Drummond easily scaled Mari's tights, where they hung in her armoire. Maintaining his physical regimen was useful both for getting around and retaining a firm grasp of his sanity in the deranged world he found himself in. His fists clutched loose folds of fabric as he hauled himself up, but as the white-and-purple striped tights passed by he couldn't help but think about how these thigh-highs fit on the erratic giantess's beautiful legs. It was almost stimulating to be here, in her clothing, even without her. Almost.

The only sour note on the experience was feeling the doleful teenager's eyes on him as he scaled. He yelled down at him, "Spit it out, kid. What do you want?"

"What do you think you're doing?" came the thin, unconfident voice from far below.

"None of your concern. Go back to moping in the church."

The wretched youth clutched the velvet runner closer to his shoulders. "This is her private property. The psychopathic giantess. You're digging through her personal clothing. You shouldn't be here."

"Didn't ask your opinion."

Frowning, the Teen set the large Bible down and took a running leap into the base of the armoire. The velvet runner trailed behind him dramatically, in contrast with his mundane, secondhand clothes. "She's going to be pissed if she finds out you've been in here. She does horrible things when she's pissed."

"Then you'd better not tell her." Drummond was nearing the elastic bands at the top of the leggings. He could scramble up to the hanger to which they were clamped, then run up to the clothing rod, but that wouldn't get him to the shelf above the hanging garments. He could shoot his way through the bottom of the shelf, perhaps, but that would be a dead giveaway he'd been here.

The Teen milled around the floor of the armoire, pacing past large platform boots, spiky high heeled shoes: the varied collection of Lovely Mari's footwear was like a small town all by itself. "I don't have to tell her. She has a way of knowing. She's dangerous and you're in trouble."

Drummond muttered darkly about the annoyance this boy presented. He accessed the thigh-highs' opening, pulled himself up easily by the chrome clip holding them, and wrapped his arms around the end of the wooden hanger. Perhaps the clothing rod wasn't the answer. With the little weight he possessed, he began swinging to heave the hanger's considerable weight, exploiting his marginal advantage of being as far from the fulcrum point as possible. Slowly, the other hangers began to clatter like gossipers as his own gained momentum.

"You're going to make a mess," the Teen called up. "You're going to fall and hurt yourself."

"Not your concern!"

"Then you won't be useful to her, and you know what she does to things that don't have any purpose in her life."

That shot cold electricity down the SWAT Operator's spine. There was no arguing that point, and it was dangerous to dismiss. Without breaking his momentum, he barked down, "That's why I have to get this right in one shot. So shut the fuck up before I come down there and shut you up."

"She has you under her spell." The Teen's voice wandered in and out among the muffling clothing that hung between them. "You're not thinking right. You have fucked up thoughts about what you should do, because she's gotten to you."

It wasn't clear how much the Teen actually knew and how much of this screed was him talking for the sake of making noise. Drummond noticed the kid's retreat within, performing all his tasks silently, speaking up only when Drummond went off on his own or worked on something the Teen didn't know anything about. And as Drummond investigated how the hell to get out of this world, there were more and more of those instances all the time.

"I can't hear you," Drummond whispered. He kicked his legs toward the downward swing of the hanger, scrambled atop it at its lowest point, then rode the momentum up. As sharply as he could, he kicked away from the polished wooden hanger and stretched his arms upward. He lost some of the hanger's propulsion, booting it away like that, but he was light and strong enough to compensate for the neutralized force, and his iron-talon fingers only just grabbed the edge of the upper shelf. He let himself hang there, coming to a rest (and hopefully giving that annoying goddamned kid a moment's scare), then pulled himself up as easily as if tugged by a string.

The Teen was saying something, but his voice was muted by dresses, tights, and a thick wooden shelf. The Operator walked over to a large velvet box trimmed in gaudy brass. It was closed with a simple latch: Drummond kicked it open and laboriously hove the lid up. His urban assault boots balanced on a narrow ledge of hammered brass as he perched, arms akimbo, and surveyed a dragon's hoard of necklaces, bracelets, and earrings, piled carelessly in a velvet-lined depression. He only moved once he saw the object he was after: the rainbow-bound tome at the end of a gold French hook and chain. Inching his way around the jewelry, to disturb as little as possible, he knelt within the jewelry chest and took up the tome with black gloved hands.

He was surprised to be able to read the script on the cover—The Grimoire of Alice—and noted the ornate, heavy latch that locked this book shut. From his chest pocket he extracted a gunmetal-gray cylinder, what he called his "tactical pen." One end unscrewed to reveal a chamber of slim metal shims, and with three of these he easily picked the lock.

It looked like a spell book, written in a young woman's hand: portentous words with extra loops and hearts over the I's, but his experiences with the maniacal spell-wielding giantess warned him not to blow this off. With the Teen's mosquito-whinge spooling in the far, far distance, Drummond flipped through the pages. Every second or third page was headed with an outrageous-sounding phrase, heralding spells for firepower, defense, and recovery. A couple surveillance spells interested him, but he didn't stop rifling through the tome until he found one that presented itself as a universal translator.

