With that thought, she swam harder, and as she was nearing the surface, she spotted him some distance away.
He was unconscious, the strap of his bag pulled tight across his chest, the weight of it towing him toward the ocean floor. The mere sight of him, unconscious and vulnerable, sent an icy rage through her veins, the emotion so strong it momentarily froze her in place. The territorial need to protect him took over her mind and body.
But the lack of oxygen was causing her vision to cloud over, giving her no choice but to break the surface for air. As soon as her lungs were no longer screaming, she dove back under.
She swam, and swam, until she caught Hadrian under the arms. Once she broke the surface again, she swam east, greedily sucking in mouthfuls of cold, briny air.
Across the sea, the pale moon sank toward the horizon. As Avalon swam, her head dipped below the surface, but she kept her eyes fixed on the islands in the distance. If she could make it there, they would be safe. If she could make it there, they would live.
The water continued to quake as the octopus destroyed what was left of the ship, and Avalon swam on. Her limbs screamed with the need to rest, and her vision began to darken. No matter how hard she swam, the islands seemed to drift farther away.
Then her body began to give up. The cold had lanced through her bones, her heartbeat a painfulthud-thud, thud-thudin her ears. A sob burst through her lips, but she kept going, willing herself to continue.
But she was a weak, pathetic mortal. And if they died here tonight because of her, surely even the gods would frown upon her. There was nothing in the world but the steady beating of her heart, and stroke after stroke of her leaden arms through the icy waters. Nothing in the world but her and Hadrian, and the quest that might just be the death of them both.
The islands grew closer, but only just. It was as if time had slowed.
On a beach of black sand in the distance, a pale light bobbed in place. Without a care for what the light was or if the source was dangerous, Avalon called for help just before a wave of darkness swept in, turning the world black.
33
There was a reason the cat-o’-nine-tails was General Terren’s favorite whip. Fastened onto each of the nine strips of leather were hooked metal ends—the better for tearing out a victim’s flesh.
Twenty-four lashes. Twenty-four, and only thirteen so far had been administered by that weasel-eyed prick of a general. But who was counting?
Sable kept her eyes skyward, gritting her teeth against the pain. The clouds churned with the threat of a storm, and by the eighteenth lashing, the rain began to fall. The land became slick with mud, and she struggled to keep her boots planted firmly in place as each strike bit into her skin. Only the rough wooden post she clung to for support kept her on her feet, and only the sight of the hungry crows wheeling overhead kept her eyes off the wild faces surrounding her.
It was no surprise that they’d gained an audience. When the general had pulled her through the camp by her hair, soldiers had naturally followed. Anything for a taste of excitement; anything to distract them from the lull between battles.
Faces grinned at her, crowding in like flies swarming a corpse. They became harder to ignore as they neared the twenty-fourth lashing. Voices bellowed out curse words that rang out over the grumble of thunder, and insults bounced at her from every angle. She was worthless, they were saying. A wench and a sniveling coward. A disappointment and a freak.
On the twenty-fourth strike, a voice cut into her worse than the hook that tore into muscle and made her gasp out loud.Bastard daughter,the voice had called her. Sable was many things, but a bastard wasn’t one of them.
Terren planted his boot on her lower back and pushed. She collapsed in the mud, gasping, head spinning, as the excitement of the crowd died swiftly, and she was left there, lying bare-chested in her own blood.
“Get this useless wench out of my sight!” Terren bellowed to no one in particular. As he walked by, he stomped close to her head, spraying mud in her eyes.
This was the price for running into the woods after that Kyrja. This was the price for betraying the order of collecting bodies from the field. Even though the bone chariot was long gone by the time she had raced into the forest after it, she would do it all over again.
Someone crouched beside her just as the tempo of the rain quickened. Through mud and strands of filthy hair, she recognized the sleek body suit; the weapons concealed within the leather, so similar to her own; the scarred, pallid hands as they gently gripped her elbows.
“Get up,” said Elden Kipling. She peeked up at him—into eyes as hard as stone and frothy as steamed milk. “Get up,” he repeated. “I won’t carry you.”
“I can’t.” Her voice was as close to a sob as she’d ever allowed it to get. She curled in on herself in the mud, wincing as her wounds tore wider.
He sighed. “To hell with this,” he grumbled. She expected the Wraith might simply leave her there, but she realized she was foolish for even thinking such a thing as he picked her up and swung her over his shoulder with a gentleness that didn’t fail to surprise her.
She kept her eyes closed as he carried her through the camp, toward her tent. Past the forges and the lord’s beasts snarling in their pens. Perhaps if she were to pretend that she was unconscious, the general and whoever else might be watching wouldn’t later reprimand the Wraith for helping her. Sure, the general had instructed someone—anyone—to get her out of his sight, but it went without saying that he meant in the least gentle way possible.
And Elden Kipling was nothing if not gentle as he closed in on her tent, adjusting her weight so that every step he took was as painless as possible.
The interior of the tent was dark. He set her on the mattress that was pressed up against the farthest wall and lit a candle. His eyes glowed a haunting green in the light of the dancing flame. Most people were afraid of the Wraith—afraid to even look at him. She supposed she could understand, considering nearly every inch of his face was marked up with scars and tattoos. But even then, she had always been able to see beyond that, to see that he was handsome beneath all those scars.
The Wraith had a good heart. Sable wished more people could see that, but they both had their secrets to hide.
“You know it didn’t mean anything,” he said as he draped a patchwork quilt across her trembling shoulders. He studied her broken expression as he eased himself to the ground before her.
Sable’s teeth were chattering. “What are you talking about?”
