Lightning slashed through the storm-darkened sky, threatening to tear the masts apart. Over the roll of thunder, the eerie sound of Hegarty’s chanting rose from the hold of the ship, making Rourke’s flesh ripple with unease. Magic rode heavy on the air. A high wave broke over the deck’s wooden planks in a shower of seawater. “Close the hatches!” he barked to his crew. “Secure the guns!” “We’re too close to the shore, Captain!” His bosun, Joshua Cutter, lurched into place beside him, his pitted face sharp with disbelief and a challenge Rourke was tiring of. “If the wind turns, we’ll be dashed upon the rocks.” Rourke scowled. “Then we shall hope the wind doesna turn, shall we not, Mr. Cutter? Return to your post and hold our position!” The bosun blanched, took a step back, then whirled and hurried away. God’s blood, if they survived the storm, he’d have a mutiny on his hands.
