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  “You come on, love. We’ll get you to safety, and once we make landfall, you can send someone back for … that.” While the short man might not be as terrible as the large one, he echoed the same scorn.

  “Then go about your business,” Tegan said flatly. “And forget you saw our light. I won’t leave without him.”

  The two traded another significant look, then they both laughed. “What madness is this? You think you’re living a fairy tale, the beauty and her beast?”

  Never mind, the small one is rotten, too.

  After smacking his friend’s shoulder, the tall man said, “I don’t think you understand. You’ve wasted our time, kept us from our business. That means we can’t just move along without getting something for our trouble.”

  “There’s no salvage here.” Tegan spoke around clenched teeth.

  Beside her, Szarok remained still, breathing hard. He probably sensed the imminent escalation. Tegan shifted, gauging the distance between the gun and Szarok. The sailors had gotten too close to her; her staff was long enough to disarm. Once, Deuce had remarked that Tegan didn’t like killing—probably because she was a healer—but … that preference sprang from her weapon of choice. It just wasn’t efficient to bludgeon an enemy to death when she had trained slayers around who could dispatch opponents she incapacitated with one strike.

  “Then you can make it up to us. Winter nights are long.” This came from the short man.

  She didn’t wait for them to attack. That—that was enough. In a strike she’d learned from James, she slammed her staff against the gunman’s arm. With a cry, he dropped the weapon, and she took out his knees. Her flurry of strikes smashed in succession: ankles, sternum, throat. The smaller man came at her with a knife, and Szarok was there. He disemboweled his enemy in a spatter of entrails that steamed in the frosty air. Tegan didn’t ask him to finish her kill. She got the glass shard and carved the first sailor a crimson smile.

  “We must be quick,” he said without asking if she was all right.

  She nodded. “There will be others on the ship. If we wrap up in some of their layers, they may not realize—”

  “Until it’s too late.”

  Swiftly, they cobbled together a basic disguise, and the moon cooperated, dodging behind a cloud. Neither of them knew how to row well, but they managed to limp toward the schooner. Close up, it was the strangest ship she’d ever seen, rusted in some spots as if it were metal, but the material was pale and sleek. Tegan guessed that the sailors had salvaged an old-world ship. Most of the ones she’d seen on the water were built in Antecost, based off simple, ancient designs.

  “Have you ever seen anything like this?” she whispered.

  Szarok shook his head.

  As they got within ten feet, someone called, “Any trouble?”

  “Not much.” Szarok emulated the big one’s voice.

  “You all right? Sound kind of—”

  “Please, no. I don’t want to.” Tegan whimpered as a distraction, and … it worked.

  Wearing a broad smile, the sailor on watch peered over the side, and Szarok jerked him down, snapped his neck like dry kindling, and then dropped him into the water. Most probably she should have been alarmed by that, but instead that raw strength made her feel safe, because he’d never turn it against her, only their enemies.

  Since the shore party had left the rusty ladder down, she went up first, as her face was unlikely to alarm anyone. However, the deck reeked of liquor and the rest of the crew seemed to be sound asleep. She hesitated only a second before deciding that the watchman set the tone for everyone else. At the prospect of a female captive, he didn’t offer help. No, he leaned over to inspect the merchandise. Szarok didn’t speak; he started the silent slaughter and she finished it, using the tiny knife that clicked out at the push of a button. Then they rolled the six corpses into the water. Tegan waited for regret, or even remorse, but it didn’t come.

  I tried to appeal to their better nature. It’s not my fault they didn’t have one.

  “Let’s check the stores,” he said then.

  But as she headed for the lower deck, a door banged open and someone opened fire. Tegan dove as the bullet speared into the wood behind her. We left one alive. I should have remembered that the boss has his own room. Holding on to her staff, she crawled toward cover, hoping the rocking of the waves would wreck his aim. In the darkness, it should have been even tougher to hit a moving target.

  “Cowardly shit-heeled scum! You’ll die even if I have to scuttle this whole damn ship,” the captain shouted.

