by Keith Walter
Serin shrank in on herself, obviously hating to think she was so transparent. “I said I’m fine.”
For a moment, Barclay returned to the man he once was, with a presence that could cow even his superiors. He watched as her eyes were unwillingly drawn to his before speaking. “That wasn’t a request. I’m the captain of this ship, and I’m ordering you to get some rest.” He could tell she was breaking under his gaze, but something deep inside was still fighting. Barclay wondered, idly, what he had looked like the first time someone told him to fall back from the front lines. He figured it would be something like this. “I promise we’ll all still be here when you wake up.”
Her body relented before her eyes followed. It was like watching a parade float deflate. Her eyes stayed with his even as her shoulders slumped forward and down. Only just before she had folded at the waist did she break eye contact and stare down. For several moments she just sat there, head between her knees, the rise and fall of her chest the only indication she was even alive. Then, it all began again in reverse as she rose against the seat, then up to her feet. She swayed slightly upon standing, but gathered herself quickly, taking one last look at Barclay before shuffling out of the bridge and down the ladder.
◆◆◆
Grace had been trying to hurry to her room. With most passengers milling about in the central hallways of the lower decks, progress was slow. The converts were so shocked to see a half-dead man in her arms, they had trouble listening to Grace’s polite, “Excuse me,” and, “Please move aside.” The central hallway was no more than five feet wide, leaving little space to weave around anyone. She was finally saved by a loud voice booming from the far end of the hallway. “Oy! Everybody back in your rooms. Can’t ya see the girl is trying to get through?”
The loud voice belonged to Leslie, and the hallways began to clear immediately. Leslie watched Grace wait patiently for the crowd to disperse. A tug on her arm brought her attention to one of the youngest of her family.
“Teacher, why is that man so hurt?” the child asked nervously.
Leslie furrowed her brows, trying to find the right words. “He must have been injured last night when we left so suddenly. I believe he is an acquaintance of Mr. Barclay, so he must have been helping us in some way.”
“Did the monster from last night do that?” The child’s voice shook, clearly recalling the scene from inside the dining area they had all been so hastily crammed into.
“Oh, gods no, young one.” Leslie realized what was bothering the child. “That monster is far behind us and can’t hurt us now. You don’t need to worry about such things.”
“If it did come back, Lady Serin would protect us, right?” The tiny voice searched for reassurance.
“Child.” Leslie knelt down to look her in the eye. “There is nothing in the Eternal Season that will harm you so long as you are with your family.”
A sniffle escaped the child’s nose. “Not even our old clan head? He always used to hurt us.”
Leslie stifled the raw anger that welled up, forcing herself to remain composed as Grace approached. “Behemoth watches over you,” she said, both to the child and to Grace as she passed.
Grace only nodded politely, still agitated as she descended into the engine room, but felt her worries begin to ease behind the constant hum of the engines. Before, when she had been locked in the room just ahead, the engines never hummed or sparked to life. She had been towed aboard the ship to a dock she had never seen, not until last night when the same body now in her arms had come crashing through the deck above her head. The hum was a constant reminder that she was actually free, and she was glad the sound continued to reverberate through her tiny cabin.
Slow, careful descent brought the half-dead man to the bed. The bandages around Charles’s midsection were a soaking mess, all the movement had pulled half into a bunch around his waist and the other half into a single string across an open gash. Grace closed her eyes, and the closest drawer in her tiny dresser glowed for a moment. Quickly she pulled the drawer open and grabbed clean scissors and bandages from inside. The bunched bandages sliced easily and she slid them out from under his body with a gentle pull from her side. The gash was still holding closed near the edges, and Grace was briefly proud that her work had held at all, just enough that Charles’s insides weren’t spilling onto the floor.
Grace recalled the instructions of her texts, long since memorized word for word. Pinch the skin together, concentrate on the line where the two sides meet, push energy into both sides, and encourage the cells to multiply. Placing a hand on either side of the gash, she pushed both sides together, only to be startled by a low moan from the man himself. Her hands involuntarily jumped off his skin. She watched as Charles’s eyes tried to find anything in the room to latch on to, fighting against rolling backward under the lids. He hadn’t been awake the first time she tried to heal him, and this development was hurting her concentration.
Steeling herself, Grace pulled the wound closed again. Instead of listening to his moans, she let the hum of the engines wash over her. She was calm, and light flowed from her palms to the skin below. Her eyes closed and she could imagine tissue responding to her call. Heal, she demanded. Working together, her energy and his body slowly started putting the pieces back in a semblance of order.
Charles was only vaguely aware of his surroundings since Barclay had leapt with him back onto the ship. The last jolt as they had touched down on the deck exploded the pain throughout his body, and it was only with tremendous effort that he managed not to pass out. He thought he saw faces, so many faces, and felt a vibration all around him. Then he was lying down and the pain was being driven away, slowly but surely. He wasn’t too proud to sink into the warm feeling around his stomach, and minutes passed as he drank it all in. As the pain faded, he was able recognize the tiny cabin around him, more familiar than he would have liked. Risking discomfort, he tilted his head down and was disappointed to find that girl again, Grace, clearly working on keeping him in the world of the living.
