if that silent stare was judging him. The crazy old butler, daring to judge him just for getting a little handsy with this young intruder. The thought made Sakharine grind his teeth.
Tintin took advantage of his distraction to pull away from his hand yet again. “Thank you, but I can take care of myself.”
Once again, Tintin was rejecting the most generous possible offer, hunting for something more. If he thought he could avoid playing by Sakharine’s rules he was terribly mistaken, and he was quickly burning through his chances to be on Sakharine’s good side.
“It’s late. I think you should go home.” Sakharine was still in control. If this confrontation wasn’t going where he wanted, he would end it.
Once again falling into the role of a proper butler, Nestor showed their young guest out. Sakharine was left with more questions about Tintin than answers, but if the scroll wasn’t in his possession within the hour, there would be more than one way to get the answers he wanted out of this nosy young reporter.
It hurt to breathe. His ribs were bruised, probably not broken unless adrenaline was masking more pain than he thought. He should have been getting his information back to Interpol and his own agency, getting himself to a doctor or safe house. Instead he was back on Labrador road.
Barnaby had been an agent since he was still young enough to go undercover as a cabin boy. This should have been a simple case, or as simple as months in deep cover could be. Sakharine might play a cultured aristocrat in the light, but he kept a firm hand on his less-than-legal dealings, and that made it possible to get evidence that he was directly involved in the smuggling that went on using his estate’s funds. The man was a cold-blooded snake, and Barnaby did not want to leave him with the slightest chance to slither free from the law.
So when Sakharine expressed a sudden interest in model ships, or in a very particular model ship, Barnaby had to investigate that as well. He was just seeking one more piece of evidence to lay on the pile.
He still didn’t know exactly what Sakharine was after. His cover had been blown, and he had to choose between keeping an eye on the kid or keeping a possibly worthless model ship out of Sakharine’s hands. Right now he was regretting not taking a third choice just smashing the thing back there in the Old Town Market. Maybe if he had he wouldn’t be in this position now.
His knee kept threatening to buckle under him. He felt the blow from that lead pipe with every step, but he had to keep going.
Scenes from the last hour kept flashing through his head. He was sure he’d endured worse blows, and seen worse than Sakharine standing over him like a bloody version of the grim reaper. He was just having trouble remembering what the worse might have been. Barnaby could swear the man dressed from head to toe in red just to intimidate.
And then there was the threat, whispered in a venomous hiss. “You don’t have to tell me anything about your colleagues. With you out of the way, it becomes much easier to. . . remove our young friend Tintin.”
Finally Barnaby reached the door to number twenty-six. He should have been getting off the street. There was a safe house he could still reach even with the pain biting at his knee and chest, but first he had to warn Tintin.
With Barnaby out of the way, it was simple to have Tintin delivered right into his hands. Just in time, as Sakharine needed to be on his way to capture the last model ship. This carefully crafted opportunity couldn’t be wasted.
Watching his two flunkies manhandle Tintin while going through his pockets put a tight, hot band around Sakharine’s chest. He was the first to notice the boy’s soft groan, the faint flutter of eyelashes as Tintin reached the boundary between unconscious and groggy. He drew close to the cage and brought Tintin fully awake with a sharp rap on the bars by his head.
He tried to question the boy, but all he got was unbearable sass from that far-too-innocent face. Eyes still cloudy from the chloroform, Tintin had made it very clear he knew exactly what his model of the Unicorn had been hiding before talking his way through a series of deductions, as if he didn’t already know far more than he was letting on.
Sakharine contained his urge to nick one of those apple-bright cheeks with his sword. What if he left a scar? He couldn’t bring himself to risk that face even in his temper. It would not be the same as taking a stab at some already-ugly bungler. Far more tempting to slap Tintin across the face, to put the red mark of his hand to that perfect skin, but that would have required him to lower himself to the same level of his rough henchmen.
“I will find it, with or without your help.” It was so easy to offer threats to that cheekily calm face, so easy to draw far closer to Tintin than he had meant to let himself get during his search.
He was already this close, why not take a more personal approach? Tintin wasn’t giving him answers, so he would see if he could find a few with his own hands.
Crouching at Tintin’s side, Sakharine slipped his cane-sword back into the sheath Tom was holding to have his hands free. For a moment his hands itched to brush over Tintin’s face, to feel that invitingly smooth skin. He dug his fingers under the starched collar of Tintin’s shirt instead, prompting a startled wiggle from his captive, so that he had to jerk Tintin forward by his shirt to keep looking.
There was nothing hidden around Tintin’s collar. Sakharine was very thorough in checking that. He ran fingers all the way around the underside of Tintin’s collar, and then dipped them down inside of Tintin’s shirt to be sure there was nothing underneath. His fingers encountered skin more warm and smooth than the most perfectly polished hull.
“You won’t find it on me.”
“I trust it won’t inconvenience you if I satisfy my curiosity.” Sakharine turned Tintin’s collar neatly down again and smoothed it with a gesture that soon had his hands moving across Tintin’s shoulders and down his arms. “After all, you won’t be leaving us until I have that scroll.”
He was aware of what Tintin intended to do even before the boy himself had finished thinking of the counter attack. The minute tensing of one knee, a faint preparatory breath and the tiniest shifting of weight, and Tintin might as well have shouted that he was thinking of kneeing Sakharine and kicking him off. A firm grab at the offending knee put a stop to that before Tintin could follow through.
“I would rather we settled this without resorting to violence.” Sakharine snapped his fingers at the two men still lurking behind him, watching. “You, hold his legs.”
Once Tintin couldn’t lash out with his feet, Sakharine yanked him to one side to get access to his arms. Tintin’s head clanged against the bars, though the noise he made was more one of surprise than pain.
“I thought you were doing this without violence.”
“Yes, it would be a shame to bruise your face.”
