by Tom Abrahams
Le Grand wiped his face from the bottom of his nose to his chin with a swipe of his free hand. His face stretched and he sniffed the air and nodded. There was understanding mixed with skepticism etched on his expression. This was the first time she’d seen Le Grand look that way.
“Is there more?” he asked.
Now it was her turn to offer a confused look, even if she understood the question’s meaning. “More what?” she said.
“Obstacles that could kill us. We’re down five men. Most of the rest are hurt. I’m not sure we can survive another ambush. You’ve got to tell me if you know anything.”
She didn’t have to tell him anything about anything. She owed him nothing. She owed his boss, Desmond Branch, absolutely nothing.
The truth was, she didn’t know if there would be any more challenges before they reached the volcanic crater. Was it worth telling him that? Did she lose anything by sharing a lack of information?
“Not that I know of,” she said. “But I’ve never done this before. Who knows?”
Le Grand pursed his lips. He nervously bounced the extinguished torch in his hand and looked toward the part of the jungle they’d not yet traversed. There was a long way to the peak. They all knew it. And it’d be longer now that so many of their men, including Branch, suffered wounds.
Anaxi shot a look at Branch. The pirate stood and leaned against the tree trunk now. He gingerly touched the bites on his face and winced each time he made contact. He was pitiful, but she felt no pity. A smile crept across her face as she watched him struggle with the pain.
Le Grand interrupted her moment. “Better not let him see you smile,” he said. “He’ll run you through.”
The smile on her face broadened into a grin. “Let him.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The Saladin was a ship made of wood, with patches of fabric haphazardly stitched together to form its sails.
The ship’s name was painted in scrawling cursive at the bow with a bright white that was yellowed and chipped from salt and sun. The ship itself was worse for wear. One of the foresails flapped impotently on a stripped beam. The hull at the waterline was decorated with barnacles. The arthropods looked like scabs on the ship’s grayish hull. Their nasty hard shells added to the vessel’s decrepit and sinister appearance. Had it not been for the diverse crew roaming its decks, Zeke might have thought the Saladin abandoned and sailing the endless sea unmanned.
He saw all of this as they neared the vessel, drawing the suspicious glares from men along its side. Far from a greeting party, they appeared ready for battle. Rabid animals straining for a fight.
Standing at the stern of their own boat, spring-loaded and ready to leap, Lucius Mander slid his weapon over his fingers and above the middle joints. He flexed his hands, testing the feel of the heavy brass. Despite his initial trepidation, something renewed his purpose. Maybe it was seeing the bastards who helped kill him. Maybe it was the smoke rising from the jungle beyond the rocky entrance to the shore.
In that smoke, Zeke knew he saw hope. In that smoke was evidence his daughter was alive and leading the mission toward the crater atop the volcanic peak. She was responsible for the smoke. Zeke felt it in his gut.
He stood behind Lucius, shoulder to shoulder with Uriel and Phil. All of them were ready to attack if needed. Considering the motley crew of pirates waiting aboard the Saladin, it would be needed.
Uriel had her hands at her sides, balled into fists. Phil had his flail in one hand, spinning the spiked ball at the end of its chain. Zeke’s pistol was at his hip, in its holster.
For minutes, they exchanged expectant stares with the pirates lined up along the railing of the gnarled Saladin. Two of the pirates manned a clumsily constructed catapult. Another was at a cannon.
Uriel sighed. Apparently weary of the stalemate. “I’ve had enough of this.”
Next to Zeke, her body tensed. An electricity hummed. A faint glow intensified into a bright blue, and she exploded from the back of the yacht into the air.
In a single leap, she reached the deck of the Saladin. She promptly engaged in hand-to-hand combat.
Zeke exchanged a knowing glance with Phil. Phil stepped forward and took Lucius under the arm with his free hand. With the other he swung the flail faster and faster. The spiked ball blurred, emitting an electric blue pulse.
Phil gripped his hand tighter around Lucius’s upper arm, bent to one knee, and launched himself in a single leap toward the Saladin. Now all three of his compatriots were engaged.
