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Had they left a hatch open?
I grabbed the crewman’s lantern as he stood up, smashed it across his face, and bolted down a short passageway. Glass hit the deck, the man screamed, and dragonflies burst into freedom.
I stumbled down a short set of stairs. Sure enough, moonlight and cold air poured through an open gunport. Randalf’s ship,Juliette, had eight guns in total, all docile and lashed in their cradles. Normally, the deck would also be populated by swinging hammocks and sleeping crew, but apparently they were all on watch or ashore.
Except, of course, for the crewman who was currently bellowing like a wounded bear and barreling after me. Footsteps thundered across the deck above us too. Other sailors had noticed the disturbance.
Three glowing dragonflies zipped past me and out the open gunport. I darted after them and craned to look out. The line of a jetty wasn’t far below.
A hand seized my forearm. The smuggler I’d attacked jerked me around and slammed me into the bulkhead between the hatches.
“You little bitch,” he snarled, his face covered with scrapes and blood.
The Stormsinger’s mask smothered any reply, which was likely for the best. My vocabulary was degrading by the second.
Sister. A rootless voice wafted past me. My skin started to crawl, even as I fought to escape the sailor’s hold.
The creature from my cupboard peeled out of the wood beside me. The smuggler reared back, letting out a choking shout. Back by the stairs, the hatch to the upper deck crashed open and boots flooded down towards us.
Breath wedged in my throat, I turned to find the ghisting’s nose so close to mine I felt the tips brush. Her huge sea-glass eyes crinkled in concern, her octopoid legs once more contained in a rippling skirt.
Sister, why won’t you speak to me?
Speak? Ghistings and humans could not speak, just like ghistings didn’t have flesh. I couldn’t be hearing this right now, couldn’t have felt her hand on my cheek or her nose brushing mine. This was madness. Thiswas…
Whatever it was, my wild thoughts occupied what remained of my opportunity to escape. Randalf’s crew surrounded us.
“What’s the creature doing?” I heard one whisper.
“Juliette?” another murmured.
“Don’t go talkin’ to it, you idiot!”
The ghisting ignored them. She drifted backwards and looked me over as her ‘skirt’ rippled in an unseen current. Her eyes were still soulless, matte and featureless, but there was something in them I recognized as she noted my mask and bound hands: solidarity.
Then, between one blink and the next, the creature vanished.
“What happened?” Randalf’s voice cut through the deck. He spun me to face him and I recoiled, but all he did was hold up a small, delicate key. The key to my mask.
I relented. The gag fell away into his hands with a click and I coughed, spitting and wiping at my lips with my bound hands.
“What happened?” the smuggler demanded.
My mind churned, excuses piling up. I could beg, claim the crewman had mistreatedme—hehadn’t exactly beengentle—butwhat I wanted to say, what Ineededto say, came out instead.
“Your crewman hauled me out of my cupboard, so I smashed his lantern over his head and tried to escape,” I stated, lifting my chin a fraction.
“Escape?” Randalf looked at the open gunport, then at the crewman with the bloodied face. “You left that open?”
The bloodied man suddenly looked more cautious than angry. “For the handoff with Merrow, Cap’n.”
“That was at first bell!” Randalf made an admirable attempt to loom, even though he was shorter than the sailor and considerably leaner. But from the way the entire crew reacted, there was viable threat to his displeasure.
“They’re late,” the crewman protested.
Randalf edged closer. “So you left it openandlet the Stormsinger loose?”
The crewman paled. “Cap’n,I—”
