CHAPTER 16: THE BLOOD THAT SINGS
The brig had been carved from the cave itself—natural stone walls, iron bars bolted into rock, water dripping somewhere in the darkness.
They'd thrown us in without ceremony after Barbossa's question went unanswered. I'd held his skeletal gaze until his crew dragged us away, refusing to give him the satisfaction of watching me break. Now, hours later, I sat against damp stone and wondered if that had been bravery or stupidity.
Will occupied the cell next to ours. Elizabeth had been taken somewhere else—Barbossa keeping his leverage separated from his blood sacrifice.
Jack paced. Even in captivity, he couldn't stay still.
"Stop moving," I said. "You're making me seasick."
"Ironic, given we're on an island."
"The island's in a cave. The cave's full of water. Close enough."
Jack paused mid-stride. "You're remarkably calm for a man awaiting execution."
Because I've died before, I didn't say. Because the water will bring me back if Jack survives.
Instead: "Panic wastes energy. We'll need that energy for escaping."
"Pragmatic." Jack resumed pacing. "I keep saying that. Pragmatic Micke. The man who doesn't scream at walking corpses."
The sound of boots echoed through the passage. Heavy. Multiple. Coming closer.
I pushed to my feet, ignoring the way my rope-burned wrists protested. My Curse Sight flickered at the edges of my vision—not fully active, but present. Warning me.
Barbossa appeared beyond the bars, skeletal in the torchlight his crew carried. Behind him, more cursed pirates. And behind them—
Elizabeth. Bound but unharmed, her face pale with controlled fury.
"Mr. Turner." Barbossa's voice rolled through the passage like theatrical thunder. "I have wonderful news."
Will gripped the bars of his cell. "What have you done with Elizabeth?"
"Nothing. Yet." Barbossa's lipless smile stretched. "She remains valuable. You, however, have become invaluable."
He held up a logbook—old, water-stained, filled with cramped writing.
"Bootstrap Bill Turner. Crew member of the Black Pearl during our little... procurement of Aztec gold. I knew the name sounded familiar." He tapped the book. "Records show he had a son. A boy named William, left behind in England."
Will's face went gray.
"You're Bootstrap's whelp. His blood." Barbossa closed the logbook with a snap. "Which means Miss Swann's deception, while irritating, has led us to exactly what we needed."
"You can't—"
"I can. And I will." Barbossa gestured to his crew. "Take the boy to the treasure chamber. Prepare the ritual."
"No!" Elizabeth lunged against her captors. "You have what you need! Let the others go!"
Barbossa turned to her with something approaching respect.
"Negotiate, Miss Swann? How refreshing." He tilted his skeletal head. "What exactly do you offer?"
"Myself. As hostage." Elizabeth's voice was steady despite the fear in her eyes. "The Royal Navy is searching for me. My father is governor of Port Royal. Kill these men, and you make enemies who will hunt you forever. Keep me alive, keep them alive, and you have leverage. Insurance."
"And Jack Sparrow?" Barbossa's gaze shifted to our cell. "He's hardly worth the air he breathes."
Jack raised a hand. "I beg to differ—"
"The East India Trading Company wants him." Elizabeth spoke over Jack without hesitation. "Lord Beckett specifically. Sparrow knows things about routes, about contacts. Kill him, and you lose something Beckett would pay handsomely to recover."
Barbossa was silent for a long moment. The curse-chains in my flickering Sight pulsed with that same hungry rhythm.
"Dead men make poor bargaining chips," he finally admitted. "Very well. They live—for now. But the boy's blood is ours."
"You need him alive for the ritual?" I spoke for the first time. "Or just his blood?"
Barbossa's attention swung to me.
"The boy must make the payment personally. Blood and coin together, from the one who owes the debt—or in this case, the one who inherited it."
"Then you need him conscious. Cooperative. Healthy enough to bleed without dying before the ritual completes."
"Your point?"
"My point is that a man who's been beaten, starved, and tortured tends to die at inconvenient moments." I held Barbossa's gaze. "Feed him. Keep him comfortable. You've waited ten years—you can wait a few more hours to ensure the ritual works."
The silence stretched.
Then Barbossa laughed—that rattling, bone-on-bone sound.
"I like you." He pointed at me through the bars. "You think like a man who's seen terrible things. What exactly happened to you, boy?"
"Life."
Another laugh. Then Barbossa turned away.
"Feed the prisoners. Keep them alive. The ritual happens at sunset tomorrow—I want to feel the sun on my face when the curse finally breaks."
They dragged Will away. Elizabeth was taken in another direction. But before she disappeared, she caught my eye and nodded—a silent acknowledgment that my words had bought them time.
Then we were alone.
Jack let out a breath. "Clever. Buying time by appealing to Barbossa's self-interest."
"It's true. The ritual probably has conditions." I slumped against the wall, exhaustion hitting me suddenly. "And even if it doesn't, we needed every hour we can get."
"For what?"
"Escaping. Finding a way to break the curse on our terms instead of his."
Jack studied me in the dim light.
"You keep saying 'we.' As if your survival is tied to mine somehow."
My blood went cold.
"We're crew," I said carefully. "Crew looks out for crew."
"Do they?"
The way he said it made me think he didn't quite believe me. But he didn't push further.
I closed my eyes, letting my Curse Sight drift. Through the cell walls, I could see faint traces of the golden threads—curse-chains stretching toward the treasure chamber, connecting to the scattered members of Barbossa's crew.
I looked at Will's empty cell. Even without him present, I could see a latent shimmer where he'd stood—an echo of connection to the chest, to the curse, to the debt his father had incurred.
His blood is the key, I thought. But the curse needs more than blood. It needs the ritual. The coin. The willingness.
Then, almost by accident, I looked at my own reflection in a puddle of water on the cell floor.
No curse-chains. I wasn't cursed—not in the way Barbossa's crew was.
But there was something.
A golden thread. Thin, almost invisible, stretching from my chest through the cell wall toward where Jack sat.
What the hell?
I blinked. The thread remained. Pulsing gently. Connecting me to Jack.
My first instinct was to dismiss it as an artifact of my Curse Sight—some visual glitch, overstimulated senses creating patterns that didn't exist.
But it felt real. As real as the curse-chains on Barbossa's crew. As real as the debt-counters I'd seen etched into supernatural gold.
Something bound me to Jack Sparrow.
Something I hadn't known about.
The Fortune Link, some part of my mind whispered. The pull you've felt since Tortuga. This is what it looks like.
But what was it? A curse? A blessing? Something else entirely?
The cold of the brig seeped through my clothes. I curled into the driest corner, trying to preserve body heat through the endless night.
Through the bars, I watched that golden thread pulse.
Whatever connected me to Jack—it was deeper than coincidence. Deeper than choice.
And I had no idea what it meant.
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