by Ann Gimpel
Vreis punched his brother in the upper arm. “Always the practical one. I dinna take inventory, but the few I turned over are from 1500s Spain. I left Jamal sorting them into piles.”
“Take the wheel for a bit,” Cadr urged. “My arms are sore from fighting it.”
The men changed places. “Jamal and I kicked it around,” Vreis went on. “We’ll need money after we land, and this is the kind of thing we can turn into cash. Any dealer in antiquities will buy them.”
“So long as he doesna determine they’re on a list of stolen goods,” Cadr said sourly.
“True enough,” Vreis replied, not sounding the least bit concerned.
A wave crashed over the rail. Water and foam slithered across the deck before they retreated. Cadr made a grab for a cable strung near the wheel. “First we need to get to land. ’Tis looking less and less likely. Mayhap we should forget Scotland and beat a path to our closest landfall.”
“Tacking into the wind the whole way?” Vreis leaned into the wheel, muscling it into place and securing its position with lines. “We’re only running the mainsail. We could pull it down and engage the engine, but…”
A hand dropped onto her shoulder and she started, twisting beneath it. Power bloomed within her. Defensive power she hadn’t summoned.
“’Tis just me, lass. Sheathe your claws, now that we both know ye have them.” Stewart dropped into a squat next to her. “How are ye doing?”
She turned to face him. “Better. I owe you a major apology.”
He waved her to silence. “Not worth the time. How’s all that magic feeling? Are ye stretching to accommodate it?”
The corners of her mouth curled with uncertainty, but honesty was essential to managing whomever she was turning into. “The key was to stop denying it was real.”
“Aye, lassie. ’Tis the secret to almost everything.”
“This storm…” she hesitated, but forged ahead. “Vreis said it’s currents, but there’s something unnatural about it.”
“My take too. What are Cadr and Vreis talking about?” He glanced in their direction. “I was hunting for Vreis. Wanted to know what we have to work with aboard this boat.”
“They haven’t said much about the storm, but Vreis and Jamal found a fortune in gold in the hold with the dead people.”
Breath whooshed from Stewart, and he balanced himself with a hand to remain hunkered next to her. “Gold, ye say? What kind and how much?”
“Ask Vreis. Or Jamal. He’s still in the hold counting it.”
Stewart scrunched his forehead into a thoughtful expression. “At least it solves the last of the mysteries surrounding this ship.”
“You have to say more than that.”
“Someone wanted to hide all that gold, so they put it in the hold and came up with bodies that died of plague. Nothing like a disease-ridden corpse to discourage anyone from looking too closely.” He paused to take a measured breath. “The bad news is someone will come after us as soon as the weather clears.”
“That’s one explanation for why the gold was there.” She licked salt off her lips from the ever-present spray.
“What might another be?”
“Rhiannon seems to be manipulating a whole lot behind the scenes. How do you know it’s not her gold, and she meant for us to take this ship?”
He cupped the side of her face, his palm warm and enticing. “Your mother is rich as Croesus, lass. She has no need to sequester gold. When I knew her, she cared far more for her lightning fast steed and magical birds than any coin in the realm.”
Yara swallowed hard. “How long ago was that?”
He glanced up, calculating. “Mayhap four hundred years, but I could be off by as much as a century.”
Cadr pounded toward them, his stout boots slipping and sliding on the salt-slick deck. “There ye are. Vreis found gold.”
“I already know.”
“How?”
Stewart pointed at her.
Cadr blinked and then blinked again. “Yara? By all the gods, I dinna see you crouched there until Stewart pointed you out. I need to pour myself a wee dram.”
“Is there liquor here?” Stewart asked.
“Aye, Vreis had a look about afore he found the gold. Freshwater holding tanks are two-thirds full, and there’re casks of spirits. No food, but ’tisn’t a surprise on that front.”
He returned his attention to Yara. “Why in blazes couldna I see you? Have ye been here the whole time since Vreis came topside?”
