Unchosen

by Katharyn Blair

  I kneel down to get it just as Seth does. He gets there first, lifting it off the floor and handing it to me.

  “Sorry,” I say. His lips curl up as he pulls his other arm through the remaining sleeve.

  “For what?” he asks.

  For staring. For lying. For—

  I shut my thoughts down, because if I start down that road, I don’t know how long it will take me to stop.

  “I didn’t mean to be a creeper.”

  He looks over his shoulder at the door to my room. “You can come out whenever you want, you know. You’re not a prisoner.”

  I stop. I didn’t think I was, but I didn’t really consider myself free, either.

  Seth runs a hand over his hair. “You know, we have real food. Did Lucia not tell you?” Seth looks over my shoulder like he’s about to walk into the canteen, but I step into his line of sight. The last thing I need right now is for him to go stir that pot.

  “I’m good. Really. I just needed something in my stomach.”

  Seth looks down at the protein bar and winces. “Arctic White Chocolate. What does that even mean?”

  I snort and look down at the all-caps font. It has a lightning bolt going through the t in Arctic. He reaches for it, and his fingers brush mine. I quickly pull my hand to my side.

  “Are you sure you want to risk this?” Seth asks, and I look up. He’s not glaring at me. Not looking me up and down like I’m going to combust.

  This is nice. A normal conversation, almost. I don’t know when I last had one of those.

  “We have some mandarin oranges in there,” he says. “I’d hate for the Chosen One to die on my watch from some weird, protein-bar-specific foodborne illness.”

  “I like the mystery,” I say, holding up the bar. “Makes me feel brave. It’s like Russian roulette, but with your intestines.”

  Seth cocks his head, questions riding up the side of his mouth as he smirks. They fill the crinkles around his eyes as he squints, and a soft laugh rises from his chest.

  And I want to crawl into a hole and die. It doesn’t even have to be big. It can be a small hole. I’ll just curl up and cover my eyes and never make human contact again. I just talked about rampant diarrhea. In front of Seth Marsali.

  In front of Seth Marsali, who just had his shirt around his neck. No wonder I can’t tell Dean how I feel. My skills around the opposite sex range from vacuum hickeys to discussing bowel movements.

  “Where did you come from, Charlotte the Chosen One?”

  “Delaware County, originally,” I say dumbly, which just makes his smile widen as he looks down.

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  And those eyes find mine, squinting like he’s searching me for answers. And I realize that I don’t remember how long it’s been since someone looked at me with a question in their eyes.

  I’ve been Harlow’s sister since I was old enough to sway to the sound of her sirenesque voice. I’ve been Vanessa’s guardian since the day I had the blood of her first scraped knee on the pads of my fingers.

  I don’t remember the last time I was Charlotte.

  When that name stood in isolation, searched and seen on its own.

  “What—” he starts, but he’s cut off by the sound of the door behind him creaking open. Rielle looks around the doorjamb, her short nightshirt barely reaching the top of her lean thighs. Her tumble of blond curls falls over a shoulder as she hands a folded map out to Seth.

  “Marked it,” she says, and he grabs it, nodding thanks.

  Rielle sees me standing there, and her eyes widen as something dawns on her.

  “That reminds me! Seth! You never showed her!” Rielle hisses, dipping back into the room for a second before returning with her hands behind her back. She pivots, like she’s trying to hand whatever she’s hiding to Seth without me seeing.

  Rielle nudges him when he doesn’t play along, and Seth rolls his eyes as he moves the map to a free hand and angles his body toward her so that he can grab it.

  “Ta-da!” Rielle says, holding her arms out as Seth pulls the headdress from behind him. Whatever half smile that’s creeping up my mouth disappears as my mouth drops open. Seth holds it out farther, and I take it.

  I must look as confused as I feel, because Seth shrugs, clearly trying to counteract Rielle’s dramatic flair. “I heard you. When I handed it to Monte. I figured it was important—”

  “So he snagged it before we got out of the Jawbone!” Rielle finishes with a flourish. Seth gives her a look, and she puts her hands on her own shoulders as she bounces on the balls of her feet.

