Our Dark Prince (The Scottish Play)

LVI. Dead Men Tell No Tales

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    Scott came to Oz on the heels of the morning, after he drank in Robinʼs ghost before exhaling shakily.

    Even after the chaos of the night, bridled in the blankets of sin and sodomy, Cockburn Town always felt like it was burning oil. The frothy moon devoured their souls like a moth drawn to the flame and the morning was fresh as murder. With a stiff, lifeless gaze, Oz stared at the distance, listening to the ocean howl in anger, to the water slice its bladelike cold into their feet, as the terrace connected to El Matador took in the cold, measured waves of the Atlantic. Oz, Scottʼs eldest brother and the Lieutenant of the LʼArme, often invoked the wrath of a thousand suns, but as the sun caught his shock white hair and he woke, Scott knew there would be hell to pay.

    "Run it by me again," he grunted, straightening as he sat in the overseerʼs seat with a glass of burning Polish fyrewhiskey in his hand. His voice was unpleasant, that sharp Slavic accent that made Scott cringe.

    "DeMarcus is alive," Scott murmured. "She took the bait."

    "She took the one f*cking lead to find the Book, the route to El Dorado," Oz hissed, biting back the fyrewhiskeyʼs taste.

    "I have the original notice from Domingo, the one Midas and Pinochet sent your way about her relationship with Shakespeareʼs kids, with the Book," Scott said simply. "I gave her a copy."

    "A copy?"

    "A copy," Scott said, teeth gritted, frustrated. "The road to El Dorado is f*cking wrecked with banshees, wyverns, and questlings for miles, at least. Something for her to chew on and something to give us a headstart."

    "Hmm," Oz settled, sinking back into his fyrewhiskey. "Do Blake and Damian know?"

    "Damian and Blakeʼre gonna be p*ss drunk by the time Robin leaves, same with all the Orderʼs men. No oneʼs gonna know she was ever here."

    Oz rose, the hubbub of voices, ghostly like whispers, beginning to wake up. Scott huffed, avoiding Ozʼs gaze as he drew close.

    "The only thing we know is that f*cking Book is that its about as real as f*cking Santa Claus. No one has seen the Domingo sisters in years. Her trove of Polynesian, Caribbean, and African treasures or whatever the hell yʼall are looking for is probably in some British museum. I found a lead and I followed it, Oz."

    Oz exhaled, exasperated.

    "You and your brothers cease to amaze me," Oz offered, after much thought. "You always flirt with temptation, with fate. And are f*cking careless."

    "Oz, Iʼm just trying to get out of here," Scott said, exasperated. "I have sh*t to do. I donʼt want to stay here. Every summer, fixing everyoneʼs mess, fighting this useless f*cking war, all so our old man can sing for his g*ddamn supper. Weʼre literally here because someone conjured up this stupid idea that a fantasy novel can save the world. I just want to do as he asks and go. On my life, Oz, thatʼs all I want."

    "Then, you, Prescott, are an idiot," Oz surmised in Polish.    

    The wind whispered. Once, twice, settling into a rhythm of pulsating screeches and raggedy sobs. Oz stared blankly outside, as if Scott were just another dull tool heʼd have to sharpen. Scott held his ground, taking in Ozʼs trepidation, his exhaustion, his pain. Pain, in the Orderʼs world, was a common affliction – happiness was often bought, never tangibly made or attained – and even then, lifeʼs pleasures were fleeting. But there was a pain in Oz that Scott wasnʼt familiar with yet, like a candle burning out before the wax melted. He was tired, painstakingly so, and yet, in this moment they shared of brotherly barbs, Scott felt nothing. Just an urge, like an itch, to scratch and be done with.

    "Weʼre not here in the Southern Isles to chase a book, Scott. On-the-record, yes, but that is not what we are here to accomplish," Oz said, stiff. "Vyolètʼs spirit, her legacy, has invoked...hope in South America. The drug lords that gave to the people are coming back from the dead, the freemasons and hellbenders are reclaiming political legitimacy, Pinochet and Midas collude to strengthen their power over the Continent, and the value of the ouroborous is dropping significantly because the people are taking control back. All because of a bootleg pirate who found Pandoraʼs Box. All because a black woman got her p*ssy wet enough to create a Latin wet dream. Our investments in South America are for one reason, Scott, influence. And in order to do that, we need to shut this down."

    "And in order to shut this sh*t down, I need to understand what, pray tell?"

    "Luckily, for you, hunting is your speciality; youʼll figure it out," Oz sneered, drowning in his fyrewhiskey. Resent dripped off of his tongue, barbed with fury. What he would give for a chance at freedom from the Orderʼs political schemes, what he would give to return to the colonial roots he cherished within the Order, what he would give to have the legitimate power Scott – free from the rules of LʼArme.

    Scott simply glared, frustrated.

    "Start by following DeMarcusʼ route to El Dorado. Set up another rendezvous with her. Find out what she knows. Between Turks and Caicos, rumored to be en route to El Dorado, is the Mother of Murder. A ruthless queenpin who Pinochet used in the war to kill his people. She's hunting an oracle of four heads, who knows where El Dorado is. She also is rumored to be helping Oro, an ex-sicario, find El Dorado as a means of delegitimizing Escobar. Neutralize the threats, convert them to Order assets, and find a way to shut down the El Dorado rumors. Iʼm sending Ezi at your disposable."

    "The huntress?"

    "Yes. Ezi is Native American; her familyʼs blood is some of the oldest in the continent. She knows the land, the languages, and the economics at play. She is also an ex-Hellbender. Can carry the weight of neutralizing the politics for you."

    Oz shared one last stare with Scott, devoid of all emotions.

    "The dead tell no tales, Scott," Oz offered, simply. "So kill the dream, before it kills the Order."