Sakharine freed one hand to cup Tintin’s cheek, while with his other he pulled at Tintin’s sleeves until he could search up inside the cuffs.
Tintin was watching him sidelong, lips pressed into a stubborn line and eyebrows drawn down. He seemed to think he was being mocked, but Sakharine didn’t care to explain. It was a good enough excuse to stroke Tintin’s round cheek, and for an instant he almost didn’t care if he found the scroll.
When he rolled Tintin’s sleeve back up before moving to the other side, it was more to run his hand along that lean, well-muscled forearm than to be tidy. The fine hairs on Tintin’s arm were so soft they barely tickled under his palm.
Switching hands, Sakharine was cradling Tintin’s face before he could even get close to hitting the bars a second time. How could he resist the feeling of skin like satin under his fingers? Unspoiled and taut as a model ship’s sail, yet begging to be touched. The constellations of freckles across Tintin’s cheeks were not imperfections, but enticing details of his beauty.
Not finding anything in Tintin’s sleeves meant he could move on. Hungry hands continued downward to untuck Tintin’s shirt and slide over his stomach and sides. Sakharine made a point to check all along the shirt’s hem for a tiny scrap of paper that might have been rolled up and sewn inside, but that certainly wasn’t all he was touching. Tintin’s stomach was so tight with tension it shivered invitingly under his hands. The more he fondled Tintin, the more he found lean muscle filling out that deceptively slight frame. Tintin was obviously used to using his body.
“What will it take to satisfy you that I don’t have it?”
If it was a question of satisfaction, there was more on his mind than an old scrap of paper at the moment. “Perhaps I should take all of your clothes and have them turned out.”
“I would prefer you didn’t. It’s rather cold in here.”
Allan coughed uncomfortably behind him, but Sakharine ignored the noise in favor of his fascinating conquest. Tintin still had spirit to spare. Sakharine actually appreciated the mischievous spark in Tintin’s eye. Even in his situation, he treated the exchange like a battle of wits, one that he still seemed to think he could win.
“Unless you want to be stripped, you might give me another location to search.”
Sakharine left off stroking the fine line of soft hair below Tintin’s bellybutton and dropped his hands to the boy’s plus fours. He started with the narrow belt, working his hands slowly around Tintin’s waist and feeling each belt loop for places the scroll might be hidden. He just might make good on his threat to strip Tintin even if he did get his hands on the scroll.
“I don’t know where the scroll is now. It was stolen from me.”
“Then you can tell me who stole it.”
“I don’t know,” Tintin insisted, still in that firm, level voice.
He was so stubbornly calm, it was absolutely fascinating. Sakharine had seen men twice Tintin’s age reduced to whimpering wreaks at no more provocation than captivity and a threat of violence. And yet Tintin wouldn’t give up a single scrap of information even to make Sakharine stop harassing him. He was determined to stay in the game.
Tintin wanted those answers so badly, maybe it was time to see how he reacted when offered a few.
“If someone really stole your property, surely you would want to see it returned. You must know you could give me the details and I would have your thief in a matter of hours.” Sakharine still had his hands wrapped around Tintin’s waist, transfixed by sharp green eyes. “One scroll alone is worthless. You know that. Combine them and you can have something worth all of this trouble.” The offer hung clear in the air between them. All Tintin needed to do was give up a little scrap of paper and he could have not just his freedom, but a partnership. How much could it really take to buy one young reporter?
“Thanks, but I can’t say I much like your methods.”
“I don’t think you’ve had a close enough look at my methods,” Sakharine countered. He moved to unfasten the fly of Tintin’s plus-fours, fingers sliding suggestively along the small flap of fabric and prompting a sharp intake of breath from Tintin.
“Um. . . Boss?” Tom shifted uncomfortably where he was holding Tintin’s ankles, edging as far away as the cage would allow. Sakharine had almost forgotten the man was there.
“Shut up.” His pride was already stinging with Tintin’s rejection. It was generous to allow Tintin to join him, outright gracious. He could take what he wanted by force, after all.
He abandoned the fly for a moment to rub both hands down over Tintin’s back pockets.
“Your men already searched there.”
“Not thoroughly enough.”
Sakharine dug his fingers into Tintin’s backside, enjoying the firm roundness under his hands. Even through cloth he was able to push two fingers up along Tintin’s crack. All he was looking for now was a reaction.
Tintin obliged him with a struggle and a startled yell. “What are you doing?”
“You expect me to believe you’re too innocent to think of hiding something here?”
Sakharine was finally enjoying himself when there was a second yell from his side. He glanced over to find Tintin had somehow managed to get Tom’s fingers trapped under his heel. In a second the fool had released him completely, and Tintin swung his legs around, using his knees to bludgeon Sakharine back.
Tom was staggering back against the bars of the cage, whining something about his poor crushed fingers. Sakharine ignored him, riveted on Tintin’s fierce face. He was obviously shocked, knees up to his chest to discourage Sakharine trying to search him further, but rather than whimpering or trying to shrink away he actually had the audacity to glare!
It was tempting to continue, but Sakharine would have this whole voyage to get what he wanted out of Tintin. Let the boy take a little time to think about his situation, consider the options he was being given.
There was no need to force Tintin to attend to him. The boy’s eyes were already riveted on his face, anticipating another attack. Sakharine would let him dwell on what would come next. “You need to think about exactly how useful you are to me.”
Sakharine retrieved his cane as he slipped out of the cage. Allan was holding his crewman’s hand, inspecting the abused fingers and chastising Tom to not be such a baby, so Sakharine had to slam the iron door behind himself. Tintin didn’t so much as flinch at the sound, though neither of the crew could remain so cool.
“It doesn’t matter how many times you ask, the answer is the same!” Tintin shouted after him, still defiant.
He was beautiful even with that stubborn little scowl on his face. Beautiful enough to be worth the time it took to get something interesting out of him. Sakharine found himself actually looking forward to the voyage with Tintin on board. For once traveling on this rusting tub held something intimately interesting.
