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She slumped back to the floor, eyes squeezed shut, afraid to give in to the terror lurking at the edges of her consciousness, though it was tempting to slide into mind-numbing hysteria.
Was Brendan dead? Had he been taken when she was? And if so, where was he? What did they want with her? The obvious answer made her queasy and she quickly thought of something else. Had Rogan survived? Her stomach rolled ominously. So maybe that wasn’t the best thought either. Had she committed murder today? She clenched her jaw, glancing up at the hatch above her. If she got the chance, could she do it again?
As if wishing made it so, the hatch opened, light from a lantern blinding her to her visitor. She scanned the hold for anything to use as a weapon, but it was difficult to see in the inky, oily blackness, and other than the barrels and some rather large unwieldy bits of ship that looked too heavy for her to lift, there was nothing at hand.
Heavy steps and the scents of whiskey and pipe smoke coalesced into a familiar figure. A woolen greatcoat with the collar pulled up. A hat jammed upon salt-and-pepper hair, and as he raised his lantern high, a telltale purple bruise marring the side of his face, sticking plaster covering a cut across his left cheek.
She blinked in case she was hallucinating, but no. It was him. Rescue had come quicker than she’d hoped.
“Rogan!”
“Where is she?” Brendan sat at the table where they’d shoved him, eying his captors coolly, revealing nothing of the rage coiling round his heart. “I want to know she’s well.”
He’d not seen Elisabeth since they’d
bundled them out of the house, her body lifeless in the arms of a brute big enough to snap Brendan in half. She’d been placed into a carriage, the horses set to with a sharp slap of the reins.
It had only just disappeared around the corner when they’d shoved him into a second carriage. He’d sensed the presence of someone in the corner, there’d been an explosion behind his eyes, and he’d known nothing more until he woke to find himself aboard this smuggler’s lugger. The sounds of a ship newly under way dashed any hope he might have held of a swift rescue.
Freedom was up to him alone.
The man called Croker circled behind him, the sour stench of his breath hot on Brendan’s neck, while the other remained, hands on hips, legs planted wide against the roll of the ship. “She’s well enough for the time being. Up to you if she stays that way.”
Brendan placed his hands flat upon the tabletop, letting the rough wood anchor him. A way to focus his scattered mind. “You touch her and I’ll see you in hell.”
A knife caught him under the jaw. “Tough words,” Croker jeered, “but it’s that soft spot for the girl what’s going to keep you in line. Long as Sams and I have her, you won’t do anything, will you?”
Brendan kept silent. The dirty bastard might look stupid, but he had it exactly right. As long as Elisabeth remained hostage, Brendan was powerless.
“Though she’s a savory morsel, ain’t she?” Sams said with a dark chuckle, grabbing his crotch. “Mayhap we ought to give Captain Quick’s sailors sport for the journey. A little morale booster.”
Brendan lunged from his chair, only to be struck on the back of the head. Pain crashed through his skull, a ringing in his ears like the clang of a thousand church bells. He fought free, getting in at least one good punch before a fist slammed into his jaw. Another doubled him over, the air smashed out of him. He bit back a groan as he sank into his seat.
Sams shoved his face into Brendan’s. “Try that again and we’ll let you watch,” he growled.
They left, taking the lantern with them, the room plunged into darkness, nothing to pull Brendan’s mind from the death spiral of his thoughts.
But in their gloating, they’d made a fatal error. They’d left him unbound. Free to move and free to work the mage energy if he could stop the ringing in his ears long enough to concentrate.
He paced the tiny aft cabin. Explored by touch every board until he memorized his prison. The steady creak of rigging and the cradle-like rise and fall of the ship working against the fevered savagery in his mind. The door was locked, but if he . . .
Closing his eyes, he reached with his mind. Pictured the mechanism. Whispered the words like a prayer. “Daresha di-alhwedhesh.” The clink of the sprung lock echoed up his hand into his brain.
Now what?
Find Elisabeth. Free her. Take the captain and turn this hostage situation around. Foolhardy. Absurd. The best he could come up with at short notice. Otherwise, he might as well sit himself back down and await dismembering. And Elisabeth . . . no, he’d not dwell on what would happen to her once she was no longer needed to keep him compliant.
He stepped into a narrow companionway, opening onto a larger gun deck. A row of four cannon to either side. A ladder ascending to the upper deck. A passage narrowing farther forward to a grilled hatch leading down to the hold.
Could she be topside, where they could more easily keep an eye on her? In the hold? He crept forward to the ladder, a hand upon the rung, eyes searching that narrow square of overcast sky. Wind dragging the dank odor of his fear away with it.
With nothing left to lose and no reason to hide what he was, he cast his mind out as if he might sense her on a ribbon of energy. A wild hope. As Duinedon, she would be difficult to trace. It was doubtful he’d be able to sense anything about her other than perhaps whether she breathed or not, but there was always a chance. After all, she held some Fey blood from her grandmother.
He cast his power like a net upon the air. The salt-laden breeze washed cold and clear over his cheeks, a ripple of mage energy bound within its currents, enough to make him sure the smuggler captain was an Other with a developed weather sense. There would be no helpful wind to slow them down or steer them off course.
At the farthest edge of his mind, there came a faint echo. A dusky red shimmer that drew his attention. He locked on the tracing, slight as it was. Headed toward the hatch and the hold below. Had taken only a handful of steps when a man appeared from the shadows of that far companionway at the other side of the gun deck. His beady eyes afire with surprise, the sailor drew up, muttering an oath, a hand going to the knife at his belt.
Unhesitating, Brendan released a writhing coil of battle magic with viper speed. The blast crumpled the sailor like a broken doll, Brendan on him in an instant. Wrenching the man’s knife from his hand, he slit the rogue’s throat. His blood splashing hot and sticky. The iron tang thick and biting in Brendan’s nostrils.