  “Bad idea,” she called back. “We can swim to shore, and if you follow, we’ll kill you on dry land.”

  “It’s a good way to die,” Szarok agreed.

  With some colorful cursing, the man slammed the cabin door. Szarok circled to her but again didn’t ask if she was injured. That could register as indifference, but he’d smell it if she were hurt. So there was no point in wasting breath when they had a crisis unfolding.

  “Best scenario, we make some kind of a deal. Because I don’t really understand sea charts or how to sail this thing.”

  He inclined his head. “But he seems unlikely to come to terms, now that we’ve executed his crew.”

  “If the men are bad, they were probably following his lead,” Tegan muttered.

  From the sounds within, the sole survivor seemed to be building a barricade. The hull was hard and slick, the door made of the same material. It would take some serious force to break it down, and that was presuming there were no snares set. She made up her mind.

  “Watch the door.”

  “Be careful,” he said.

  No questions, no delays. With that, she slipped away and searched the ship. Tegan turned up a few weapons, none strong enough to kill through a wall or door. She gathered them up and threw them overboard. If they aren’t immediately useful, they can be turned against us later. The lower deck was more of a storage area; this ship had been laid out differently than others she’d seen. Then Tegan stumbled on the biggest cache of old-world tech she’d ever encountered. Row upon row of tarnished metal, faded colors, and unidentifiable devices were piled against the wall.

  Leverage.

  By the great care with which all the articles had been cleaned and sorted, somebody must value this collection. Smiling, she picked up a square thing and carried it back to the cabin, where Szarok stood guard. He tilted his head, studying her discovery.

  “What is it?”

  She shrugged. “But I think it’s important.”

  “Shall we find out?” He stepped to the side.

  Tegan hammered on the cabin door with an upraised fist and then shouted, “I unearthed the most interesting junk just now. Wonder if it floats.”

  “Don’t touch anything!”

  “Too late.” Enjoying herself, she described in loving detail what she was holding.

  “Put that back! Do you idiots have any idea how much that’s worth?” Sheer rage powered the captain’s voice.

  He must be tracking her movements, because his shouts became incoherent as she strolled toward the railing, hefting his valuable box. With a mental apology to the fish, she dropped it. A howl of pure fury echoed in reaction and then, judging by the crashes, it sounded like the captain might be wrecking his own cabin.

  “Who’s the real idiot?”

  “You plan to goad him into a fight?” Szarok asked.

  “Not quite.”

  Whistling, she returned to the door. “For every minute you hide, I chuck something else into the sea. So sad. I’m guessing this is your life’s work, too.”

  Silence.

  Tegan shrugged and headed for the storage area. She only had to throw away two more articles before the door slammed open, and the captain stood, a weapon trained on Szarok. But she still had a third item, this one glimmering silver, cupped in her palm. The instant the asshole saw it, he lowered his weapon. He was a small man, slight, with a permanently windburned face and a salt-a
nd-pepper beard.

  “Let’s make a deal,” she said.

  The captain curled his lip. “I don’t bargain with murderers.”

  “So rape and pillage is where you draw the line? Good to know.”

  “What’re you on about?” The wary tone didn’t fool her; this shit bucket was easing the barrel of his gun back up in treacle-slow increments.

  “We meant to parley for safe passage. Your crew tried to kill my friend and take me as plunder. And you blame us for not letting it happen? Sick.”

  “The last one standing gets to tell whatever story he wants,” he snapped.

  Tegan lifted a shoulder. “I don’t particularly care if you believe me. The odds are in our favor. If I decide to stop talking, you join your precious artifacts in a watery grave.”

  A nasty smile curved his mouth, and she noticed the scar bisecting his left brow. “You’ll be right behind me. I’ll jump in the sea right now if you can tell me the difference between the jib and the mainsail.”

  I hate when morons manage to get it right.

  “Then we’ve reached an impasse,” Szarok said.

