The ship unfurled her banner into the sun's early rays, and Cate felt a surge of panic. Larger than the ship's asymmetrical aftersail, the massive, black banner bore a white skull with a halo at a rakish angle, and framed by a pair of angel's wings. Red streaked down the skull: tears of blood.

One of the men swore vehemently, his last hopes of false identity shattered. "It's the Sarah Morgan." He swore again and spit, making horned signs with his fingers. "Blackthorne's ship."

"It's his flag," said Ivy, resigned. "The Angel of Death. Not even the Dutchman can catch her. Ol' Blackthorne's outrun the Devil."

"Some say he is the Devil," hissed Barnstable.

There was no further discussion. Meaningful looks were exchanged, agreeing not to unduly alarm Cate. She appreciated the concern, but it was a bit late.

In many ways, seeing the Sarah Morgan so near was a relief. No expert on ships, Cate knew beauty when she saw it and the ship was all of that. Three-masted, with elevated stern and forecastles, she was a bit of a throwback to another era. With an ornate roundhouse and bowsprit, she was by no means fancy or ostentatious; she was a glorious vessel, nonetheless, a lady who knew the value of discretion in her appointments.

In spite of the forewarning, the sight of blood dripping from her deck and sails was still disconcerting. On closer inspection-and small application of logic-the tops had been reddened, but certainly not blood; it would have taken butchering of several oxen for such a vast expanse of canvas. Instead of the traditional bands of colored trim, the sanguineous drool from her deck down between the gunports was actually red paint, skillfully drizzled.

With her guns staring like eyes, the ship was very much alive, exuding a palpable presence.

"Sixteen pounders," announced Coombs at her elbow, nodding toward the black maws. "She outranges our nine-pounders by a good measure. Another reason Ol' Black Nate prefers his big ship: those guns would shake apart anything smaller."

He made a skeptical noise, shaking his head. "Goddamned difficult to fight when we can't even get close enough to strike, beggin' yer pardon, Missus."

Cate now knew what it was to be in the water with a shark. She made a game of how long she could go without looking, all the while knowing the longer she held out, the closer the ship would be, her sails a little larger, the details of her rigging a little clearer. At one point, she turned to find instead of being squarely astern, the ship had slipped her course off to one side.

"What are they doing?"

"Going for our wind," Chambers said with measured gravity. "He'll come around behind us, our wind is starved..." He snapped his fingers in finality.

"Can't you just sail faster?"

He laughed, a little derisive and a lot pained. "We're heavy and she's light. We're out-sailed, out-gunned, and out-manned. We've uncaulked the gunports, but to what purpose? If we show one gun, she could rake us. If we surrender, I might be able to negotiate...something." The green eyes darted guiltily toward her, and then away.

The black ship's aftmost gun belched smoke, the retort reaching the Constancy just before the ball splashed harmlessly astern. Another was fired across her forefoot.

"Warning shots," growled Chambers. "The next ones will find home."

Time. It was all the Morgan required to draw closer. Looming larger and larger, her yards and sails towered over the lesser ship. As if gut-punched, the Constancy staggered and slowed. Sails sagging, her substance of life had been robbed, her wind gone.

"Helm's a-lee! Douse the tops and lay 'er in irons!"

Sails luffing, Morgan drew up and sat like a dark huntress. Cate knew little of sailing, but could appreciate the seamanship involved as the black ship slowed at the Constancy's exact rate, the red-crowned sails blanketing her wind. If she was to pass, the Constancy could spread her wings and fly once again, but there seemed little hope of that.

"Stay by me." Chambers' impassioned voice drew her attention. "They'll take the ship, so there's no sense in you hiding. Perhaps, if you're with us...me...I...we might afford you protection, at least for a bit." He gulped and added bitterly, "If I had the stomach for it, I'd end it for you now, but I'm not that much of a man."

All hands gathered amidships. The weapons earlier dispersed were collected and displayed in full sight on the deck before them, notably still within reach, should there be treachery. Cate, as did everyone, craned her neck, searching the pirate ship, hoping for a first glimpse of her famed captain, but to little effect. Her decks teemed with men...so many, many men.