He tried to inventory his injuries, imperceptibly flexing each muscle, starting from his toes and working up to his shoulders. He didn’t bother moving his abs. Based on the healing taking place, they’d be fine soon if they weren’t already. He was well past any real danger, and anger flared in response to that disappointment. Self-loathing was becoming all too normal lately. It was probably a blessing that the walk upstairs and ensuing failure to get away had taken the last of his strength. The strong urge to punch something inanimate would have only worsened his condition.
Deciding the girl was too caught up in her task to realize he was fully conscious again, Charles opened his lips to speak. The taste of lake water permeated his mouth. “Why are you still bothering?”
Grace startled, straightening her back quickly from her kneeling position. She replied, unsure, “Bothering what?”
“I figured my little stunt upstairs would have made it clear I’m not worth saving.” Charles tried to stare her down to hammer home the point, but found he couldn’t maintain eye contact. His anger and frustration were no match for the sincerity and compassion pouring from her eyes. He looked away to avoid her. “What do you get out of fixing me?”
“Helping someone is its own reward,” she answered, voice level, clearly not trying to persuade or preach. “Besides—” she broke into a smile “—there is an adventure ahead, and you wouldn’t want to miss it.”
Charles narrowed his eyes. He was transported for a moment to another room, in another life, where another set of smiling green eyes danced atop those same words. He clenched his teeth, growling low as he snapped, “Get out of my head!”
Graced recoiled at the tone, frightened by the sudden anger. Her voice shrank in response, and she breathed out more than spoke. “I don’t understand.”
Charles scrambled to build up his mental walls. If she was trying to use his memories to manipulate him, he would stop to that in an instant. Her reaction led him to b
elieve she wasn’t faking, and perhaps hadn’t been trying to read his thoughts at all. That angry, self-loathing part of his mind poked hard, reminding him just how much of a prick he really was. “I just… I’m…” he started, but couldn’t bring himself to apologize. “Look, forget about it. I was confused for a moment.” Realization that she hadn’t been in his head was almost more frightening, since he knew exactly where her kind of thinking led. “I think you’ve made a mistake in keeping me onboard, in healing me in the first place.”
By the look on her face, Charles could see that Grace was considering for the first time just what kind of man was in front of her. She’d had little actual interaction with him while he was awake, and Charles had never tried to prove his innocent to her. He figured it took only a little logic to make the connection between himself and the dangerous-looking box he’d been brought here in. Maybe she’d think he had done something worth imprisonment. He was definitely not like the others. Her next words seemed painful. “Do you really wish I didn’t save you before?”
Charles didn’t want to look at her or even respond. He hated the way those familiar green eyes made him feel. The way they demanded the truth, even if it would hurt. He didn’t want any of these feelings swirling around inside him. Well, if she wanted the truth, she could have it. “I think you and everyone on this ship would be a thousand times safer and happier if you hadn’t.”
“Everyone but you.” It was a simple statement, but she was trying desperately to skirt around an unpleasant truth.
Alastair would have loved this girl. Had they ever met, Charles was sure the two would have caused him no end of grief and taken great pleasure in it. But Alastair would never meet this girl, who shared the same eyes and innocent desire to make everything better. They would never meet because of him, and that thought hurt in a way his physical injuries couldn’t match. Charles wondered if he was cursed to relive all his greatest failures time and again without end. He wanted to turn away, to get up and run like he always had, but exhaustion set in.
Every piece of him was tired of running, lying, and scavenging just to survive. Even holding himself together was more difficult as his hand pulled to the gaping scar over his heart. How long had it been since he could imagine a happy ending or a home to return to? He was a ghost haunting this season, unable to change. “I think…I would have been happier, too.” The words came without real thought, falling from his lips in solemn defeat.
It was the first time Charles had ever voiced that thought aloud. It had crossed his mind plenty of times, but somehow saying it made it real. The promise he made all those years ago sometimes felt like someone else’s memory, like something he wasn’t bound to. When his thoughts wandered, it was easy to think about giving in, imagining the peace of not running anymore. But green eyes always brought him back.
“You’re wrong.” Grace’s mouth had become a line, her nostrils flared, and her eyes held a fire that allowed no contradiction. “You don’t—” She gathered her thoughts before she spoke again. “You won’t be happier because there’s no happiness in giving up.”
“You’re right,” he admitted. “But sometimes, happiness isn’t in the cards either way.” Charles watched her leap to her feet, and was briefly awash in a power much greater than he expected. Her eyes refused to let him look away, and the way she drew her left arm up had him waiting for the sting of a slap. But her arm kept moving up, and he noticed her expression soften as her fingers ran through her hair and rested on the back of her neck.
“I don’t think you mean that,” she said with a sad smile. Gesturing around the room. “You heard me. When I felt everyone’s fear at the docks, their waning hope, I tried to call them. But it was you alone that heard me, that found me, and that was able to get us all out of there.” Charles opened his mouth to speak, but she silenced him by holding up her hand. “Even unconscious and on the brink of death, your body refused to give in. After Mr. Barclay pulled you from the water, your mind refused to go dark, though you certainly could have succumbed. I think,” she continued, “your actions speak loud and clear.”
