by Amy Braun
I started to walk to my workstation, hoping that Davin would simply get bored and leave.
Again, I really should have known better.
“You shouldn’t ignore me, darling. That’s very rude.” He sounded closer than before.
A thousand curses landed on my tongue. They would have made Gemma proud, if I’d spoken them.
“Don’t you want to know where I was?” I could feel his eyes on my back.
I set the generator on a worktable and started to find the wires I wanted to use for it. The hairs on the nape of my neck rose with every step Davin took toward me.
“I need to concentrate,” I said without turning. “Go away.”
He made a sharp, tsking noise. “And I thought you wanted to about my meeting with my baby brother.”
The wires slipped from my hands. I whirled around, my hand gripping a screwdriver before I realized it. I met Davin’s red eyes, then glanced at the blood painting the lower half of his face.
My chest tightened.
“What did you do to him?” Whether my voice shook from fear, rage, or both, I didn’t know.
Davin smiled. I lunged with the screwdriver.
He was more than ready.
Davin’s hand snared my wrist and wrenched the improvised weapon from my grip. I clenched my eyes shut, waiting for the inevitable strike.
It never came. Davin’s laugh infected the air around me. I cracked my eyes open and felt heat rise in my cheeks.
“Nice try, darling,” he taunted before shoving me back. My tailbone struck the edge of the worktable, jolting the tools across the surface. I stood my ground and waited. He’d rattled me into action, and he would never pass up the chance to boast.
“Now I know another way to get under your skin.” His bloody eyes slithered down my body, no doubt undressing me with his mind. But in his mind, he was probably using his claws, and I was probably screaming.
Davin licked his blood-covered lips. My stomach rolled.
“Next time I’ll have to keep the lie going,” he drawled. My mind and heart settled, knowing that Sawyer was all right. I couldn’t accept anything else right now.
“I thought I would stop by and tell you that you’re getting your wish.” Davin grinned at my confusion. “We’re going to Westraven to get those supplies you say you need.”
A dozen emotions jumped through me. The strongest were hope and fear. Hope of seeing Sawyer, Abby, Gemma, and Nash again. Fear of what Davin would do if we crossed paths with them.
As if sensing my thoughts, the gore-covered Hellion chuckled and said, “No need to fret, darling. I’m not looking to have another spat
with my brother. Unless I find him.”
I forced myself not to react like he wanted me to.
“We leave in three days, so relax while you can, darling. You’ll visit home soon enough.”
I stood by the table long after Davin left, still reeling over what he said.
Home. I was going home.
The prospect had never been so terrifying.
I would have a limited amount of time. I had to try and get a message to Sawyer, warn him about what was coming. Maybe even escape and form a plan with him and the others.
I couldn’t be here anymore. Not if I wanted to live.
Chapter 5
Sawyer
After its crash, it had taken exactly one week for the Behemoth to be stripped of any value. As a whole, the Hellion airship was too big to take. It wouldn’t fit underground, and the Stray Dogs Clan who lived in the Barren were still locked up with in-fighting now that their leader was dead, so the ship stayed in place.
Leaving our commandeered Hellion skiff tucked in a narrow alley and hidden under a thick black tarp, we made our way to the market district were the Behemoth had crashed.
The market district was a cobblestone plaza surrounded by white stone walls that were pockmarked and missing their roofs. Piles of rubble sat between the walls, making it tricky to maneuver out into the city. Collapsed towers stood erect in the distance like broken fingers. Swirling grey clouds loomed overhead, the pale shade the only hint that it was daylight.
Resting in the rubble was a giant, black steel monstrosity. A massive man-o’-war constructed of heavy iron plates bolted around a hull lined with sturdy cannons. Gaping holes peppered the hard exterior, scars from the explosives Gemma and Nash used on them from the inside. The bow and stern of the ship remained curved into horn-like shapes, but most of the spikes that stabbed out from the middle of the horns had been snapped off during impact. The exhaust port that once spewed thick black smoke into the sky was now dented and crumbled, most of the important parts long since stolen by greedy engineers. All three masts were stripped bare of their flags. The cockpit, which had its windows covered in thick iron shutters, was now a cave of crunched, ruined metal.
Before its collapse, a small dock for raiding skiffs had been chained under the Behemoth. Now the entire second half of the ship was gone, the chains lugged away, pieces of the dock ripped apart for the useful metal, the skiffs gone who-knew-where.
Only marauders would think it was the perfect spot for a tavern.
