Seth stalks across the deck, the muscle in his jaw twitching. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Water streams down his face, his soaked shirt tight against his heaving chest. His yellow irises catch the firelight.
And I remember another story—one that got lost in the flurry of reports about Evelyn’s disappearance. Seth Marsali, her twin, abandoning his position in his father’s fleet. Going rogue. His father gave a statement, disavowing his son.
I never knew who captained the Ichorbow, but now I do. And it makes sense. What better way to rebel against the Torch than to become Runners?
“You’re a monster. A traitor,” I spit. Seth closes the distance between us.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Thomas growls from across the deck, but Seth shakes his head once before turning his focus back to me.
“And what are you?” Seth asks. “Besides a princess with piss-poor self-preservation skills?”
I shiver, but catch the light glittering off something tied to his belt.
I clamp my jaw together for a moment, and then, so quickly I don’t even register myself doing it, I shirk off the blanket and lunge.
By the time I snatch the knife from his sheath and press it against his neck, his entire crew has their own weapons drawn.
Seth freezes as I press the metal to his corded throat. His shoulders are huge against my small hand—the hand I’m trying desperately to keep from shaking.
I’ve never held a knife against someone’s neck before. A bigger part of me is terrified to know what I could do with one flick of my wrist. Another part, a part I’d be ashamed to admit, is thrumming with the thrill. The control. His blood pushes beneath my blade, and I could spill his life on my bare feet. I could watch the light drain from his murderous eyes.
It’s like he can sense what I’m thinking, because when I look up at his face, he raises his chin a fraction of an inch.
A challenge.
I step closer.
Lucia appears behind me, as quiet as the wind whipping over the deck. She makes no noise, but I feel the tip of her blade run down my spine.
Seth glances at her over my shoulder. I don’t know what he sees in her face then, but he narrows his eyes for half a second, and the knife eases off my skin.
“What did Maddox want you for?” he asks plainly, raking his eyes back to mine. “You were her only passenger. You must be worth something.”
My thoughts are spinning, my heart hammering in my chest as I try to think. This is a game of chess, a dance on thin ice where one wrong move sees me plummeting to my death. I had no choice but to pretend to be the Chosen One in front of Maddox. I had to save Vanessa. But now? I have no reason to believe they won’t slit my throat right here if I tell them I’m the Chosen One.
“I don’t know.”
“Liar,” he retorts.
“I’d rather be a liar than a murderer,” I seethe.
“So you admit you’re lying?” he retorts.
Shit, I walked right into that one. I raise my chin, defiant.
“I don’t see you arguing the fact that you’re a murderer.”
“Well, it seems you’re pretty set on that. I doubt I could talk you out of it,” Seth bites.
Seth opens his mouth, but then shuts it again.
Lucia snorts behind me, and I see Rielle’s eyes narrow from her spot beside Thomas. He runs a hand through his jet-black hair. His dark eyebrows furrow over Xanthous eyes that glow, the color unnaturally bright against the rest of his Korean features. It looks like he is about to say something, but Seth talks over him, tilting his head like my blade isn’t still at his throat.
“I actually don’t think I’m planning on talking to you anymore about anything, princess.” His eyes harden. He reaches up, and gently—surprisingly so, for how he’s glaring at me—puts his hand on mine and lowers my blade.
If I were Harlow, I’d cut him just for daring to challenge me. But I’m not. He called my bluff. Seth gives me one more once-over before turning away. He walks across the deck, and I follow.
“Where are you taking me?” I ask, looking out over the water like it will give me any clue as to where the hell we’re going. As if I can even tell the direction we’re heading in.
A thought blooms in the back of my mind—if we’re heading to the Blood Market, then at least I’ll be closer to finding Dean. But he could have a deal with private contractors. He could be taking me anywhere.
A heavy feeling settles over my frame. Seth looks back at me, but doesn’t say anything.