  She nodded. “There’s nothing stopping us from killing you, but we can’t manage this vessel on our own. Truth be told, neither can you. Even knowing how, it’s impossible for you to do all the work alone and reach port without any rest.”

  From the clench of his jaw, the captain agreed. “Maybe I’d rather die than come to terms with a beast and his bitch.”

  Szarok took a step. “So be it.”

  Much as she’d love to see this cretin’s blood, she couldn’t let it happen. But before she stopped Szarok, the captain stumbled back, his gaze locked on the claws and fangs advancing on him. With a little shudder, he put down his weapon, seeming nearly pissing scared.

  “Don’t be hasty. Let’s talk a little more. That lot was worthless anyway. If we work together, I can get us all to port safely. How’s that sound?”

  “Fair deal,” she said. “You keep the ship once we disembark, and I won’t mess with your salvage. All you have to do is recruit a new crew. It’ll be like this never happened.”

  “You’ll forgive me if I don’t shake your hand.”

  “Likewise. I’m Tegan. This is Szarok.”

  “Captain Piebald.”

  As they spoke, Szarok crept into the cabin behind and quietly gathered up the weapons. Tegan nudged the one on the deck toward him. By the time the captain noticed, all the guns were splashing over the side. If it was possible to die of a rage attack, she thought he might. He kicked at the wall and ranted for quite a while.

  “Do you know how rare some of those guns were?”

  She shrugged. “No. And I don’t care, either.”

  “How close is the nearest port?” Szarok asked.

  “Four days with a good wind.” But the flicker of Piebald’s eyes made Tegan wonder if he was lying.

  Unfortunately, examining the charts wouldn’t provide her an answer. The next few days would be tense, for damn sure, and she didn’t look forward to sleeping in shifts and keeping an eye on this idiot at all times. He might be planning to lead us into a trap, a port populated with his cohorts. If they stayed alert, there had to be a way out, no matter how clever Piebald thought he was. There’s always a way out.

  “Time to pull up anchor,” the captain was saying. “There’s a good wind, so we can put some miles between us and this godforsaken place.”

  “Where are we bound?” Szarok asked.

  “Would you understand if I told you?” Then Piebald mumbled a slur Tegan hadn’t heard since the war had ended, not even bothering to hide his prejudice.

  She shivered, exhausted already, and the voyage hadn’t even begun.

  Pray to Your Gods

  For a day and a half Szarok did not rest.

  At times he closed his eyes and feigned sleep, but he smelled loathing and treachery on Piebald like the stench that clung to the human male, revealing that he hadn’t washed in weeks. Even his beard advertised what he’d eaten for dinner, as if he saved the scraps for later. Everything about the captain made Szarok’s flesh crawl.

  The salty air stung his eyes and crusted on his skin. So many firsts. None of his people had ever journeyed so far, learned to swim, or crewed a sailing ship. Now he knew the names of ropes and pulleys, along with the different sails. When the wind was good, whatever that meant, the course did not need to be adjusted too often and the wheel could be set in the forward position. For the moment Piebald was holed up in his cabin, likely plotting against them.

  “You’ll get sick if you don’t sleep,” Tegan said.

  Szarok didn’t know if that was true. Historically, the People died young, but they didn’t suffer from the same ailments that plagued humanity. But it was possible they would develop their own complications as time went on. Still, his eyes did burn, and a residual ache thrummed behind his ears. Constant wariness definitely took a toll.

  “Come below for a while. I’ll stand watch and make sure Piebald doesn’t try anything.”

  Before Tegan, Szarok couldn’t have imagined such complete trust in her kind. Yet he didn’t hesitate, only followed her out of the biting wind and down to the storage area. The bed she had fashioned wasn’t as warm or as comfortable as the nest they’d left behind, and sometimes the rolling waves churned the meat in his belly until he could scarcely keep it down. None of that qualified as conducive to peaceful slumber.

  “Let me set the early warning system.”

  Clever healer.