Time could indeed be an unmerciful enemy. Her heart hammering to deafening proportions, breathing was no longer a natural, unthinking thing. It now required focused effort to push the air in and out of her lungs. By the time the longboats drew alongside and hooked on, she was in a complete state. Wiping her palms on her skirt, she discovered that in spite of the tropical sun, she was swathed in a cold sweat. Every bone in her body screamed to run, but to where? She scanned the horizon, expecting to see only water and was surprised. So preoccupied with the pirate ship, she hadn't noticed the thin line of green marking an island, the first land in over two months.

So near, and yet so far.

"'Hoy on deck?" came a baritone call from alongside.

Cate jerked at the sound of it.

"Pray pass. We are unarmed," was Chambers' level response.

All vows of bravery dissolved at the sight of the pirates pouring up the side of the ship. Circling like a pack of predatory wolves, they were bizarre-looking, many half naked. What set these men apart was the bristle of weapons and the ease with which they brandished them. Cate had seen her share of thieves and murderers; never had she witnessed such en masse collection of sinister depravity. Eyes glowing with the prospect of prey, they sniffed for the first weakness, restrained only by the thin leash of decorum that ruled the sea. Coiled for attack, they brought the smell of sweat, rum, and gunpowder.

How do you know if someone is a pirate? She knew now the naivete of that query. Like a poisonous snake, you knew one when you saw it.

Cate fell back a step. Chambers squared his shoulders and sidestepped to put himself further before her. The pack leader stepped forward. He scanned the Constancies, ultimately settling on Chambers.

"My name be Ezekiel Pryce, Quartermaster and First Mate of the Carrie Morgans."

Cate glanced about, but no one seemed to take notice of the disparity in the ship's name.

Barrel-chested with sharp grey eyes, Pryce had a bearing that made him seem taller than his slightly above-average height. In one hand he bore a pistol nearly the length of his arm, in the other, a cutlass. Gleaming in the morning sun, its ornate basket and gold filigree played a stark contrast against his otherwise inelegance.

"Captain Nathaniel Blackthorne sends his compliments." His booming baritone left no room for error.

"Mordecai Chambers, master of the Constancy. Your servant, sir." He ducked an abbreviated bow. "What measures might be taken to spare my crew and ship?"

"We seek captives." The announcement was made with the same casualness of ordering ale. Pryce swiveled to fix an eye on Chambers and then Cate, like a cat zeroing in on a mouse. The turn of his head revealed the other side of his face. From the middle of his lips, his mouth was gone, leaving nothing more than a long open wedge and a row of jagged broken teeth. The edges of skin drew back into what might have been intended as a smile, but looked more like a carnivorous snarl.

"Women, to be exact." The damaged mouth added a slur to Pryce's West Country drawl.

Tucked behind Chambers, she felt the weight of every pirate eye. In the face of pistol and sword, she was grateful for his protection, but a fragile shield he was.

"We're a merchant. We've no passengers," Chambers replied, adding an offhanded, comment. "There's none here, except my wife."

Cate held up her hand to exhibit her wedding ring, widening her eyes for an added bit of innocence.

"We were told there would be women," Pryce said, unperturbed. If anything, he appeared to have expected a ploy of some sort.

"Then you were told wrong."

"Cap'n's expectin' women." Pryce's glare hardened. "Give 'em now and you'll be given quarter."

"I assure you," Chambers began. "We've no..."

Somewhere between annoyed and bored, Pryce gestured with a tilt of his head. "Get 'er."

Cate yelped in surprise at being roughly snatched up from behind. A forearm coming around her neck brought her up hard against her captor. She cried out again at her arm being given a cruel twist as it was brought up behind her back. A low growl of protest came from the Constancies, which died quickly in their throats. Pryce stepped closer and inhaled loudly enough for all to hear.

"Ah, the smell of a woman!" He dramatically rolled his eyes. The deformed mouth drew back into a smile that was too reminiscent of the black flag overhead. "'Tis been a long time, has it not, gents?"

The pirates' leering snickers and a cackling laugh set her skin crawling.

"We were told there would be a Commissioner's wife." Pryce raked Cate with the same appraising eye as one might survey a horse. "A might young, but fair enough. There should be a daughter, as well."

"She's none of those," said Chambers in a low voice. "The Littleton women died a month ago."

"Aye, as sure as black's the white o' me eye," sneered Pryce.

