She scoots past me into the corridor and sets the half-full sack at my feet. “Finish gathering the food,” she says. “I’ll be back.”
“Where are you going?”
“Just get the food.”
She disappears up the corridor. Picking up the sack, I pad carefully into the hold and past the wall rack. A stiff wind could probably snap the ropes and bring it all tumbling down. I side-foot away over broken planks and trip. My hands go out to catch me, and my palms scrape against the sandy ground. I tripped over a string . . . no, a lace. I follow it to the largest boot I have ever seen. My nerves crackle with unease. Whoever it belonged to must have been enormous.
Harlow reappears in the doorway with a carnyx, a long, thin battle horn taller than her. The bronze bell at the bottom is fashioned into the shape of an openmouthed bear. Carnyxes were used in warfare long ago. Blowing through the mouthpiece resulted in a piercing roar that could be heard across a battlefield to rally the courage of allies and quiver the bellies of enemies.
She places the mouthpiece against her lips and blows. The noise that emerges is horrible, a banshee howl that forces me to cover my ears. The blare is so loud it could probably be heard in another world.
“What did you do that for?” I demand.
“I wanted to see if it still works.”
“Now that you’ve woken the dead, can we go?”
“You’re the one just standing around. You didn’t even finish getting the food.”
She and I shove handfuls of apricots into the sack. As we work, the barrel lightens and becomes unbalanced. I jump back as it rolls past the rack and bangs into the hull. One of the ropes snaps and the whole rack falls forward. I shut my eyes, waiting for the impact, but the last rope holds and restrains the rack.
Sand trickles faster through the holes in the hull.
I exhale sharply. “I want to go.”
The ship groans as if in response, then the last rope breaks. Harlow and I jump from the path of the falling rack, barrels and shelves crashing into the floor. We lie on our sides as the dribbling sand widens to streams. More boards break where the fallen rack tore from the hull, letting loose a deluge.
We scramble to our feet, her with the carnyx and me with the food sack, and run for the door. A wave of sand bursts through the walls, chasing us into the corridor. Ahead, our exit slowly fills up, steadily trapping us. I dive into the shrinking opening and paw to the surface.
Outside of the ship, I roll to a stop. Harlow digs and wriggles her way out beside me. The hole fills in behind her, and the sand under us pours into the collapsing ship, sucking us toward the opening. We scurry up and dash away from the sinkhole, slipping and sliding, and somersault down the embankment to the other side. The ship is going under. Harlow scoops up the carnyx, I grab the food sack, and we run until the sand no longer threatens to drag us down.
We pause and stare at the cloud of dust blemishing the sky. I drop the sack and bend forward to recover and rest my ticker. Though I am winded, my clock heart isn’t beating more quickly. I can scarcely feel its drumming.
“Let’s head back,” Harlow pants.
“I need another moment.”
She hoists the sack of food over her shoulder with a huff, and then her eyes bulge. “Where’s my necklace?” She spins in a circle, checking the sandy ground.
“It must have come off.”
“I have to find it. My father gave that necklace to my mother.”
We check around us and find nothing. The necklace could have fallen off in the ship or while we were running, which would mean it’s buried under several feet of sand. As Harlow’s chin begins to quiver, something drops out of her shirt. I scoop it up and see a glass-vial pendant dangling on the chain. Something little and black is at the bottom of the vial.
She rips the necklace from my grasp. “You had it all along!”
“It fell out of your shirt. What’s inside the vial?”
“Something more valuable than your wormy life.”
She marches off with the sack of food and carnyx across her back. I let her pull ahead to avoid another tongue-lashing.
Before long, Harlow crests the last rise and peers at the waters along the coast. I shade my eyes to see what’s caught her attention and spot a ship. The watercraft is massive, larger than the royal navy’s first-rate vessels. Its exterior is stained dark walnut, and it displays a black flag with white symbols, a sandglass over a skull and crossbones. I give a little shudder. I have read enough storybooks to recognize a pirate flag when I see one.
Harlow rushes down the dune to our wreck. Laverick sits on the gunwale of the lopsided deck, tying closed a hole in a fishing net.
