Chapter 9

Another fetid roar shreds the air, and my brother jolts in my arms. Heavy footballs rattle the ground, vibrating the lemon-yellow tablecloth we’re shielded under in a knot of shivering limbs.

“They’re getting closer ...” His fear-spiked whisper sends liquid fire searing through my veins.

“It’s okay,” I coast my fingers through his hair. “I’ll look after you.”

Always.

His grip around my middle tightens.

Another roar, and deep whuffing sounds grow louder … louder, a different, more destructive force pumping through me.

I refuse to watch him die again.

“Stay right here,” I murmur, planting a kiss on his forehead. I untangle from him, tuck him beside the rock wall the table is pushed against, offer a warm smile that brightens his tear-filled eyes, then turn and shove past the tablecloth.

Unfurling, I squint against the midday glare.

Lush trees cast a dappled shadow on the forest glade that’s dusted with lemon-yellow flowers and fluffy fronds of grass swaying in the wind. But the seven slate gray Vruks prowling toward us muddies the view, their snarling maws dripping evidence of their hunger.

Astute, midnight eyes bounce between me and the table strewn with pots of paint.

We came here to paint in the sun.

They came here to kill.

No more.

Sizzling ire roots around the underside of my skin, searching for weak spots in my shell.

I stalk forward.

“You can’t have him.”

They snap at the air and prowl closer—spines arched and lips rolled back. Talons punch free from their paws.

Part of me wants to fold into a screaming ball at the sight, but that part is weak.

It dies a little every time I watch my brother die.

I grip the necklace caught around my throat like a noose. “You can’t have him.” I growl, voice laced with something dark and harrowing. A cruel smile kicks up the corner of my mouth.

My arm jerks down, snapping the chain.

The necklace falls from my fingers and thuds onto the ground.

Chaos explodes, vile and merciless.

A burst of black vines lash from the cracks in my porcelain skin. The noxious scribble scalds and severs—wild and cutthroat.

Murderous.

Snarls turn to whines that are music to my ears.

The beasts tuck tail and run, but they don’t get far.

They can’t have him.

The words repeat until I’m cold and empty, and the ugly snips off, leaving tender skin and a charred heart devoid of regret as I scan the sea of fleshy bits that reek of scorched death. The grass is burnt back to smoking nubs, the lemon-yellow flowers ash on the wind.

It’s all dead. Every last green bit as far as the eye can see … gone.

There’s a crackle of burning wood behind me, and I spin, breath catching when I see the table.

Afire.

The cloth is ash, the pictures gone, the paints sizzling puddles of color dripping off the sides.

I dash forward and grip a blazing wooden leg. The flesh on my palm melts as I flip the table, littering the air with a wake of fiery spindrift.

My knees hit the ground.

A choked sound rips from somewhere deep at the sight of my brother strewn across the dirt …

Unmoving.

Skin bubbled and blistered.

His wide, unseeing eyes reflect the vast scope of my desolation. Reflect me—beautiful, dazzling death.

I drop my face into bloodied hands and scream.

* * *

My eyes spring wide, the howl from my dream alive in my sandpaper throat.

I focus on the low ceiling—on the lantern hung from it, drenching me in yellow light.

Lemon-yellow flowers.

Yellow tablecloth.

The air is thick and hot to match the sizzling pressure in my head, pecking at my temples like an angry, bone-stripping bird.

My frantic gaze bounces over four wooden walls, one pocked with a small window—a frame for the gloomy night outside that fails to make the room feel less cooped.

I realize my clenched fist is wrapped around my pendant, the chain so taut against the back of my neck I’m surprised the clasp hasn’t popped. I drop it, wipe the wetness dripping from my nose, pulling my bandaged hand back to inspect it ...

Blood.

Fuck.

I push up from the cot—

Crushing pain explodes down my arm, hazing my vision and ripping a wail from my dried lips as it all comes crashing back.

The fall; Vanth emptying his bottle of rum into the back of my throat; the way his warm flesh gathered beneath my nails; his vacant, moonlit eyes the moment before he shoved me overboard.

I groan.

Breathing through the pain, I flip the blanket off my legs with my good arm, then cradle my other at the elbow—every inhale waging war against my unhinged shoulder.

I think it’s dislocated. Guess Alon didn’t realize.

Crap.

More blood dribbles from my nose as I hang my feet off the side of the cot.

I have to get out of this closed-in cabin.

I rock to my feet, wobble, vision splitting. Another wave of brain-bloating pressure threatens to bring me to my knees, and I stumble toward the door, grip the handle.

Twist.

It doesn’t budge.

