We finally arrive at a hatch in the fore, which Swift opens with a rough twist of the wheel. The smell of food and spices hits me like a freight train, and my eyes and mouth begin to water simultaneously. Swift steps through the hatch, and a welcoming roar rises from the crew gathered inside. Rather than climbing down the short ladder, she leaps forward, her boots slamming into the wooden floor with a heavy thud. She turns, that familiar feral grin on her lips as she beckons me.

I clamber down after her, and it’s like descending into the lions’ den.

In Santa Elena’s lair, I knew my value, knew that the sway she held over her crew protected me from them. But here I’m nothing but meat. I forget my own hunger in the hungry eyes that follow me as I dart to Swift’s side.

“Quit acting so skittish,” she hisses. “They can’t do shit to you. Not while I’m around.” There’s something uncannily warm about the way she says it.

Off to the side of the mess there’s a table with a jumbled assortment of food. Most of it looks far too fresh to be anything prepared on this ship. Spoils from the Nereid ’s kitchens, most likely. There’s a stack of plastic trays next to it, and Swift grabs two. “Load up,” she says, pushing the second into my hands. “This is the best meal we’ve had in weeks, and it ain’t lasting.”

I grab the fresh fruit first—it’s probably my last chance to get it until this ship restocks, whether by trade or by force. There’s what’s left of a pork roast too, though it looks like wild dogs have ripped it apart. I shovel some of the rich meat onto my tray, and add a few of the wilting greens that the pirates have dumped onto a silver platter.

As an afterthought, I carve off a slice of the rapidly disintegrating cake that teeters near the edge of the table. The words Welcome to Paradise are scrawled atop it in elegant handwriting. It was supposed to commemorate our first island stop—I remember sneaking a peek in the kitchen the night before Dur—

I rein in my thoughts before they get out of hand and follow Swift to a small table where the four other lackeys sit. She shoves Varma across the bench, and I slide in after her.

“Gonna introduce us?” he asks. He flashes me an easy smile. At this range I can finally tell that the smear of ink on his cheekbone makes the shape of a small fish.

“God’s sake, Varma—you’ve already met. Cassandra, these other losers are Code, Lemon, and Chuck,” Swift says through a mouthful of food.