by Keith Walter
Barclay tried to stand, but his legs were like jelly. He tried to explain that they had somewhere to go, but he couldn’t get out the words, “Not safe… Gotta…” The woman seemed to glide to Barclay’s position, kneeling down in front of him. She put a hand on his head and he could feel the pain and confusion being replaced with the darkness of sleep.
“It’s okay now,” she soothed. “I’ll take care of you.” A shy smile under golden tresses was the last thing Barclay saw.
CHAPTER FOUR:
Meet and Greet
Nostalgia overcame Barclay when he awoke, and the familiar feeling transported him back to a younger time. The smell of water wafting through open windows coupled with the motion of the boat fed something deep in his soul. Waves slapped against the hull, giving the old yacht a unique rhythm that danced in his ears. In his youth he was as carefree as the wind, blowing from one port to another, choosing ships by what sounds peaked his interest.
The sea whispered many secrets on those early voyages, and he spent decades sailing every inch of water he could. Centuries passed and the seas sustained him while he reached the ragged edges of what he thought was possible. Taking in the spotless knobs and glowing buttons around him, he felt a pang. Sailing was different now. Though, he could still remember a time when it was the sailor more than the ship that determined a successful voyage.
He noticed a seatbelt clipped over his shoulder, certainly not something he remembered doing himself. The interior lights of the bridge were off, while late-morning sunlight streamed through the open windows. For a moment he convinced himself that the entire ordeal of last night was a dream. There was no hint of smoke from burst bulbs, and no cracks in the windows where he vaguely remembered crashing. Gently, Barclay unclipped the seatbelt and stared out the windows, noting water in all directions. His eyes drifted over two large flat-screen monitors that hung from the ceiling just above the front windows. They seemed strangely out of place on a ship this age, but he just shook his head.
The left monitor seemed to show radar with little blips radiating around a central point. Nothing seemed to be too close or closing in, so that was a good sign. The right screen had a map of the lake with a little animation of a boat, From experience, he assumed this was showing the position of the boat. Ominously, a large red dot glowed some distance behind them near the shore. The last time this boat had sailed, GPS wasn’t even invented, and he knew darn well there was no way Ulsimore would have updated anything on one of his collections.
Everything seemed too right, too clean, and too perfect; it gave him a bad feeling. Even the position on the GPS didn’t make sense. The map showed them many miles away from his dock, much farther than he would expect to be even in favorable wind. By the position of the sun, it couldn’t have been more than eight hours since the improbable escape. Moreover, there wasn’t a single person on the bridge. A small blue dot on the GPS showed their destination farther out in the lake, but the wheel was seemingly being driven entirely by the computer under the hood. Barclay never could trust computers.
Serin walked through the door, startling Barclay as she barely looked like herself. What he remembered yesterday was a wiry young woman, no older than twenty-five, in a long-sleeved thermal shirt and torn jeans, her tan complexion covered in dirt, and auburn hair frayed and knotted. The woman that stood before him was much more elegant than he had imagined her to be. Clothed in blue dress pants and an untucked white button-down top, she looked like she was ready for a weekend in the Hamptons, not a frantic getaway from certain death. Quite noticeably, the dampening manacles from earlier had disappeared.
He must not have done a great job of hiding his astonishment, because she addressed him with droll. “I thought you were going to sleep all day. Must be nice to just lie around while the rest of us actually get something done.”
Barclay huffed in annoyance before replying in kind. “Yeah, must have been hard work getting dolled up.”
Serin rolled her eyes dramatically. “I put on the whatever was clean.” Waving a hand at Barclay’s own dirty and smoky clothes, she added, “You might want to do the same.”
Barclay pushed aside the impertinent questions flitting around his head, trying to get a handle on the situation in the only way he knew. “The GPS and radar, has anyone checked them to make sure they’re accurate?” He took in Serin’s raised eyebrow and explained, “These readings aren’t adding up, and we can’t afford to get lost. There is a monster in this lake that we don’t want to cross.”