Pryce gave the barest of nods. A Chinaman stepped before her. Half a head taller than she, his broad features were stony save for the cold glint in his near-black eyes. He drew a knife, pausing to brandish it for the benefit of all. The wicked thing gleamed in the sunlight. With its elegantly curved hilt and blade, if one were an admirer of knives, it would have been considered a beauty. She had a particular loathing for knives; any wielded blade. She jerked, but was held firmly, the blade's tip coming to rest at the hollow of her throat. The grasp on her arm tightened, her bones grinding painfully together.

He'll be the one holding a knife to your throat. Fitzgibbons' prophecy was too ironic.

She held her breath, afraid to move, in dreaded anticipation of what was to come with the next rocking of the ship.

"Get 'em," Pryce demanded.

"There. Is. No. One." Chambers said, now somewhere behind her.

Pryce drew an annoyed breath. Another bare nod and the knife slipped to the edge of her bodice. There was a slight pressure, and then the soft sound of fabric ripping and the periodic pop of laces. She felt the cold sting of the blade brushing one breast. She twisted against being held, her shoulder burning from the horrific angle at which her arm was held. The progress of the knife could be tracked in the reflection of the flat black eyes. With one arm at her back, she felt her exposure increasing, the pirates lewdly snickering at the prospect.

"Can't imagine what sort o' gent would be a-wishin' to see his wife naked out here for all to see. Can't be a promisin' what might happen. 'Tis been a good while since we've made port, has it not, mates?"

"You damned bloody bastards," rumbled Chambers.

Pryce's laugh boomed across the deck. "Damned and bastards, indeed. Motherless to the man. Perhaps t'were the lack of mother's milk what rendered us so heartless."

Her cheek was tight against the pirate's sweat-slickened chest. He stunk of sun-baked sweat and rising lust. She squirmed. The arm at her neck tightened. Blood pulsed thickly in her ears. Her eyeballs grew tight, as if too large for the sockets. The hot breath on her neck quickened with excitement, the hard body straining against hers. A droplet of moisture, either saliva or sweat, dripped on her chest and began a slow journey downward.

She slid a sideways look to where the Constancies stood, and saw everything from ashen-faced fear to quaking with pent rage. Some looked to the weapons piled before them, measuring their chances. A few looked caught short, as if their bowels had gone to liquid. Ivy bore a bullish scowl. Fitzsimmons gaped as if seeing his first circus.

The rush of her own breathing filled her ears. She swung from one emotion to another, one overpowering the next: fear, anger, mortification, resentment, and, above all, rage-pure, devouring, gut-tearing rage. She strove to remain calm, in order to measure her options. Bite? Kick? Claw? Run? There were wretchedly few, and each instantly dismissed as futile.

All rational thought dissolved under a wave of panic. From deep in her gut, it surged like a rising tide, each wave stronger than the last. The sweating brute holding her merged with others from another time, when the press of slavering male, restraints, the bite of steel, and the smell of her own blood had been a part of a different nightmarish scene. The knife inched lower and her belly contracted in recollection of abuse and mutilation by a blade once before.

She writhed. The knife nicked her ribs and the bubble burst. She screamed, high-pitched and piercing, aiming it directly into her captor's ear. He and the Chinaman jerked and fell back. The grip on her loosened and she wrenched free, ripping the last bit of her bodice. She scooped up a cutlass from the weapons on the deck. Swiping up and out as she rose, she caught the Chinaman in the leg with the first swipe. He went down with a surprised high, thin yowl.

The Constancies had taken her cue and seized up their weapons. The entire deck was now in full motion. From all around came the clash and mayhem of hand-to-hand fighting. Pistols fired, the air growing thick with smoke and the sharp smell of blood. In a two-fisted grasp, she slashed from side to side, sending the pirates scattering.

Follow the lead. Anticipate! Focus! she thought, recalling lessons of long ago.

Steel screamed, blade against blade. Pain shot up her arms with each blow. Lacking the strength and skill for offense, defense was her only ploy: swing and block, swing and block, up and block, sideways and block, time to time feeling the impact with flesh. She saw the deck in small vignettes, like framed pictures: a storm petrel darting overhead through the forestays, a pirate and a Constancy diving for the same pistol skidding across the deck. Another clutched his gut, the blood vibrant between his fingers. A severed finger landed at her feet. In a strange disjointed sort of way, she could see herself: a half-naked, half-crazed woman wielding a sword.

