“If I die, I take this unnatural creature with me. Say a prayer, girl, for it will be your last.”

That is dialogue too trite even for me to craft. If my heart were not hammering in my chest, I would laugh and stand tall and say I do not need to pray, that whatever lies in the hereafter, I trust that my deeds will not condemn me to any version of damnation.

That is what I want to say. Instead, even as my heart hammers, my hand creeps down to my waist. My fingers close on the handle of my gladius and—

The ship rocks again, and I stagger, my hold on my gladius breaking. The tip of Jenkins’s blade sinks into my throat. Nicolas has backed up, and when he breaks into a run, I realize he is going to try leaping over the gaping hole. I open my mouth to tell him to stay back, stay safe, but Jenkins’s sword tip presses in, hot blood welling up as my fingertips frantically search for—

A movement to my left. A blur of motion that charges straight between Jenkins and me. I think it is Nicolas, but when I look, Nicolas is still in flight, leaping. He touches down and starts to topple back, toward the hole. Before I can do more than gasp, he has righted himself.

Then I see the true source of that blur of motion. It is Andrés, wheeling to face his killer. Jenkins falls back, and I slip from his grasp, my gladius rising. As Andrés stalks toward Jenkins, the ship seems to rock and crackle with each step.

“Andrés,” I say to Nicolas, my free hand lifting to warn him back. “It is Andrés.”

“Good,” Nicolas grunts as he scoops up his fallen sword. “That is the problem with being a seer, Jenkins. You cannot escape your victims, even after you have killed them.”

Jenkins has stopped, standing firm, chin raised. Nicolas moves up beside me.

“I did not kill you, boy,” Jenkins says to Andrés. “You are still here, which means your killer has not been caught. The girl has named the wrong person and stolen your eternal rest.”

“Then why is Lord Thomas gone?” I say.

“Because he was the boy’s killer. He gave the order. You cannot damn a pistol for killing a man. You must damn the person who pulled the trigger.”

“You are not a pistol. You are a man. Andrés? Can you see the way home? You should be able to see it now.”

Andrés nods and points to his right while keeping his gaze on Jenkins.

“The way is open,” I say to Jenkins. “Andrés is choosing not to take it until he is ready. Perhaps he is not prepared to cross over yet. Perhaps he thinks he would rather spend a few years tormenting the man who killed him, the man who can see him.”

Jenkins roars and swings his sword at Andrés. Of course, the blade goes right through the ghost, and so Jenkins runs at me, pulling back his blade. Nicolas swings. His sword slices into Jenkins’s arm. The man howls, and his hand spasms. With my gladius, I knock his sword free, letting it splash into the water. Then, together, Nicolas and I back Jenkins against the wall, exactly where he had me, our sword tips at his throat.