“Killian!” Harlow calls. “They’re here!”
Markham throws open the door to his cabin and marches out with a spyglass to view the ship. Laverick and I squint at the vessel off the coast and see a longboat rowing to shore.
“Who are they?” Laverick asks.
“That’s the Undertow.” Markham snaps the spyglass closed. “The Skeleton Coast lies within their territorial boundaries. Prepare to depart.”
I rush inside the cabin to wake Jamison. He lies on his back, Radella stretched out on top of him. “Both of you get up. We have to go.”
He rouses and rises quickly. Radella hovers in the air, stretching like a lazy cat.
“What’s the trouble?” Jamison asks, pulling on a shirt.
“Pirates are rowing to shore. Our tracks are all over the beach.”
Radella flies to the porthole to see for herself. Jamison leaves the hem of his shirt untucked and his sleeves unbuttoned and picks up the broken broomstick, our only defense besides the pixie’s dust. Radella lands on his shoulder, and we all exit the cabin.
Markham has slung the carnyx over his shoulder and packed a bag of supplies. The longboat has landed and the pirates are disembarking. Even from afar, I observe that one of them is double the size of the others. Markham hops down off the deck into the sand. We jump down after him and duck around the hull for cover. The prince strides out into the open.
“Markham,” I hiss. “Get down!”
He lifts the carnyx to his lips and blows. The horn blares a gut-shaking roar, drowning out the wind. Down the beach, the pirates halt and head in our direction.
“What are you doing?” I gasp. “You told us we were leaving.”
He lifts his arms above his head and waves at the pirates. “We are.”
Chapter Seven
Jamison and I stare in horror at the pirates lumbering up the sand dune. The largest one, who I distinguished by his immense size, leads their march. I don’t require a closer inspection to figure out that he’s too big to be a man. That pirate is a giant.
“Killian, what have you done?” Jamison asks.
“Everley wants the sword. This is how we’ll track it down.” Markham still waves at the approaching pirates, welcoming them onward.
Jamison fists the broken broomstick like a sword. “We’re leaving.”
“And where will you go?” Markham questions. “The Skeleton Coast will bury you in a sandy grave if the pirates don’t find you first.”
I wish Radella had the power to disappear a whole person or even parts of the body. Markham would be more bearable without his head.
Harlow takes the carnyx from him and kisses his cheek, rewarding him for a reason I am too staggered to inquire about. As the pirates crest the dune, Laverick comes forward out of the ship’s shadow with us.
The giant treads to the top first, a mace dangling from his meaty hand. He must be nine feet tall, his neck, biceps, and thighs all wider than my waist. Rich-brown hair hangs about his shoulders and his bulbous cheekbones sit high and wide on his square face, offset by a hooked nose that extends like a beak over his mustache and thin lips. Disproportionate to his other features are his huge ears that stand equal with the top of his head. His clothes are refined, an ivory shirt with a ruffled collar and cuffs under a fitted jacket with red s
ilk lining.
My uncle read me grisly stories about giants kidnapping and eating humans. This giant appears more sophisticated than the bloodthirsty images born from those tales, but his tremendous size is petrifying. He towers over us, swallowing us in his shadow.
His buccaneers flank him on both sides. The eight of them are our height and build, except they have oddly elongated faces and upturned noses. They, too, are dressed in formfitting quality wool, white cotton shirts tucked into gray trousers, and fine leather vests and belts. I catch sight of their pointed ears beneath their head scarves and understand why they look like overgrown pixies. They’re elves.
All three groups of the triad are here—giants and elves and humans—all born from Mother Madrona’s power under the direction of the Creator. My parents were Children of Madrona, worshippers of her as the Mother of All. They taught me to believe humans were members of the triad, but until now, I wasn’t convinced such stories were true.
Every elf aims a cutlass at us. Radella stands on Jamison’s shoulder and holds her wings taut, ready to race at them and disappear their weapons with her dust.