Serin frowned. “You should take it up with your assistant. She did all the startup stuff while the fires were being put out. I assume she’s the one who got this up and running, as well.” Barclay displayed no outward emotion at all, which Serin found annoying. “You need to relax. We escaped. We haven’t seen anything following us. They can’t catch us now.”
So many things were wrong with what Serin said that Barclay had a hard time sorting through a proper response. A blunt man by nature, he started with the very bad news. “My dock was not your final destination. The Union commandeered my facilities in preparation to transfer you to the Entregon.” His voice was appreciably somber, knowing full well the gravity of that name.
Serin quipped flippantly, “What the hell is the Entregon?” Barclay’s haughty laugh only succeeded in turning her initial annoyance into frustration. “Look, I get that you helped us and this is your boat and you’re an old-timer, but we’ve made a clean getaway. Just ask your assistant. Grace has been all over the ship reassuring everyone that we are out of the woods.”
Barclay smiled. This was definitely the same woman from the night before—short tempered and perhaps purposely impolite. “If you were more than a newborn, you would know that the Entregon is one of the great fey ships,” he replied, staring her down. “It doesn’t matter how much of a head start we have. It can track a bird in the middle of a hurricane and level a city from a hundred miles away. We are not home free yet, not in the least.” He saw her expression change and took small pleasure in her alarm, but decided to change tact. “You said you met my assistant, Grace? Where is she now?”
“Um, downstairs,” Serin replied, her voice losing the edge of irritation. “She said there was something that needed her attention. She’s been fixing things all over.” She waited for a beat only to realize Barclay was lost in his own thoughts. “This Entregon, it’s really that bad? How do you know it’s still after us?”
Barclay pulled his attention back to Serin. The focused look in the young woman’s eyes took him aback. She was testy, but seemed genuinely concerned about the danger they were in. “Yeah,” he offered honestly. “If I’m not mistaken, it’s that big scary blob on the screen.” He pointed to the GPS. “I put some wards down earlier. We might be harder to track, but I can’t imagine any way we stay off that thing’s radar.”
Without another word, Barclay moved past Serin and left the bridge. Of the many things bothering him since waking up, one thing rang out dangerously. During the escape, he could tell the three purebloods right off the bat. If he hadn’t missed his mark, they all had spent some time together—in chains if nowhere else. Charles snuck by him because Barclay was too focused on the majors. He didn’t know this Grace person. And, he definitely didn’t have an assistant.
As Barclay made his way below decks, his apprehension grew. He passed by one of the converts, a young man with freshly cleaned clothes and a hot plate of food. “Mr. Bearclaw!” the convert exclaimed. The young man stopped him with an unexpected hug. “My name is Jason. I wasn’t in the best shape last night, but Leslie explained everything that happened, all you did for us especially. I just had to say thanks.”
Barclay stiffly pried himself out of the young man’s grasp, pushing him backward to a more comfortable distance. “It’s Barclay, and you’re welcome,” he replied warily. The man, Jason, was all smiles. Barclay calmed himself by measuring up the young convert, finding his eyes drawn to a small brand on the side of Jason’s neck. �
��You’re second generation?”
“Yes, sir,” the man’s eyes darted to the floor. “My parents were both turned, accidentally they said.”
“So you’re…” Barclay trailed off as he pointed at the brand. He hated what it meant, and refused to say the word.
“Owned?” Jason replied with a bittersweet smile. His hand unconsciously reached up to cover the mark on his neck. “I was. But I ran off, a few years ago actually.”
The young man went silent and Barclay couldn’t help the way his fists clenched in anger. The Union had given the converts freedom to live, but they were far from considered equal. Converts that wished to survive in the fey world found getting a job was almost impossible. But worse, converts who couldn’t find a job would fall into debt. Those debts would then be bought up by a clan and the convert would be forced to do just about anything the clan wanted. These convert-debtors were marked with a clan symbol and were paid almost nothing to ensure they could never make all that they owed. Clans could even hold children of these debtors indefinitely against unpaid carryover.