With dark fantasies dancing through his head, Sakharine left Tintin to wait in the hold. “We’ll deal with him on the way.”
Sakharine had not bothered to catalog the personal vices of the vermin crew he had bought out. Knowing such things would be advantageous when dealing with someone on his level, but these were little more than hired thugs, mere tools at his disposal. Allan kept things in line well enough.
A petty criminal in his own right, Allan’s cutthroat tactics already had him running illegal cargo under Haddock’s nose when Sakharine found him. He would bite his master’s hand faster than any dog, and was the only one Sakharine bothered to watch. Even when promises of waiting treasure kept him in line as easily as a little extra coin kept the others happy, Sakharine had noted that Allan had weaknesses of his own. Specifically, he was one of few who never wasted his wages on feminine company. He turned his attentions instead to the man who followed him around the ship like a loyal dog. Allan’s ‘tastes’ such as they were, were disgustingly clear.
That knowledge sprang back into Sakharine’s mind when he gave Allan orders to break every bone in Tintin’s body if he had to. He was momentarily waylaid, having to order another bottle to keep Haddock out of the way. Couldn’t those idiots even keep a drunkard stocked with whiskey without constant reminders? Did he have to spell out every little thing?
If so, there was one thing he wanted to make perfectly clear. He stopped Allan by snagging him with the tip of his cane.
“Let me be blunt: I want you to hurt him. Do not molest him.”
Allan stared dumbly him. Had he not expected Sakharine to forbid it? That was exactly where Sakharine’s thoughts jumped. Tintin was so beautiful that even Sakharine found him fascinating and almost irresistible. Of course Allan would have given in to baser urges and violated him.
For an instant, Sakharine’s own base urges tempted him to unsheathe his blade and carve the command into Allan’s dumbstruck face.
“Bully him, flog him, break his clever little fingers, but do not molest him. Is that clear?”
“Sure. ‘S clear,” Allan agreed, backing away.
Sakharine let his murderous gaze speak the threats for him. Let Allan’s violent mind stew on what would happen to him if Tintin was spoiled.
“He’s one to talk,” Tom muttered. “I thought he was going to go at it right there in the hold.”
Allan hauled his lover away before Sakharine could punish that remark, grumbling at him to shut up.
Even with his idiot crew assigned to their work, Sakharine found he couldn’t concentrate. Tintin had slipped into his thoughts, and there Sakharine couldn’t be rid of him. He couldn’t even make up his mind to want to be rid of Tintin. His fingertips felt hypersensitive from simply brushing the boy’s skin. He closed his eyes and was greeted with a stubbornly beautiful face. He was quite aware that he had only made Tintin off limits because he wanted the youth for himself.
Of course, Tintin had turned down all offers to join Sakharine so far, the insolent child. His playing hard-to-get only made him more tempting. Threats had done nothing to dissuade him, but maybe a bit of pain would have him seeing the situation more clearly.
That was where Sakharine’s mind wandered and stayed. He might go down in a few hours time and find Tintin with the defiance beaten out of him. That pale skin must bruise so easily.
In his fantasy he was tenderly cleaning blood from soft skin, allowing a sip of cool water between split lips, even cradling that ginger head once Tintin was too exhausted to protest. Perhaps he would play at a mock outrage that the boy had been so badly mistreated. A hint of kindness might allow him to touch the boy to his heart’s content, and Tintin would soon enough see his hands as the only safe haven on this violent ship.
And then the news came. Tintin had betrayed him utterly, escaping from the hold the moment he was left alone and somehow getting Haddock out of his cabin on top of it. Every single time he tried to give Tintin a chance, it was just to be shocked once again at what the boy was already up to while pretending to be innocent.
In his anger, he may have made a slightly rash decision, telling a gang of cutthroats they could go ahead and kill the boy. Tintin’s pretty face and know-it-all banter wouldn’t save him from them.
The sounds of gunfire on deck were more satisfying than the news that the other faucets of his plan were aligning as he had ordered. His prisoners obviously hadn’t been able to hide for long.
Haddock might even take it into his head that the boy had been shot because of him. Honest men were so wonderfully self-absorbed like that, just begging to be crippled by guilt. Maybe that would encourage him to drink himself back into line.
As the gunfire died down Sakharine made his way back onto the deck, expecting results. Instead he found the crew still in pandemonium. Allan was shouting orders over the noise. Men were busy dragging their unconscious comrades out of the way. Apparently the fight had not been so one-sided as it sounded. Not only had they caused their damage, but he gathered they had managed to escape in one of the lifeboats.
“Now, full ahead! Full speed!”
The order carried over the chaos, and almost before Sakharine could realize what it meant they were ramming the lifeboat.
The wooden boat was so small, the ship didn’t even reverberate from the impact, so why did Sakharine feel as if he had received a horrible jolt? The night rang with a thunder-crack of splintering wood, and. . . Tintin.
He lashed out at the first man so foolish as to be in his reach, shoving Tom up into the railing with the head of his cane at the man’s throat.
“Idiots! You idiots, what have you done?”
“We killed ‘em boss, like you wanted.”
“No! Not like I wanted! I needed Haddock alive!”
He hadn’t realized it, but he needed Tintin alive as well. The thought of that boy, his beauty, being in that flimsy boat as it was crushed under the prow and swept down into the cold ocean. . . It sparked a rage he had not known in years. He wanted to utterly destroy anyone who might have had a hand in ripping Tintin away from him.
Before he could be swept up by his more violent urges, Allan came to Tom’s rescue with the news that they must have failed to kill the two after all because a second boat had been launched, a decoy.
Sakharine grabbed at one of the searchlights, peering into the dark water himself for some hint of their fate. He couldn’t stand to have lost Tintin, not when he had just formulated a plan that might bring Tintin around to his side.