*   *   *

"He what?!" roared Nicholas Lawes, Governor of Jamaica. Parchment rattled between his thick fingers.

His hapless valet gulped hard and repeated the missive his superior clutched. "Received King George's pardon, m'lud, and a letter of marque from Governor Rogers of New Providence. Then promptly turned right back to piracy. Stole the William from Capt. John Ham."

"What sort of ship is Capt. Ham's William?" Lawes's jowls trembled with rage. His small, piggish eyes began to twitch in calculation.

"Small but light, m'lud. Four guns, reportedly, and crewed by a dozen at most." Inwardly the valet admired the audacity of such a small group, but this wasn't the company in which to share such a sentiment. He consulted his notes: "Er, two of them, m'lud, Anne Bonny and Mary Read, have been declared Enemies to the Crown of Great Britain."

The governor let that one roll around in his skull. "Women, no less. Enemies to the Crown, roaming the seas on a stolen vessel with the conniving bastard who threw Capt. Vane over for the Ranger two years ago." Lawes's fat tongue roiled between his thick lips. "Unbelievable. It's like His Majesty is daring them to misbehave, eh? This whole 'privateer' gambit, giving them permission to pick off those French and Spanish bastards. A leopard doesn't change its spots, does it?" His valet agreed but the governor was only musing aloud. "Damn and blast. And it's just a matter of time before the scallywag squeezes past Guantanamo and plagues Port Royal…"

He pinched the bridge of his nose and scowled. "No. Not this time, not ever again. You there, you dish-faced yip, take a letter!" He swiveled toward the glowing drapes of his office, silhouetting a globe of the world with the Caribbean Sea turned toward him. The valet scraped a small stool to the governor's escritoire and stabbed a quill in an inkwell. "Standard felicitations and greetings to Captain Jonathan Barnet, blah-blah-blah. Like my predecessor, Lord Hamilton, with these presents I hereby commission thee for one more year of counter-adventure and retribution on behalf of His Majesty, King George, the interests and livelihood of England, and blah-blah-blah."

Lawes sighed deeply, raising an ache in his heavy ribs. "Bloody privateers. That's a rum racket, I should say. Anyway, and be thee so noticed as of this writing to pursue, hunt down, and bring to justice John Rackham of England, vulgarly known as 'Calico Jack,' currently in lawless possession of the William to the end of gainful transgressions against the crown, blah-blah-blah." The next sentence writhed in his mind like a scorpion in his palm, hoping against hope it wouldn't turn to sting himself. "To these ends, you are required to enjoin and employ Mr. Jean Bonadvis of the Bennet, conferring upon this commission to privateer as well. May God speed your blah-blah-blah, and where'd I hide that brandy." He poked noisily through the drawers of his large desk as the valet finished the letter, sanded it, blotted it, and sealed it for delivery.

"Will that be all, m'lud?" asked the valet.

Lawes turned one bleary eye up to the gangly young man. "Good Lord in Heaven, son, isn't that more than enough? On wi' ye." With a salute, the valet darted from the room, and the governor rubbed his scalp ruefully. "Treacherous bastards, the lot of them."

*   *   *

Lovely Mari leaned over the side of the William, salty winds blowing her spun-gold mane wildly about her cute grin. "Woo-hoo!" she shouted at the whitecaps. "Pirates! Fuckin' A!" She turned and danced in place, grinning hugely at the men on the ship, laboring at its maintenance, getting acquainted with its layout. Mari trotted over to the ship's carpenter, Harland Daggett and slugged him on the shoulder, causing him to drop his bucket of mop water. "Come on, we're fuckin' pirates! Yo-ho-ho and shit!"

Daggett tried to scowl at her, tried to swear, but his eyes were magnetically attracted to the crevasse between her plump and glistening boobs, each dancing with lives of their own, and the words died in his throat. Mari looked around at the sailors climbing the Jacob's ladder, swabbing the deck, scurrying hither and yon with the purposeful determination of so many ants. "Goddamn it! Why ain'tcha singin' and dancin'? What kinda pirates are ya, anyway?" She threw her arms up in frustration and turned to the poop deck, where "Calico Jack" Rackham stood with the pilot. "Where's the fuckin' rum, for cryin' out loud?"

Rackham glared down at the new recruit. "The feck have we got ourselves into," he muttered, not outside his attendants' sharp ears.

"What she lacks in practical experience," mused Mark, hands thrust deep in jacket pockets, "she amply makes up for in sporting her dairy to the crew's morale. That can't be denied." Andy only stared at the voluptuous young woman, now rubbing herself fruitlessly against young master Mascheck Nicholass, the ship's boatswain, as he hustled around to perform inventory. Rather than agreeing or ignoring, Rackham coughed once and withdrew to his personal quarters.

Mark looked at Andy warily. "What's up his arse?"

"I'm afraid he's a bit jealous."