She nodded. “It’s all right. I had some thinking to do.”
The rigging creaked and groaned and the boat canted at an unnatural angle, caught by increasing winds. “We’ve got to get that sail down now,” Stewart said and pushed upright, bending so he faced into the wind.
“I’ll help.” Cadr sounded grim. “We need to preserve that canvas. Won’t do us much good if it rips down the center.”
“How will we make any progress?” Yara stood too, hanging onto a cable strung next to the bulkhead.
“The engine.” Stewart glanced at Cadr. “Do we have any extra fuel?”
The other man nodded. “Aye, buckets to hear Vreis tell it. Ready, man?”
“Go.”
They drew power around them until it formed a protective bubble, but even that was distorted by the wind. Gusts buffeted her from one side, driving her against the stout wall of the ship. Standing was difficult since the deck canted at a severe angle, so she took up her crouch in the shadow of the bulkhead.
Yara wrapped herself in power, determined to control it rather than having it show up and dominate her will. She needed a purpose, so she sought verification for her hunch about the storm having magical underpinnings. Maybe someone had plans for them that didn’t include landing in Scotland.
Rain pelted harder, and she clutched her cloak’s hood tighter around her head. Long, wet hair trailed down the front of her jacket, but tucking the errant strands inside would only make her wetter. Water streamed from the sky, joining waves attacking the deck. The boat canted still more until one side almost touched the water’s edge.
Power pulsed around her, warming her. For the first time since her journey into the subterranean depths of her psyche, she welcomed her enhanced ability, urging its assistance to think through her problems.
Which god controlled the North Sea?
Her mouth twitched into a knowing smile. The book. It knew everything. Surely, it could identify sea gods. The only one she could remember was Llyr, and he was ancient.
So’s Rhiannon, and apparently she’s still alive.
Canvas flapped as the sail slithered down the mast once the halyard was released. The men wrapped lengths of something around the canvas to secure it, and the ship—while still rocking and heaving—sat closer to upright.
Stewart and Vreis grappled with securing the expanse of canvas. Not much she could do here, so she trotted to the door leading to the stairs and made her way back to where she’d left her things and the book. Bending, she shook water out of her hair and face before entering her cabin. The salt smell of the sea was thick in her nostrils, and it reminded her of the scent of Stewart’s magic.
Stewart.
A warm pulse beat through her at the thought of the tall, spare Scot. She’d treated him abysmally, but he wasn’t angry. He’d dealt with her kindly as he hunkered next to her.
Kindly. I shouldn’t assume anything. For all I know, he has a wife in the caravan he left behind.
She slid out of her cloak and hung it over a convenient hook placed near the door. It was wet clear through, and it might never dry in the cool, damp cabin. She fished a thick, black woolen sweater from one of her sacks and wrapped it around herself.
She’d been lucky to find that sweater. It had been slung over a deserted chair at an outdoor café in Enschede. She’d hung back, hiding in a shadowy alleyway for over an hour, but no one seemed inclined to claim the garment, so she’d walked casually by and picked it up, draping it around
herself as if she had every right to do so.
Everything she owned had a story attached to it. Maybe that was why she valued each item. She’d just picked up the book and settled back on the bunk in the same spot where she’d sat earlier when someone tapped on her door.
A quick scan with the magic she hadn’t yet sheathed confirmed it was Stewart, and she pushed a bit more magic to spring the latch. “Come in.”
He swept through the door, kicking it shut behind him. Water streamed from him, puddling on the well-worn wooden floor. A glowing nimbus from his power followed the water, and it dried almost at once, creating clouds of steam as it evaporated.
“Sorry, lass. I dinna mean to make such an unholy mess in here.” He crossed the small space in two strides and stood over her. “Casting spells, were ye?” He looked pointedly at the book in her lap.
“No. More like seeking information. The only sea god I could come up with was Llyr. There must be others.”
He quirked a brow. “Aye, one or two. What did ye have in mind?”