Barclay had personally paid off a dozen such debts for families that came to work on his docks, and he could still remember the satisfaction of watching those clan bastards getting outsmarted. But those cases were different from this boy, born into the debt and likely never to have had the chance to try to find a place like Barclay’s docks. “Well, we could use a good runner,” Barclay added sincerely.
Jason smiled, no longer tinged with sadness. “You let me know what I can do,” he replied quickly, “and I’m on it.” He continued to rub the mark on his neck as he added, “I probably should have been caught years ago. If it weren’t for Leslie and Serin, let’s just say I have a lot of thanks to go around.” He smirked. “And I know how to repay a debt.”
Barclay ignored the morbid humor in the young man’s smile. “Well, you can help right now if you know where my assistant went.”
“Oh, sure,” the man offered excitedly. He stuck out a thumb over his shoulder. “She’s in the engine room. I just saw her a minute ago.”
“Thanks, kid. Go ahead and finish your meal.” Barclay turned from the conversation and focused on the task at hand. Too many things weren’t adding up, even the clothes and food Jason had made Barclay suspicious. There was no way this old ship would have had any supplies left after its decades covered in mothballs. Water reserves should have been empty or rusted through, same with cooking fuel and running fuel for that matter. Everything he saw suggested this boat was maintained and crewed for months prior to this escapade. Even the floors below decks looked as if they had just been mopped...
Doubt began to creep into his mind. The Union had powerful specialists it could call upon to confuse and brainwash a group this size. He had met fey that could put entire villages under illusions with no one ever finding out until it was too late. Barclay was relatively confident in his mental abilities, but knew there was always someone better. He probed everyone and everything around him, but there was no twinge to tip him off. This was real as far as he could tell. He began reinforcing his muscles, condensing magic in his skin. No matter who was behind all this, he would be ready for a fight.
He stopped just outside the engine room. The chains and lock that had blocked the door for months prior were nowhere to be seen. Black scorch marks smeared the door, highlighting the empty anchors still hanging from the metal. Serin had mentioned fires, but this reminded him more of magic. For a moment he wondered how Charles had gotten in. Thinking of the monster left a queasy feeling in his stomach. Someone—something like that shouldn’t even be possible. But then, a lot of impossible things were happening today.
Spinning the hatch, he strode into the engine room, eyeing every shadow and corner for signs of an attack. Two massive diesel engines hummed along as if they were brand new. With his heightened awareness, he could make out ornate runes and sigils cut into the metal. Each glowed a different color, making the engines dance like tiny carnivals. Once his focus wavered slightly, they faded into the background as if they had never been there in the first place. It was probably this way with everything. Unless he was putting all his attention into looking, the markings would go unnoticed.
“Ulsimore, you sly bastard.” He smiled as he uttered the words. The spell keeping the engine room shut had masked what this boat really was. This wasn’t just something Ulsimore had collected from the human world—it was enchanted. Every facet of the boat would have been hand-runed to infuse the entire thing with a magic all of its own. That was why the food was still good and the engines hummed along like new. That would also explain the original spell. An enchanted ship cost a fortune to build and were often symbols of status. They weren’t something you just took out on a joyride. He must have set it up to look a little worn around the edges so no one thought twice about it.
Walking between the two rumbling beasts, he made his way to the back of the room, only to be confronted by the single oddest door he had ever seen. It was similar to a standard bulkhead, but he now saw the hidden markings glowing brightly. It was clear that this one had been altered in the past. Large black sigils were scratched over the hidden ones on the steel. Black bolts had been driven all around the door with chains attached. The steel seemed to wrench up where the bolts were, as if the door was somehow trying to pull away. Pieces of chain hung down and chimed with the motion of the boat. He thought it was odd that as clean as everything else had been, there were still pieces of metal lying on the ground around here.
