Vice nodded in approval. Whatever the law might say, she wasn’t a monster—she’d packed rope, a few tools, and canteens of fresh water to give the men a chance to live. Who knew? Maybe they’d see the error of their ways.

And maybe she’d grow gills to go with her sea magic.

Still, these men had bought and sold people. The fae would disown them, and that was punishment enough. Elusive as the fair folk were, without their favour, who knew what bad luck might find these fools? They were damned.

The longboat crew turned the vessel around, angling back towards deeper water as the former captain and his officers splashed to shore. Soaked breeches dragging her down, Vice clambered into the boat and resumed her spot at the bow.

The Morrigan bobbed gently in the waves, awaiting their return. Alongside, the slave ship, a pot-bellied brig, pitched to and fro.

She sighed. This little excursion to maroon the officers had made her almost a captain, albeit of the longboat, but once they were back on The Morrigan, she’d be under Captain FitzRoy once more. Not literally—they’d stopped doing that months and months ago—but she was under his command, and that was enough to chafe. She wanted to set her own course, to—

“You might have taken our ship,” the former slaver captain bellowed across the waves, “but the days of Lady Vice are numbered!”

She scoffed. Everyone’s days were numbered. Some just had fewer than others.

Smiling brightly, she turned and waved. “Not as numbered as yours, marooned dog!”

“Enjoy it while you can.” Even from this distance, his eyes smouldered with hatred. “The price on your head is one thousand guineas. Maybe your crew should hand you over themselves.”

She stuck a finger up at the slavers, before turning and grinning at Perry. “A thousand? That’s more than doubled. I’m going up in the world.”

Chuckling, Perry shook her head and adjusted the tiller.

Pulling her tricorne hat low against the harsh sun, Vice fixed her gaze on The Morrigan. With a bounty like that, someone had realised her worth.

Shame not everyone did.

Pursing her lips, she pushed their boat through the waves a little faster than necessary, the effort burning her muscles and making her stomach growl.

It had been her idea to chase the brig into the wind where it would be slowed, and she’d led the boarding party. She knew how to catch a prize and captain a ship, damn it.

Maybe now FitzRoy would realise that and finally grant her the captaincy he’d promised.

Maybe that pot-bellied brig, ugly and clumsy as it was, would be hers.

Venatrix