by Anna Bowman
“Lay him over there, Bek—hurry!”
The floor creaked and shifted under the noise of boots clambering about.
Rayn kicked off the blankets, already dressed in pants and an untucked shirt too big for her. Her bare feet cold on the dusty planks, she pushed the door open and dashed down the narrow hall to the entryway. Once there, she froze.
There was a dark-haired boy who looked to be about her age laid on his stomach on the stretcher her father kept tucked under his bed.
“Lay him over there.”
Her father, she realized was the giant of a man giving orders. He was cutting the boy’s shirt off with a curved knife.
Rayn sucked in a breath. The boy’s back was torn open with numerous lacerations: whip marks. Blood spilled over his sides and onto the floor. Rayn wanted to look away as they began cleaning his wounds. The boy cried out, gnashing his teeth and jerking upwards.
“Easy, boy…easy,” her father said, pushing him back down with a gentle hand.
The boy started whispering words in a language she did not understand. Rayn couldn’t understand what they meant. In between cries of pain, the other man smeared a green salve on his wounds.
“Rayn! I thought you were asleep.”
Rayn was so shocked by her father’s gruff tone that she jumped. He came and took a knee beside her. The light behind him shadowed his face, and she couldn’t make it out. She breathed into his neck, swallowed by the embrace of his massive arms. He smelled of sawdust and oil.
“Daddy, what’s he saying?”
Her eyes were fixed on the boy.
The door burst open before he could answer.
“Sir!” Rayn didn’t see the man who spoke. “The boy’s parents…they…” The man’s voice trailed off, and Rayn felt her father’s arm tense.
“Locke. Becket. Let’s go,” he rumbled, then bent down to Rayn. “Look after him while we’re gone.”
She nodded, and he kissed her forehead.
The boy’s hair was draped over his eyes, long and black and wet with tears. His lower lip trembled, and he clutched on the ends of the stretcher. Gauze was packed on the wounds. His shoulders shook as he raised up on his elbows. Rayn took a step forward, nearly stepping in the pool of blood on the floor.
“You should be still,” she whispered. Through uneven bangs, his eyes locked with hers and she knew he wasn’t crying because of the lashes. It was a hurt far deeper, one she recognized from six years ago when she lost her mother.
“They’ll be back soon.”
Her voice caught in her throat. She laid a hand on his fist. His fingers closed around hers, and he nodded once before slumping forward.
There was a noise like thunder which shook the building, and a sickly bright light spilled in the window. Rayn edged closer to the boy. Then the screams started: close and far away at the same time.
That’s when she woke up.
✽ ✽ ✽
“No. Not again!” Rayn clamped her eyes shut and pulled a pillow over her head. She didn’t want to let the dream go.
The girl started screaming again. It was a girl.
Not a dream. Zee!
Rayn’s eyes flew open. She threw aside the blanket and sprang out of bed. Bare feet padding down the metal flooring, she dashed down the dark hall toward the screams. When she reached Zee’s door, it was cracked open. A sliver of light stabbed into the Corridor. She pushed it open the rest of the way and burst inside.
Solomand looked up from Zee’s bunk. Her head was buried in his neck as her thin shoulders shook with sobs.
“It was just a dream.” Solomand reassured her, his hand stroked her hair.
He raised one eyebrow at Rayn.
“Alright now?” Solomand said.
Zee gave a short nod and hugged him before Solomand pulled her blanket over her as she lay back down in bed.
“No more nightmares tonight, eh?” He ruffled her hair.
The firefly necklace around the girl’s neck emitted a dim light.
Rayn glanced at it, then down to her untucked shirt. She imagined she must look ridiculous with her hair un-brushed, a frizzled tangle beyond comprehension. Her face now burning with embarrassment, she backed out the door. Solomand glanced over his shoulder, motioning her to wait with an amused look on his face.
Rayn stood in the hall, combing fingers through the tangles in her hair. Solomand tiptoed out, easing the door shut behind him.
