The Baskerville Tales (Short Stories) (19 page)

* * *

The next day Striker sat on the hill, watching the road. There were different flavors of sadness, almost like different kinds of beer, and he’d tasted them all. This one had an undertone that was hard to name, but it spoke of more than just loss. Nick had left behind the ship and its remaining crew, and they were picking up the pieces. It hurt Striker to let go of his grief, but that was the only way to make the pain diminish, and that was the best way to honor Nick. The price of loyalty included acting as he would have wished.

But the pain had a companion, and it was sweeter. With the ship in play and their injuries healed, the crew could start searching for the Indomitable Niccolo. Roberts’s men had said they’d help—once their own captain was rescued. The days of sitting and waiting were done. That put a fire in Striker’s belly. Waiting was the worst.

Behind Striker, the rest of the crew was hauling provisions into the ship. He’d join them in a moment, but he’d given himself a last moment to send his strength out across that rolling green to his friend. Nick was a magician who talked to air spirits, after all, not to mention birds. Sending a message this way wasn’t as stupid an idea as it sounded.

“We’ll come back,” he said into the breeze, quietly enough that no one would overhear. “And we’ll find you, you sorry bastard.”

At the sound of his voice, the dog, which had squashed itself next to him, turned up its pointed snout and pricked its ears. Striker gave it an absent pat. He hadn’t got around to finding the dog a home, and now he suspected that home would be aboard the ship. The mutt had been quick to establish allies—and, truth be told, it’d wriggled its way into Striker’s heart. Who would have known that he still had one?

Digby joined him, dropping down onto the green turf. “With luck, we’ll only be gone for a few weeks.”

Striker grunted. “We’ll come and go, but the hangar’s here. When Nick comes, he’ll know to wait.”

Digby gave him a serious look. “You think he will come?”

“I keep thinking I’d know it if he was gone. Don’t ask me why.”

The tall man grinned. “Because you’re special. I heard about the lightning.”

Striker grunted again. “Just the gods kicking me in the head.” He still wasn’t comfortable talking about that whole incident. Not much gave him the shudders, but that much randomness did. He expected to die at an enemy’s hand, not fried in a field halfway to nowhere and for no reason he could name.

Digby cleared his throat. “Like I said, we’re only going to be gone for a few weeks, but
we still need someone in charge. Voting is all well and good, but not when we get into a fight. Someone has to give orders.”

“Beadle’s back.” Striker knew he didn’t seem the type to bow to authority, but the first mate had won his respect. Striker wouldn’t give Beadle trouble.

“We took a vote,” Digby said, avoiding his gaze. “Including Beadle.”

“But not me.” A pang of annoyance stiffened his spine. The dog whimpered.

“True.”

And then he understood. “Bloody hell, I’m good with engines, but I’m not a real airman!”

“Neither is Nick.”

Protests crammed Striker’s throat, but he swallowed them back. He’d led men before and knew the first thing they needed to see was confidence. Nick would need a crew when he got back. If Striker was going to keep them together, there had to be someone to rally around in the meantime—and it might as well be him and his lightning-blasted coat. But he’d still be looking to Beadle for the practical details.

“Look,” Digby said. “Devil’s Island is no dawdle. We all know that. We’ll need what you’ve got to get us out alive.”

“What’s that?” Striker said, hiding a smirk. In truth, he was ridiculously pleased they’d picked him.

Digby sighed. “You’re a bloody attack dog, that’s why. You’ll tear the enemy to shreds and never give up until every one of us is clear of danger.” He got to his feet.

Almost awkward with emotion, Striker followed, the mutt under his arm. He was bad enough with words under regular circumstances; there was nothing he could say after
that
.

“Speaking of which …” Digby pointed. “I assume he’s coming with us?”

Striker shrugged, fumbling his mask back into place. “Other pirates have parrots. I have a three-legged bacon hound.”

The word “bacon” got him an excited yip.

“Bacon!” said Digby.

The mutt yipped again, stretching up its whiskery muzzle and licking its chops.

The red-haired man grinned. “I think he knows his name.”

Bacon?
Striker winced. He’d been thinking of something a bit more heroic. Poole had suggested Zeus or Thor in honor of the lightning strike. Maybe Jove. But …

Bacon?
Striker stared at the dog, which licked its new master’s nose.

Bollocks
. Life was short and uncertain, and it made sense to embrace what was most important. “Bacon it is.”

“Aye, Captain,” Digby said with a mocking salute.

Striker sauntered down the hill to his crew.

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