She felt her cheeks heat. “It seemed to me that maybe someone didn’t want us going to Scotland. If they have some other destination in mind, the storm could be a way of herding us in a different direction.” She took a breath and hurried on before he could tell her she was being ridiculous. “Something bigger than us is pulling the strings. I feel it down to my bones. The boat we needed presented itself at just the right time. Then that magical moonbeam path was there. You might have helped the wind along with magic, but the moon showed us the way.”
“Interesting.” He still stood over her. “I’m not dripping much anymore. Mind if I sit?”
“Go ahead.”
He settled at the far end of the bunk and twisted so he faced her. “Any idea what destination might earn us more commodious sailing conditions?”
She shook her head. “Of course not. That was why I wanted to find a sea god. Or a weather god. My mythology never was very solid.” Embarrassment made her fidget where she sat. “Not that I expected a god to talk with me, but I was hoping if I found a likely name or two, you could communicate with them.”
He cast a speculative glance her way. “Ye’ve more claim to godhood than I. Why not see if Rhiannon is close enough to do us some good?”
Yara let go of the book and twisted her hands atop its worn binding. She’d thought of that and discarded it out of hand.
He reached across the space between them and tilted her chin so she had to look at him. “What?”
“It’s silly, ridiculous actually. She’s a goddess, one who’s been looking after me from the sidelines for years, but I can’t summon her.”
“Why not?”
“It’s not my place. She’ll come to me when she wants to, when she deems the time is right.” Yara set her mouth in a tense line. “It’s not like she hasn’t had opportunity to show herself. I was alone in that cave and a nearby falling down shepherd’s hut for a long time. She made certain I found the book…”
“Go on, lass.” Stewart offered an encouraging smile.
“You’re the one who planted that idea, the one about Rhiannon making certain the book found its way into my hands. It never occurred to me the book’s presence was anything beyond happenstance.” She shrugged. “I’ve found everything I have. No one ever gave me anything once I left the caravan.”
“So the idea of another helping you makes you uncomfortable?”
She nodded. “Very. Means I’d be beholden to them, and I don’t have much that’s worth anything to pay back debts.”
A shadow flitted behind his eyes. “Aye, I ken that logic all too well, but we must select a destination. If we do nothing, currents will drive the boat toward Denmark and Norway.”
“What would you have me do?”
“Nay, I canna pick your path. Ye came in here to consult yon tome.” He tilted his chin at the book still balanced in her lap. “’Twas ill-advised for me to suggest ye do aught differently.”
“What if I only wanted out of the rain?”
He dropped his hand to his side, no longer touching her. She wanted to make a grab for him to reestablish contact, but didn’t. Stewart got to his feet. “Find me once ye know something.”
She chewed her lower lip. “What if nothing comes? There’ve been lots of times I’ve asked the book a question, and it’s been stubbornly silent.”
“Like as not because ye dinna need that particular answer. This time is different, and our need undeniable.” He walked to the door and let himself out, pulling it shut behind him.
Yara stared after him. His scent hung in the room, and she longed to race after him and twine her arms around his body. She shook her head hard. She was stalling, and whatever she came up with might be the difference between survival and death. Even absent magical storms, the North Sea in winter was deadly enough to founder ships far bigger than their sailboat.
She inhaled to center herself and anchor her magic, and then did it again. Power flared, close to the surface. At least summoning that part of herself didn’t require any expenditure of effort. It was just there, waiting to see what she needed.
She let her hands hover over the book and asked three questions:
“Will the sea or weather gods help us?
“If so, how can we reach them?
“Where should we land to amplify our magic?”
The book’s familiar energy throbbed, and the cracked binding took on a glow she knew all too well. The book had answers, and if she were patient, they’d come to her.
She peeled back her protections, making certain she’d be open to the book’s particular way of communicating. It was harder now; lots more layers to dredge through until she revealed her essence. Trusting the book was a skill that had taken her months to master. The first time it gave her answers, she’d stumbled on them by accident. And it took still more time for her to connect the dots and recognize leaving herself open was essential to the way the book’s magic operated.
