Read Chapter 20: Aftermath of the Turn

The silence after the storm was the loudest thing Mack had ever heard.

He stood on the Sea Serpent's deck, swaying slightly as the swell rolled beneath his boots. The sky had gone from bruise-purple to a pale, washed-out blue, and the air smelled of ozone and wet wood. Strips of canvas hung loose from the rigging, and the railing near the bow had splintered in two places. His crew moved around him like sleepwalkers, checking lines, bailing water, not meeting his eyes. They'd seen him board the ghost ship. They'd seen him come back wearing Blackwood's coat.

The coat was still on his shoulders. He couldn't take it off. He'd tried, below deck, and his fingers had closed around the lapels only for the fabric to feel like it was sewn to his skin. He'd stopped trying.

Rosa came up the ladder from the galley, the letter folded and tucked into her oilskin pocket. She stopped when she saw him, her dark eyes moving from his face to the coat and back again. She didn't say anything. She didn't need to.

"We need to talk," Mack said. "All of us."

He gathered them in the main cabin, a cramped space that smelled of salt and diesel and Abigail's tobacco. Abigail took the bench against the wall, rolling a cigarette she didn't light. Rosa stood by the door, arms crossed. Jake sat at the table, turning his knife over and over in his hands. The blade caught the lantern light. Blackwood's blade, Mack reminded himself. It had always been Blackwood's blade.

Mack stood at the head of the table. He didn't sit. He wasn't sure he could sit still.

"I'm going to tell you everything," he said. "And I'm going to start with the parts I lied about."

Jake stopped turning the knife. "You lied about what?"

"My discharge." Mack's throat felt dry. "I told you I got out because of a medical issue. Shoulder. That's true, the shoulder's real. But it wasn't the reason I left."

"Then what was?" Abigail asked.

Mack took a breath. The coat felt heavier, like it was listening.

"I owed money. A lot of it. The Navy had a program—civilian contractor work, deep-sea ordnance recovery. Paid well. Too well. I took a job I shouldn't have taken, and it went sideways. There was an incident. A dive went wrong, and my partner—" He stopped. The word stuck in his teeth. "My partner didn't come back up. The official report said equipment failure. The unofficial report said I made a call that got him killed."

The silence that followed was thick enough to chew.

"You said it was a medical discharge," Rosa said quietly. "You said the Navy forced you out."

"They did. Because I took the blame to protect someone else." Mack's jaw tightened. "I chose to carry the weight. But I told you it was a shoulder injury because I didn't want to explain the rest. I didn't want you to know that the man who was diving for treasure on your boat was the same man who'd already watched another man die underwater."

Jake set the knife down with a metallic click. "So the debt."

"Was the payoff. Legal fees. Compensation to the family. I did it to myself. And when the money ran out and the collectors came knocking, I took the job from Cruz." Mack's voice dropped. "I took the job because I needed to clear my name and my ledger, and I figured a sunken wreck full of gold was as good a way as any."

"You used us," Abigail said. She wasn't angry. That was worse. She sounded tired.

"I used everyone," Mack said. "Including myself. And now I'm wearing a dead man's coat and the only way out of this mess is to finish what a dead captain started over two hundred years ago."

The cabin went quiet. Waves slapped against the hull.

Rosa moved first. She crossed the room and stood in front of him, close enough that he could see the salt crystals crusted on her lashes. "You should have told us."

"I know."

"Before you let us believe you were someone else."

"I know."

She looked at the coat, then back at his face. "Is the coat part of it now? Is that what you're telling us?"

Mack nodded. "The transformation is real. Every time I touch the gold, every time I wear this coat, I become a little more Blackwood. And if I don't deliver Pimm's letter to his grave on Myrrdin's Island, I'm going to become him completely. There's no version of this where I walk away and live."

"And what about us?" Jake asked. "We're not wearing the coat. Can we walk away?"

Mack wished he had a better answer. "The Sea Serpent's engines are dead. We've got a storm-torn rig and a ghost ship that's been pulling us through the water for the last twelve hours. I don't know if we can leave. I don't know if it'll let us."

"You're saying we're cursed too," Abigail said. It wasn't a question.

"I'm saying we're on this boat, in this sea, and the only way I know to end the curse is to finish the voyage. If that ends it for me, it ends it for the boat. And that ends it for you."

Jake picked up his knife again, but he didn't turn it. He held it flat in his palm, staring at the blade. "You expect us to trust you after you just admitted to lying to us since day one?"

"No," Mack said. "I expect you to hate me for a while. But I also expect you to know that I'm not lying now. I don't have the luxury of lying anymore. The dead are watching me, and they'll know."

Abigail finally lit her cigarette. She took a long drag and blew the smoke out in a thin, steady stream. "What's the plan?"

"Somewhere southeast of here is Myrrdin's Island. Pimm's logs gave us a bearing. We're close—the storm pushed us toward it faster than I thought possible." Mack pulled a folded chart from his coat. The paper was old, brittle, marked with ink that had browned with age. "I've been matching the coordinates against modern navigation. We're less than a day out."

"That island's not on any chart I've seen," Rosa said.

"Because it's not supposed to be found," Mack said. "It's got a name in the logs that translates to something like 'the place where the admiral sleeps.' It's not just a grave. Pimm's buried there because the island is his. He owned it. He retired to it."

"And Blackwood was supposed to deliver the letter to prove his innocence before Pimm died," Abigail said, piecing it together. "But Pimm died first. And Blackwood was hanged. And now the dead are arguing across two centuries and we're stuck in the middle."

"Something like that." Mack folded the chart. "But Pimm's ghost is waiting on the Santa Catalina, and he wants the handover. If we can make it happen, the curse lifts. Blackwood gets his name cleared. Pimm gets his letter. And we get to leave."

Jake looked up. "You believe that?"

Mack thought about the way the dead crew had watched him. The way Blackwood's shadow had flickered in his own reflection. The way the letter had burned without burning, its words curling like smoke.

"I believe I don't have a choice," he said. "And I believe that if we don't try, we're dead. Maybe not today, but soon. The curse doesn't let go. It just waits."

The cabin fell silent again. Then Rosa nodded.

"Then we try."

"We can't fix the engines," Jake said. "But we can rig a sail from the spare canvas. It won't be fast, but it'll be something."

"I'll plot the course," Abigail said.

Rosa stepped closer and put her hand on the lapel of the coat—Blackwood's coat. Her fingers brushed the worn wool like she was reading something in the weave. "When we get there," she said, "you're not going alone. We come with you."

"Rosa—"

"I'm not asking. This thing pulled all of us in. We finish it together."

Mack looked at her. The coat warmed against his chest, and for a moment he felt Blackwood's approval—a low, rumbling satisfaction that made his stomach turn. He pushed it down.

"Then we anchor off the island and go in at first light," he said.

The crew dispersed. Rosa lingered a moment longer, then left without another word. Mack stood alone in the cabin, the lantern swinging overhead, the coat heavy on his shoulders like a second skin.

He followed them topside. The sun was low on the horizon, painting the sky in shades of copper and rose. Ahead, a dark speck rose from the water—green on top, cliffs of black rock beneath. Myrrdin's Island.

The Sea Serpent limped toward it, sail patched, hull groaning, crew exhausted. As they drew closer, Mack saw the shape of a single towering tree at the island's center, its branches spread like arms.

He felt a cold breath on the back of his neck. He turned, but there was no one there. Just the empty deck and the gathering dusk.

The island grew larger on the horizon. Ghosts never walked alone. He knew that now. But maybe, he thought, he didn't have to walk with them forever.

He just had to finish the walk first.