The pirates maneuvered to circle her, lunging at every chance. Dodging their clutching grasps, she inched away. Her skirt was yanked, and she stumbled and fell, the back of her head slamming the deck. The surrounding mayhem faded, her stomach knotted, and then lurched, as if she was going to vomit. Internal voices screamed for her to move. By some miracle, she still held the sword. She rolled to her knees, and then stood on rubbery legs, blocking and beating back those who came at her.

For God's sake, run! Don't let yourself be taken!

As the pirates closed in around her, the warnings grew to screams. Arms burning, she couldn't last much longer. Away, off the ship suddenly seemed the only answer. From the corner of her eye, she saw once more the dark outline of the island.

Run!

Not quite running, but the effect would be the same. She hitched her skirts and leapt for the rail. Seizing a shroud, one of the wrist-thick ropes supporting the mast, as a brace, she slashed down at those who sought to snatch her back. A blow to the hip spun her around, jerking the thick rope from her grasp. Her skirts tangled in the deadeyes and she clawed the air. The sky was blocked by the side of the ship going by. She looked up at the stricken pirate faces over the rail...

And then she hit the water.

Chapter 2: Purgatory, or Just Hell?.

Hitting the water was painful. Worse than falling from a speeding horse, the impact knocked the breath from her. The sea was surprisingly warm, the comfort she had sought, a mother's embrace. The chaos and smoke now gone; she was enshrouded by the peace so long needed. The weight of her skirts dragged her down and the sun's brilliance faded.

All would be well; it would all be over soon. She bore no fear: as a child, she had been told Heaven meant floating. Spreading her arms as an angel might, she leaned her head back. High overhead, the Constancy's keel was a diminishing dark wedge, the pirate boats gathered at her sides like chicks.

Time came in blissful increments. Her heart pulsed, a hollow echo of itself, once...twice...slower...thrice...

A voice, deep and so very familiar, said, "Not yet."

She yearned to remain, but knew she must go. It was what he wanted. She allowed the hands, ones she knew as intimately as the voice, to propel her upward, back to the light.

Rough handling shattered her euphoria.

A bit more gentleness was to be expected in the Dear Beyond, she thought crossly, as she was lifted and pulled. As if her complaints had been heard, peace was returned, gently rocking. Her hopes soared anew. She was being taken. This was the journey of which she had been told. Her heart raced with the anticipation of waiting glories, reunions with loved ones.

The journey, however, came to an abrupt end. She was manhandled once more, coarsely passed through a progression of hands. She thrashed in protest, desiring to be returned to the blessed exultation. To be shown such rapture only to have it taken was too cruel. The unpleasantness increased. She was dropped on a hard surface with the same care as the day's catch. Her senses congealed enough for her to know that she laid half on her stomach, an arm pinned under her, in a growing pool of water. The vibration of approaching footsteps was felt through the wood under her cheek.

Through water-clogged ears she heard, "She breathin'?"

"Barely," came in a male voice.

Breathing. Air!

Cate's chest spasmed and she was caught between the gurgling wheezes of inhaling, while at the same time retching up foul-tasting sea water and bile.

"Aye, well, she lives now," said the first.

On the small hope that she had been returned to the Constancy, she opened her eyes to a sideways view of a deck, but an unfamiliar one. Feet, bare and shod, surrounded her. She looked up into the faces of strangers staring down, with expressions of everything from curiosity to bemusement. A touch on the shoulder startled her and she swung out. With one arm pinned, however, she could only squirm like an exposed worm in the wetness, the feeble efforts bringing a chuckle from the onlookers. The hand returned to run from the crest of her shoulder down her back.

"Great Caesar's ghost, lookit this, Cap'n."

"Bloody hell! What the...?"

"Looks like a sword blade," murmured another voice, gruffer than the first.

"Looks like she's been through a war."

Amid their wonderment and shock, came an inner voice.

Run!

Cate sprang up and fled. In a part of her mind, she sprinted like a startled deer, evading those giving chase. Another part knew she was but floundering, rubbery-legged and heavy-footed. Whether her path was aft or forward she had no notion. Foremost in her mind was the rail, and then the water. The pirates readily caught up and ran alongside, herding her away from her goal. Taunting, they plucked and snatched, shouting insults at her, until she came up against the raised face of the forecastle. She was trapped.