The ship held steady, speed corrected, and Vice’s shoulders eased as she huffed out a breath, sinking against him. “Thanks, Aedan,” she muttered, patting his hand as he released her. “All steady, Captain,” she shouted over her shoulder.

Catching her breath, she nodded to her team. “Rifles, ladies and gent.”

Bracing one shoulder against the mast, she raised her fae-worked rifle, pulled back the cock, and peered along the barrel. Movement in her periphery told her others did the same, but the rest of the world faded. She even retreated from the sea surging beneath.

On the Veritas, men lifted their own weapons, but their wide eyes and gaping mouths said they weren’t used to battle, maybe weren’t even used to firing guns.

Wild Hunt damn it, why hadn’t they surrendered?

A lick of movement behind one of the men. What was that? Then it flashed into view again—a whip. This wasn’t their choice. She trailed her aim to the source of that lash—a broad-shouldered man with a cruel mouth.

A much better target.

She exhaled and squeezed the trigger.

A crack split the air, throwing the butt against her shoulder as smoke rose.

From here she couldn’t see the blood, but she knew it was there from the way he jerked, head snapping back, and fell from sight.

The men he’d whipped stared over their shoulders, weapons lowering. Confusion, fear, relief—whatever it was, it would keep them busy at least until The Morrigan was close enough to board.

Flicking open the breach block on her rifle, Vice narrowed her eyes at the smoky water between them and the Veritas. No time for a second shot. She slid the gun in the rack.

“Brace!” The shout went up, echoed by others across The Morrigan.

Cries of dismay rose from the Veritas, drifting across the smoke-shrouded water.

Ducking behind the rail’s cover, Vice hurried fore. She reached the bow an instant before the impact pitched through both ships, locking them together, rocking the crews, sending lines and sails lashing. Down on one knee, she clung to the rail until the deck steadied. Taking a deep breath, she drew her pistol and rose.

Veritas

Smoke and spray, cries and groaning timber filled the air with sound and scent and texture. The Morrigan’s bowsprit was tangled with the Veritas’s lines—not ideal, but Vice could board now. If she could target the captain and anyone else forcing these men to fight, they’d surrender before too much blood was shed.

Trusting instinct, she raised her pistol. The antlered head of the hart that decorated the handle peeked over her hand, and for a fraction of a second, her sister’s green eyes flashed into view. Heart sore, she squeezed the trigger—the whirr of clockwork, then a flash, a puff of smoke, the jolt of recoil, and a crack.

Another man, his own gun aimed at her, gaped, then fell.