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dressing onto Diego’s shoulder when a rope line whizzed through the air and a grappling hook clattered across the deck. The Seref was pulling the ships together!
    Captain Hawk leaped to his feet and strode to the railing. Several pirates aimed their pistols at him, but he calmly whipped a white handkerchief from his coat and waved it. “I demand Parlay!” he called.
    “You demand ?” said a gravelly voice, heavy with amusement. “Why would we Parlay with you?” The owner of the voice pushed his pirates aside and stood at the railing of the Seref , facing Captain Hawk. He crossed his arms and raised one bushy eyebrow.
    Carolina’s heart was pounding. She didn’t need anyone to tell her who this was.
    “Enlighten me, Captain,” Ammand the Corsair growled. “Because frankly, I don’t feel like talking. I feel like coming over there…and killing you all.”

C HAPTER E IGHT
    “I see you have met my friend Fifi,” said Captain Chevalle, brushing one elegant finger along the table. “It seems that she does not like you any better than I do.”
    The little dog stopped yapping and wagged its ridiculous puffy tail at the Pirate Lord of the Mediterranean. Chevalle scooped her up and sat down in the large red-velvet-lined chair at the head of the dining table. He looked up at Jack with an amused sneer. Fifi lay down on his lap, folded her paws prettily, and gave Jack the exact same expression as Chevalle.
    Jack put his hands in his coat pockets and tried to look nonchalant, as if he burst into dining rooms and stood on other people’s giant tables all the time. He glanced around casually. Now he remembered this room. When he and Teague had eaten here, they had sat at the far distant end of this table, smiling insincerely at their host over the vast expanse of mahogany. The room had been lit by dozens of candles, all of them reflected in the mirrors that lined every inch of the walls and ceiling.
    But now only a few candles guttered sadly in mismatched candlestick holders strewn across the table, and most of the mirrors were broken. Vines were growing up through the cracks in the floor. There were damp, crumbling patches of the wall that seemed perilously close to caving in. Through the holes in the ceiling, Jack could see glimpses of the room above this one.
    Some of the mirror shards still lay on the floor, glinting sharply in the candlelight. Jack noticed a few spots of fresh blood on some of them. Well, that didn’t bode well.
    “And to what do we owe the displeasure of this visit?” Chevalle asked smoothly. His shabby surroundings didn’t seem to have any effect on his pride. If anything, he seemed more amused by Jack’s scrutiny than ashamed.
    Back in Madagascar, Jack’s grandmother had arrived for their pirate mission decked out in outlandish pirate garb, and now Jack realized what it had reminded him of: Chevalle’s usual costume. His long frock coat was a pale lavender, with a powder blue waistcoat peeking through and a mountain of frills in the lacy cravat at his neck. Around his waist, under his sword belt, was a wide yellow sash, and on his feet were a pair of positively absurd pointed shoes with high heels and shiny silver buckles. Jack glanced down at his own sturdy boots and thanked his stars again that he was not French.
    Teague often berated Jack for wearing makeup “like that popinjay Chevalle,” but really, there was no comparison. Chevalle powdered his face until it was as white as his little dog, then added bright red circles of rouge on his cheeks. Chevalle’s makeup was ghastly and goofy, whereas Jack’s kohl-lined eyes were tasteful, awe-inspiring, and, on occasion, ideal for striking terror in the hearts of his enemies. It was clearly not the same at all.
    Moreover, Chevalle had silly hair. His elaborate blond curls poofed out all over his head and cascaded nearly to his waist. In fact, Jack happened to know that it was a wig (thanks to one experiment with setting it on fire and one