Metallic drums could be heard through the streets, a fast, steady beat perfect for a fight. Incoherent shouts and raucous laughter became the lyrics. From the corner of the building, we spotted a cluster of raggedly clothed, thickly muscled marauders partying in front of the wreckage. They danced and shouted, laughed and shoved. At least two dozen drunken men and rowdy women stood in or around the cracked open cockpit. The market district wasn’t always like this, but indulging in a wild bash was the only way the marauders could celebrate. Though the Behemoth was fallen, the sky pirates were still grounded. Most of them had ships that were obliterated or too ravaged to use, so many of them gave up hope of rebuilding what they’d lost. Rumor was that some marauders were trying to make new ships, but it would take years and tireless effort. All of which would be hindered if all they wanted to do was drink themselves into stupor.
I was the only one who currently had a large vessel that could fly.
“Looks like they’re having a grand time,” Gemma remarked. “As usual.”
“Think they’ll welcome party-crashers?” Nash asked, his dark eyes riveted on the roaring crowd.
I snorted in reply.
As we continued to stare at the ship-turned-tavern, my mind flashed back to the day we’d worked with Claire to bring down the Behemoth.
The ache in my arms as I fought to control the helm. The fiery look in Claire’s eyes as she told me she was going to use the Volt to kick-start the power and give me complete control of the Behemoth. The sound of her scream as the device’s electric charge ripped through her. The sudden pitch downward and falling with the barest control. The body-wrenching thud as we hit the ground. The way I was thrown from the helm and slammed into another dashboard. The feel of Claire’s lips on mine when she thought I was dying. The smell of fresh air beyond the smoke of the wrecked ship. The pressure loosening in my chest when I looked up to the sky, and saw nothing but grey clouds.
Had it really only been four months ago? It felt closer to four years. But maybe that was why I couldn’t get Claire’s scream out of my head. I recognized the look in her eyes and knew that nothing I said would have changed her mind, that if it weren’t for her actions we all would have died.
But the entire time I’d been struggling with the Behemoth, my gaze had been on her limp form in Nash’s arms. The fear of what I would do if she didn’t make it.
I was caught in that vicious cycle again, the constant wondering if she was all right. If she was hurt, how well or poorly she was being treated.
What I would do to anyone who laid a finger on her.
The dark thoughts that swirled through my mind became clear in my footsteps. Without waiting for Nash or Gemma to tell me otherwise, I stomped out of cover and approached the tavern. Gemma cursed creatively behind me, and I was sure Nash added his voice as well. It had been
a long time since he’d sworn, so I must have really infuriated him. It was happening more and more often now.
Act like a leader. At the very least, pretend to care.
Gemma’s words again, sticking in my mind like a net of thorns. Well, I was being a leader now. I was taking control of a situation, and though I’d kept Nash and Gemma out of it, I did have a plan.
It just wasn’t a very good one.
The closer I got, the more attuned my senses became to my surroundings. I could hear the drum beats pounding faster and louder, and my eyes could pick out almost everyone in the crowd as they wavered back and forth from the cockpit to the gravel. A couple of people were slumped against the exterior of the cockpit, one in hunched over in a drunkard’s sleep, the other resting on his side with lines of blood streaming from his lips and nose.
Though they were all huddled in smaller groups now, I recognized the styles of each Clan. The tattered blue coveralls of the Indigo Renegades. The flimsy braids and disheveled clothes of the Rattails. The hacked up jackets and tattered shirts of the Dreaded Threads. Heavyset bruisers from the Stray Dogs with aggressive faces and snarling dog tattoos on their arms. There were lanky Junkers, weasel-faced traders, and a few dirty stragglers looking to bribe or fight their way into a Clan. I finally caught sight of the drummers, a barefoot man and woman hammering broken metal pipes against curved sheets of scrap metal near the side of the Behemoth.
Not everyone was enjoying themselves, however. Weaving through the crowds were servers wearing dirty clothes, their hair a tangled mess on top of their heads. Each one had wide, terrified eyes and cringed at the lewd remarks and pawing hands that followed them.
And it wasn’t just female servers who were accosted. A handful of male slaves were subject to random “playful” punches, outstretched feet to trip over, and unhindered groping sessions of their own.
I immediately wondered if I should form another plan. This didn’t really seem like suicide until now.
But the marauders were starting to notice me. Their mugs paused at their lips, conversations began to die off or stutter, eyes squinted as they tried to figure out why I looked so familiar.
It was definitely too late to turn back.
