Thunderstruck

by Shannon Delany

  That through words rather than war understanding might be reached.

  Her eyes narrow, she assessed them, remembering how fast Merrow could surge over land using their tails like coiled springs to propel them. She shivered at the memory of flying Merrow, gnashing teeth, the screams of horses and the shouts of men. They had seemed so savage then. So cruel.

  But now they were … she cocked her head.

  Still wild.

  There was no doubt about that. But, even swimming as they did, they seemed somehow at peace.

  The queen raised her hands and opened her mouth to speak. Great fluted gills shivered along the sides of her ribcage, fluttering as she spoke.

  Transfixed by her voice—it was an entire minute before Jordan realized she could understand no part of what was being said.

  Except for Jack’s, “Shite. How do we arrive at peace if we cannot understand each other’s words?”

  Meggie stepped forward, and standing beside Jordan, took her hand.

  Bran was not far behind, a bag hanging from his shoulder.

  “Papa,” Meggie whispered. “She is calling me …” She squeezed Jordan’s fingers so tightly Jordan winced, but she looked down on the towheaded angel.

  “Who?” Bran asked, his voice snaring in his throat.

  Jordan saw how his eyes went from Meggie to the queen and back, but Meggie’s attention had fallen on the bag slung over his shoulder.

  “Sybil,” she said. “Sybil is calling, Papa …”

  “Do not answer her,” he whispered, his voice a desperate plea. “Do not let her back into your head, dear little dove,” he begged. “She is here only for an ending—to find final peace.”

  “No, Papa,” Meggie insisted. Her hand went limp in Jordan’s hand, and now it was Jordan who gripped her tight to hold her at her side. “I must answer. Sybil says …” She tilted her head and the wind tousled her pale curls. “She says we are connected. That water makes us and hems us in and rushes through us, connecting us all together …” Her eyes flashed and she yanked her hand free of Jordan’s. “Give me the skull, Papa.”

  “What? No,” he said, taking a step back and pressing the bag against his side.

  But Jordan saw how the bag at his side—with the skull inside it—vibrated—hummed.

  Up the hill, the army watched and waited, Rowen at its head.

  Suddenly butterflies rose up from the wild blueberry bushes, surrounding Bran, a swirling mass of beating wings coloring and thickening the air around him. They spun in a whirlwind only inches from his flesh, wings flashing, Bran shouting and trying not to slap at them, trying to focus on keeping the skull in his bag from doing whatever it seemed intent upon.

  Then Meggie was directly before him, her hands out expectantly, and the butterflies peeled away from Bran, a colorful cloud dividing and going off in different directions as quickly as they had come. He gaped at his daughter.

  “Papa,” she whispered. “Trust me.”

  He blinked, then dug into his bag and relinquished the skull.

  The child held it, cradled it.

  Meggie raised the skull high, rolled her head forward, and closed her eyes. Out of the water rose another form, one fashioned of a rainbow of droplets. A form mirroring Meggie’s own.

  The water around the Merrow Queen stilled, and as Meggie spoke in a voice not quite her own, her watery form shimmered, making ripples that raced to the queen, caressing the spot her calves and feet should have been.

  “Great Queen,” Meggie began, “we humbly beseech you to set aside this war, to join instead with us in peace. Our government has been replaced. The men who wronged you will be punished according to our laws.”

  The water rushed back to them, sparkling, and Meggie answered in a slightly more melodious voice, “We have only sought peace since our discovery that the death of our prince so long ago was murder by our own kind. But every time we reach out in peace, you return our offer by redoubling the war.”

  “No longer,” Meggie assured. “We wish for full and lasting peace. Search my soul. Reach through us and see the truth in our words. Will you give this peace to our people? And grant it to your own as well?”

  The waters around the queen stirred, waves choppy and agitated, but she raised her arms and made the water grow flat as glass, saying, “Yes. We are one as the water is one in our desire for peace. But know this: as each ripple and drop is felt by the ocean, so is each action and intent felt by all the peoples of the earth. Tread carefully and mayhaps someday we shall see each other as kin once more.” Then she burst fully from the water, twisted and turned back in a dramatic flip, and disappeared into the water leaving not even a splash behind.

