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Chapter 1
Bette
Hera’s scream pierces my ears. My fingers tangle in the net. I yank the web of rope into the boat and snatch my makeshift holster from the railing as I dart toward the helm.
“What’s wrong?” I call as I take the steps two at a time.
Fear colors my voice. I skid to a halt, huffing from my mad dash across the boat.
Hera lies sprawled face down on the deck. She grunts and rolls onto her back. Embarrassment adds a deeper red to her tanned cheeks.
“I slipped. I’m okay,” she says.
Envy streaks through me as her luscious brown hair gleams against the floorboards. My blonde locks would blind anyone stupid enough to stare for too long, making my head shine like a beacon in the bright midday sun.
I kneel and help her sit up. The grimace on her face worries me, but not as much as the metallic scent of blood. I lift the hems of her loose, tattered pants and reveal her skinned knees.
The three-year age gap between us seems like decades. Her round face and vulnerable eyes tug at my heart. I wrap my arms around her and give her the hug we both need before holding her shoulders at arm’s length.
“The sea’s calm today,” I say, unable to hide the frustration in my voice.
“I know. I’m sorry. I wasn’t paying attention, and I tripped,” she says.
Guilt slices through my chest as tears glimmer on her lashes, but I fill my lungs with salty ocean air and blow the emotion away with my exhale.
“C’mon. Grandpa’ll kill me if he finds you like this when he gets back,” I say as I move to her side and hook my arm under hers. She accepts my help and limps down the stairs with me.
My accident-prone younger sister constantly sports scrapes and bruises on her arms and legs. I shouldn’t have let her come topside with me, but with so many people gone, I needed her as backup in case I fell overboard. She may be clumsy, but she’s fully capable of deploying the safety raft.
“Is she okay?” Auntie Bell asks as we climb down the steep ladder steps into our living quarters.
“Yeah, she’s fine. Just tripped,” I say.
Hera trembles in embarrassment as Nannie Tike, the eldest female in our extended family, shifts in her bed to aim cloudy brown orbs at her. Grandpa may be the only person we’re blood related to on this tiny, dilapidated fishing boat, but the other eight people onboard have treated us like family ever since the day they pulled us out of the water. Half drowned and fleeing from raiders, my parents and grandparents lucked out when they found this tiny oasis in the sea. Hera was too young to remember much, but sometimes I snap awake from nightmares filled with fire, salt water, and screaming.
“Damn it, child, you scared me, thunkin’ right on top of my head. You ‘bout gave me a heart attack with that hollerin’, too,” Nannie Tike scolds. Her white hair stands out amidst the greys and browns of our home, and the shadows caused by the overhead light accentuate the wrinkles on her face.
I settle Hera on the bench in the kitchen corner and pull the medicine tin from the rusty bread box on the counter. Worry squeezes my heart when I open the tin. She’s been clumsier lately, so we’ve run through the ointment a lot faster than normal. I scoop a bit onto my finger and give Hera a reassuring smile as I close and tuck the tin back into its spot, hiding it away before she can glimpse inside.
“C’mon, we don’t want another infection. Lift your pants,” I instruct.
She doesn’t complain when I smear the ointment over her scrapes.
The hairs on my nape rise. I stand and start toward the ladder steps.
“What’s wro—”
“Raiders!” Kale shouts from the top of the stairs, cutting off Hera’s question.
Uncle Jim pops out of his bunk. He grabs his belt full of knives and tools before ducking toward the stairs, his lanky form sliding past me despite the narrow space.
“You know the drill, girls. Stay down here,” Uncle Jim says. Without a backward glance, he vaults up the steps and slams the hatch.
I grit my teeth and ball my hands into fists at my sides as terror roars through me. After a deep breath to center myself, I turn and haul Hera to the back corner and yank the bag of dirty clothes from under the shelf.
She wrinkles her nose but slips the gross clothes over her own, following my lead. My sinuses sting from the acrid stench of old beta male pheromones, motor oil, and fish guts, but if things go south, we’ll need the disguise.
I shift my belt until the handle of my knife rests under the hole in my shirt before rushing to the kitchen and standing by the stove. We’ve never cooked in the hull—it’s too dangerous—but the cast-iron skillet and ancient utensils make better weapons than anything else we have below deck.
