I walked into the study again, and this time reactions were a little more tame. In a moment of mercy, and somethin' like decency, I had tried to sand off the edges of my new form. Turned out my tentacles were still capable of makin' arms and a hand. Six fingered and thick as my thigh, but not beyond the power of my enchanted shirt and coat to cover.

  To fix my face, or whatever it was that I had traded my sex appeal for, I just tied a black bandana that covered most of my blood shell mask and hit my extra eyes. Strangely it didn't seem to affect my vision at all, and my gills made sure I breathed without added effort.

  "Mister Roche," said Margarette from the table the more proactive survivors had gathered around. The two whose names I never learned were sat in the back, still just as quiet and hollow as they had been before, "I'd like to say, on behalf of all of us," at that, a few of the gathered winced but no one was so brave as to speak up, "we're all sorry about the way we reacted to your... Change. We were afraid. But that's behind us."

  She said it, but a few faces, mostly Tequi's and Clara's made me think that wasn't the whole truth. But, I didn't feel like callin' it out either, so I just nodded, "Good. Nice to hear. Now, what do y'all want?"

  Cara cleared her throat and stood up from her chair, "We've drawn a route to the armory from this manor. The four of us will move to secure it and the armaments inside while Margarette and the rest wait for our return to push for the docks," she explained layin' out the plan with military precision, "Mister Tequi and I will work to take the ship while you and Mister Temjun infiltrate the Processing Plant and hopefully liberate the guns. From there, we weather the storm until Captain Margarette's vessel is ready to sail. With luck," she said running a hand through her messy hair, "and a little deserved grace from the gods, we may just escape this tomb of a port town."

  The other folks around her tensed, but none of them spoke up. The plan was a good one. Infiltrate, arm up, make a hole, and finish this mother fuckin' fight.

  We all knew there were risks involved. Mostly timing, and a whole hell of a lot of trust. If me and Temjun failed there would be no escape. If they failed the run to the docs, we'd just be leading fresh lambs to the hungry, rotting slaughter. It had been precarious when I was just some Hunter that was good with a gun and worse at makin' selfish decisions, now it was doubly so.

  You fuckers have to trush a monster and a moron now.

  The thin-blooded leftovers of the Raven-Feather Pact were all these Southern folk had just now.

  It was almost ironic, if I’d finally grasped the meanin' of that word. Irony for a round of good Imperials and unlucky Outcasts to trust in the dregs of the North, in a couple of monsters who had traded sense and sensibility for iron and unsworn oaths.

  Here we make the choice, the last choice that matters.

  "Little brother," I said, addressing the giant, the only man who'd stood up for me, "you think we can manage it?"

  "Yes," said Temjun with a nod, his small eyes bright, "I think we might, Bother Roche."

  "Then let's go, fast. No hesitation, no mercy, no fuckin' fear. Everything outside these walls is soaked in Wyld mana. Won't mean much to you two," I said, pointing to two newly gloved tentacles as Cara and Tequi, "but for me and the big guy it'll be like a constant lungful of ghostleaf and lifetime of bad drinkin' all at once. We need to move fast," I said, "faster than you good folk can follow."

  "You can't mean to go without us," hissed Tequi, his face a storm cloud, "you might have traded your soul for power but-"

  "But fuckin' nothin'," I snraled, "me and Temjun will make the breach. You two will follow in our ruddy red wake, and when we're all armed to the gills," I said, feeling the slits in my neck bloom with delight, "we'll make war on the fuckin' tragedy outside these walls. All the way to the sea, to Captain Margarette's guns. That's where ya'll's part end. Clear?"

  Everyone nodded, even Vin.

  Everyone except Captain Margarette. Instead, she fixed me with a long, cold gaze, and stood from the overstuffed throne she'd been bound to since I'd freed her from the dark.

  "Hold on," the captain said, her tone sharp enough to cut, "that's my son you mean to lead. That's my ship," she continued, her voice hard as steel and her eyes bright, "and it's my people that you'll be freeing. Before you set foot past the wards that guards this hall, we must speak, Mister Roche," she cast her eyes to the lot, and the look she gave them was enough to make a man's blood freeze, "alone."

  The crowd buckled, all six of the others, Temjun included, sat as I gave a nod and opened the door for the old salt to pass through.