  ***

  Maine

  Jordan looked at the land, at the great pond leading out to the sea, and the solid beauty of the earth on which the Artemesia now rested while its crew again readied for flight. Having come down the slope to join her, Rowen slipped an arm around her waist, his eyes on her as if he waited for her to say some grand thing—to make some wise political statement about equality or peace or love … But all the statements had been made through action. The slaves had been freed—what they made of their newfound freedom was beyond her control and certainly not for her to judge. Peace had been agreed upon—whether it would hold or not depended on the ones who had brokered the deal and on the people they represented. Jordan could do nothing more about that, either.

  Rowen tightened his grip on her.

  Most everything had been set as right as she and her companions could make it.

  And what of the feelings she felt for Rowen?

  What of love? Well, it was something she was just now beginning to discover and understand herself—surely she was not one to preach or advise on something as desperately powerful as love …

  She pondered a moment, looking toward Meggie, who stood between Bran and Maude and looked as expectant as Rowen did. Letting loose a long sigh, Jordan Astraea broke free of Rowen’s grasp to lean down and say, “It seems to me it is time to set someone to rest …”

  Meggie nodded and held out the skull.

  “You have done you and your kind proudly,” Jordan whispered to the skull. She reached into her dress and pulled out the soul stone she had found in her cell at Holgate, a soul stone she had carried with her frequently since. “I believe this, too, is part of you, dear child, and so, it too should have peace.” She reached for Rowen’s sword and, setting the soul stone on a nearby rock, she smashed it with the pommel.

  Sparks flew into the air, flying up like tiny butterflies before evaporating into the bright sky above.

  They buried the skull where the blueberry bushes were thinnest and marked it with a modest cross, and then they made their way back to Topside on the Artemesia. Jordan paused there, leaning out over the bowsprit and examining the earth below.

  Making her decision, she turned and looked at Meggie, her smile soft. “I tried to protect you by turning this ship away from Philadelphia and conflict once—to let you hide from your powers and grow up just like everyone else. But I think, having seen the hero inside you speak up so boldly, perhaps that is not your destiny.” Jordan shrugged. “Perhaps falling into shadow is not fit for one with a heart so bright and bold.” She licked her lips, considering. “So I have a question for you.” She paused. “Will you watch my ship while I step away for a while?” Jordan gently pinched Meggie’s sun-kissed cheek, noticing the spray of freckles across the bridge of her tiny nose. No longer would a Conductor or captain be fated to live out their lives beneath dark storm clouds.

  There were better ways to live than in darkness, after all.

  Meggie nodded, a look of great seriousness changing her innocent features into those of the determined and capable young woman Jordan felt sure was only a few years in the child’s future. “Of course,” she said. “I will watch her and take great care with her. And if ever I need you—”

  Jordan chuckled, brushing a stray curl back from Meggie’s foreh
ead. “Oh, I do not think that you will,” she interrupted, flashing a savage smile.

  Still Meggie shook her head. “If ever I need you—” she began again.

  “All you need do is call,” Jordan assured, pointing back to the ship’s communication device.

  Meggie nodded and Jordan tousled her hair, smiling at both Bran and Maude and knowing they would be well kept by their daughter, and she, Jordan Astraea of House Astraea, once fallen and once famed, could now retire into anonymity with Rowen—at least anonymity here, on the beautiful island not far from the coastline where true magick—the magick of peace and understanding—had finally shown itself.

  What more could any hero in any story ask but all she’d been granted?

  “Farewell,” Jordan whispered, kissing the child’s forehead.

  Meggie smiled, saying, “Farewell—”

  “—Stormbringer,” they concluded in unison.

  That day, and for many after, the weather did precisely as it wished, with neither a push nor a pull from the Witch that shouldn’t have ever been. And that was precisely as Jordan Astraea felt it should be.

  Afterword

  Sleep not, dream not; this bright day

  Will not, cannot last for aye;

  Bliss like thine is bought by years

  Dark with torment and with tears.

  —Emily Brontë

  I would like to tell you that Jordan Astraea and Rowen Burchette went on to live their lives in the peaceful anonymity that Jordan so desperately desired. I would like to tell you that they married in a proper ceremony and that everyone who was anyone (as well as a grand selection of nobodies) were there and that they had a lovely (if merely comfortable) home and children that were as pretty and clever as their parents (and as bad at processing cucumbers as their father) and that both Rowen and Jordan lived to see grandchildren and great-grandchildren who never knew war, famine, or disease, and that, finally, their time here on earth done, their lives fulfilled, that they died together in their sleep and that where they were buried two trees were planted which, in time, grew together as a sublime demonstration of the power of their love lasting even beyond the grave.