  Emotion swells up in my throat as I look down at the gold in my hands.

  “Thank you,” I mumble, because I can’t find the right words. I look up at Seth, and I know he can see the sincerity in my eyes. “Seriously.”

  He nods, and I look from him to Rielle.

  And suddenly, realization washes over me. Seth was just in there. Undressed.

  Heat floods my cheeks as I mumble something about an early morning, which, of course, makes no sense. We’re literally all living on a boat together. I don’t have a pressing engagement I can fake.

  I rush into my room and slide the door shut behind me. I’m exhausted, but I don’t fall to the cot. I can’t. Something in me is still tight, a wire ready to spring. My feet pace as it builds. I spin, pressing my body against the wall before sliding down to a crouch, my forearms braced over my knees, the headdress in my hands.

  Dozens of thoughts fight for my attention, but one rises above the rest as I tuck the headdress in one of the bags I found below deck—the one I’ve been using for my stuff.

  I didn’t know how I was going to get Dean back once I got to the Blood Market—but now I do.

  But the relief of that answered question wars with something else as I lie back on the bed.

  I tasted something in those seconds before Rielle opened the door. Before she reminded me of what it was like to be the awkward third wheel.

  For a moment, I was seen.

  Even if it isn’t by the man I love. And even if I was leaning toward it for the attention, or the sheer contact, or whatever the hell other reasons lie at the bottom of my murky, limping heart.

  And I liked it.

  Chapter 22

  I’M UNDERWATER AGAIN.

  The panic stirs in my chest with a violent twist.

  Moonlight cuts through the waves, illuminating the twisting yards of kelp and sand.

  I kick, trying to propel myself upward to break the surface, but I don’t move.

  I look down, and the terror rips up my throat.

  There’s no weight tied to my legs. No logical reason why I’m stuck here. I kick hard again, but still I don’t move. I thrash my arms, but my fingers curve into claws and cut through the water pointlessly. It’s like I’m on land, trying to fly.

  My scream shoots bubbles around my face, swirling and obscuring my vision.

  But I see her then. Even through the sand and dappled moonlight.

  Her dark hair floats about her head, dancing with the rhythm of the waves, but her eyes are still as she watches me. Her dark vest secures a cream-colored gown around her chest, leaving the skirt to swirl around her, revealing bare legs.

  For a moment, she just stands there—watching me as my lungs burn.

  And then, she walks closer.

  Walks, not swims.

  Her feet kick up the sand on the ocean floor, and one hand flits to her chest, working the buttons on the vest.

  I don’t know who she is, but I know no human can do what she’s doing.

  I try to swim backward, to get away from her. But I’m stuck.

  She reaches out again, her hand curling into a claw, her bloodred lips part, and her throat is alight. I think I recognize her.

  I thrash, scraping and clawing at the water in sheer desperation.

  Charlotte.

  Her fingers are inches from my chest when I hear my name, louder this time—and it’s not co
ming from the woman.

  Charlotte.

  I blink, and I’m awake.

  The rain is lessened now, just a smattering of fat droplets hitting the deck around me.

  And it’s Seth over me, his face tight with tension.

  “Charlotte,” he says, worry creasing his brows as he helps me sit up.

  I look around. We’re on the deck. It’s dark—sometime between two and five, if I was to guess by the placement of the moon.

  My fingers sting, and I look down. They’re bleeding. I was scratching at the wooden deck.

  “I was . . . dreaming,” I say softly, still gazing down at my messed-up fingers.

  “Shit. That wasn’t dreaming, Charlotte. That was a nightmare. A night terror.” His voice sounds strained.

  I blink as I stare into the fog slinking over the water. I shake my head.

  “I don’t have night terrors. My sister does,” I say before I can stop myself. My voice sounds far away. Get with it. You have to be on guard, I remind myself.