At least he couldn’t see any sign that they had been swept into the ocean. His young beauty might still be alive.
A scrap of paper blowing along the deck distracted him from his search. It was the message they had received earlier, and even if Tintin didn’t understand morse code (he would be surprised at this point if the boy didn’t), there was their destination written clearly at the bottom.
“They’re on to us, and our destination.” Tintin had done more than escape, somehow finding time to stick his little nose into Sakharine’s business once again. “Find them! Make sure that they never reach Baggar.”
Sakharine glared out over the dark water, but the second lifeboat had disappeared into the night. Tintin had slipped right through his fingers, and taken Haddock with him, the crafty little minx. Anger warred with a want that refused to abate.
It was the sick feeling of loss still throbbing in his chest that decided him. He’d thought for a moment he had lost Tintin. He would not have the boy slip through his fingers again. It was a moment’s work to take the pilots aside and make himself utterly clear. They were to do what they must to force a surrender, and then bring both of the fugitives back. He didn’t care what condition they were in so long as they were alive. Both of them.
He would have Tintin back in his hands.
It looked like their former captain had been sleeping–or more likely just passing out–hunched over his table each night. The bed was piled with empty bottles, most of which Allan had already tossed to the floor. They clinked softly together with the swaying of the ship while he ran his hands over threadbare blankets to check for broken glass.
“The boss is gettin’ all unhinged about that boy. Don’t you tell me I’m the only one to notice,” Tom muttered sullenly behind him.
Tom was leaning on the rickety table, gingerly touching a cold, damp cloth to his jaw where Tintin had socked him less than an hour ago. Half of the crew were nursing similar bruises, and grudges, after their captive’s escape.
“Everyone noticed it. Stop bringing it up before he pitches you overboard,” Allan snapped back.
Tom was probably the only person he would actually consider trusting, definitely the one thing Allan loved even half as much as himself, but there was no denying the man was unforgivably dim sometimes. He needed to stop getting on Sakharine’s nerves before he landed himself in trouble that Allan couldn’t save him from.
“I thought we were s’posed to find the bleedin’ scroll and kill the kid, not hold ‘im down for-”
“If he’s lucky, he’ll be dead soon enough.” The pilots weren’t going to risk themselves trying to pick up those two alive, but there was no reason Sakharine needed to know that.
They’d had dealings with worse men than Sakharine, ones that didn’t pay nearly so well, and it had never made either of them flinch. Even if it was unpleasant, what could have happened, Tom needed to stop being so soft. He was already the reason they didn’t have a ship’s cat anymore. (Well, technically Mr. Gitch was the reason, but he knew it was Tom who put the mangey old thing ashore.)
“Y’sure? Good.” Tom paused to look down at his cloth for blood, running his tongue experimentally over his lip. The little gesture made Allan’s blood heat in a very different way than the boiling anger most men inspired.
“Come’re, and stop thinking about it” Allan commanded.
He dragged Tom to the newly-cleared bunk with him. There was the warm, solid bulk of his partner landing on his chest, and then Tom dropped the cloth to grab him back. What he had in mind now would be the opposite of unpleasant.
He had wanted to see Tintin again, had felt a thrill that almost surpassed annoyance at seeing the young reporter had somehow slipped into the crowd, and not just because Allan had been able to retrieve the scroll which he had somehow kept hidden from Sakharine’s searching hands. He still wanted Tintin, but the treasures of his ancestors were almost within his grasp. He would not lose his focus again.
Tintin led him on a merry chase through the city, but he would do whatever must be done to have what he wanted. He knew Tintin wasn’t the sort to just let a man drown right in front of him. Even if he’d listened to Haddock’s foolhardy attempts to talk down the situation there was the added insurance of his precious dog hanging in the balance, as it were. Sakharine was actually gratified to see Tintin let go of the scrolls and dive in. Every man had his currency, after all, even Tintin.
As they hurried aboard the Karaboudjan, all hands making ready to cast off, Sakharine heard strident barking erupt behind him. His falcon tensed until talons actually pricked through the glove. The bird had not had a pleasant encounter with Tintin’s little dog, it seemed.
A moment later that annoyingly strident voice was back, cursing him from across the wharf. At that point it was too late for pursuit. The engines were started, and they were pulling away from the dock. He had already made preparations to leave in a great hurry once he had the scroll. More because he wanted to satisfy his own impatience to be on the final leg of the hunt than in anticipation that something might go wrong, but it served him well just the same.
Secure on the deck of the Karaboudjan, Sakharine allowed himself to look back at his adversaries. They were still in the water. Tintin had one arm around Haddock’s chest to support him, while he clung to the floating platform with the other.
Haddock was not making it easy for him. Even with his hands still tied behind him he was thrashing in the water, howling for blood at the top of his lungs, apparently unaware that if he did actually manage to get out of Tintin’s grip he would be in a lot of trouble.
The scene unfolding below almost made Sakharine wish he had a better seat, or at least a pair of opera glasses. He could tell Tintin was soaked through, that white shirt would be clinging indecently to his skin just about now, but Sakharine wasn’t close enough to appreciate the full effect.
Tintin finally got his struggling burden safely up out of the water. Over Haddock’s din Sakharine could just barely hear Tintin shouting back. His exasperation was plain, though Sakharine couldn’t make out the words.
Watching his enemies try to sort themselves out was passingly amusing. At least, until Haddock finally had his hands free. His first act was to grab Tintin by the shirt, pulling him so close their noses might have been touching. Sakharine couldn’t tell from his vantage point. The Karaboudjan was making stream away from the pair. He couldn’t tell what words might have been exchanged, what expressions they had. All he knew was that for a moment they had been far too close, and it disturbed him.
Worse, he had many long hours to think about it.
Finding the coordinates he needed was that simple, once he had all three scrolls. Then it was a matter of getting there, and no matter how many knots Allan claimed they were making, the trip provided far too much time to brood.