Zeke closed his eyes and tightened his fists. He controlled his breathing and willed the energy to flow through his body. The electricity tingled in the tips of his fingers first. It spread to his hands and up his arms. It pulsed in his chest, stronger and with more purpose than any single heartbeat.
His legs lightened. His muscles thrummed. He was ready.
In a single fluid motion, he bent a knee and pushed upward. He opened his eyes as the power shot through his core. Before he knew it, he was above the yacht and over the water. His body rose as if propelled by his Superbird’s engine, strong and smooth. Then he was high above the Saladin, looking down at the skirmish. Blue pulsing light marked the work of Uriel, Phil, and Lucius.
But Zeke wasn’t descending into the fray. He was too high. Too much energy propelled him, an accelerator without a floor underneath it.
He found himself pedaling his legs and waving his arms to slow his momentum. He willed gravity to drop him onto the deck and into the middle of a skirmish. It didn’t work.
He sailed over the Saladin and splashed into the water. Its chill hit him hard, sucking away his breath and sending a spike of adrenaline through his body.
The salty water shot up his nose and into his throat. He blew hard from his nostrils and worked his extremities to stop his body from sinking too far below the surface. He kicked his boot-laden legs and reached up with both hands. He cupped his hands and pulled down at his sides, propelling himself up.
He surfaced at the side of the Saladin. Above the chop of the water, he heard the unmistakable sounds of fighting. With his fingers, he tried gripping the side of the boat, but a barnacle caught the side of his palm and sliced it open. The pain was sharp and instantaneous. It spiked up his arm and he recoiled, drawing saltwater into his mouth.
He might have been dead, but that didn’t stop blood from draining from the wound. Zeke cursed and shook his hand.
Backing away from the ship, he searched for a way on board. Seeing none, he resisted the instinct to panic and calmed himself. If he could launch himself from the yacht, he could do it from the ocean.
He treaded water, his hands working back and forth under the surface, and he focused his energy on his core. Breathing slowly, controlling his heart rate, he tightened his body. In his chest, a swell of energy blossomed. It spread to his limbs. An opposite effect from the time before, but equally empowering. The water at his chest pulsed with light, and he knew the energy was coming from him. He concentrated, willing himself upward.
And as if some invisible force pulled him skyward, he rocketed up and onto the deck of the Saladin. He landed on both feet, water pooling around his boots, and he stood straight, hands in front of him and ready to fight.
He hadn’t commanded his body to do this. It wasn’t something he thought consciously to do. He just did it. The seamless connection between the briefest of thought and the instantaneous response of his muscles was remarkable.
His body felt outside himself. Like a machine at his control. Like his Superbird.
There was no time to relish the moment, however. A pair of pirates who’d avoided his friends charged at him. One lunged with a knife while the other came at him with a spear.
Zeke anticipated their movements, played out a thousand variables, and reacted.
As the man with the knife drove at his right side, Zeke sidestepped and used the man’s forward momentum against him. He grabbed the wrist of his knife hand and pulled. It drew the m
an past him and off-balance. Zeke then drove the palm of his other hand into the man’s kidney.
It sent the man toward the ground, the knife flying from his grasp. Before the knife-wielder hit the deck, Zeke was already on the other man. He spun around and leaped into the air, over the spear. He grabbed it as he cartwheeled past its carrier and wrenched it behind him. The spear’s tip drove up and into the pirate, impaling him, before Zeke landed both feet on the deck again.
Both men were down. One was dead no doubt. The other was incapacitated.
Zeke spun in time to see Uriel on a pirate’s shoulders, her legs wrapped around his neck. She threw herself back, snapping his spine as she dropped him onto his back.
Phil swung the flail in a figure eight and struck the jaw of one man before lodging it in the belly of another.
Lucius stood above two pirates, admiring his handiwork and taking stock of the glowing blue brass weapon wrapped around his knuckles. A smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. It was the first time Zeke had seen the man do so.