The giant’s brown eyes, his smallest feature, take us in like he’s found mice in his bedchamber. “Prince Killian, you’ve gained comrades. Were they the cause for the battle cry?” He glances from side to side, overexaggerating his survey. “You must have been confused, as I see no battlefield.”
Markham extends the carnyx between them, presenting it to the pirate. “My apologies for disturbing your day, Captain Redmond. This was my only method of summoning you.”
“The purpose of marooning you was so we wouldn’t have to hear from you again,” replies a sneering elf. Even darkened by anger, his features are handsomer than the prince’s. He has deep-brown skin and a stern expression that is both audacious and alert.
Markham’s charming exterior slips, revealing a venomous undertone. “You should know by now that I’m not easy to get rid of, Osric.” He offers the carnyx to the captain. “We obtained this from a wreck.”
The giant accepts the battle horn, and Markham smiles at Harlow. Our trek up the coastline to scavenge for food was a ruse. She didn’t care about apricots. She wanted the battle horn so she could call the pirates.
“You summoned us here to give me an old horn?” asks Captain Redmond.
“You know me better than that,” Markham says, cavalier despite the many blades aimed at him. “Do you, by chance, still have my sword?”
Captain Redmond peers down his droopy nose at him. “Do I still have the sword of Avelyn, you ask?” The prince’s gaze turns stony. “Aye, I knew what weapon you carried. Why do you think I took it as payment for your debt? As I am certain you know, that sword is a highly sought-after relic. A ruler might give away his throne for it.”
Markham’s smirk wavers. “I’m certain we could work out a fair bargain.”
“Oh, I doubt that. In any case, I no longer have the sword in my possession.”
My ticker stumbles and then speeds up.
“How much did you fetch in exchange for the blade?” Markham asks, calmer than I am about this news.
The pirate captain fluffs his lacy sleeves. “King Dorian offered us unrestricted port access to Merrow Lagoon for four hundred tides. His taxes have become excessive. Few profiteers can afford to make berth for more than a day. First Mate Osric and I couldn’t refuse.”
Jamison glowers in consternation. He must have the same questions I do: Who is King Dorian? Where is Merrow Lagoon? Are tides a form of currency in this world? But none of these unknowns are more pressing than my greatest question. Where is my sword?
Markham’s forehead wrinkles, the only indication that he is displeased. “Would you consider a trade for transportation to Merrow Lagoon?”
The giant arches a brow, intensifying his apparent distaste for dealing with the prince. “What could you possibly possess that I would want?”
“Her,” Markham says, pointing at me.
Before I can blink, Jamison steps in front of me.
“Absolutely not. Everley is not a commodity to be traded. Killian, have you lost your ever-sinking mind?”
“The girl won’t fetch a worthwhile price on her own,” Captain Redmond says to Markham, ignoring Jamison’s outburst. “I’ll take all four humans and the pixie.”
“The girl isn’t for you to trade,” Markham explains. “She’s for your collection.”
Their negotiating moves so fast I cannot keep up, but when Markham reaches for me, Jamison swings the broken broomstick at him in warning.
“Enough of that.” Captain Redmond jabs Jamison in the chest with his finger and knocks him on his backside.
Radella flies at the giant. He swats her aside, sending her spinning into the sand. Laverick kicks an elf in the shin, but another elf points his cutlass at her gullet. At the same time, Markham grabs the front of my shirt and yanks. The top buttons come undone, widening my neckline to reveal an indecent amount of flesh—and my clock heart.
“What is that?” Captain Redmond bends closer for a view.
I clutch my shirt closed. “Back off, you brute.”
He snaps his fingers, and three of his elven crew surround me. First Mate Osric wrenches my arms behind my back. I wriggle and thrash, kicking up sand. He twists my arm into an unnatural angle, and immobilizing pain shoots down my side.
Captain Redmond leans over me again, and his big fingers reopen my neckline. My every instinct screams at me to fight them off. I slam Osric in the shin with my boot heel and arch my head back, whamming him in the face. Both strikes land hard, yet the elf’s hold on me does not falter.
I writhe and yell, thrashing with all my might. The captain finishes opening my shirt, and the wind pours across my skin, sending prickles down my hot throat.