“Nightmares,” he said in a low voice. He scratched his head. “Probably of the day she lost her mother.”
He took a few steps away from Zee’s door. Rayn followed.
“What happened?”
She was glad the hall was dark. It made her feel less ridiculous.
Solomand stretched.
“At the end of the war, the wounded were evacuated—flown to Cierne Island. The Coalition didn’t want any high-profile war criminals escaping…so.” He sighed, pushing his sleeves up to his elbows before crossing his arms. “They dropped a bomb on the place. Most of the civilians were killed, including Zee’s mother.”
He leaned against the hull.
“So, you’re not…” Rayn stopped herself, biting her lip.
“What, her father?” Solomand laughed, making Rayn feel more of a fool. “No. But we’re the only family she’s got.”
“I just thought.” Rayn cleared her throat. “You’d make a good one—a father that is.”
She flushed again. Was that the right thing to say? Her eyes, accustomed to the dark, saw his face twist for an instant before becoming lost in a distant stare.
“Did you really cut a man’s eye out for looking at her?”
She wondered why she kept blurting things out without thinking.
Solomand’s eyes narrowed to slits.
“You’ve been talking to Minuet.” He said Minuet like the name tasted bad. “I left the bastard one eye—a testament to my good nature.” He leaned forward, his eyes flashing. “Did she also tell you it was at a trading post where slaves are their primary commodity?”
Rayn shook her head. Solomand glowered at the ceiling.
“Damn if I know why I didn’t just kill the piece of shit. Do me a favor, will you? If you plan on having any more conversations with that woman, don’t mention anything about Tristan.”
Rayn had no intention of speaking to Minuet at all if she could help it.
But because the request piqued her curiosity, she asked, “Why not?”
“Because.” Solomand’s voice raised then lowered. “His existence is a privilege only my crew knows about, and I mean to keep it that way.”
He pressed his hand against his brow.
What the hell is that supposed to mean?
Rayn was confused by Solomand’s agitated statement.
Is he calling me one of his crew?
She threw her hands up.
“Look, I’m sorry. It’s just, I was dreaming, and…” She stopped, unwilling to share any details of her dreams yet. She glared at Solomand, knowing it wasn’t his fault, but blaming him all the same. “And now I’m not likely to get any sleep tonight,” she whispered through her teeth.
Solomand sighed. “Look, I wouldn’t trust anything Minuet says if I were you.”
He started to walk away.
“Funny, she said the same about you.”
Solomand stopped and glanced back, his expression lost to the shadowy corridor.
“We’re both right.”
Rayn traipsed back to her room, her mind a jumble of confused thoughts.
Chapter 23
Will
Will eyed the three cards laid out on the bed. Tristan leaned back on his pillow, a slight tremor in his hand that held the remainder of his cards.
“A joker, and a pair of kings.”
The corner of Will’s mouth turned up.
“Wrong game, Tris.”
Tristan smiled as he leaned forward.
“Ah, but you’re wrong. I was attempting to elicit a smile from
the Iron Warrior, and I did.”
Will stared back at him, one eyebrow raising slightly.
“It’s easier to win than your card game,” Tristan said, gesturing to the cards. “But I’ll humor you. Jacks.”
“No.” Will shook his head.
“Quite sure?” Tristan stuck out his chin, his eyes squinting.
Will motioned for him to flip over his cards and Tristan did so with a sigh, revealing two kings and a jack.
Tristan rubbed the back of his hand over his neck.
“I’m afraid I’m not very good at this game, Will. Care to tell me how you always know I’m bluffing?”
“You always talk more.”
Will collected the deck into his hands.
“Ah. I shall have to attempt to refrain from doing so in the future.”
Will turned his gaze up as he shuffled the cards.
“To be fair, it’d be a better game with three.”
Tristan sighed, lacing his hands behind his head as he sank back onto his pillow.
“Care to play a game of chess? It always was my preferred game from the old world.”
“Sure.”