Just outside the door, the pureblood man stood woodenly. He seemed surprised by Barclay’s approach, but hid the emotion behind a cordially extended hand. “Good morning, Barclay,” he offered, as if giving the older man a gift. “Grace just went in to check on something. She said you would be looking for her.”
Barclay snatched the younger man’s hand and squeezed, not enough to hurt the man, but more than enough to get his attention. “And you are?” he demanded.
“Yes, of course,” the young man answered quickly, realizing his lack of manners. He slipped his hand from Barclay’s grasp before announcing with a flourish, “My name is Talmer Baron Volgerett, eighth son of the Duke of Volget.” Talmer smiled, an expectant quirk over his right eye.
Barclay stepped past Talmer, ignoring the younger man purposely. He had heard enough, and had no interest in indulging the self-loving son of aristocrats. Of course, he couldn’t help sneaking a peak at the fuming condescension on that handsome face before he slipped through the foreboding doorway. The far darker interior raised his hackles immediately, and his eyes darted around the room.
It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, but the first thing he noticed was the giant shelves of books covering each wall. Even though the room was only a few feet wide, it was lined on both sides with well-worn and tattered books. A single porthole, frosted over from age, was the only source of light. As his eyes roamed down, he caught sight of an ancient cot, and the thing atop brought a grimace to his face. A figure, or what was left of one, lay bandaged on the cot sheets. Both legs looked misshapen under the thick bandages. One arm seemed to end at the wrist while the other had turned its bandages entirely red. Blood stained the white coverings over the chest.
It was so out of place, Barclay didn’t see the person sitting next to the cot just outside the light of the porthole. Movement startled him but he firmly kept his composure. He pulled his arms into a cross in front of his throat. He wouldn’t be taken down without a fight. As the new figure emerged, he got the distinct impression a battle wasn’t on the menu. Blonde tresses shimmered in the dim light, adorning the head of a tearful young woman. Wiping water from her eyes, she tried to force a friendly smile. Against his better judgment, Barclay dropped his hands slightly. Keeping a careful distance, he addressed the woman smoothly. “My assistant, Grace, I presume?”
“I am Grace of the Windrunner clan,” the woman said in shaky tones. She lowered her head guiltily. “I did not mean to deceive anyone. I only w
anted to help.” She looked up, sincerity shining in her eyes. “When I began repairing the damage, everyone thought I was in charge. That is not a duty I would take lightly, and I denied their claims. Leslie—she called me your assistant, and it seemed easier just to go along.”
Barclay let his arms drop to his sides, but kept the magic flowing. He was a pretty good judge of character, and this woman seemed as truthful as anyone he’d come by. She wasn’t building up any spells or attacks he could discern, but it was better to find out more before letting his guard down completely. “My name is Barclay. You have experience in repair magic, I take it?” he asked bluntly, trying to gauge her reactions.
“I have read extensively on many different subjects,” she replied, motioning to the bookshelves, “but this is the first time in quite a while that I have been able to use them.”
“How’d you get on this ship?” Barclay asked suddenly, trying to catch her off guard.
Grace furrowed her brows quizzically. “How?” She tapped a finger on her chin. “I’ve always been here.”
It was Barclay’s turn to be confused. “What are you playing at? I’ve never seen you before.”
Grace’s eyes widened, and a shy smile overtook her lips. “You are the man from the docks. You are the one that tried to free me these past several months.”
“Free you?” Barclay whispered to himself. Gears slowly started turning, and he took a quick glance back at the funny looking door leading back out to the engine room. In all the time he’d spent trying to get this ship moving, he’d assumed the locks were meant to keep people out. But now, looking at the pretty blonde and a lifetime’s worth of reading, something far stranger was taking shape. “How long have you been here?” he asked, not quite believing the situation.