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Follows immediately after the events of Marked
Normally, Puck was not the fleeing type. As the only hobgoblin to stand with Oberon during the war that had split the Court in two, she'd fought hard and never retreated unless her Lord commanded it. The Puck's ferocity in battle was as legendary as her love of tricks and pranks.
Now, though, she was running through Shadow, the place between places, her newly-branded arm cradled against her chest. She gasped at every movement that jarred the iron-caused injury and sent another stab of pain up her arm.
Iron. The bane of every faerie's existence. The metal that mortals tore from the earth and turned into so many things. It was everywhere now, and its influence was only growing. And while faeries could be cruel and vicious, it was only humans that were so barbaric with their metal of choice.
She shuddered and cradled her arm, finally coming to a halt just inside a space of shadowed walls. This part of Shadow overlapped with
The Wicked Wench burned.
On the deck of the Sentinel, there was nothing Captain Jack Sparrow could do. Already Beckett and his men had held him back from diving over the railing and swimming across the open water in a last-ditch attempt to save his beloved ship. Now two very burly sailors had their hands clamped down on his arms, forcing him to watch as the smell of woodsmoke, burning pitch, and gunpowder profaned the clean salt breeze.
Jack's face twisted into a mask of fury as the Wench's powder magazine suddenly blew, spraying wood splinters a hundred feet in the air ahead of a mushrooming fireball. That was his ship out there, his freedom. Captain Jack Sparrow was no landsman. He was nothing without a ship to captain and the wide ocean spread before him.
From the look on Cutler Beckett's face, the latter was about to be eternally denied him too.
"Chain him," Beckett ordered. "Let him watch his ship sink, then bring him to my cabin."
Jack instinctively cringed at the word 'chain'. B
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