A Sea of Shattered Glass

by Kyla Stone

  “Who cares?” Celeste said in a low, frantic voice. “Let's just go!”

  Dread scrabbled up her spine. “They were talking about bombs.”

  Celeste's eyes widened. “What?”

  “They're wiring the ship with explosives. That's what they were saying.”

  “No . . .”

  “Yes. They're gonna blow up the ship.”

  “Then what do we do?” Celeste cried, her voice tinged with hysteria.

  “Shut up.” Willow's gaze flicked up and down the mosaic path. Still nothing. “Maybe the lifeboats. But those are probably guarded to keep anyone from escaping. But that’s not where I’m going.”

  Celeste fisted her hands on her hips. “What are you even talking about?”

  Benjie. “I can’t hide or go for the lifeboats. I have to get my brother first.”

  “The only thing to do is to save yourself. Everything else is stupidity. You'll just get yourself killed!”

  Every word she spoke was truth. Willow longed to flee with her, to haul ass and get the hell out while she still could. Every second she delayed risked her own life. But she had to find Benjie. She couldn't leave him. Even with the ship about to go down in flames.

  Her mom was an adult. She would take care of herself. But Benjie needed Willow more than ever. She had to save him. She had to at least try. It was the least she could do after—but she refused to let her mind go there. Fear gripped her with steel talons, choking her throat. “I'm sorry. I can't.”

  “Your family would want you to live!”

  Her whole body trembled. It would be so easy. Just one step. Take one step toward Celeste and the decision would be made. Think of yourself. Save yourself.

  Images of Zia's broken body flooded her mind. She couldn't. What good would her life be if she couldn't bear to look at herself in the mirror? She had to do this. She had no choice. “Look, you can come with me. But I’m not hiding. And I’m not going to the lifeboats without my brother.”

  “You’re insane!”

  “Maybe. But I have to do this.”

  “Just give me the wristband!” Celeste's eyes burned bright and feverish. “I'll find a stateroom to hide in. I’ll wait for you.”

  Willow looked at her. She took a step back. “That doesn’t even make sense. And I can't give you the key. I’m sorry, but I might need it.”

  “I'll wait for you. I just said that, didn't I?”

  “Look, it's nothing personal.”

  Something passed over Celeste's face in the dim magenta lighting. The light changed to yellow, flickering in the shadows beneath Celeste's eyes like a ghoulish flashlight. The skin around her eyes and mouth tightened, masklike.

  Her gaze flicked to Willow's wrist.

  She lunged for Willow at the same time Willow jumped backward. Celeste pushed her and they both stumbled. Celeste grabbed her ankle. She kicked hard, connecting with soft tissue.

  Celeste squealed, but it was low, stifled.

  Willow clambered to her feet on the path, the mosaic tiles undulating, shifting from palest pink to sherbet orange to pulsing violet. She was out in the open, exposed. Any terrorist might see them from one of the balconies above. She moved back toward the coral-shaped bushes.

  “You bitch!” Celeste rubbed her nose and wiped her hand on her dress, leaving a swath of red. Blood dribbled down her lip.

  “You started it.” The words were barely out of her mouth before Celeste attacked again.

  Celeste ran at her but stumbled. Her long dress was still soaking wet. The tight fabric clung to her thighs, restricting her movement. Willow danced out of her reach.

  The ship rocked and Celeste tripped on a jutting tile. She dropped to her hands and knees, breathing hard.

  “I'm faster than you are,” Willow said.

  “Bitch!”

  “You said that already. It's getting old.”

  Celeste’s shoulders slumped, her face crumpling. She stared at Willow, her eyes huge with terror. “I’m sorry, okay? Don't leave me. Please.”

  Pity sprouted in her heart. Underneath her posh clothes and her bluster, Celeste was as scared as everybody else. They were all just humans now, made equal by fear and a desperate desire to survive. “Then come with me. But I told you, I’m not hiding. I’m going to Deck Fourteen to rescue my brother.”

  “That’s suicide.”

