Them and Kearan, apparently.
I scoff.
He wants me to break Kearan’s heart. As if he were smitten with me. He’s made it very clear how he feels. How I gave too much credence to things he’d said and done while drunk. He’s a new man now, one who wants nothing between us. Whatever memory Threydan saw, it must have been outdated, and any protests I make or efforts to set the record straight would only appear as if I’m trying to spare Kearan because I return those feelings.
So he’s forcing me to do this.
My blood begins to boil the more I think about the King of the Undersea and all his plans for me.
I pull a dagger from the confines of my clothing and throw it at the nearest tree trunk.
Thwack.
It imbeds in the wood with a satisfying sound. I pull another dagger, imagine Threydan’s face and throw.
Thwack.
My breathing comes quicker as I reach for more knives, giving my sore arms a workout and my mind something to focus on. A healthy outlet for all the nervous energy I’m dealing with.
A way to attack all the negative thoughts that permeate my mind.
Can’t feel anything. Thwack.
Can’t die by cold or heat. Thwack.
Stuck on this island. Thwack.
Still have no hope of finding Alosa’s missing girls. Thwack.
I was the wrong woman for this job. Thwack.
I’ve failed everyone. Thwack.
And now Threydan thinks I can break Kearan? Ha! Thwack.
He gives me too much power. I am powerless. I can do nothing. Thwack.
On and on I throw. When my remaining twelve daggers are imbedded in the wood, I retrieve them before wreaking havoc on the trunk again.
Soon I see Kearan’s face and his wicked grin. Throw until you miss.
Danger excites him. I excite him because I’m dangerous. And he clearly doesn’t care about getting hurt. He didn’t even flinch when that last knife cut him. No, he smiled.
Because he’s mad.
And unpredictable, which is why he unsettles me so. What will he do when I tell him the King of the Undersea wants him to back off?
Doesn’t matter. It was the agreement for letting me go, so I’ll follow up in case the undead are spying on me. If Kearan’s life weren’t hanging in the balance, I wouldn’t bother. But he’s under my protection. I just have to figure out how to broach such a ridiculous topic once again.
Captain, stop flattering yourself.
Ugh.
I fling all my knives for a third time.
A fourth.
A fifth.
At a rustling behind me, I duck behind the tree I’m using for target practice, but when a snowy fox darts past, I relax. Then I remember I’m not bothering to be quiet because Threydan will find me regardless of what I do. Still, old habits are hard to break.
I retrieve my knives and sheathe them one by one inside my clothing as the world finally feels more manageable.
There is much that is out of my control.
My own body.
Threydan’s intentions.
The Drifta’s threats.
But I need to focus on what is within my power to change.
This very second?
My current location.
I continue south, keeping my eyes straight ahead so as not to glimpse the undead hiding behind the trees. I’ve no reason to think Threydan will change his mind and drag me back prematurely. If he wanted me to do something, he would have kept me in that stone house he built so many years ago. It’s hard to imagine it still would have been standing all these years later. With dozens of undead at his command, I imagine he simply had everyone refortify and clean the place in a matter of hours.
The thought of sleeping in a bed made up by undead fingers has me gagging.
It must be midafternoon, and for the first time, I wonder just how long I slept. I do not think it was only one night. I had been pushed past the threshold of exhaustion again and again. My body quit on its own. Fell asleep in that immortal man’s arms. I never would have allowed that otherwise.
And how long did he carry me before reaching this place? We could be days away from my crew’s camp for all I know.
But there is nothing to do except keep walking.
So I keep on.
THE TERRAIN ALL LOOKS the same.
White everywhere.
Though, I do pause when I find a frozen waterfall, the water turned to icicles clinging to the cliffside. When the sun hits it, I have to blink for the brightness.
It’s a single image of beauty. A reminder that not everything is dark and forlorn right now.
I scale the cliffside, taking a route to the right of the waterfall. It is harder than it looks, but I don’t fall. Only slip a few times. Good thing the cold doesn’t affect my grip on the rocks.
When I reach the top, I see something through a break in the trees. Someone standing just as still as any trunk.
I have a present for you.
Oh, what has he made his undead do now?
I try to decide the best approach to take. Head-on? Roundabout? Nothing matters anymore, though it feels that it should.
When a sound cuts through the trees, I halt in place.
Shouting.
Shouting in Islander.
I can’t make out the words, but I’m certain of the accent. I can’t have reached my crew already. This terrain isn’t familiar yet … unless they’ve happened to move camp closer to Threydan?
I move closer.
From within the cover of the trees, I spot a clearing, where the shouting grows the loudest.
I do not recognize the people before me.
I note fifteen of them, wrapped in furs and deprived of weapons. Some are in bad shape with arms in slings or bandages on their heads. Too thin and haggard from not enough nourishment. I recognize not a soul among them, but I know immediately who they must be.
The crew of the Wanderer.
And they’re being herded by the undead, forced to come straight in my direction.
Chapter 19
THERE’S AT LEAST TEN undead for every single Islander. They surround the crew of the Wanderer, blocking them in a fence made of undead clutching one another’s arms. They move as one unit, seamlessly forcing the living to keep pace or be trampled underfoot.
I watch one of the larger men try to punch the closest undead. It does nothing, of course, just results in more shouting from his crew.
“Dammit, Nydus, stop hitting them!” one of the women says. “You’ve as much brains as they do.”
“I suppose you’d rather I wait until they force us off a cliff, then?”
“Quiet,” another man says.
“Have you a plan, Captain?” The woman says his title like it’s an insult.
“No, Shura. I just don’t want to hear your bickering any longer.”
When I finally make my presence known, the undead halt their march, and the Islanders within the circle of arms stop, too.
No one says anything for a full minute. Then, “Who the hell are you?” This comes from Nydus, the man who’s supposedly all brawn and no brains.
“Quiet,” Shura snaps. “You know the natives can’t understand us!” She’s a tall woman, probably nearing six feet, and her figure has all the support to bear such an impressive height. Her cheeks have a rosy tint to them, which contrasts beautifully with her onyx-colored skin.
She is not the only woman among them. There are six in total, and I pray each of them is one of the women Alosa sent me to find. I’d hate for any of them to have been lost because I took too long to reach this cursed place. Since the Wanderer was a large ship, I can tell they’ve already lost two-thirds of their crew as it is.