“A clock heart,” he breathes.
I hang forward, limp and rasping. The first mate takes on more of my weight, holding me upright. I wish he would let me go. I want to sink into the sand and disappear forever. Another part of me still rages for a fight, but I am paralyzed.
Never before have so many eyes beheld my biggest secret.
The elves whisper their disbelief. Above them I hear Laverick mutter her shock. I doubt she intends to slight me, but her reaction scalds.
Jamison rises, and an elf shoves him right back down.
“Everley’s clockwork heart animates her,” Markham explains.
Captain Redmond’s eyes spread wider, and he turns his head toward my chest, so I can see the wiry hairs growing out of his ears. He listens to several dull ticktocks and shifts back, his sour breaths streaming across my exposed skin. He traces my chest scar and then presses his fingertip over my ticker.
I fasten my gaze to the ground and resist the urge to cry. Uncle Holden taught me that if I were discovered, I was to send my captors to him to answer their questions. But he is a world away.
“How does your ticker work?” asks the giant.
“I don’t know,” I reply hoarsely. My uncle believes Father Time spared my life with this miraculous invention, but when I asked Father Time, he was vague.
Captain Redmond tips my chin up. “Why have you come to the Land Under the Wave?”
“Father Time sent me. I’m here to retrieve the sword of Avelyn.” I hear my reason, and now that I’m here, and the pirates have me, it feels like the stupidest reason in all the worlds to risk myself and my friends.
The captain’s eyes narrow. My association to Father Time has not impressed him.
The beat of my ticker is fainter, my voice weak. “Please let me go.”
Markham speaks right over me. “Everley will be the crowning achievement of your clock collection.”
Captain Redmond listens to my heart again. The soft beat is nearly undetectable, my vision growing hazy. I feel more than see him open my shirt wider. In between the white dots zooming across my sight, I watch him shift back. “Prince Killian, you’re bold to offer me a defective timepiece.”
&nb
sp; My gaze flickers to Jamison. Defective? He appears as alarmed as me.
“She’s in good condition,” Markham argues. “Look at her. The clock gives her life.”
“Not for long,” Captain Redmond says matter-of-factly. “Her clock heart isn’t functioning at capacity. She’s broken.”
I hunch farther forward, my stomach cranking.
Harlow snorts, as though she knew all along that I was worthless. Markham grabs her wrist and pushes pain into her eyes, letting the pressure of his fingertips reprimand her.
“Mundy,” he says, verging on desperation, “the girl has a clockwork heart. Her ticker must be of value for trading. If not Merrow Lagoon, then take us somewhere closer, Skull Reef or Hangman’s Spit.”
“Prince Killian, you’re too clever not to know when you’ve lost.” Captain Redmond snatches Radella from the sand, trapping her in his fist, and then signals his men. “Bring them.”
The elves round us up and march us toward their longboat. I stumble down the dune, my head and shoulders sunk forward and my open shirt flapping. Markham blathers on about the captain making a mistake, but I hardly hear him. The sword is at the bottom of the sea, and with it my chance to finish my father’s mission. Buried under my disappointment lies something deeper and uglier. I want to shut it out, but my mind booms with two words that confirm every doubt I’ve ever had about myself.
She’s broken.
Chapter Eight
Captain Redmond sits in the middle of the bench, steadying the longboat with his heavy weight. My shirt is still open at the top, the buttons broken, my scar and ticker exposed. Everyone takes turns peeking at my ticker. Even Laverick cannot contain her interest. My uncle cautioned me that the moment others learned about my clock heart, at a minimum, I would become a spectacle, an anomaly to gawk at. This scarring mortification is worse than he described.
Jamison casts worried glances at me and glares at our captors. His anger may be outmatched by Radella’s, whose fury has changed her normal bright-azure color to the same purplish shade as a bruise. The captain still holds the pixie tightly in his fist. Before loading us into the boat, the pirates gagged and bound Markham. If only the prince were always muzzled. Unfortunately, they did not gag Harlow, not that she’s speaking. No, it’s her smirk that I would prefer to see covered.
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