  “Maybe. But I’m going anyway. Are you coming?”

  Celeste went rigid. “No way. I can’t.”

  “Then I can’t help you.”

  “What am I supposed to do?”

  Willow sighed. “Try to reach the lifeboats, or hide nearby. Be careful.”

  Celeste just stared at her, confusion and terror warring across her face. “You’re really going up there?”

  She took a breath. “I am.”

  She left Celeste kneeling in the pathway. She had to. Benjie was her priority.

  Willow slipped through the bushes, advancing as quickly as she could without moving the foliage too much. The hairs on her arms and the back of her neck prickled. Was someone on one of the balconies above her, watching her through their scope, about to pull the trigger? Her legs trembled. She felt weak all over, like her muscles were about to give out. She forced herself to move one foot in front of the other. She couldn't give up. She wouldn't.

  The rain hammered the transparent roof. Thunder boomed. The ship tilted and rolled. She stumbled, her knees groaning in agony.

  She only knew one thing for certain.

  She had to save her brother.

  37

  Amelia

  “I should kill you,” Amelia said. She pressed the blade against Gabriel’s throat.

  He knelt in front of her, his dark eyes furious.

  She won. For once in her life, she’d won. She manipulated him into falling for her, into dropping his guard. Now it was her turn. She was supposed to strike without mercy. To save herself.

  But still, she hesitated.

  Behind the rage and betrayal in Gabriel’s eyes, she saw the pain. The confusion, hurt, and helplessness wrapped in cords of rage. Part of her mind screamed at her to stab the knife into his neck. She had every right. He was a terrorist. A kidnapper. A murderer.

  And yet.

  “I’m supposed to kill you before you kill me,” she said. “That's all we do, isn't it? Both sides—every side—we hate each other and fight each other, and when we get the chance, we go for the jugular. And all our talk is just jockeying for position, hunting for weakness. It's not really listening to each other. It's not trying to understand or make things better.”

  Blood trickled down his neck. They were so close, she could see the dark stubble along his jawline like smudged charcoal, could feel his breath on her cheek. The glow of the holographic creatures tinged his skin blue.

  “Just do it,” he growled.

  “I'm not done.” She felt like she was about to unravel, thin threads of herself rippling off and floating away. “I—I don’t want to kill you. I don't want to. Your brother said you were good. He said there was goodness in you. He told me to find it. I think I did.”

  Gabriel wasn’t evil. She didn’t believe that. She couldn’t. She’d read people her entire life, her father especially. There was compassion inside Gabriel. Empathy, mercy, kindness. She’d seen it. Gabriel was flawed and his actions were wrong, but his cause wasn’t. His willingness to sacrifice and die for something larger than himself, to take charge of his own future and fight to change it for the better—she respected that, envied it, wanted it for her own.

  She couldn’t live in the tiny box her father had built for her, thinking his thoughts, believing his beliefs, doing only what he wanted, playing the part perfectly but never really living, never making her own choices. Choice required risk. And sacrifice.

  She held the words carefully on her tongue, like they might break apart in her mouth. “Everything I said before, I meant. Every word of it. I'm asking you to take a huge risk. I'm asking you to change.
But I can't ask that of you if I'm not willing to do the same, can I?”

  He stared at her.

  She took the knife away from his neck. She folded the blade into the handle and held it out to him on her open palm. “This is me, taking that risk. This is me finding the good in you.”

  Amelia leaned against the viewing window, facing away from the black water lashing the glass. Gabriel sat beside her, his head back, his eyes closed. His face was tense, exhausted. By freeing her, by choosing her, he was betraying his own people. It looked like it was tearing him apart. “Are you okay?”

  “Honestly? No.”

  “I know the feeling.” Fear and dread still curdled her stomach. Where was her family? Silas? Her mother? Were they safe? Were they in pain, terrified and suffering? “What happens next?”

  “I’m working on a plan. But we have time. We’re safe here. You’re safe, here.”

  She felt safe with him. Even in the midst of all this chaos, she felt safe. She rubbed her swollen fingers.

