Page 20 of Rears & Vices

Shite. This one wasn’t having it.

D’Arcy surged forward. “Good to hear. Excuse me, boys.” He made as though to open the sickbay door⁠—

—only to be barred by two crossed bayonets.

“I say, let me through.” D’Arcy gave a feigned, gentleman-weak struggle.

“Begging your pardon, cap’n,” the right marine said. “We’re told no visitors, no entrance. Special circumstance.”

D’Arcy went still. “Special circumstance is why I’m here,” he insisted calmly.

A distinctly protective gleam came into the left marine’s eyes. “It’s for his sake as well as yours, captain.” He gripped his gun more firmly. The bayonet end looked well sharpened, though he must have known his range of motion would be challenged, there in the low hold.

D’Arcy backed up a step—not quite far enough for the bayonet’s use. “Lord above, an honest marine,” he muttered, intentionally loud. “All for a sodomite.”

It had the desired effect. The left marine’s stance went even stiffer, and he paled.

“Sirs, I am sorry.” Soft, but firm. “But there will be no crimes done here tonight, no matter the prisoner’s charges.”

Brave lad. If Everard weren’t so desperate to get Vitaliy free, he’d hug him.

Instead, he watched the right marine, whose blank expression had faltered into a frown. He apparently did not wholly agree with his contemporary.

Everard shifted his weight to his right foot, coughed.

D’Arcy nodded in response. He’d seen it too.

Change of plans.

D’Arcy lunged. His hands flew; he gripped the left marine’s bayonet gun and thrust it—chunk—deep into the deck above their heads; he pushed the freckled redcoat back with one arm. The young man was sent stumbling, straight into Everard, who steadied him with a tight hold.

“Don’t move, Private,” he warned. He was obeyed.

Meanwhile, the right marine stood no chance. D’Arcy had drawn his pistol in the same moment he’d pushed the younger out of harm’s way. Everard wondered, for a moment⁠—

The marine fell to his knees, dropping the gun clattering onto pitch-and-plank, and his hands went up, far above his head.

“No, wait, wait. Do what you want, rape him bloody, I won’t hear nothing.” He spat on the floor. “I’d’a let ten of you through if it wasn’t for Saint Cunt over h⁠—”

Crack. Blood and brain and black tufts of feathered, high-top bicorne went flying; the man toppled, missing fully half his skull.

The marine in Everard’s arms jerked and whimpered. Everard knew him no less brave for it. He had winced badly himself, and his ears rang, pulsing with imagined, repetitive reverb from the shot.

“God, Preston.”

“Prick,” D’Arcy said calmly. He leaned to pluck the keyring from the dead man’s belt, tossed it to Everard. “Trade you.”

“Er… indeed. He won’t hurt you,” Everard added to the marine. Though really it was useless reassurance, because who could say? He’d just point-blank shot a man of their own, a Royal Marine, for no cause—well, hardly any cause—at all.

He nudged the stunned man forward. D’Arcy put a hand on the man’s shoulder and spoke to him, hopefully repeating that he would not, in fact, shoot him in turn.

It rang through his head like the gunshot’s echo: Is this the true Preston D’Arcy, released from all consequence?

Everard worked the key in the door quickly; they had very little time now. Whatever Marines were still upon the Brigitte would soon come running.

“God damn it.” His hands were shaking. He shoved the door open with a kick, he was so desperate with nerves.

Who have I released upon the world?