So they had been close for a moment. That meant nothing, or so Sakharine tried to tell himself. If Tintin had decided to take Haddock with him in his escape, and they had somehow reached Baggar together, that only proved Tintin knew something about the Haddocks. He had decided to steal the only man able to decode the secret of the Unicorn right from under Sakharine’s nose. That was all.
That Haddock had gone with him seemed more suspicious. The man was a hopeless drunkard, and half-mad with suspicion. He flung empty bottles and threats at his men even when they brought him whiskey. Sakharine hadn’t yet seen him without at least one bottle clutched in his fist, except for today.
What had Tintin done? What was he to Haddock? Sakharine, already blinded by his bias, jumped automatically to the worst possible answer.
Haddock was finally living up to his ancestor’s name. Claiming that he had some absurd moral right while using trickery to steal away what Rackham’s line had struggled to attain. Sir Francis would be proud.
And oh, Tintin. . . Hours of storming useless circles around his cabin boiled Sakharine’s anger down into longing to have the boy back in his hands. He wouldn’t leave Tintin alone next time.
He could see how it must have happened. Tintin thought he was so clever, half a step ahead of everyone else, but he couldn’t have known what he was up against. Conquest ran through the Haddock blood, stronger than alcohol. It would be in Haddock’s nature to seduce Tintin, promising answers, or shares of treasure, or the high excitement of old tales twisted to make his own wicked ancestors seem glorious.
Years of his life wasted before Sakharine had stumbled upon something he hadn’t even known he wanted. Mere days all he had to learn how he might sway the beauty to his side. And then, before his work could be complete, up popped a Haddock to destroy it. Tintin might have frustrated Sakharine’s desires, but he was also a victim, seduced by the unworthy son of a worthless line.
Hateful thoughts dogged Sakharine through the voyage. The anger wasn’t even refreshing without someone to take it out on. As the Karaboudjan steamed onward into the night, all Sakharine knew was that no matter what he took from Haddock, no matter what he destroyed, it would never make up for this.
Haddock’s world was tinged with a red haze of rage. He kicked his legs desperately, trying to swim. He was aware of colliding with Tintin while the lad was sawing through the rope binding poor Snowy’s paws, making him drop his little pocket knife and cough out a stream of bubbles that tickled past Haddock’s ear.
He was aware he made it difficult when Tintin grabbed him and hauled him back to the surface, but he couldn’t stop. He kept trying to lash out, bellowing bloody threats after his treacherous former mate and crew and that spawn of sea-scum, Sakharine. Maybe there was some berserker blood lurking in the Haddock line.
The spray as Snowy shook his fur dry was barely a drop on Haddock’s blazing anger. It was just enough to register Tintin hollering at him, “Captain, please hold still so I can untie you!”
He let Tintin claw at the sodden ropes binding his hands, making sure the figures on the Karaboudjan knew exactly how despicable they were. It wasn’t enough, however, and the minute his hands were free he found himself lashing out at the person who least deserved it.
He grabbed Tintin by the shirt and hauled him forward, shouting in the lad’s face. “Why did you have to dive in after me? Now that pirate’s got the scrolls again! Because of me!”
“It wasn’t worth letting you drown!”
Tintin shoved him away. In the next moment Snowy was in between them, bounding across their laps with worried yips. Tintin looked away and scratched automatically at the loyal terrier’s ears.
“Good boy,” Tintin murmured as Snowy licked his face. “You tried hard.”
Anger was still coursing through him, but Haddock throttled it down. He wouldn’t direct it where it didn’t belong anymore. Tintin was a good lad, jumping to save him no matter what he got into.
“We should get back to shore,” Tintin finally suggested. His voice was soft, almost withdrawn, and Haddock assumed Tintin was as angry as he was and just turning it inwards. Soon, he thought, the lad would have put that energy into working out a new plan. Then they would be back on the chase, ready to pay Sakharine back.
Reaching his destination did little to sweeten Sakharine’s temper. He’d chased those blasted scrolls halfway across the world only to land right back where he started. He would return to Marlinspike and tear the moldering old pile apart brick by brick if he had to. He would have the trees razed and the grounds blasted open until he found that treasure.
His visions of strip-mining his ancestral enemy’s home were interrupted when his car jerked and swung up into the air the moment the door was shut behind him.
So they thought they had him by snatching him up with a crane. Whoever was behind this probably thought that by catching him alone they would also catch him unarmed. Well, Sakharine was no lump of cargo to be swung around so easily. After what had become of his carefully planned treasure hunt he was in no mood to deal with further interference diplomatically.
Yet here, to his surprise, was another treasure just waiting for him. He’d recognize that voice anywhere. After everything else he should have expected that Tintin would somehow continue to dog his steps, but to have him here so soon sparked a rush of gratification.
There was something utterly satisfying about pulling a gun on a pair of pompous police officers. After a life of carefully toeing the line in the public eye, handing off the bulk of his dirty work to others, he could guess the thrill his ancestors felt in cutting down their enemies face-to-face. How good it would feel to squeeze the trigger right now.
But there was something that would feel worlds better.
“Come here, Tintin.”
The twin detectives reacted in perfect unison, each grabbing one of Tintin’s upraised arms. “Absolutely not.”
Everyone wanted a piece of his property, it seemed, but Tintin didn’t show any sign he’d even heard their protest. His eyes stayed pleasingly fixed on Sakharine, tracking the angle of his gun when he shifted to aim directly at one of the detectives. It didn’t matter which one he picked.
“Then it looks like I shall have to prune away some dead wood.” Sakharine was pleased to see Tintin’s eyes widen at the threat. “Now where to start?” He angled his aim by a few degrees to target the other detective instead. It didn’t matter to him which ended with a bullet in their brain. “Eenie, meenie, miney-”
“No!”