“Hey!” I shout. He stops. “I didn’t ask you to blow up my cell. I didn’t ask you to literally drop me into the ocean, and I didn’t ask you to yank me onto this shitheap of a boat. The least you can do is tell me where the hell you’re going to sell me off.”
His muscled shoulders tighten at my words, his fists clenching at his sides as he slowly pivots to face me.
“You seem to know everything. It won’t hurt you to have to figure this one out.”
It doesn’t take long for them to show me below deck. I thought I’d be shoved into another cell, but instead Lucia just gestures to a cot in the corner of what looks like a pantry. She must read the question on my face, because she rolls her eyes.
“Feel free to jump over the railing and try to swim for it. We all saw how that went.”
And she shuts the door.
Shaking, I lower myself to the cot, my legs trembling. I don’t know if it’s from exhaustion or fear. Probably both. I pull Rielle’s sopping sweatshirt over my head, letting it plunk on the floor next to me. Cold bites at my skin, and I shiver uncontrollably.
I don’t want to cry, because I know that if I start, I might not be able to stop.
I was scared on the Devil’s Bid, but at least I knew where I was headed. At least I knew—even though it was horrible—what fate awaited me.
Now?
I have no clue.
I’m in the grips of Seth Marsali—a loose cannon by any measure. I have no clue what he’s going to do with me.
I close my eyes, but all I can hear is the sound of Dean screaming my name as I barreled down the beach toward him. All I can feel is the crushing weight of Harlow’s arms as she squeezed me.
I press my heels to my eyes. I don’t have the notebook anymore.
I shut my eyes as the first sob rips through me, shaking my shoulders as I let the tears fill my eyes—fill me.
My parents. The world. Dean. My sister, and the fate that waits for her like a noose around her neck—the fate she never asked for. My grandmother, and the way they placed a towel under her jaw when she died to keep her mouth closed. The fact that I can’t blame that on the curse—that would have happened anyway, eventually.
Malcolm. How he thought the world was worthy of hope and humanity and ended up dying in the street.
Grief is a fist around my windpipe, and it’s almost worse than being underwater.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper. To no one. To everyone.
Then the door opens, a small squeak echoing throughout the tiny pantry. I look up to find Seth Marsali holding a tray with a cup of water and two bread rolls in one hand and clothes in the other.
I wipe my eyes and shove myself up.
He raises the tray wordlessly.
I don’t take it. “You wouldn’t want your cargo to spoil, is that it?”
He sets the tray on one of the shelves before holding the clothes up, irritation spreading over his face as I don’t reach out for those, either.
My clothes are still wet, and I’ve been covered in goose bumps since getting on Maddox’s ship. I’m pretty sure my legs are numb from the cold and those black leggings look lovely and warm, but I’m not about to tell him that.
“I’m not cold,” I add, at the exact moment my teeth decide to betray me with an involuntary chatter.
Seth nods gravely. “I can tell.” He tosses the clothes at me, and I don’t catch them. They fall to the floor.
We stand in silence. His lips are a thin line as he glares down at me, and I glare right back.
“You think I’m going to fall over in gratitude and tell you things,” I say finally. “I’ve seen enough movies, Marsali. It’s not going to work.”
“Right. Well. You’ve just given away that there are things to tell.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Are there? I think we both know I find you repulsive enough to enjoy wasting your time.”
Seth nods. “I don’t doubt that, princess—”
“—You can stop calling me that at any point, by the way. Your crew is not around for your misogynistic asshole routine.”
“If I was a misogynistic asshole, I wouldn’t give you those clothes to change out of because that shirt is practically see-through when wet. In fact, if I was a misogynistic asshole, I would not have said anything at all.”
I move just a fraction of an inch to cross my arms over my chest before I stop. No. He’s trying to make me second-guess myself, and I’m not going to. Harlow wouldn’t. Harlow would pour water down her front and then kick his ass.
“I’m not a princess,” I shoot back, because it’s all I can think to say.