  The moment we had a barrier between us and the survivors, she spoke again, "Roche," Margarette said, "I'm not afraid of you. I've seen monsters in my time, and you're far from the worst," she whispered, her voice a low and dangerous rasp, "I've seen men just like you, men who made Paths that didn't end, ones that traded humanity for the power to change the world. You know what I've learned from them?" She asked, her face a mask of barely restrained rage.

  "What's that?" I asked, not flinchin' a muscle as the small woman leaned close enough for me to smell the brandy on her breath, "Enlighten me, old woman. What is it you think I've done? What kind of demon do you think I am?" I sneered, more than a little of the Kraken in my voice just then, "What the fuck do you know?"

  The slap she laid on my cheek was so crisp and swift it reminded me of my mama, "I saw them die Roche, every single one. They all thought that their Path could never end, that their ambition could never falter, that their will was enough to capture the falling sun. But they all died. Every one of them," she hissed, "all you bastards, all you fools with your endless roads, your insatiable hunger. You end. But..." she trailed off, her anger quelled by some spark of hope, of mercy.

  "But what?"

  "But I need you to live," she admitted, her face twisted into a frown and her brow heavy with unshed tears, "He doesn't know it, my crew never did, but Mister Roche, I am one hundred and thirty years old, my Patron is, and always was the Crone herself. I have the cancer," she said, "late stage. Beyond any elixir or brew of the Apothecary. I won't survive this," she said, then spat, "no. I don't fucking want to survive this. I mean to die in ice and ash just like a good Captain does."

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  I rocked back on my heels, stunned by her sudden honesty. More than that I was struck hard by a memory I'd buried down deep. One of a different, equally salty old crone.

  My gran. The Grass Clan witch who'd taught me what little history and culture I knew. My mother's mother had been a sworn servant of the Strix. Lived to a ripe one hundred, then survived to a fetid one hundred and forty-three.

  She died of cancer, like all those who chose to serve Divinity and kept their Paths. She died mad as a hatter, weak as a babe, and screamin' at the top of her lungs for an end none of my kin had the heart to give her.

  Until she did it herself, a long walk out in the forest, one cold winters day.

  So even if I didn't really know Captain Margarette, even if she was a stranger, one who obviously hated and feared what I'd become, I understood her.

  I understood enough to listen to what she said next.

  "My son. My ship. My fucking crew," she said, "my family, Mister Roche. I need them seen to. My first mate, my husband, died in this accursed port, dragged off by the madman who lorded over those cells in the dark," she growled, her fist clenched tight and her face gone pale, "so I can't ask him anymore. But, you," she said, taking my hand, my mockery of human flesh in her gnarled own, "you Mister Roche, I need to make this request of you. Not because you're exception, nor trustworthy, but because I know you'll survive," she took a deep breath and squeezed my hands so hard I could feel her bones creak against my strong, wet flesh, "I need you to see my crew, my son, to safety. I need you to fucking swear it."

  I didn't hesitate. I had never before, even when I ought to, and I wouldn't not.

  "Captain Margarette. I'll you true," I said, squeezin' her fingers until she winced, "I don't mean for a single innocent soul to die in this place. I don't mean for a single monster to go on livin' here either," I said, the black, empty nothin' inside me, the Pearl of my Patron's goddess seething at the prospect of more blood, more death, "I mean to have it all, or I swear I'll die tryin'."

  The old woman stared at me, her eyes flickering between my glowing green irises, and the strange black patterns that danced across the blood shell mask that had replaced my face. Seemed my mask hid little from someone so far on their own Path.

  "That's..." she whispered, her eyes wide and her mouth slack, "that's good enough."

  Before I could react, before I could truly realize the gravity of the pact I'd made with her, the old Captain moved.

  From her hip slid a slender knife, its blade black as pitch and the hilt a simple thing of bone and wire. It was encrusted with dark runes, their make as much blasphemy as blessing, and with it, she cut.

  A single stroke across the top of her breast, above the heart. Just enough to ruin the rune that marked her as a Captain, and to expose the fat and bone beneath.

