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A boom, and then another. This time the echoing crack of thunder, the slice of lightning. Above the din rose what must be the captain’s voice in a slow, chanting lilt. Winds rose. The ship lifted up and over before dropping into the trough of undulating waves.
Elisabeth banged her head as she fought to hold herself upright. Grabbing hold of one of the ropes lashing the barrels to keep from sliding in the murky sludge rolling back and forth over the floor of the hold, she sidled a step closer toward Rogan. With his attention all on Brendan, she might find a chance to grab the gun or at least turn its aim from the center of Brendan’s chest.
Brendan’s words cut the air like a blade. “The Other will fail, and when they do, Duinedon vengeance will be swift and merciless. They’ll not allow such a threat to continue to exist.”
“A risk I’ll take if it means the chance for a life lived free of harassment,” Rogan argued.
Elisabeth inched her way forward, palms burning every time the ship heeled over and her hands slid painfully along the rope. Three feet. Two. Keep him busy, Brendan. Keep him talking.
“And Daz?” Brendan growled. “The old man. Did you kill him? Can we add his life to the list of those you’ve torn apart?”
Rogan’s face tightened. Brendan was losing him. It wouldn’t take much for him to pull the trigger. “The old man’s alive. At least, he should be. I left him unconscious but breathing. More mercy than he’d have received at their hands.”
Elisabeth was there. She need only lunge to her right and she could knock Rogan off balance.
She never got the chance.
Brendan’s face seemed to shine, his eyes shimmering burnished gold and bronze and amber. Hard. Pitiless. He lifted a hand, flicking his fingers forward.
Rogan doubled over, retching. His body jerking as seizures tremored through him.
Brendan’s gaze swept toward her, the horrible power in his eyes stripping her raw. “Come. Quickly.”
Letting go of the rope, she crabbed her way around Rogan, making it halfway to the ladder before the harper grabbed her ankle. Her feet slipped out from under her at a heaving rush of storm waves, and she felt herself falling. Her head slammed against the barrels, her side hit the edge of a crate, her knees banged hard on the floor.
In the wild swing of the lantern, she glimpsed bodies, heard shouts, a gunshot. Someone grabbed her around the waist, another slapped her hard enough across the cheek to throw spots into her eyes. She heard the thunk of fist meeting flesh over and over, and by the time she wiped the tears away, Brendan was on the floor, and a knife had been pressed cold against her throat.
Rogan struggled to rise over Brendan’s slumped and bloodied body, voice hoarse, hands shaking. “You say hell will be the refuge, Douglas. But you’re already there.”
Brendan looked up through one glittering eye, the other one swelling shut. “No, Rogan. You’ve no idea. My hell hasn’t even begun. Nor has yours.”
“Get him out of here,” shouted one of the men.
The winds had dropped from a hurricane scream and the nauseating pitch and roll of the waves had eased. Thunder still rumbled and bounced over the water, but no longer did the bark of cannon fire sear the air. The storm must have separated pursuer from pursued. The hope of rescue vanished.
Two sailors grabbed Brendan beneath the arms, dragging him up and out of the hold.
The man watched before turning back to Rogan and Elisabeth. “That happens again and I don’t care what you say, Rogan. I’ll let Quick’s boys do whatever they wish with her. Do you hear?”
The harper nodded sullenly, following him out. The heavy scrape of the grille pulled across the hatchway like the closing of a coffin.
Alone, Elisabeth curled once more into her corner, unable to stop the slow leak of tears.
Her whole life, she’d avoided asking the questions.
Yet the answers had come.
And there was no going back for any of them.
Croker had come twice with his knife. Each time leaving Brendan shaken and bloody. A hairline slash down his neck. A razored scoring of his upper arm. Death by a thousand cuts.
The last visit had been a few hours ago, or so it seemed. He’d closed his eyes in a vain attempt at sleep, but his mind spun through plot after plan. He’d have a small window of opportunity once they came ashore. He needed to be ready when the time came.
The ship remained taut, the water slapping and curling against the hull. Winds steady and southwesterly. No return of the mage storm. They must have outdistanced their attacker to the point the captain felt safe in resuming only subtle nudges to the weather. Enough to keep them on course. Not enough to exhaust him should he need to call the power down again.
Brendan’s heart lurched at the sound of a key turning in the lock. Croker back for more?
He fought at the cords binding his hands behind his back, his ankles to the chair until his wrists burned and his bones felt as if they’d been pulled loose, but there was not even the slightest give in the knots. They’d not risk his escape from the cabin again.