Tintin pulled himself free, striding forward before they could catch him again and only stopping with the tip of Sakharine’s gun against his chest. He was a brave one, no trace of fear on his stubborn face. As if he knew Sakharine wouldn’t shoot him.
That was fine, but the police couldn’t be allowed to suspect his perfect little hostage wasn’t in very real danger. Sakharine leaned out of the car, letting the others see him raise the gun to jab under Tintin’s jaw.
“I haven’t got anything you want,” Tintin declared, his head tilting away from the cold metal.
“I think you have.”
Grabbing the front of that tatty blue jumper, Sakharine hauled Tintin forward through the open window and into the car with him. Momentum carried Tintin into the front passenger seat, knocking his arm and shoulder into the far door as he instinctively shielded his head. Almost before he had landed he was scrambling to right himself, his legs across Sakharine’s lap and his back to the door.
His dog set up a riot outside. Sakharine turned, automatically training his gun on the window. He half expected the animal to try and leap into the car after its master.
“Snowy, stay.” Tintin shouted. “Stay!”
Sakharine was sure that was the first time he’d heard even a note of fear in the boy’s voice. Not for himself, but that Sakharine would shoot that mutt. The terrier did stay. It was too short to be seen through the window, but Sakharine could hear it still growling at the door.
“Don’t try anything,” Sakharine warned. He could practically see the escape plans forming behind Tintin’s eyes, most likely involving a few well-placed kicks and tumbling out of the passenger side of the car.
“You won’t get away with taking him hostage!” One of the police detectives shouted. They were both pale behind their mustaches when Sakharine glanced back at them, obviously panicked at what might become of Tintin. That was exactly as he’d hoped.
“To be precise: get away from him!”
Gun pointing directly at Tintin’s chest, Sakharine grabbed at Tintin’s knee to keep his sprawled legs out of trouble. He couldn’t have predicted the little gasp that greeted the gesture. For an instant his attention narrowed down to a single point. Tintin’s soft lips parted in surprise, hands braced on the leather paneling behind him, nowhere near the handle, legs so tense that Sakharine felt the muscles quivering under his hand. Rubbing his thumb up along the inside of Tintin’s knee, Sakharine let out a satisfied breath. If this was what it took to get Tintin’s full attention, he could work with it, but later.
“No one wants your precious blood spilled,” he said aloud for Tintin’s sake as much as their audience. “Now,” he commanded the men outside the window, “put this car back on the ground-”
He was interrupted by a jerk as the car swung suddenly up into the air once more.
Tintin scrambled to stay upright, one of his heels digging painfully into Sakharine’s leg. Sakharine would never know if the kick was deliberate, because at that moment they smashed into the building, nose first before the car swung around to grind the passenger side into the brickwork. The window behind Tintin’s head shattered as he fell back with their momentum, taking a blow to the head before Sakharine could seize him by the jumper and haul him forward into the car.
“Allan! Allan, get me down!”
He had dropped the gun. It was more important to keep a hold on Tintin so that he didn’t fall out of the tilting car. Momentarily insensible, Tintin nearly fell into his lap as they started swing back the way they had come.
“What? Not that way! Not that way, you fool, the other way!”
Tintin was slumped over in the passenger seat, unconscious, bleeding from the side of his head. How many times was that bungling incompetent going to try to kill the boy? If Allan thought his share amounted to anything more than a bullet to the brain right now-
The car came to a shuddering stop. Apparently Allan had been equally incompetent in keeping the controls away from that wretched old souse. Before he could be maneuvered back down to face the police, Sakharine grabbed his cane, hauled Tintin’s limp body over one shoulder, and jumped from the ruined car to the first steady platform available.
“Hypocrite! Hydrocarbon! Kidnapper!” Haddock was howling at the top of his lungs, audible even from where Sakharine stood.
“Right,” Sakharine growled to himself as he stepped up to the controls for the crane he had alighted on. If he wanted his ancestor’s revenge done right, apparently he had to take it into his own hands. For now he left Tintin sprawled unconscious on the floor beside him.
Haddock wasn’t holding back on account of his hostage, and he wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. The first clash of their cranes sent a painful jolt all through Sakharine’s body. The second saw the car snapped free from its cables and hurled off across the docks somewhere. ‘And what would you have done if he was still in there?’ Sakharine could have asked, though it only came out as a vicious hiss between clenched teeth.
He didn’t care what collateral damage their duel caused. He swept up debris with the tip of the crane to blind his enemy, a dirty trick that served him well against better-prepared fencers than Haddock. Followed with a sharp thrust that smashed through the front of Haddock’s control box and almost killed him at once. It was only a preliminary lunge. Soon enough he would run his blade through Haddock’s heart.
A counter-swipe nearly took out the front half of Sakharine’s control box, but the long swing gave him more than enough time to duck. If Haddock’s ancestor had been half so clumsy, how could he have ever murdered the great Red Rackham? Even the broken scraps of wood and glass that pelted Sakharine through his coat seemed to hit no harder than raindrops. He was invincible!
Tintin groaned and stirred at being pelted with the detritus of their duel, which made Sakharine laugh. It only went to show he was a tough little thing, and that was exactly how Sakharine wanted him.
“Close, but no cigar!” he taunted, leaping back to the controls to deliver another strike at that hated Haddock.
All it took was knocking the other crane off balance before he could snap Haddock’s jousting blade clean off. In a trice they were face-to-face.
Sakharine was sure he hadn’t known hate yet in his life. Not like this. This was the desire to leap forward and tear his generations-old enemy apart with his bare hands. The need went deeper than bloodline, deeper than curses. In the past few days it had become intimately personal.
This would not be a blind brawl. He hated Haddock so much he would use every advantage to grind the man into the dust.
“Red Rackham!”
“That’s right. My ancestor. Just as Sir Francis was yours.”
“And just like that dirty pirate, you’ve got my crew,” Haddock growled.
