CHAPTER 29: FIRST MANIPULATION
The escape from Isla de Muerta wasn't clean.
Norrington's fleet held blockade positions around the island, and while they'd worked alongside Jack's crew during the cleanup, they hadn't forgotten that we were pirates. The Pearl was allowed to leave—a reward for our assistance in breaking the curse—but the Navy's guns tracked us until we passed beyond their effective range.
And there were others who hadn't gotten the message.
"Ships approaching," Gibbs called from the crow's nest. "Two sloops. Flying no colors."
Remnants, I thought, moving toward the rail. Barbossa's crew who weren't at the island when the curse broke. Still mortal, still dangerous, and probably very angry.
Jack studied the approaching vessels through his telescope. "Former crew of the Pearl. Koehler and Twigg, if I'm not mistaken. They'll want revenge for their captain—or more likely, they'll want the treasure we supposedly stole."
"We didn't steal anything," Will said. He'd stayed aboard to help with the voyage back, Elizabeth at his side.
"We're pirates, Mr. Turner. We steal everything."
The sloops were closing fast. Too fast for the Pearl to outrun, especially with her depleted crew and battle-damaged rigging.
"We fight?" Anamaria asked, already reaching for a cutlass.
"We fight." Jack's voice held no theatrical flourish—just cold certainty. "But we're outmanned. They'll board us within the hour."
My Curse Sight flickered as I scanned our options. The Pearl herself carried no supernatural weight—she was just a ship, legendary but mundane. But the coins in my pocket...
Dormant curse-traces, I remembered. Residual energy from the Aztec gold.
And then I noticed something else.
The rigging around me still held echoes. Faint, almost invisible, but present—the ghost of the curse that had touched this ship while Barbossa commanded her. Years of supernatural influence had left traces everywhere.
Blood contact, I thought, remembering my power documentation. Blood to acquire. Will to transfer.
My forehead cut had reopened during the night's work. Blood still seeped sluggishly from the wound, dripping down my face despite my attempts to keep it clean.
I pressed my palm against a curse-touched rope. Focused.
Something shifted.
The sensation was indescribable—like inhaling smoke that existed only in my mind. Darkness flowed through the blood on my skin, up my arm, settling somewhere deep in my chest. Residual curse energy, absorbed.
I have it, I realized with something between wonder and horror. I'm holding a piece of the curse inside me.
The approaching sloops were close enough now to see individual figures on their decks. Pirates preparing for battle. Guns being loaded. Boarding hooks at the ready.
"Micke?" Anamaria's voice was sharp. "You're bleeding."
My nose had started dripping. Not the forehead wound—a new stream of blood from my nostrils, triggered by whatever I'd just done.
"I'm fine." I wiped the blood away, focused on the lead sloop. On the captain standing at its prow—a scarred man with murder in his eyes.
Push, I thought. Transfer.
The curse-trace exploded outward.
I couldn't see it leave me, but I felt it—like exhaling something toxic. The energy crossed the water faster than any cannonball, struck the enemy captain dead center.
He screamed.
The sound was inhuman—a shriek of pure terror as supernatural dread overwhelmed him. He staggered backward, clawing at his own face, and his crew scattered in confusion.
The effect lasted perhaps five seconds. Then the man recovered, shaking his head, looking around wildly for whatever had attacked him.
But five seconds was enough.
"FIRE!" Jack roared.
The Pearl's guns spoke. The lead sloop took the broadside directly, its confused crew unable to respond in time. The second ship broke off, turning away, unwilling to face whatever had just happened.
Within minutes, we were free and running.
"What did you do?"
Anamaria cornered me below decks as the battle faded behind us. Her eyes were intense, searching, demanding answers I wasn't sure I could give.
"I don't know." Almost true. "Something about the curse residue—I touched it, felt it flow into me, pushed it out toward the enemy."
"That's not possible."
"I thought dying and coming back wasn't possible." I leaned against the bulkhead, suddenly exhausted. The power use had cost something—energy, vitality, I wasn't sure what. "This world is full of impossible things. I'm apparently one of them."
She stared at me for a long moment. Then, unexpectedly, she laughed.
"You're mad," she said. "Completely, utterly mad."
"Probably."
"And I'm mad for staying on this ship." But there was something lighter in her voice now—not forgiveness, exactly, but acceptance. Of a sort. "Whatever you are, you keep saving lives. That has to count for something."
I looked down at my blood-smeared hand. The curse-trace was gone, expended in the transfer. But the knowledge remained.
I can move curses, I thought. Not break them. Not create them. But transfer them from one target to another.
The implications were staggering.
"We should get that bleeding stopped," Anamaria said, nodding toward my still-dripping nose. "Ship's surgeon has supplies."
"There's a ship's surgeon?"
"Cotton. He doesn't talk, but he knows his work."
I let her lead me toward the medical supplies, mind racing with possibilities.
Blood contact. Will to transfer. Temporary effects.
A new tool in my arsenal. Another secret to keep.
The Pearl sailed on toward Port Royal, and I wondered what other powers lurked dormant inside me, waiting to be discovered.
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