"Jealous? Of what, that costume-jewelried doxy down there?"

Andy sighed and smiled coyly. "Of you, actually. We need to talk, if you're not otherwise engaged." Mark shrugged and the pair slunk below decks, past the cannons and below the forecastle, to a private cabin.

Mark leaned against wall and watched Andy get comfortable, perching on a barrel head. "Tell me what's going on. Why in the blue blazes would John be jealous of me?"

"He's likely seen my eye following you around, to be quite honest." Andy's jacket slipped off and bunched on the floorboards. "There's something you should know. It's a secret from the crew, but John's been helping me with it. I think you'll understand it comes in handy around here. I'm… not actually a man." Andy smiled up at Mark and pulled her linen shirt over her head. Her chest was bound with cloth, which she loosened for her audience. She closed her eyes, massaging her sore breasts. She tugged her kerchief off and let her long, coppery hair flow over her shoulders, giving it an enticing shake before looking up at the other pirate.

"You're young," Mark said quietly.

"Don't confuse that with inexperience, to your peril." She started to rise, but Mark placed a hand on her shoulder and drove her back down to her seat.

"I wouldn't dare," said Mark. "When I was your age, I was running a tavern in the Netherlands, and that, after fighting the French with the British. I was on my way to the West Indies when an entirely different set of British sea dogs commandeered our ship, and I joined them. Not at all unlike you."

"Anne Bonny, proud child of Ireland," the flame-haired woman said, taking Mark's hand from her shoulder and sliding it down her chest.

Mark politely withdrew and said, "Well, if you can keep a secret," and lifted up her own shirt, exposing her own bound chest. "Mary Read, citizen of the seas."

The two women stared at each other, then burst out laughing. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I cannot get a fecking break!" Bonny cursed and pounded the wall. "At least John'll be happy to know I'm not quiffing you behind his back."

Read arched an eyebrow and stretched her long leg over Bonny's lap, straddling her. "Don't speak so hastily, my short-heeled lass."

Bonny placed her hands on the other woman's hips and gently pushed her back. "I'm not really, uh… that way."

Read only snorted and shrugged. "Sure, for now. Do be sure and let me know if you change your mind." She straightened out her billowing jacket and tied Bonny's kerchief back on, then strode past the cannoneers to return to the deck.

Bonny bit her lip, closed the cabin door with her boot, and looked around the unfurnished room for anything useful. She settled upon the rounded, polished butt of her flintlock pistol, grinding it slowly into the crotch of her pants, trying to bring to mind some of her last few conquests at the Brass Monkey, right before she met Rackham. She had nearly focused on one when the image of that clown Mari intruded on her imagination. Those huge breasts, those unmanageable hips, all trying to squeeze through the splintery mess of a door… "Goddamn it!" Bonny stomped a couple times in frustration before angrily getting dressed and storming upstairs again.

Immediately she found a half-circle of men, their backs shielding her from some activity in the center of the deck. "What's going on?" she demanded, shoving sailors aside. When they realized who she was they cleared a path for her, and she found Mari growling and clenching her fists. Read stood nearby, her arm wrapped around the neck of the rigger, Miller, holding him firmly at an angle where he struggled to find his footing. She also held a pistol to the side of the man's head.

"She wanted it," Miller croaked. "Ask her yourself, she wanted it!" His hooded eyes scanned over his crewmates, who shifted from foot to foot and grumbled.

"The feck is this all about?" Bonny reached for her own pistol, blushed lightly, and pulled out her machete instead. "What've you done to our guest?"

"If you'd let me up, I could explain," he whimpered, but Read remained steely-eyed and held him fast. "You all saw how Mari was dancing around, grinding up against us while we're trying to do our work, right? Everyone saw that! Well, I just thought I'd pull her aside for a little fun, seeing as how she was in the mood for it."

"I didn't give ya permission to touch me there!" Mari yelled, kicking one of the man's legs out from under him. He staggered and gagged within Read's elbow. "You don't just walk up and grab whatever ya want! I'm not a fuckin'… candy store or somethin'!"

Bonny glared at Mari, who'd been showing herself off like a dog in heat for the past week. But she was right, no one on this ship was going to just grab her like they owned her. There was no way for the rigger to know that Bonny had gutted another young man with a kitchen knife for the same thing: some confident suitor who tried to go a little too far with her, before marriage.

But she looked at Read, as well, who'd come up to her and all but shoved her head in her crotch, not a candle's inch ago. Bonny grimaced, wound up over secrets and boiling over with tension, and she packed all that frustration into her fist as she hauled back and cracked Miller across the chops. Read released him and he sank to the deck like a sack of flour. Gratified, Bonny shook out her hand and smiled darkly at the heap of man.

Lovely Mari cheered, hopping on one leg and clapping. "My hero! That's real pirates standin' up for each other!" Before Bonny could react, Mari threw her arms around her shoulders and hugged her tightly, her enormous boobs rising to suffocate the pirate.

Read only arched her eyebrow and shooed the onlookers back to their tasks.