  I would like to tell you all that.

  But that would be a lie.

  Because, as you and I both know, dear Reader, the journey to freedom and equality is not something that is made in a single bound. Many people, though technically free, are enslaved. By background, by circumstance, by their own desires … And a peace that comes quickly is seldom lasting and true. People have their reasons for wanting, making, and continuing war—whether it be a war between friends or lovers, or between colleagues or countries. Most times the reasons are petty and shortsighted, but they are, technically, reasons.

  So to guarantee you that no one ever came calling to again ask the aid of Jordan and Rowen would be naïve—good people are always needed and sometimes most often needed where they seem unwanted. And to leave you believing that they and theirs never wanted for anything—never suffered? Well, that seems highly unrealistic in fiction as well as in fact.

  Yes, there might be Weather Witches, Wraiths, and Wardens (and frequent capitalization that irks some critics) but a time without want or need? A time free of suffering?

  This book shouldn’t ever be shelved under “utopian.”

  Fine, fine, you concede. Slavery isn’t cleared up as easily as a breakout of acne, and peace may or may not last depending on the selfish motives of leaders.

  But what about love?

  Ah, love. That—that I will grant you because whereas I may not believe in the possibility of everlasting peace or absolute equality, I do believe absolutely in the power of love.

  So yes, readers, friends, fans … Jordan and Rowen do have a love that will last. Is it an easy love? No. Real love takes time, energy, work, and frequently requires forgiveness. Will the next few years be simple for our lovebirds? Likely not. She will suffer sleepless nights as a result of all she’s suffered. He will feel guilt and possibly fall into depression because he didn’t reach and rescue her before so many awful things were done to her. She will have trouble trusting people and he will likely never let another female close to him other than Jordan.

  They will argue and fight. She will stomp her feet and storm clouds will appear and he will stomp his feet and …

  … he’ll stomp his feet some more, I guess, and probably raise his voice.

  But they’ll fight in a healthy way. They’ll never be petty or vicious. She’ll never call him a mama’s boy (though she may think it) and he’ll never say she’s stupid or ugly or bring up the fact she was once so out of control that she cut herself to feel like she did have control over something. They won’t dredge up the past or lay their hands on one another. They will never abuse each other—not verbally or physically.

  Because they love each other.

  And as imperfect as people and relationships are, love … well, love is about as perfect as things get here on earth, and I figure they’ve fought through so much that was far less than perfect that they’ll fight with a strength to rival any paranormal anything to maintain something that is perfect.

  And, in short, that’s what I want for Rowen and Jordan—a love that lasts. And, as this is my series and these characters (messes that they are) are my creations, I get to play god and say, “you two—love one another” and it’s all good.

  And frankly, that’s what I want most of all for me and mine and you and yours, dear reader—love—a love that’s worth the struggle and the sacrifice.

  Love that lasts.

  Forever and always.

  Thank you for joining us all—my stalwart team at St. Martin’s Press, my family, beta readers and dear friends—on this amazing and tumultuous journey—this book, this series, my career is dedicated to each and every one of you who has given my books a chance to grow in your hearts.

  Also by Shannon Delany

  Weather Witch

  Stormbringer

  13 to Life

  Bargains and Betrayals

  Destiny and Deception

  Rivals and Retribution

  Secrets and Shadows

  About the Author

  Photograph courtesy of Nina Gee

  SHANNON DELANY has written stories since she was a child, beginning with writing in earnest when her grandmother fell unexpectedly ill. Previously a teacher and now a farmer raising heritage livestock, Delany lives and writes in upstate New York and enjoys traveling to places like small islands in Maine and large cities in Pennsylvania to research and talk to people about most anything.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  THUNDERSTRUCK. Copyright © 2014 by Shannon Delany. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  www.stmartins.com

  Cover design by Ervin Serrano

  Cover photographs by shutterstock.com

  e-ISBN 9781250031563

  First Edition: May 2014

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