“Fine. Tell me your real name, then.”
My nostrils flare. No way in hell I’m telling him that, and I’ve hesitated too long to make one up. Seth nods like he expected my resistance to that.
“Which brings me back to my original question,” he says, pushing off the door and stepping closer to me. “What did Maddox want with you?” He gestures to me at you, as though the general unimpressive state of me will really drive his point home.
Me.
Me, the one who is neither a captain nor a rebel.
Me, the one who doesn’t quite know, the filler between two more interesting people.
I don’t know what to tell him.
I’m Charlotte. I’m no one.
“You’d have to ask Maddox. Because honestly? I think I was a mistake.” There is more truth in those words than anything I’ve said all night, but I doubt Seth believes me. He’s quiet for a moment as he regards me.
“You know what this ship is,” he breathes, his bright, yellow eyes finding mine. They are cold—not a hint of warmth or kindness there. Those are the eyes of the captain staring down a threat. “Then you know what the captain of the Ichorbow is capable of. I am asking you a question, and I won’t ask it again. Believe it or not, I can be a pretty reasonable man.”
I lift my eyes then, meeting his with a rage that burns through the fear. I don’t know where it comes from, and I don’t question it. I would rather be pissed than terrified, and Seth has given me all the fuel I need to not feel scared, even if it only lasts for a few minutes.
He lets out a soft, humorless laugh. Then, without another word, he turns and opens the door. He shuts it behind him, and I stare at the cold metal.
Eventually, I will have to face the spilled blood that will forever stain my memory.
But right now? I need to fight. I need to find a way to get to Dean, and then get to my sisters. I don’t care how impossible it is—and it is pretty impossible.
I need to make it out of this, because for the first time in too long I’ve decided: I’m not dying this way.
Chapter 14
I SPEND THE NEXT TWO DAYS IN THE ROOM. I SLEEP more than I’d like, but I know my body needs to recover from what it went through on the Devil’s Bid, so I don’t fight it too much. But when I am awake, I’m running through what I can remember from the notebook. I stare at the ceiling and whisper them to myself, over and over.
I can almost feel my mom’s fingers in my hair, telling me to relax.
It will all be okay, she’d say, and I’d believe it. She had a way of believing so much that it felt contagious.
But she’s not here, and hope has never been as catching as fear. I sit up, racking my brain for an answer, because thinking about the prophecies keeps the memories away sometimes.
Find him on the dark blue, 3A, the one with the teeth.
His love pulls his loose threads. Loose threads loosely stitched. You’ll see it before she does.
I remember the shape she made with her hand, and the two fists. The way out. The way out.
Veins lead to the heart.
I know better than to hope that they’ll suddenly make sense, but it doesn’t stop the little pulse in my chest that keeps whispering. Maybe. Maybe now.
Someone leaves food outside my door, though I always wait until I hear the footsteps walk back down the hallway before I reach out and grab it.
Somewhere on the third day, shouts sound from above.
I peer out of the small circular window that rests just beneath the edge of the ceiling in the pantry. All I see is gray mist—it brushes up against the glass like curious fingers.
It’s so thick that seeing through it is impossible, yet somehow I know we’re almost there.
I just don’t know where there is.
It’s like I can feel a shift in the air, a strange pull as the ship turns ever so slightly to the right. Something feels electric, like we’re brushing up against the edges of a tangle of live wires. I stay perched on the edge of my cot, up on tiptoes, desperate for something. Anything.
Seth didn’t come back after that first encounter, and despite the fact that my door remained unlocked, I didn’t venture out.
Partially because I did, in fact, cave in the middle of the first night and pull on the leggings and the gray knit sweater he’d left, because I was freezing. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction, though I honestly doubted he’d spared me a second thought after he’d left the room.
The door behind me opens, just like I had a feeling it would.
I turn around. Rielle holds up a pair of black boots. Thick soles, pewter buckles, scuffed toes.