  In the mouth of the low-ceilinged, narrow stairwell, she tied a length of cord with some jangly metal bits. Piebald probably wouldn’t be nimble or alert enough to avoid the trap. Then she returned and settled beside him. The pallet smelled of fish and brackish seawater, making him think it had been submerged at some point, but he didn’t see how it could float.

  Tegan settled with her back to the wall, facing the doorway. “Put your head in my lap.”

  “I don’t think I can sleep that way.”

  “Oh. Well, if you’d rather not…”

  Even if her tone hadn’t revealed her disappointment, the spike in her scent would have. For some reason, she wanted this, and it was such a small matter. Szarok rolled onto his side, also with a view of the stairwell, and found it a surprisingly comfortable way to rest. Exhaustion gnawed at him with sharp teeth, until it became too much effort to keep his eyes open.

  But once he shut them, other sensory input trickled in. It was never easy to tamp it all down—scents and sounds in particular—but water all around made everything worse. Then her fingers drifted down to his head, and she etched a pattern. Szarok focused on that, not the rocking of the ship or the unnerving howl of the wind. Focusing, he pictured the symbols she drew, until his mind settled.

  “You coddle me,” he said sleepily.

  “A little.”

  “I like it.”

  Soon after, he dozed … and woke to find her in the same position, watchful and alert. Her staff lay nearby, and her hand was still gentle on his head. Szarok sat up and stretched. Neither of them had slept at the same time since they’d gotten on this hell-boat. The fear almost killed him in following her into the smaller craft and maneuvering across the chill and murky water to the larger ship that had awaited them.

  I can swim, he reminded himself. Memories won’t kill me. Panic can.

  Yet horror still swept him in a dark tide as he recalled the water in his ears and mouth, sinking, choking, while the old ones shrieked in unison, dying a thousand times in his head. Unerringly, she found him in the dark and pressed against his side, as if she could drive away the dread with a touch.

  It receded a little. Just enough.

  “This will be over soon,” she whispered.

  “Did he come for us?”

  “Not tonight. I think he’s marshaling his strength.”

  Szarok nodded. “Two more days, provided he was telling the truth.”

  “He’s definitely plannin
g something.” Tegan sighed, and the warmth of her breath fanned over him. Startling but not unpleasant. “I wish I could get a look at the charts, but he hasn’t left the cabin unguarded, not even once.”

  “It makes me uneasy.”

  “Not knowing our destination? Or being unsure what he’s hiding?”

  He inclined his head. “Both. Any sliver of information could help us.”

  “It doesn’t matter. He might be making for a port where everyone will try to kill us, but if so, we’ll cut a path.” Her mouth firmed.

  “When you say such things, I forget.”

  “What?”

  “That you’re not Uroch.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  At some point, her open mind should stop surprising him, but each time she spoke kindly of his people, his heart opened to her a bit more. Moved, he rubbed his cheek against hers in a gesture of kinship. Pleasure curled through him when he breathed her in and her scent came back familiar, nearly Uroch from close contact.

  “Get your lazy arses up here!” The shout from above interrupted further closeness.

  Szarok emerged into a gray dawn, the sun only a frosty glimmer. When the light was dim, the details normally resolved into sharper clarity, but today fog misted over the water. This had the captain snarling unintelligible curses.

  “We’ll be lucky if we don’t smash up on a ’berg,” Piebald muttered.

  The answer to his unspoken question loomed up, and the captain shouted orders in response to the jagged white ice. Szarok and Tegan worked feverishly in tandem to change course, but the side of the boat scraped, the sound striking him as if an enemy were close by and rubbing his blades together. He grasped the threat without a lengthy explanation. If the ’berg tore a hole in the hull, the hell-boat would take on water and they’d sink—and without an island nearby, there would be no surviving the wreck.

  “Heave, you shit-birds!”

  In response, Tegan hauled on the ropes and Szarok adjusted the sail. The schooner rocked, as if something massive had bumped it from below. Piebald swore in words so foul that Szarok didn’t even recognize half of them. But there was clearly a problem.