The cover snapped open and pages riffled until the book quieted. When she looked at what it wanted her to read, a sketch identified as Manandan Mac Llyr stared back at her. She skimmed the description, written in Gaelic, and discovered Manandan was a lord of the mystical Otherworld as well as a mariner, aided in his journeys by supernatural powers. Some myths viewed him as master of the waves and believed he traveled beneath them, surfacing every dozen breaths or so.
She scribed her finger over the drawing, and the wild-haired man seemed to turn and stare right at her. “Mac Llyr,” she mused. “Son of Llyr.”
“Aye, woman. Llyr was my sire. And ye’re a daughter of Rhiannon. What right have ye in my waters?” His accent was Irish, but lacked the softness she’d always associated with Irish brogues.
Yara’s eyes widened; breath clotted in her throat. She moved the book off her lap and lurched to her feet so she could bow her head in deference to the god she’d inadvertently summoned.
“No right at all, but please help us find safe passage.”
“Why? What benefit will I accrue for this boon?”
She swallowed around a thick place in her throat. She hadn’t planned for this confrontation, never believing the book would do more than provide information. How could she explain Nazis to a sea god?
“I asked a question. I’m not accustomed to being kept waiting.”
Yara straightened her shoulders. God or no god, she’d be damned if she’d let anyone push her around. “Vampires have grown stronger, my lord. They’ve joined with an equally great evil, and they feed off one another. If this wickedness is left unchecked, magic will die out of the world.”
“How does that explain your presence in the North Sea?”
“Our magic wasn’t sufficient to defeat either the vampires or the…other threat in Europe. One of our number is a Druid, and he believed we’d be stronger in Britain.”
“I see. Who is this Druid? Do I know him?”
“Stewart. I don’t know his last name, but his tw
o companions are brothers named Cadr and Vreis.”
Yara held her breath. Did she need to break the spell and run to find Stewart so she could unearth his surname? Power whispered around her, a susurrus of impossibility, yet she had no doubt the god was here with her. Maybe not his body—if he even had one—but his spirit.
“I know of them. All three are good and decent men.”
Yara waited. Magic surging through the cabin started to dissipate. “Wait,” she cried.
“Ye think to command me to your will?” Words thundered about her, and she sank to her knees, thoughts of holding her ground forgotten.
“No, my lord. Of course not. We must fight the wickedness that threatens us all. Where would you have us go?”
“I will see ye safe to Scotland. Once there, the lot of you are on your own. What will ye offer in return?”
She remembered the old tales well enough. Quid pro quo was how things worked. “I—I have no idea. There’s gold aboard this ship.”
“Och, I have no use for gold.”
“What, then?” Asking seemed faster than playing twenty questions with Manandan, son of Llyr.
“Ye’ll do, lass. Ye’re no maid, but I shall overlook that. I shall round up Rhiannon and arrange things.”
“What, exactly, would that entail?” she gritted out.
Power thrumming through the cabin cut off as abruptly as it had arrived.
Shock battled annoyance.
“I’ll do, will I?” she muttered acerbically. “Even though I’m not chaste? We’ll just see about that.”
Old tales only went so far, and she’d be damned if she ended up a casualty to Manandan’s whims. She shut her mouth with a clack. No reason to say one word about any of this to anyone until they were safe in port.
Surely her mother wouldn’t see her sold into whatever scheme the sea god had in mind if she didn’t agree.
Don’t be so sure about that, an inner voice argued. I have no bloody idea how gods view the world.
Chapter 9
A little while before
Stewart strode down the corridor outside Yara’s cabin. He hadn’t wanted to leave, but she needed to come to terms with her newly kindled magic. For that, she needed privacy, not him butting in at every turn. He reached the steep stairs and headed down, intent on doing his own reconnaissance of the boat so he wouldn’t have to keep asking questions.