“What crew?” Sakharine almost laughed. Haddock still cared for that worthless, disloyal lot?
Tintin chose that moment to groan again, slowly waking on the dirty floor where Sakharine had left him for safekeeping.
“Tintin! Red Rackham, you will pay!”
Sakharine did laugh then, somewhere deep in his chest. A part of Haddock’s undeserved crew? No, Tintin was the most perishable part of the treasures he intended to steal away from the Haddock line.
“No, I think it is your turn to pay.”
“Unfinished business.” Haddock’s words held lifetimes of deadly promises.
“Oh, I’m glad you know the truth, Haddock. Until you could remember, killing you wouldn’t have been this much fun.”
Haddock was already disarmed. Sakharine swung the crane all the way around with every bit of power and momentum the machine could possibly yield to slam into the remains of Haddock’s control house. He attacked again and again until the structure fell to the deck of the Karaboujan and cracked like an egg, spilling out its pitiful cargo in a limp-limbed pile.
It was far more satisfying than he had expected. For an instant his knees were trembling with the rush of long-repressed violence. Now all that remained was to go down and make sure Haddock was dead.
Maybe not ‘all.’ Tintin had stumbled to his feet at last, one hand to his head as he stared past Sakharine and through the ruined windows.
“What have you. . . Captain!” Tintin lurched forward, still unsteady on his feet.
Sakharine caught him before he could stumble and eased him back to lean against the giant spool of cable at the back of the control house.
“Calm down now. Ah, you’re still bleeding. Hold still.”
Shifting his weight to keep Tintin pinned, Sakharine drew a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it to where Tintin’s temple had scraped brickwork and glass. Blood darkened the red silk.
Tintin had stopped squirming, and now only panted quietly, his eyes fixed on Sakharine once again. It was almost as pleasant as smashing down Haddock to savor the shift of Tintin’s chest against his with each quick gasp and the moist warmth of breath across his throat. The heady rush of victory made him want to claim Tintin for his own, here and now. Without realizing it he had moved to cup Tintin’s face in his other hand.
“You still want a treasure hunt so badly, come and join me in the last leg.”
“What?”
“Join me, and you get everything you wanted: Those answers you were so eager to stick you neck out for, a share of the treasure.” It sounded generous, more generous that he was accustomed to being, but Tintin had far more than treasure on offer to sweeten the deal. Maybe with this clever boy he wouldn’t have to raze Marlinspike after all. He might even get a return on his investment of buying the moldering property. And if he could get Tintin, that would be a far greater return on every investment he had made thus far. “It would be so simple, now. You were obviously willing to get your hands dirty to get this far.”
“I didn’t take anything from you that you hadn’t already stolen!”
Tintin was still trying so hard to put up a good front, so firm in his belief that what he was doing was somehow right. It only made him more irresistible. Sakharine forced one knee between Tintin’s legs as he bent closer, imagining how good it would feel to utterly corrupt him.
“Now, now. I’m not asking you to be a thief, or a scoundrel, or whatever it is you think you so object to being. I have plenty of others to do such petty work.”
“Because you can’t do it yourself. Duly noted.”
Tintin was toying with him! His eyes kept darting away from Sakharine’s face, as if he was still trying to see what had become of that worthless wretch, Haddock. He was shifting restlessly, testing Sakharine’s grip and his own strength. He would make another break for it once he had himself collected. He was acting as if he didn’t need Sakharine, pretending not to even consider the offer!
Sakharine would not let him get away. Not again. Not with such an insult.
“I have crushed the last of the Haddocks with my own two hands.” He tightened his grip on the bloody patch at Tintin’s temple, prompting a pained grunt and forcing Tintin’s attention back onto him. “My ancestors rightfully plundered every treasure they set their sights on, and I take what I want. There is nothing in this world I cannot take in my hands if I so desire.”
Tintin’s wide eyes were fixed on him again, and him alone. Another involuntary gasp had left those soft lips parted invitingly.
“Including you,” Sakharine finished, bending to steal Tintin’s lips with his own.
Whatever fantasies he might have spun about having that first kiss from Tintin were nothing close to the reality. Tintin struggled against him, clawing at his coat and landing a sharp kick to his ankle. His mouth was tainted with the faint tang of blood, leaving him far too sweet. The imperfections only whetted Sakharine’s appetite for more. Forcing Tintin’s head back for better access, he snaked his tongue between parted lips into the delicious heat of Tintin’s mouth.
He had his eyes closed in pleasure when the blow came. An expert punch right to the jaw snapped his head sideways and made him stumble, losing his hold on Tintin.
When Tintin backed away from him, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, Sakharine was sure the ringing in his ears was more due to rage than the boy’s solid punch.
“What is wrong with you?” Tintin gasped.
“Would you prefer a useless old drunkard?” Sakharine’s blood was going to boil. After days of chasing and teasing, of tormenting him, Tintin would reject the most blatant and honest of his proposals out of hand? Out of everyone with designs on Tintin, didn’t he have the most to offer?
“The Captain is not useless!” Tintin blurted out defiantly. He darted away from Sakharine’s hungry lunge, twisting to look around for an escape that Sakharine would not let him have.
“So it is him. Ever since Sir Francis the Haddocks have tried to destroy everything my family rightfully took. Well it ends here, in this generation. I saw you first!”
“You’re insane!”
Sakharine made another grab for Tintin, only to have the boy duck under his arm and scramble up over the control board, trying to get out through the smashed front of the control house.
Before he knew what he was doing Sakharine had his cane in hand. He grabbed for Tintin, lashed out when the boy turned to fight back. He struck a single blow across the side of Tintin’s head.
Tintin crumpled at his feet. Sakharine raised his hand for a second attack almost as quickly, ready to rain down punishment on the one who had rejected him.