Zeke spun around, surveying the deck. No pirates remained on their feet.
Uriel twisted her neck from side to side, cracking it, and flexed her fingers. She moved across the deck to Zeke. Her eyes fell to the puddle of water forming where he stood.
“Wet yourself?” she joked.
Zeke frowned. “Funny.”
The power drained. He felt it. It was like air leaking from a punctured tire.
She play-punched him in the shoulder. “Overshot the ship, huh?”
“Yeah. Don’t know my own strength.”
Uriel laughed. “Now you’re the one who’s funny.”
Lucius pointed at Zeke with his brass knuckles as he and Phil approached. “You’re bleeding.”
Zeke lifted his injured hand and gauged the wound. It was deep, but the blood was mixed with seawater. That made it appear worse than it was.
“I’m fine,” Zeke said. “It won’t kill me.”
Uriel shook her head. “You’re on a roll.”
Phil sighed. “Okay, enough banter. We need to make sure we’ve not missed anybody. There could be more of these jokers hiding below deck.”
“What’s the plan?” asked Lucius. “What will we do with the ship once we have control of it?”
Phil and Uriel looked at Zeke. Taking their lead, Lucius joined them.
Zeke flushed at the attention. “Why is it my call?”
“It’s your mission,” said Phil. “You get to make the executive decisions.”
“Let’s worry about that once we’ve cleared the ship.”
Uriel shot him a disapproving look. Phil nodded. Lucius studied the others for how to react, but did nothing.
Saying nothing else, Zeke motioned the team to a hatch that led below deck. He moved first, forcing the others to follow. If he was in charge, it was best if he led the descent into the musty hold below deck at least.
Unsure how quickly he could summon his newly understood powers, he drew his pistol.
His eyes adjusted to the low light and he swept his surroundings. Nothing.
“It’s clear!” he called for the others. “Let’s split into pairs. Uriel and I will head to the stern. Phil, you and Lucius to the front.”
They agreed and paired off. Uriel stayed close to Zeke, and even in the dank odor of the hold, he smelled whiffs of her citrus scent. It calmed him.
She tapped him on the shoulder as they searched the ship from space to space, carefully stepping through doors and checking corners. He didn’t react until she squeezed his arm.
He stopped and lowered his pistol. “What? Been too long since you made fun?”
“You were amazing up there,” she said. “I mean, ridiculous.” His tone had been jovial. Hers wasn’t. She was stone-cold serious. The compliment took him aback. He couldn’t muster the words to thank her.
“I mean it,” she said. “It took me years to understand that I hold the power. The external weapon is merely a manifestation, a totem, of what you can do. Years. It took Phil longer than me, and he’s not always good with it. Inconsistent. Some old Watchers can’t do what you just did.”
“I overshot the ship.”
She let out a chuckle. “So? That was your first try. And you put too much power into it. That’s an anomaly in and of itself. Most Watchers, when they figure it out, they don’t pull enough from the core. They can’t find the strength. What you did is…is…unreal.”
“Thanks. I just—”
“You just nothing. You’re meant to be doing this, Zeke. You’ve got skills.”
He blushed and looked away from her. This genuinely kind Uriel was not something to which he was accustomed. He half expected her to say she was kidding. She didn’t. But she didn’t disappoint either and punched his arm extra hard.
“Tell anyone I said this, and I’ll deny it. Then I’ll kill you.”
He grinned through the pain. “I’m already dead.”
“I’ll kill you worse.”
Zeke lifted his head. He pulled back his shoulders. Her words alone were enough to center him again, to generate tingles of energy in his fingertips. He suppressed them. No need to flex here. Not with her. Instead, he offered his hand.
“Deal.”
They shook, and then he noticed that the wound on his hand had healed. The blood was dried. The gash closed.
Uriel noticed him checking the injury. “Added benefit of understanding your body,” she said. “Nonfatal wounds heal faster. A lot faster.”
Heavy bootsteps plodded from mid-ship toward them. Phil called ahead. His voice reached them before they could see him in the dim light.