“You mean actions like jumping overboard?” He was antagonizing her, he knew, but he needed a way to distance himself. “Don’t confuse habit with desire. I’ve survived longer than I have right to, and now maybe I’m just seeing this latest situation isn’t worth it.”
“You don’t know that,” Grace chided.
Charles smirked. “You and everyone on this ship are going to die.” He smirked wider when he saw her mouth form an angry O. “There’s nothing any of us can do about it now. I have seen what is coming after us in person—it doesn’t give up. That ship is going to catch us, we’re going to be boarded, and we are all going to be fed, one by one, into the mouth of a monster that knows no mercy.”
Grace looked away, seemingly shaken, but held firm. “I won’t let that happen. We’ll get away. All of us.”
“Grow up, little girl. The world doesn’t do what you want just because you say so.” Charles had been pushing her away, but real frustration was mounting. What she really so naive that she couldn’t see the storm right in front of them? “If we don’t beat that thing to land, it’s game over. And even if we do, the Union is going to be on top of every port along the eastern seaboard.”
“I’ll keep us safe,” she began.
Charles interrupted. “You’ll keep us safe? You couldn’t even keep a half-dead man from jumping ship. You couldn’t even get out of this damn cabin for how many years? And you think you can keep everyone here safe?” He snorted haughtily. “Don’t delude yourself.”
Grace could feel tears beginning to fill her eyes, and tried to hold them back. She stared at Charles, determined to show that he hadn’t hurt her. She expected to see malicious anger in those eyes, but she found something else. Pain—pain that more than matched the hurt she felt. A slow tear trickled down her face and she turned away to hide it. “Go to sleep, Charles. I’ll be back in an hour to check on your wounds and start another healing.” She walked out and slammed the door behind her.
Charles pushed the back of his head deeper into the pillow. Alastair would have punched him in the face for acting like that. And not the friendly punches they’d throw during their little disagreements—it would have been angry, powerful, and hurt like hell for days. Alastair would have refused to speak with him until the pain subsided, and he’d have hit him again if he went to a healer. Grace wasn’t like that, he knew. She was too soft, and the soft didn’t survive in this world. Hopefully Barclay had more sense.
Barclay had been pondering for nearly an hour, trying to determine where a group of this size could realistically hide. The converts were actually the easier bit. Once they were in a large enough human population, they’d be invisible to the Union. The Union was authoritative, and even cruel at times, but they weren’t likely to have dredged up a bunch of registered fey just to feed the Entregon. More than likely, somebody stumbled on this little village of converts and sold them out. This many sacrifices can go a long way in the right circles, and the Union probably didn’t expect a couple of registered purebloods to be living with them—they were just collateral damage at this point.
New York made sense. So many humans in one place would be sure to make any fey pursuers edgy. And from Pennsylvania, it would be easy to find a direct ride on human transport. The Union would probably expect that, though. They’d be watching every major port along the coast. They’d have eyes on bus depots and train stations, waiting with squadrons of experienced black-baggers to make everyone disappear. Maybe, then, they could use those expectations against the Union.
Barclay raised his left hand to his forehead and slowly pulled down, loosening the muscles in his face. He really hoped the Union would focus its attention on him. By now, they would have ransacked every inch of the docks. They would have lists of every cleaning worker that had ever swept the office floor. Most of the black market workers would know to leave permanently when he sounded the alarm,
and he was sure to dispose of their records before he began his scheme to break out his new crew. But if any did show up to see what had happened, he didn’t want to think what the Union would do to get information from them. He’d seen it, in the war, as enemies had their minds torn to pieces just to get the location of another battalion. He hadn’t liked it then, and he sure as hell hoped it didn’t happen to the people he’d taken in—the clanless and powerless, who had no other way to make a living in their world.
The noble he met would already have Barclay’s official registry, and would know exactly who they were dealing with. The majors would be pouring over his service records, looking for signs of insubordination and disloyalty in his field evaluations. They’d be making uncomfortable communications to his former superiors, and tracking the whereabouts of his immediate subordinates. They wouldn’t find anything, of course. None of those who actually knew anything about his current life would ever give him up, and each was in impeccable standing with the Union (just like himself, until yesterday). They’d have people looking over every battle he’d fought in, trying to pinpoint a strategy he might be likely to employ now.
Smiling for the first time, Barclay knew their search would be fruitless. He’d been highly ambitious back then, and it often led to an aggressive strategy in the war. He had prided himself on the fact that, once he had risen to a command position, he had never once retreated or surrendered a fight. He wasn’t much of a leader in those days, honestly, but his force and conviction made the troops love him. It wasn’t until near the end of the war, when he saw men and women alike wiped out by their godlike foes, that he learned humility, that it’s smarter to avoid a fight when you can’t win. By the time that realization was of any use, the war was over. He was wiser now, in a lot of ways, and he wouldn’t make the kind of rash mistakes he did back then. The Union would look at his record and see a brash aggressor, ready to burn a path to victory against all odds. Hopefully, they wouldn’t be expecting the subtlety he had in mind.