He looked down on Tintin, knocked cold for the second time that night, and suddenly he couldn’t strike. Tintin had one arm thrown over his face, his body curled in a protective fetal position, as if still anticipating the lashing. Something about having Tintin helpless at his feet amidst the rubble brought to mind the wreak of the Unicorn. He had destroyed something beautiful, something he had such great plans for, with his own two hands.
But Tintin was not one of three expendable models. He was singular. Never could he be replicated, or reproduced in miniature more perfectly picturesque than the real thing. He was irreplaceable.
That came as a shock. Nothing in Sakharine’s life had ever been irreplaceable before. Money, people, even his beloved model ships would always be so easily replaced the moment they ceased to be useful. Only this. . . this beautiful, horribly stubborn little spitfire, this bundle of backtalk and bruises, could not be replaced.
Haddock was the one to bring him out of his shock by stirring on the deck below and starting to hurl his preferred nonsense of insults. “Pirate!” The voice drifted up through the salty night air, giving Sakharine somewhere to focus his own anger. “Baby-snatcher!”
If they had broken Tintin with their little family feud, if this one beautiful thing was now beyond his reach, if Tintin had been swayed to truly hate him, he would make Haddock take a full share of the blame.
“I’ll have you keel-hauled, you treacherous troglodyte,” Haddock bellowed.
No, killing wasn’t enough. He would destroy Haddock utterly for this. He would take the howling bastard to pieces on his own ship. Sakharine stepped onto the fallen arm of his crane, drawing his sword as he went. The cane had been enough for Tintin, but Haddock would taste the blade.
Hate made him toy with Haddock, slowly wearing the man down when he knew he could thrust between those wild swings. He would not let Haddock die before proving beyond a shadow of a doubt that the man was worthless in every way.
Confidence let him turn his back on Haddock, just waiting for his enemy to bellow and charge like an angry bull. Instead he felt the impact of a bottle in the middle of his back.
He swatted the projectiles out of the air until Haddock actually managed to knock his sword from his hand. That blithering alcoholic would not be allowed to turn the tide with a few bottles.
Even soaked in alcohol, Sakharine recklessly flicked open his lighter. He would burn the scrolls themselves if that was what it took to show Haddock this was not his fight to win.
“The legend says only a true Haddock can discover the secret of the Unicorn, but it took a Rackham to get the job done.” The Haddock line had never managed to gather the scrolls. Only he had the intelligence and the ruthless drive to make that happen, but he would burn them just to see the look on the last Haddock’s face. Let the treasure be lost forever, with him the only one to know that navel dog Sir Francis’s last clue. “So you’ve lost again, Haddock. That’s right. Why don’t you have a drink? That’s all you’ve got left, isn’t it? Everything that was rightfully yours is now mine. Including this ship.”
It was only right and proper. Haddock had the gall to even seduce Tintin against him. If he couldn’t have Tintin he would take everything else, and he would let it all burn.
Just as he was about to touch flame to parchment, the scrolls were snatched from his hand by a blur of blue jumper and ginger hair.
Tintin had swung by before he could react. He froze, one hand still stretched out towards the youth, watching as Tintin landed well out of his reach.
That little dog of his came trotting out of the shadows, right back to its usual place at Tintin’s feet. Sakharine was half convinced he could hear it growling at him even from that distance.
Then Haddock was there, creeping up to him while he was distracted.
“Thundering typhoons. Nobody takes my ship.” That low, steady voice was far more unnerving than any amount of mad howling.
Sakharine had no chance to defend himself before he was knocked over the side into the water, then hauled out again by the pair of idiot police detectives. As he was handcuffed and hauled away, he had no choice but to look back, even knowing what he would see.
There was Tintin, out of reach on the deck of the Karaboujan. The first hint of dawn shot gold and fire thought his ginger hair. Even at a distance he glowed, perfect enough to belong in a glass case. But no. . . he was left there on the deck of a dirty ship.
Tintin collapsed against the nearest railing, breathless with laughter and dizzy with success. Well, maybe the Captain spinning him around had something to do with the second part, or the blow he had taken to the head earlier. He should never have left himself open to Sakharine, but he had panicked. He had only thought of getting away.
The memory made him shudder and scrub his wrist across his mouth. He hadn’t even seen it coming. He’d taken Sakharine’s continual invasion of his personal space as a form of intimidation, and he refused to be intimidated. When he tried to tell himself there had been no real sign the memory rose, unbidden, of Sakharine ‘searching’ him. He’d tried to forget that, even while the thought of being recaptured with the scroll in his possession had made him panic.
“You all right, laddie?” The Captain’s firm hand landed on his shoulder, steadying him. Snowy was whining and pawing at his leg.
“It’s nothing. I bit my tongue,” Tintin excused. He had, but during the rough ride in Sakharine’s car, not during the Captain’s victory dance. Here they had found all three scrolls and stopped Sakharine at last. This was no time to be dwelling on private horrors. “Can you plot a course to those coordinates?”
“Does a fish spit in the ocean? Come on then, all ashore! Not far now.”
Before Tintin knew what was happening, there was a friendly arm slung around his shoulders and he was being led off of the deck of the Karaboudjan and back to the dock where Thompson and Thomson were waiting for them.
Thomson was still livid, though obviously trying to be a gentleman and contain his anger, while Thompson’s lower lip quivered with worry behind his mustache. Tintin opened his arms as they both tried to hug him at once.
“You didn’t lose the suspect, did you?” Tintin asked, his own fears creeping to the surface once again.
“Of course not! Sakharine is already well on his way to a holiday behind bars.”
“Precisely.”
Tintin had to express his relief by hugging them again, individually. And the Captain. And Snowy, who wagged all over to echo his joy.
“What’s gotten into you, lad?”
Tintin couldn’t explain it, except that there was a day dawning clean and fresh, and he was among friends, with a hint of adventure on the horizon. He wouldn’t think of Sakharine any longer.