By the time I reached the heart of the party, over half the marauders had their gazes fixed on me. Nash and Gemma stood close to my sides, tense as wires, their own gazes flicking back and forth to see as many threats as possible.
I turned my head slowly, searching for the leader of the tavern. A thick-necked man shouldered his way through the crowd and stopped in front of me. He was tall and broad, but no bigger than Nash. Steely eyes bored into mine, daring me to look away and show submission
I just felt bored.
“Private party,” the man growled. “No kids allowed.”
“Good thing we’re old enough to drink,” I parried. “Besides,” I looked over his shoulder lazily, “it looks like every Clan is welcome here.”
Thick-neck scowled like he’d tasted something sour. “You’re not in a Clan.” He pointed to Nash. “He’s a Dog, and she…”
His eyes finally took Gemma in. The scowl became a lecherous grin. “Actually, I don’t care what Clan she’s from. She looks better suited for my bed than yours.”
Nash growled quietly behind me. I don’t know Gemma reacted, because I didn’t turn around.
“I wouldn’t insult her, if I were you,” I advised.
Thick-neck snorted. “You gonna defend her honor, pretty boy?”
“No need,” I replied. “She can do that herself.”
The marauder’s sneer faltered, and he looked at Gemma again. She must have given him a feral smile, because it took him a minute to recover his composure.
“As for our Clan,” I scanned the converging crowd again, my eyes landing on a scraggly haired, gaunt-faced Rattail. I grinned at him as his eyes widened. “Hello, Scritch. Glad to see your wrist healed.”
Scritch sputtered, his left hand reflexively curling around his right and holding it to his chest. I grinned, remembering the crunch as I pulled his wrist from its socket, dislocated it ruthlessly, preventing him from driving a knife into my face.
A brutal tactic, but it worked. I was alive, and Scritch was terrified of me.
Just what I needed right now.
Thick-neck reached back and grabbed Scritch by the collar of his shirt. He yanked the smaller man closer and growled into his face.
“Who is this damned brat?” he demanded.
“He– He’s–”
“Spit it out–”
“He’s Robertson Kendric’s son!”
The moment Scritch shouted those words, everything else stopped. The drums were silenced, the arguments were ended, the servants were allowed a chance to escape. It was like a switch had been hit, the sudden quiet carrying so far that even other survivors were taking notice. I could see them in my peripherals, their dirty faces peeking out from the half-covered windows of the buildings beyond the market’s square.
They were too far to have heard what was said, but I had caught their attention.
“Now that everyone’s focused,” I drawled, focusing on Thick-neck again, “I want to talk to the Behemoth’s false captain.”
The big man snarled, "You don’t tell me what to do.”
“I think I can, actually,” I countered, shifting my weight to the balls of my feet, “because you’re not the captain. You were probably a
deckhand, back in the days when you mattered.” I tilted my head. “Or maybe you were a bed-warmer. You’re a little on the big, stupid side, but some captains like that–”
Thick-neck’s swing was wild and forceful. If it hit, I would be on the ground and looking like a damn fool.
Good thing I knew he was going to make the punch.
I ducked under his punch and grabbed his arm, trapping it over my shoulder. I twisted slightly and snapped my elbow into his face. He barked in pain when his nose broke. I turned away from him, still holding his arm, and drove a brutal kick into his ribs. Thick-neck grimaced and lurched away. But his arm was still in my control.
He swung another wide, sloppy punch at me. I leaned away easily, then stomped on his knee. It shifted under my boot, and he screamed. He buckled, and I moved again. I whipped a kick into the side of his temple, knocking him viciously to the side. I pulled on his arm as he collapsed. His shoulder made a sickening pop, and then Thick-neck howled.
Only then did I drop him.
I surveyed the crowd of marauders, and the survivors beyond. I spoke loud enough for all of them to hear.
“Let’s try this again. Who calls themselves captain here?”
I heard him before I saw him. The stomping of a heavy body moving across metal was a warning in of itself. When I turned to the main opening of the Behemoth’s cockpit, my confidence wavered.
He was huge. The biggest man I had ever seen. Shirtless, he looked more like a concrete slab with four limbs than a person. Cords of muscle and thick veins covered his arms like snakes under his skin. His biceps were half the size of my head. The tips of his boots were crusted with a rusty stain that reminded me of– and probably was– blood.
I knew this monster of a man was the captain the instant I looked into his eyes. There was a surety in them, a cool confidence that suggested he would crush anything standing in his way. There was a hint of insanity behind the confidence that said he would enjoy the pain he caused then person struggling under his boot.
