“We should be there any minute.” Max. His voice sent a fresh wave of rage coursing through her limbs. “What in hell is going on down here?”

“Your girl will not behave,” Mrs. Cushing said. Her blond hair, which was pulled tightly into a crown of braids, gleamed under the cabin lighting as she removed her crimson coat and laid it atop the bar. “Fleury was suggesting we bag her up again.”

Fleury. Astrid looked at the laughing man as the Wicked Wenches’ tale of pirates flashed inside her head. Jean Fleury. She’d found a dark oil painting of him inside a book in Winter’s study—one before he was supposedly hanged for piracy in 1527. The man in that painting had looked nothing like the one standing before her now.

“Tie her arms to her sides and bag her up to the waist,” the man she’d kneed in the balls said from his curled up position on the floor. “I will break her.”

“You can have her after we’re done,” Mrs. Cushing said. “Nance will need to be physically connected to her during the ritual. Your seed will only muddle the energy.”

Max coughed. “Can you even get it up, Bechard? It looks like she got you in the stones pretty good.”

“Won’t stop me from swiving you,” the man said with venom.

“Enough!” Mrs. Cushing barked and pointed a finger at Max. “You losing your turquoise is the reason we’re all here right now. She’s your responsibility. Restrain her. We haven’t survived together over the last four hundred years only to be disbanded over one small girl.”

Max said something under his breath and limped over to Astrid. His chest rattled with every breath; sweat gleamed on his skin. The open sores and peeling flesh that covered one side of his face smelled putrid.

“I don’t think I’ve hated anyone so much as you,” he said a few inches from her face. “I am going to hurt you so badly, you’ll beg for death.”

She fought the shudder that fanned through her bones. “Where’s Bo?”

“He’ll be joining us soon enough. We need blood to open up the passage, and unfortunately, the Sibyl says it can’t be yours or my vigor might slip out. But after I have it back . . . you will bleed.”

“What passage?” Astrid said. “If you hurt Bo—”

“I will do more than hurt him, Goldilocks.” Max pulled a knife out and held it in front of her face. She recognized the ivory handle; it was the one he’d held to her throat in the elevator. “I will cut him open so wide, his entrails will spill onto the floor.”

His free hand moved toward her neck to hold her in place. She saw the blue of his ring, twisted loosely around to face his palm—as if it were too big for his hand—and tried to jerk away, but the men who were holding her tightened their grip. The moment the ring touched her neck, the same terrible electricity she’d last felt in Gris-Gris’s restroom suddenly shot through her nerves.

The cabin fell away.

The vision began.

This time, she didn’t see the ritual. Didn’t see the body sacks in the water, either. She saw another ritual. Another time . . . another boat.

She was inside the wooden hold of an old ship. The dark belly was filled with crates and penned animals, along with the reek of urine, shit, and death. Armored conquistadors lay slaughtered, their bodies stacked against the walls. The ship rocked severely, groaning as wind lashed the ship and thunder rolled. Sputtering lanterns swayed from rafters. And in the middle of the ship’s hold, the old priestess in the red robe stood inside a chain of blue symbols. Spread around her, lying on the floor, fanned out in imitation of spokes on a wheel, were five long-haired men and one woman.

All naked.

All covered in blue paint and blood.

All clutching turquoise idols to their chests.

And each of those idols generated a fine white line of light that pierced the dark air of the ship’s hold and connected to a carved pendant of turquoise that hung around the priestess’s neck.

The vision sputtered. Astrid saw the ritual overlapping with the current yacht. It blurred and rotated, and she thought she might be sick.

“Do you hear me? What’s wrong with her? Help me, Sibyl!”

Astrid was sagging in the grip of the two survivors who restrained her. Max slapped her—struck her across the face. His ring made contact with her cheek and the room disappeared again.

Now she was on another ship, in a Victorian-looking parlor. Ornate lamps, chairs, and china had been stacked against the wall in a heap, along with a rolled-up rug. Portholes framed flashes of a roiling ocean when lightning streaked across a night sky. The red-robed priestess stood in the center of a blue circle, guiding a ritual that looked identical to the one Astrid had seen on the Plumed Serpent. Six young people with the priestess inside the circle, six old people wearing iron boots lined the outside. Only, Astrid recognized none except the priestess. They were all different people.

Where was Max? Fleury?

“Move!” a feminine voice commanded as Astrid’s world spun. “It’s your vigor, man. Your touch is interacting with it . . . doing something strange to her. If she dies, you die. And if you die, this entire coven goes with you.”

“Aye,” another voice answered sullenly. “Stand or fall together.”

“I told you the drug fiend was a poor vessel,” a third voice said. The laughing man—Fleury. “He was too intoxicated to even hold on to the turquoise. That’s what got us in this mess in the first place. If he hadn’t dropped it—”