  Seth moves his head so that I’m looking at him. I haven’t seen real concern on his face before, so I don’t know whether to read it as caring or irritation. He’s shirtless, and the cold coaxes goose bumps over his shoulders. I realize that he’s also barefoot, and even in the dim light of the gas lantern, I can see the dark circles under his eyes.

  He stands, lowering his hand to help me up. I take it, and he hauls me to my feet.

  “Come on,” he says.

  He takes me to the canteen and turns on one gas lantern on the table.

  “Sit down,” he orders, and I listen. There’s a blanket on the bench behind me, and I pull it around my shoulders, shivering.

  Seth kneels next to a cabinet and pulls out some bags and ceramic mugs.

  “I woke you up,” I say. It’s not a question. I can tell by the hair matted on the back of his head.

  “I’m a light sleeper. Especially when I hear someone screaming like they’re being murdered,” he replies, emptying powder into the mugs.

  I shake my head. The dream was so real.

  “I never used to dream like this,” I whisper, more to myself than to him. Like I can figure it out if I say the words out loud. It makes sense that the terror of what I’ve seen and been through would catch up to me eventually. Especially if I spend most of my waking hours keeping secrets.

  Seth pours water into the mugs and sticks them into the microwave. He steps back as the mugs turn on the plate inside.

  “Have you lost someone recently?” he asks. No frills, no dancing around my feelings. Just a blunt question.

  “I don’t know anyone who hasn’t lost someone recently,” I say, aware that I’m sounding defensive.

  “Yeah, but not everyone has night terrors. That should say something.”

  “Thanks,” I say, trying to shove as much sarcasm into one syllable as I can.

  The microwave beeps, and he opens it. He pulls the mugs out, wincing at the heat as he carries them to the table. “I studied psychology before. I saw a lot of PTSD at the Torch. Many of the patients had night terrors like that.”

  I look at him, unsure what to say next.

  He’s never mentioned his time at the Torch. He’s never mentioned that he lived there, and that his family is basically royalty. I haven’t really stopped to think about the fact that he gave up the life I’ve been fighting for.

  “What’s it like there?” I ask quietly. I’ve seen pictures—streetlights that still work. Kids playing on scooters in the street. Mirrors are for putting on lipstick and going to class or on a date.

  Seth slides the mug over to me. “It’s like . . . what life was like before.”

  I look down. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this weird . . . sludge. Seth snorts at my expression.

  “It’s a mug brownie,” he explains, blowing on his.

  I laugh as I lean down to smell it. It does smell like a brownie. “I didn’t know we got baked goods at the end of the world,” I say.

  Seth shrugs. “It’s not the end of the world, Charlotte. That’s what you’re here for.”

  I look at him, ready to roll my eyes. But he looks back at me steadily as he twists his plastic fork, no teasing in his bright gaze as his golden eyes search my face. After forever and not long enough, the fork clatters against the edge of the ceramic, and he looks back down to the mug. I need to change the subject. Now.

  “I’m sure the last thing you need is someone waking you up with bloodcurdling screams.”

  Seth shrugs as he puts another bite into his mouth, thinking as he chews. “It could be worse,” he says, swallowing.

  I hold up my bloody fingers. “Worse than losing your shit in front of strangers?” I retort.

  The planes of Seth’s face look sharper in the low light, and his yellow eyes blaze in the single flame of the gas lantern. He’s silent for a moment, weighing his next words carefully before he looks at me.

  “When my sister disappeared, I didn’t sleep for two weeks,” he says softly. “And when I heard they found her body . . .” He swallows hard. “Well. Now I’m a light sleeper.”

  Everything in me stills. Two weeks ago, I couldn’t imagine Seth Marsali even talking to me, let alone telling me something like this.

  The whole country mourned Evelyn, but I never really stopped to consider what it would be like to lose her as a sister. A twin.

  “I’m so sorry,” I whisper, knowing full well that even that is a sad excuse for a response. I don’t know what else to say.

