The Black Lung Captain - Chris Wooding [180]
Frey stumbled away, hunched over and winded. Grist broke off in the other direction, but his momentum carried him into Trinica, who was retreating toward the back of the sanctum, seeking cover. Grist bowled her over and they went down in a mess of limbs, fighting each other for purchase. Grist came up first, dragging Trinica with him, but he didn’t let her go. Instead, he wrapped one thick arm—the one carrying the sphere—round her throat, and with the other he drew his pistol and shoved it into her ribs. He backed away toward cover, with Trinica as his shield.
Grist’s men had been decimated by the surprise attack. The last of them were being slaughtered by Bess or picked off by gunfire. The golem had just seized one of Grist’s crew and was raising him triumphantly over her head with both hands, ready to fling him to his death. Only Grist’s bosun, Crattle, was still in the fight, hiding behind a bullet-riddled lectern, and the remainder of his life could be counted in seconds.
Frey saw, with a sudden flood of horror, what would happen next. He fought to drag in a breath.
In moments, it would be over. Grist was dead meat. He didn’t have a chance. They’d turn their weapons on him and gun him down, and that would be that.
But to get to Grist, they had to go through Trinica.
He found air at last. Sucked it in and yelled.
“STOP!”
His voice rang out with a volume and authority he hadn’t realized he possessed. Friend and enemy alike froze, fingers on triggers. Silence fell, broken only by the crescendo wail of Grist’s crewman as he flew across the room to crunch against the far wall.
Bess made a bubbling noise in her chest that somehow managed to convey an apology.
All eyes went to Frey. Grist stood where he was, his gun in Trinica’s ribs. Crattle stayed in hiding, hardly daring to believe his reprieve. The crewmen of the Ketty Jay waited expectantly.
He knew he should let his men loose. He had the power. Kill them all, Trinica too. Be done with all the bitterness and betrayal. It would be so damned good to see her die right now.
But he couldn’t. Even with all the anger and hate inside him. This woman was a millstone around his neck, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to get rid of her. She was his penance and his punishment. Of all the women he’d wronged, she was the only one that counted. She’d carried his child, and killed it too. Like a vengeful ghost, she followed him out of the past, taking on whichever shape best enabled her to hurt him. He’d never be free.
He wanted her gone. He so desperately wanted her out of his life. But she’d never leave him alone until she was dead, and he couldn’t handle that eventuality. Her absence from the world would rob him of something vital, something he needed in order to keep on going. Without it, all that was left was that hollow feeling, the dreadful, indefinable lack that had inspired this whole sorry escapade in the first place.
A grin spread across Grist’s face. The advantage was lost. Grist had figured him out. “Thought so,” he said. He looked at Frey, down at Trinica, and then back to Frey again. “Ain’t that nice?”
Trinica watched him, her face blank. Was she afraid? Was she silently pleading with him to save her? No. Perhaps she simply didn’t care if she lived or died. But how could he tell, in the end? How could he trust any emotion from her ever again?
He waved at his men. “Let ’em go,” he said.
Malvery had his shotgun aimed squarely at Trinica and Grist. His eyes flicked from the gun sight to Frey.
“What?” he asked, his voice flat with disbelief.
“You heard me.”
“You can’t let them walk away,” said Crake. “Not with that sphere. We’ll need it if there’s any hope of undoing what’s been done.”
“Nobody’s undoin