Will slipped the cards back in their box and retrieved the chess board from one of the bookshelves. He laid it on the bed between them and began to set up the pieces. Shadows passed momentarily over the board as a breeze drove clouds past the skylight, revealing afterward the cerulean sky that matched Tristan’s eyes.
“I’m not good at this game.”
Will moved his king’s pawn forward. He sat back, hands resting on his knees.
“Oh, come now.” Tristan leaned forward, his hand resting on his chin before making the same move. “Aren’t you Olbians born playing war strategy games?”
Once again, Will managed the faint trace of a smile.
“I wouldn’t know. I don’t remember much of it.”
He gave Tristan a knowing glance as he moved a knight.
“Yes, well. Training like that should not disappear altogether.”
Tristan’s hand hovered over his knight. He chewed his lip, then moved a bishop instead.
“I’m sure it’s there somewhere.”
His brow wrinkled. Will knew his mind was no longer on the game, but on a much more complicated problem.
Tristan’s hand dropped to his side. His complexion increasingly matched the off-white shirt that hung loosely on his frame.
“Your turn, Tris.”
Like a true Olbian, Will kept concern from entering his voice.
“Hmm? Oh.” Tristan looked from Will to the chess game. As the tremor grew more pronounced in his hand, he crossed his arms. “You know, Will, I believe I must concede this match to Olbia.”
The brightness of his smile was meant to conceal. He was tired, in pain, and tortured himself over the past. Will could see it because he was also skilled at wearing a mask. But he didn’t argue.
“Alright.”
He gathered the pieces and the board and returned them to their place. His boots creaked on the wood flooring, the only sound beyond the birds singing atop the skylight. Tristan gazed at the sky—his eyes drifting shut.
“Do you need anything?”
“No thank you, Will. Oh.” He raised his head for a moment. “There is one thing. I think it is safe to let our Slavik friend have an element of freedom on such a lovely day. After all, Sol is not here so there’s no danger of him attempting to murder him.”
Will nodded.
“Alright, Tris.”
“Thank you,” Tristan said, allowing himself to sound tired.
Will carefully closed the door as he left, the thud of his boots more pronounced in the silence. He plodded down the stairs and down the dark hallway; Ivan had been moved to the last room, which was across from Will’s. Jank had fitted an old door from the airship to replace the shoddy, wooden one, and rigged a keypad lock to keep it shut. Will eyed the rusty, metal hinges, doubting they would keep the Slav in once he recovered, anyway. It was best not to go on treating him like a prisoner.
He punched in the passcode and waited to hear the “chink” of the bolt sliding open. When he opened the door, with far more force than Will expected possible, Ivan slammed into him. The rivets of the airship door dug into Will’s back as he caught hold of the Slav.
Ivan grunted as he clawed at Will’s throat. His eyes dark and savage, he elbowed Will in the stomach in an attempt to gain the upper hand. His teeth bared, he paused as recognition dawned on him.
“Will?” He put full force into trying to get his hands on the Olbian. “Where. Is. He?”
Will took hold of Ivan’s arm, twisting it as he forced him to his knees, his face pressed against the wooden bed frame.
“Sol’s not here,” Will said in a toneless voice. “Tristan said to tell you-you're not a prisoner.”
Will felt Ivan relax on the mention of Tristan’s name. With caution, he released the hold he had on Ivan.
“Tristan?” Ivan rose to his knees, rubbing his shoulder.
“Yeah.” Will held the reset button on the door. It beeped three times, then flashed green. “No more locked doors, Ivan.”
Ivan stood, his chest heaving. He looked better since changing clothes—but still not the nimble warrior he had once been. There was a twinge of sympathy in Will’s heart, though it did not show on his face. He and Ivan had much in common. They were both raised to be warriors and fight at someone else’s bidding. Winning was all that mattered. But they also ended up fighting on the side of their own choosing in the end. Will’s eyes narrowed. He had nothing but respect for the Ice Wolf and wanted to have him back.
“Tristan said you should get some air.”
Ivan sat on his bed, his head sinking between his legs.
“Later.”