  "I name you, Lorcan Roche, First Mate of the Beavulf, rightful successor and inheritor of her engines, her guns, and her crew. In the name of the Crone, I burden you with the mantle of command," she said, a soft glow rising from her skin and then fading away into nothing as the rune between her breasts dissolved and disappeared, "ball up, boy, and earn this desperate honor. For my crew, for my son."

  I was struck dumb. Literally.

  I saw the lash of mana that lanced from Margarette as clear as dawn, but nothing in me was able, or perhaps willing to resist. It sapped across me like a whip, and sank deep into my flesh, burnin' and searin' until a new scar, a fresh rune, bloomed atop the crown of my Path.

  This burden was not the same as those I'd chosen, those I'd carved on that beach months ago. There was no power in this mark, no magic, no empty hunger. Instead, the weight of it, the press of it against my soul, was somthin' else. Something that threatened to split open the hungry pearl in my guts.

  It was duty, simple and true. It was love, gnarled and twisted by age, cultivated to thorned truth by the harsh sensibility of this world. It was something that could not be defeated, or overcome. Only lost, or failed, or surrendered.

  "You bitch," I snarled, "you fuckin' bitch."

  "You're godsdamned right!" bellowed Margarette as she looked straight in my glowin' green eyes, "You talked the hero, Mister Roche, now I bind you to be one. That mark one your chest, that promise to me, to my crew, it'll kill you before it lets you fail. The Crone will freeze your putrid hide to ice before you betray those words you spoke true," she snorted and spat black phlegm on the dark wood floor between us, "welcome to a real fuckin' Path, boy. You were born to lead, I just made damn sure you won't turn tail on it."

  I shook, my body a-tremble at the feel of her magic. At the weight of that rune. My hands, all twelve of the tentacles that made them, shook. Part rage, part fear. A lot of confusion. And a touch, just a touch, of pride.

  "Why?" I bellowed, loud enough for the sheep behind the door to shift and stumble at the sound of it, "why the fuck would you trust me with this?!"

  She sneered, her yellowed teeth revealed by cracked and bloody lips, "Because my son," she said jabbing a small, wrinkled thumb toward the door, "already has. You only buy his loyalty with bloody action, Roche."

  She reached up then, and I saw her hands shake as a billowing torrent of lifeforce came with each ragged breath. Her lips trembled and her skin, dry as parchment, began to flake and fall away. She was dyin' in real time, and regardless of how I felt, regardless of what I thought she deserved for her trick, I was too damn decent not to reach out when her legs failed as that last trickle of power passed between us.

  Her thin arms wrapped around my chest as my contorted tentacles held her up. She coughed, and blood splattered, wet and hot against my chest and neck. She held me like a son does his father at the end of some Southern romance, the moment when he whispers goodbye, or a last, great promise.

  "Fuck," she hissed, "fuck this gods forsaken cancer. Fuck magic, and fuck you if you prove weak, Hunter. If you fail, if you falter, if you fall short of my ship, I'll wait for you in the Hells, and I'll cut you up like the bait I used to kill titans out in the blue. I'll make you scream on the Crone's Ice Throne until the stars burn out."

  I didn't doubt it.

  "Hold me to it. Ain't nothin' like eternal torment to get a man moving," I said with a grin, "you five minutes before I drop you, by the way." I muttered as she continued to rest in my grip. I saw a splotch of ink, barely concealed by her coat at the top of her breast begin to fade, and knew it's mirror would be growin' somewhere on me.

  The crazy old bitch had just passed a rune. I knew very little of the kind of magic that governed a proper magic, the king wizards and warlocks dedicated their lives to, but I did know you needed a rune, learned, inked, or carved, much like the one that bound the Paths of those who sought great power.

  I also knew that such a thing was never lightly given, or even lent. You paid for that particular power with a little more than mana or life. They were scarring wounds, debts of the soul and flesh, and not something any old salt, even one who'd lived for a hundred and thirty years, could just hand over like a pocket watch.

  But here we were.

  She snorted, and laughed like an ugly drunk who saw his world a joke from the bottom of a deep and empty bottle.

  "Fine. Yes," she said, pushing off to stand unsteadily, "I'll have rest enough in the ash that comes after. For now," she smiled, "et me to my ship. Get me my crew. And help die like a fucking sailor."

  Now that, I could do.