  Seth nods, poking the brownie with his fork. Normally, I can’t read him. I have no clue what he’s thinking. But right now, in this moment, I can see the sadness on him like a weight he carries on his bare shoulders.

  “There’s always that joke about one twin being the better of the two, but . . . she really was.”

  I’m opening my mouth to say something when Seth sits up, whipping his head to the window. In one swift movement, he kills the gas lantern and motions for me to get down. I sink low on the bench as he crawls next to me, peering through the glass into the dark.

  “What is it?” I ask. He motions for me to sit up and points through the window.

  I twist, allowing my eyes to peek over the edge. On the horizon, I see it—a dark ship cutting over the water. My breath catches in my throat.

  “Vessels,” Seth says. I don’t ask how he knows. He’s been on the water long enough that I trust his judgment.

  “Should we hide? Set sail and pull closer to shore?” I hiss, though I know it’s a silly question. Seth shakes his head.

  “We just need to be still and hope they don’t see us. They’re hauling ass fast enough that they might not be looking for prey right now.” His voice is soft—distracted—as his golden eyes track them across the dark horizon.

  I’m quiet, listening to his breathing for a moment before he relaxes against the bench.

  “They’re not stopping,” he says finally, but he doesn’t turn the gas lantern back on, even as we both sit back up.

  A thought lurks in the back of my mind. I don’t want to ask him, but I know it’s not something that can wait until we’re taken over.

  “In my settlement, we have a code. Death before the willful Crimson. I could trust that my people would . . .” I swallow, knowing that I can’t easily take the words back once they’re out. I find my courage and push on. “If they try and get me . . . please kill me first, okay?”

  Seth’s face tightens, and his eyes darken.

  “I don’t want to ask that of you, but I have to. Will you?”

  The moment is thick between us as he stares at me wordlessly. I grasp for something . . . anything . . . that will make it at least a little bit lighter.

  “I’d ask Lucia, but I’m pretty sure she’d shoot me just as a precaution,” I joke.

  It takes a moment, but the corner of Seth’s mouth turns up. He nods once.

  It’s all I need.

  We sit there, in the dark, for I
don’t know how long. Seth doesn’t move from the window, a vigilant captain unwilling to take his eyes off the predator-ridden waters.

  Neither of us says anything, and the mugs on the table go stone-cold.

  Chapter 23

  I STAY UP UNTIL DAWN TRYING TO PULL OUT ANY of Vanessa’s other prophecies from the corner of my mind to put them on paper.

  A thought unfurls in the back of my mind—a question I’ve had since the Jawbone.

  Did Vanessa know this was all going to happen? Somewhere, in the part of her that the Crimson woke up—did she expect it?

  The dream about the storm could have been something she needed as she escaped north with Harlow. But the Glimpse of Paradise . . . that was just for me.

  I hear my mom’s voice in the corners of my memory. The warmth of her shoulder on the shell of my ear as I leaned on her on the porch swing and she talked.

  Everything conspires to fulfill the plan, she’d say.

  She said everything—the good and the bad—and it made sense when the bad was a terrible grade or a mean friend. Even losing the boy I loved to my older sister. It’s harder when it’s this. When it’s the screams of the dying and the blood of people I love trickling into the gutter.

  I want to remember her voice now. I want to believe that this all has a point. That maybe I’m supposed to help Vanessa when we find each other again. That she gave me the tools to survive in this.

  I want to believe that maybe, in the end, even my darkest lies will serve a purpose.

  When I wake, it’s about noon. I pull my hair back into a ponytail and step out onto the deck, which is now awash with sunlight. I don’t hear anything for a moment, and then—

  A splash, and a scream.

  It takes two seconds for it to register, but my feet are moving, and I’m racing down to the bow of the ship, skittering to a stop.

  This isn’t what I expected, and it takes a moment to process what I’m seeing: Rielle, standing on the railing, a bright red bikini on her tanned, toned body.

  “What is this?” I shout, the words bursting free from my chest. I didn’t realize how scared I was until the relief hits me like a wave. “I heard a scream.”