Will flexed his wrist, still aching from wrenching free of Ivan’s grip.
“You’re getting stronger.”
Ivan breathed out, his grey eyes softening as they glanced tiredly up at Will.
“Not strong enough. Not yet.”
There was an edge to his voice that worried Will. Would he continue his obsession to kill Solomand?
Ivan raised his head.
“Will…it’s good to see you.”
That was the first sign of the old Ivan Will had seen. He smiled, giving him a nod.
“Likewise, Ivan.” He turned to leave, paused, and looked over his shoulder. “Welcome back.”
Chapter 24
Rayn
Blackpool was not a shady little conglomeration of makeshift buildings stuck together on a cliff face, providing a means of survival for disreputable types. The buildings here were straighter and not so much newer as made the right way. Many of them were made of sand-colored brick, and they were not cramped together. Motorcars stirred up dust along the cobbled road that curved down the mountain, carrying goods and travelers to the towns stretched along the valley below. Even the odd motorbike roared past, its riders scarf flapping in the wind.
Merchants had stands set up along the docks, and the smell of steamed rolls and coffee hung in the crisp air. The road out of town wove down a cover of puffy white clouds. Rayn stood on the dock, surveying the bustling city and sipping on a tin mug of thick, murky coffee. Minuet appeared wearing a narrow-brimmed hat over an elaborate, braided bun, a lace veil pulled over her eyes. As usual, not one hair was out of place. Her corset was black today, to match her skirts, and was tighter than usual. Men craned their necks as they passed, drooling.
Rayn rolled her eyes and tightened the leather laces on the sides of her gloves while Minuet made a show of fixing her hair—as if there was anything to fix.
“You know, Rayn, you would be an absolute doll if you did yourself up.” She smeared on another layer of deep plum lipstick before snapping her hand mirror shut and dropping it in her handbag. “You can borrow one of my corsets if you like.” She smiled. “I always leave a few things in my room, for next time.”
She winked and blew a kiss at Solomand
as he walked out with Jank.
As if!
Rayn wanted to gag at the thought of ‘doing herself up,’ as Minuet put it. She took another sip of coffee only to find it had gone cold.
She frowned, saying, as she eyed it with distaste, “Corsets are for hookers.”
Jank burst out in laughter, holding his sides and stooping over. Even Solomand, who for whatever reason seemed to want to keep peace with Minuet, could not suppress his amusement. His eyes pinched shut, and his shoulders shook as he tried not to laugh out loud. Minuet’s ivory cheeks reddened. Her lips formed a tight line, and she regarded them all with disdain.
A sleek black motorcar pulled up to the docks, its engine hissing as it rolled to a stop. Steam lifted from the hood in spindly wisps. Solomand, wiping a tear from his eye, opened the car door for Minuet.
“Glad to see you off, Lady Minuet Eva St. Sebastian.”
He dug a letter from his pocket and held it out, glowing with enthusiasm to be rid of her. It looked like he had even found the time to shave his beard back to a more presentable level.
Minuet sucked in her breath as her eyes fell on the envelope. Then, with a new look of hatred, she snatched it from Solomand’s hand, gathered her skirts in a huff, and climbed inside the waiting car.
Jank leaned against a row of oil barrels.
“Did you see her face?” Still laughing, he pointed after the car as it disappeared around a bend in the road. “That’s the best damn thing I’ve seen in months!”
He broke into another fit of laughter.
Solomand sidled up to Rayn, shaking his head.
“Did you have to go and tell her off, Rayn?”
“What?” Rayn splattered the remains of the lukewarm coffee to the side of the door. “It’s true. I’ve never seen a hooker who didn’t wear one.”
She set the mug down and adjusted her gun-belt.
Solomand’s lips pursed together as he rolled his eyes upward.
“To be fair, Rayn, they are worn by highborn ladies who care about being fashionable.”
Rayn shoved one sleeve up to her elbow.
“Yeah, well, breathing is in fashion for me.”
A blank stare from Solomand again. “You don’t have any female friends, do you?