“Fuck!” Eyes squeezed shut, I rest my forehead against the grain. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

I can’t kick and scream and demand to be released without causing a scene.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

My eyes pop open, and I take in the small puddle of red blossoming on the ground, reflecting the bold, yellow lantern light—

The vision of my brother’s wide-open stare hacks at me, and a whimper bubbles up my raw throat.

I have to get out.

I pull my hairpin free from my hair, loosening my mane in a drop of matted tangles as I delve the long, sharp piece of metal into the lock, close my eyes, and rest my ear against the door.

Dig ... Flick ... Twist ...

There’s a dull clunk, and I release a breath, pulling my ear from the wood now stamped in blood. With another low curse, I pocket my pin and yank the door wide, stumbling down the stuffy hall lit by a single lantern.

Despite the still, silent sea, my steps are slow and unsteady. I’m forced to use a closed door as a crutch to catch my breath, taking another swipe at the drip from my chin.

A few more paces, and my brain bloats so much I slam my hand against the wall and suck a sharp breath through my teeth, folding forward, eyes squeezed shut ...

I just have to get to the nest before I pass out.

The squeaking sound of a door opening echoes around me, and I look up to see a bleary-eyed sailor shove his head out from one of the dorms—hair mussed and chest bare.

He takes me in, eyes widening as he mutters a curse. “Someone fetch the Captain!”

I groan, kick myself forward again, and amble past, throwing him a side-eye.

Snitch.

By the time I’m hobbling across the upper deck, I’m sweating through my shirt, each humid breath more punishment than reprieve, reeling me toward the inky promise of unconsciousness.

Head resting against the cool grain of the aftermast, I struggle to gather the strength to move again.

Visions of Baze flash on the underside of my lids—of the way he’d punish me whenever I got tired and lazy at the end of a sparring session and failed to protect my vulnerabilities.

Of course he’d haunt me now.

Snarling, I set my foot on the ladder, grip hold of the rung with my bandaged hand, and heave myself up. A fractured cry rips free, but I stamp my lips together and snip it off.

Always shield your weakness.

Bolts of pain ravage me as I battle the rungs, teeth gritted, stare stabbed through the velvet night. My bad arm is useless, so I keep it tucked close to my abdomen, using my chin as a hook whenever I need to alternate my grip.

I’m halfway up when heavy footsteps assault the deck, but I don’t look down when the Captain bellows for me to stop.

I just have to make it to the nest.

The scuff of boots ascending the ladder trails me as another wave of pressure strikes.

My mouth pops open in a silent scream.

I quicken my pace, bruising the underside of my chin while hot tears dash down my cheeks. But I keep going. Keep pushing. Refuse to look down or up, knowing that if I do, my composure will shatter.

I stretch past the snapped rung, rasping a warning between gasping heaves, “Broken ... rung.Don’t ... fall.”

“Orlaith, stop.”

Captain’s gruff voice chases me, strained with concern.

The backs of my eyes sting as I clench my teeth and climb faster.

Faster.

It’s another ten rungs of gut-twisting nerves before I reach the hatch, already open, and haul myself onto the landing, catching a glimpse of Captain reaching past the broken rung, looking straight at me.

He mutters a curse.

I swing the lid shut and latch the lock, falling against my damp sack still tethered to the rails, heart beating me up from the inside.

Growling, Captain pummels the hatch. “Open the damn thing, Orlaith. Now!”

I stare at the loose loops of twine strung around the aftermast.

The jars—my clippings—they’regone.

My wisteria ...

Throat aching, I rub the twine between my fingers and fail to swallow the hurt. Another piece of home ripped from my grasp, like I’m deconstructing piece by piece. What’s going to be left once I’m done falling apart?

More blows rattle the hatch.

“Leave me alone!”

Sliding atop the door, I loosen the knot on my bag, then retrieve my small pickaxe from down the back of my pants. I dig through my belongings one-handed, finding Rhordyn’s pillow slip and the cheesecloth parcel containing my caspun.

Captain keeps hitting the door, bellowing gruff, leaden words overshadowed by the tumult beneath my skin.

Stuffing my face against the silk, I draw my lungs full of the muddied dregs of him.

But one breath isn’t enough.

I pull deep, hungry breaths—the slip hugged close to my chest as I rock, white-knuckling my caspun in a fist that can’t shake its tremble.

“I’m fine,” I lie to myself, imagining I’m punched through the clouds, surrounded by plants and rocks and paints. Imagining Rhordyn’s body wrapped around me, twisting me up in the ways I hate to love.

Such a poisonous thought.

I claw the material, tip to my side, and close my eyes, ignoring the pain in my shoulder and the hollow ache in my chest. Ignoring the fist pounding on the wood an inch from my head as I give myself to the hurt rioting beneath my mask and savor every scalding lash like the penance it is.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

“I’m fine …”

Another lie to stitch my skin.