  He glanced at her hands and made a noise deep in his throat.

  “They’ll heal.”

  “Here.” His voice was hoarse, guilt-stricken. “Please, let me.”

  Gabriel took both of her hands in his and gently ran the pads of his thumbs over the lines of her palms. He stroked her fingers. Her skin tingled, sparking at his touch.

  “Are you sure they’re okay? It won’t affect your playing?”

  She watched his strong fingers massaging her own, the dirt beneath his nails. “I can feel everything and move everything. I’m okay.”

  “Good.”

  “You know,” she said. “I don’t even know your favorite color.”

  He snorted. “I guess we skipped over some of those pleasantries, didn’t we? It’s blue.”

  Warmth filled her. “Mine, too. See, we agree on something.”

  He smiled at her, that dimple forming in his right cheek.

  They sat there for a long time, Gabriel tenderly rubbing her fingers back to life. When he looked at her, his eyes were haunted. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  She heard everything he couldn’t say. “I know.”

  38

  Willow

  Terror coiled in the pit of Willow's stomach like a snake eating away at her insides. She focused on putting one foot in front of the other. She had a mission, a responsibility. Get Benjie. Find her mom. Stay alive.

  She crept through the Coral Gardens until she reached the mid-ship stairwell located between a ritzy Japanese sushi bar and a designer sunglasses boutique. She bypassed the bank of elevators and the restrooms and inched up the stairs, one step at a time.

  The fabric of her dress was damp and chilly against her skin. She shivered, even though sweat beaded her forehead. She strained for any sound over the crash and boom of the storm.

  One flight of stairs. Then two. She made it to Deck Ten.

  Voices from above her. She dashed to the nearest hiding spot, crouching behind the counter of a coffee bar. The glass displays were all smashed. The cakes, scones, and chocolate-covered strawberries were either gone or mashed into a sticky mess. She tiptoed through the shattered glass, slicing her bare feet.

  She sucked in her breath, ignoring the pain. She needed something to protect herself, and fast. If they came around the corner of the bar, she'd be dead. She was probably dead anyway, but damn it, she'd at least die fighting.

  She stared at the shards littering the display case and the floor. They glittered wickedly. She picked one up between her thumb and forefinger. She lifted her dress and wrapped a handful of fabric around the lower half of the shard, making a pathetic and nearly useless handle.

  The voices grew louder. They'd be on her in thirty seconds, maybe less.

  Her heart leapt into her throat. Hide! Her brain screamed at her. But there was nowhere to hide. Only the small drinks fridge and the storage cabinets. She opened one quietly, wincing as the hinges squeaked. It was full of junk. The second one was the same. But the one beneath the sink held only an industrial gallon of soap, a bottle of all-purpose cleaner, a package of sponges, and a few folded hand towels. She just might be short enough.

  Carefully, silently, she opened the door wide, moved aside the supplies, and scooted her butt inside the cabinet. She ducked her head beneath the pipes and the bowl of the sink and squeezed herself in. She fit. Almost.

  The door wouldn't close all the way.

  Damn her father’s big-boned genes. Her muscles shrieked in protest as she contorted herself into the smallest, tightest shape possible. Still, two inches of open space gaped between the cabinet edge and the door.

  Boots crunched against glass. Right outside the bar.

  Sweat trickled down her neck. The air was humid and stale. Her hand tightened on the shard of glass, sharp pain biting into the tender flesh between her thumb and forefinger.

  Heavier footsteps, coming around the side, heading straight toward her.

  “What the hell did they have to smash the cakes for?” A female voice, heavy Latin American accent.

  “You want water?” the other voice said.

  A shadow fell across the narrow sliver of opened door. Black cargo pants. Heavy boots. A knife and a walkie-talkie strapped to a belt.

  Willow’s heart beat with wild, frantic wings.

  He walked past her hiding spot. Opened something with a puckered, sucking sound. The mini fridge. He rummaged around, then slammed the door shut. The sink over her head turned on. Water rushed through the pipe pressed against her cheek.