“I guessed size seven,” she says, tossing them onto the floor between us. “We dock in ten minutes. I’d get those on. Seth isn’t going to wait for you.”
She turns, and I jump off the cot. “Where are we?”
Rielle runs a hand through her thick golden hair and looks at me, a challenge in her yellow eyes. “Come up and find out.”
Before she leaves, she drops one more thing on the shelf near the door—mirrors, secured with leather and rope, buckles and knots. She’s left me her mirrored bands.
The sound hits me first—the raucous shouts mixed with loud cracks that I pray are fireworks. It’s still dark below deck, so I feel my way to the staircase, the boots Rielle gave me soundless on the wood.
The air whips my hair off the back of my neck as I step onto the deck, the world glowing pink and purple through the hazy fog. Seth and Thomas stand at the wheel, and the other prisoners from the Devil’s Bid are huddled at the stern, peering toward the source of the noise.
Seth spins the wheel, and we roll across the dark water. We slice through a gap in the fog, and my breath catches in my throat as I move to the railing, my hands shaking as I grab the wood.
I’ve heard about the Jawbone—a metal city propped up on stilts just over the horizon, hovering between rumor and myth. No one I have ever known has been here, the stories always unconfirmed. Some people say it’s a converted oil rig. Others say it’s a repurposed lookout from World War II.
Whatever it was, it’s something else entirely now.
Rusted steel juts from the waves, eight different pods of varying heights surrounded in latticework balconies, creating an octagon-shaped port. The mismatched heights and oblong structure are what gave it its name—it looks like a grim smile, a grin emerging from the waters. I’ve seen towns smaller on my family’s road trips to Mammoth in the winter. I thought it would be more menacing, honestly.
But it sounds like we’re slowly sailing up to a giant frat party.
Several ships are tied to the metal, docked at odd angles, flags of dozens of countries hanging over the edge. Dozens of strands of multicolored bulb lights dangle over the open water in the middle l
ike they had been strung up by a careless spider.
People sit on the edges of the balconies, their feet hanging over the jet-black water that sparkles with the pale lavender and blush reflection of the lights, amber bottles in their hands.
I secure my mirrored wraps, making sure that the glass is facing up. I exhale on them, wiping them clean with my shirt—something I’ve seen Harlow do before an excursion. It feels weird to be the one doing it now.
I watch as Seth hands the wheel to Thomas and walks down the steps toward the stern. He doesn’t even bother looking at me.
Just as well. If he thinks of me as something forgettable, then I won’t have to worry about him suspecting that I’ll figure a way out of this situation.
Lucia purses her lips as the ship bumps against the dock. Her eyes flick down to my new mirrors. “You don’t think they have screening protocol?” Lucia asks next to me. She smirks, tucking her own necklace of mirrors into her shirt.
“I don’t trust protocol,” I say quietly, watching as the ship bumps up against the dock.
Lucia nods at me. “You’re not as stupid as you look.”
Harlow had taken me to a couple of her after-gig parties over the years, and I’d been around more than one celebration after the raiders found an untouched stash of beer tucked in the back of a ransacked grocery store.
So I know what a rager looks—and smells—like. But the Jawbone is next-level. The tinge of alcohol mixed with the faint whiff of urine and the smoke from a grill somewhere makes me press the back of my hand to my mouth as I follow Rielle down the dock and across the bridge.
Lucia was right—two women with mirrored holsters strapped over cargo pants stop us and do a screen before letting us down the rest of the ramp that leads to the main structure. We walk closer, and Lucia stays back, the mirrors secured in leather strips around the backs of her hands clinking against the metal of her belt as she eyes me. Maybe they think I have some grand master plan in place, and I’m getting ready to make a daring escape.
As of right now? I’ve got nothing. I can’t even jump off the bridge and into the water, because I’ll sink like a stone.
Maybe that’s kinder than the fate that awaits inside, a voice says.
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