“All clear in the bow. Nobody here.”
Phil appeared an instant later, Lucius behind him. They maneuvered the cramped, low-ceiling space to Zeke and Uriel.
The flail hung at Phil’s side. “What now?”
Zeke understood the question was for him. He didn’t hesitate. “Leave it anchored.”
Lucius peeked from behind Phil. “What do you mean?”
“Leave it here. We may need it.”
“Why not scuttle it?” asked Phil. “Let it sink right where she sits.”
Zeke shook his head. Again, no deliberation. “That’ll take too much time. We need to get to that island, dispatch the threats, rescue Anaxi, and take the sword.”
“If that’s where it is,” said Uriel.
“It’s here,” Lucius said, offering no room for doubt.
“Let’s stop talking and get moving,” said Zeke.
Uriel punched him in the arm again. “I’m liking this new Ezekiel Watson. No talk. All action. It’s sexy.” She dragged her fingernail along the bottom of his chin, then sauntered away, hips swaying. All he could do was stare.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Anaxi’s legs trembled with exhaustion when she climbed from the last of the straggling palms rooted into the low rise of the volcano. The rich, damp soil again gave way to the black solid rocks she’d traversed near the beach. The rocks slipped under her feet, forcing her to use her hands.
She was near the front of the party, climbing behind Le Grand and beside Desmond Branch. The sun fell behind the mountaintop, the irregular peak casting odd shadows onto their path.
Branch could see through one eye. The other was closed from the bites he’d endured in the jungle. He limped from swelling at his hip. But in his face, he bore the grit of a man close. Jaw set tight and eyes narrow.
He huffed as he spoke. “What will we find in the hole?”
His eyes drifted from Anaxi’s to the black mouth of the crater two hundred or so meters above them. It was a steep climb, every step more taxing than the last.
The air was thinner here. Not much, but enough to make a difference. To quicken the pulse, strain the muscles.
Anaxi leaned into her climb, pushing with her palms to elevate her position on the rocks. Branch stayed to her right. She didn’t look at him when she spoke, afraid that turning to face him might
force her to lose her balance.
“Another challenge,” she said. “One more difficult than the ones you’ve faced so far.”
He was ahead of her now and looked back. She saw the surprise in his expression from the edge of her vision. “More difficult?” he asked, incredulous. “I doubt that. We nearly died three times already.”
Anaxi pushed with her thigh and lifted her leg. She climbed at a fifty-degree angle. Her other thigh copied the work of the first. She was even with him now, but she looked at him when she spoke.
“But you didn’t,” she said. “You survived.”
“I doubt whatever awaits us in the cave is worse than what we faced on the endless sea or what those bugs did to me down below,” he grumbled.
Rocks slipped underneath his feet, but he maintained his balance. With the back of a hand, he wiped a sheen of sweat from above his swollen eye.
There wasn’t anything Anaxi could tell him that would change his mind. She knew that. Trying to convince him otherwise was a waste of her energy. So she didn’t.
“I hope you’re right,” she said. “It would make everything so much easier.”
She braced herself. The toes of her boots dug into the mountainside. Her hands gripped a steady purchase. Over her shoulder, she counted the pitiful number of survivors behind her.
All the half-dozen men struggled. Le Grand was the only one relatively unscathed, and even he scratched the constellations of bites on his forearms.
Anaxi turned back toward the summit. Despite their slow progress, they were getting closer. An hour more. Two at most.
She sucked in a deep breath of cool, high-altitude air and held it, letting it fill her tired lungs. Slowly she exhaled. It rejuvenated her and she pulled herself higher up toward the peak.
The cavernous crater eating at one side of the mountain loomed above. From her path she saw the jagged rim, which cut its way along three-quarters of the apex. The same bird she’d seen from the beach circled above.
She wondered if it was welcoming them or expecting their deaths. Either way, the bird was a harbinger. A sign to Anaxi that this journey was coming to its end one way or another.