  She could still see the edge of his leg. He smelled dank and sweaty. She clenched the glass shard. Every muscle in her body spasmed, groaning in protest. But she did not move. She did not breathe.

  The walkie-talkie belched static, startling her so badly she flinched. The terrorists exchanged a few words. After several excruciating moments, they walked away.

  Willow closed her eyes. She gulped in mouthfuls of stale air, so relieved she could've wept. She waited for the silence to return, thick and heavy, counting to one hundred twice in her head before she allowed herself to move.

  She squirmed out of the cabinet and unclenched her fingers from the glass shard. It was stained red. So was her palm and the section of her dress she'd wrapped around the glass. She wiped her hand across a clean section of her dress. The cuts didn't look too deep, but more red bubbled in the cracks. She used a hand towel from the cabinet to staunch the blood.

  She swallowed, trying not to look at it. Her throat was dry and scratchy as sandpaper. She opened the mini fridge beneath the counter. It was half-full of soda, orange juice, and water bottles. She grabbed a bottle and guzzled the whole thing down, water dripping off her chin. She barely noticed.

  She needed energy. It had been hours and hours since she'd eaten. She had no idea what time it was. This nightmare went on forever and ever, and there was no way to wake up.

  She reached into the display case and swiped the gooey mess. She licked her fingers, careful not to accidentally ingest any slivers of glass. What flavors was she eating? Vanilla cream? Cinnamon bun? Devil's food cake? It didn't matter. Calories were calories. And as far as the choices went, this was pretty freakin’ good.

  But now she needed a better weapon. Where there was cake, there must be a cake knife. Somewhere. She slid open several drawers. Gloves, straws, strainers, napkins, forks and spoons. Jackpot! Nestled next to a packet of hair nets, two of the most beautiful knives she'd ever seen. She grabbed the largest one, took a deep breath, and headed back out.

  She considered the crew corridors, but they were narrow with long stretches of absolutely nowhere to run or hide. The main passenger areas were marginally safer. But not by much.

  Somehow being alone made everything ten times worse. Her heart crashed against her ribs. Adrenaline flushed through her, icing her veins. Even her bare feet on the marble floor echoed like slaps in the awful silence. Every step she took felt like it might be her last.

  Blood smeare
d the floor, mingling with the shattered glass. Bodies were everywhere. She forced herself to keep moving. She looked at each of the fallen, trying to memorize their faces and their hair and clothes in case she was asked who she'd seen. If she ever made it off this ship alive.

  If anybody did.

  39

  Gabriel

  Gabriel's walkie-talkie burst with static. “Do you read me?”

  “I'm here.”

  “It's time,” Simeon said. “It is as I feared. Black is resistant to all persuasion. He is unaffected by the wife. Bring the girl to the bridge.”

  Gabriel's tongue felt thick in his mouth. He couldn't speak.

  “Gabriel,” Simeon said, his voice darkening. “Are you having second thoughts?”

  His silence said everything.

  “We spoke of this. The girl is manipulating you.”

  Gabriel glanced across the room. Amelia sat on the floor, leaning against the ladder. Her eyes were closed. Her hands were clasped together in her lap. She looked exhausted. His heart swelled with compassion. “I don't think so.”

  “Think, Gabriel! Her father and his people are the kings of manipulation, propaganda, and twisting the truth to their own aims. He's raising her to be a replica of himself. She lies as easily as she breathes.”

  Amelia had lied and manipulated. But so had Gabriel. She did it to survive. She had a chance to kill him, and she’d trusted him instead. Her words echoed in his mind. “You’re planning to torture her in front of her father.”

  Simeon didn’t speak for a long moment. Staticky thunder echoed in the background. “I have kept certain things from you to try to spare your conscience. You're sensitive. I understand that. But everything has changed. Everything.”

  “You told me we would only kill our specific targets. Only the guilty.”

  Simeon sighed. “Listen to me. Cheng and his men have gone off-script. Cheng is . . . difficult to contain. All the more reason to take what we need from Black and get to our extraction point. Do you understand?”