Elena swung back his arm, and he followed, their bodies fluid and smooth, their Agni bright and seething, and hurled another volley of flames toward the shadow.
It screeched. An awful, racking crack. The shadow flailed, its edges shriveling back to its mutilated core.
“We have it!” he cried.
He raised his urumi once more when the shape snapped.
It split in two, and he saw the dark tendrils of the monster lancing through the air before their ship tilted, and the sea rushed to meet them.
“Sam!”
Her hold on him loosened, dropped. He twisted to catch her, her name ripping through his throat as their fingers brushed. And for a moment, just for a cruel, singular heartbeat, he thought he had caught her, her hand warm and sure in his. But then her fingers slipped.
Elena Aadya Ravence plummeted into the dark sea, and he could only hang there, heart heaving, screaming her name.
“ELENA!”
The ship pitched wildly. The waves swirled, faster and faster, tossing their ship. With a sudden, vicious rage, Samson surged forward. He slung his urumi and sent a flare of charged flames. They bolted through the air, a brilliance of light, and slammed right into the being’s core.
It crashed into the sea with a howl. Waves swelled, and Samson had one last glimpse of the dark tendrils flailing at the edges of the ship before something hard smacked into his head and he toppled to the deck.
CHAPTER 45
ELENA
There are three main ways to employ the Sesharian laborer: one, as an industrious miner; two, as a duteous servant; and three, as an unerring soldier. Rustbloods, they call themselves. An unruly term, but then again, they are an unruly people. That is why it is integral to rule them with an iron hand.
—fromA Manual on Employing a Sesharian for Jantari Gentlefolk
She woke to the smell of grease. Elena turned, vomiting into a bucket. An older, grey-uniformed woman watched her dispassionately and, when she was done, handed her a wilted rag.
“No sea legs,” she muttered.
“Wh-where am I?” Elena said. She tried to sit up and knocked her head against the bottom of a bunk. “Ow!”
“You would have been better off drifting out at sea,” the woman said.
It was only then that Elena noticed the bull inked on her hand. The blue streak in her hair. Someone pounded on the door, and without waiting for an answer, a Jantari officer sauntered in. At the sight of vomit,he wrinkled his nose.
“Well, good, at least she’s awake.” He turned to the woman. “Can she work?”
“She’s got no broken limbs that I can see,” she said. “Just a tattered soul.”
“Quit complaining. Get her proper clothes and send her to the line. You. What’s your name?”
“El—” she began, and stopped.
“Hmm? What was it?”
“Wh-where am I?”
“On theLord of Sea. We found you drifting on a broken… mass when we found you.” The officer studied her. “Where are you from?”
“I—I don’t re-remember,” she lied. “I was on a ship, and then there was a storm—”
“An islander, then, though your accent is strange.” The officer nodded, pleased with himself. “Yes, well, looks like you’re not being shipped off to the mainland. You’ll work this ship. Now get her dressed, Maya.”
He left, and Maya handed her folded clothes, rough to the touch. “What is your name?”
