“You’ve started the trials,” he says, deadpan. “And by proxy, I’ve started them with you. Now, we either finish them together… or die trying.”
I blink again, this time with extra care. Ah, yes. That clears it up. It clears isallup.
Of course. Of-bloody-course.
24
Gypsy
What do you do when your frail little ship gets torn apart in a storm, and you’re left with nothing but a flimsy raft to cling to? You don’t get to make plans. You survive. Even if it means grabbing hold of the first lifeline thrown your way—even if that lifeline comes wrapped in thorns.
I stare at the wreck of our schooner, pieces of wood still bobbing on the water. Zayan shifts next to me, fingers raking through his hair, his weight balanced awkwardly to keep pressure off his injured leg. He doesn’t look at me, just glares at the horizon with his eyes narrowed.
“No,” he says finally, voice hard. “This is reckless. And not even in a good way. That bastard wanted to kill us five minutes ago.”
I glance from Zayan to what’s left of our ship, then back in the direction of the man offering us a “way out.” I don’t see any better options on the table.
“He’s got a big ship,” I say, raising an eyebrow, biting my lip. “And he doesn’t seem to mind me being the captain.”
Zayan lets out a sharp breath, throwing me a look that says he’s not buying it for a second. “Which reeks of a trap. You really think he’s just gonna let you take charge? After what we did?”
“Does it matter?” I counter, my tone flat. “We don’t have a choice but to step into it. Unless you’ve got some brilliant plan tucked up your sleeve that I don’t know about. Because from where I’m standing, I sure as hell don’t see another ship rolling in to offer us a lift.”
His silence is answer enough.
Behind us, Vinicola’s perched on a rock, scrubbing at his shirt like a man possessed, trying to scrub away more than just blood—like he could erase everything he’s just been through if he scrubs hard enough. It’s been five minutes, and that shirt’s about as clean as it’s ever going to get. But he keeps at it, hands shaking, breath coming out in ragged gasps with each furious stroke.
“I don’t know about you,” he pipes up, voice pitched too loud, “but I’d rather not be stranded here. I’ve heard the stories, and let me tell you, they’re not the fun kind you sing about in taverns. And say what you want, but that guy didn’t strike me as the lying type. Jaded, yes. But honestly, who spends five years looking for something likethisand still lies about it?”
“Stop shouting,” Zayan hisses, throwing him a glare that could melt steel. “He’s right around the corner. He can hear you.”
Vinicola lets out a nervous laugh, throwing up his hands in mock surrender. “I meant ‘jaded’ in a good way!”
I swear I hear Fabien scoff from his side of the rocky platform. Oh yeah, he’s listening in alright. Not that I blame him, seeing as how he was ready to slit our throats not an hour ago, and now here we are—partners, apparently. Bound together by a mark none of us asked for. The guy’s unstable. One minute he’s our biggest threat, and the next, he’s convinced the gods themselves have ordained us to work together.
It makes me sick. If it weren’t for the strange mark now etched into my palm, the same mark all four of us share, I’d side with Zayan and put a dagger through Fabien’s throat. Clean, simple, no loose ends. But I’ve been proven wrong about a lot of things lately, and the mystical? Yeah, that’s a truth I can’t shake off anymore. Because how else would I get a black spot on my palm, looking way too much like the ones in the old legends—the ones sailors whisper about after a few too many drinks?
The black spot that marks you for death.
I reach into my pocket, taking the compass out. This little piece of cursed metal was supposed to be my ticket to freedom. Instead, it’s just shackled me to a whole mess of truths I’d rather not face—like the fact that The Lady can end me whenever she damn well pleases. That storm? The red rain? And the way she spoke to Vini?
I can’t deny her existence anymore.
Zayan’s watching me, jaw clenched, waiting for me to say something that’ll tip the scales one way or the other. I meet his gaze, utterly lost inside. Still, the decision has to be made.
“We’re stepping into it,” I say, even though I’m not convinced it’s a good idea. “And we’re doing it because we don’t have a choice. You know it, I know it. So let’s stop pretending we’re in control of anything here. We get onto his ship, and we figure the rest out later. If we need to fight, we will fight.”
Zayan nods, but his entire body is tense. I saw the way he barely fended off Fabien earlier—he would’ve been dead if I hadn’t stepped in. His injury is slowing him down too much, and he won’t be much of a help if we’d need to fight again. But staying here, hoping for a passerby ship, is as good as starving to death anyway.
“Listen,” I say, lowering my voice, casting a glance over my shoulder at where I know Fabien’s lurking. “We need him. For now. But we keep our eyes open, and our weapons closer.”
“Fine,” he mutters, “but the second he gives us a reason—“
“We deal with it,” I finish for him.
For a moment, something akin to appreciation flutters through Zayan’s eyes, and I think he’s going to give me one of his signature smirks again. But then his leg twitches and a wince of pain crosses through him instead.
Vinicola finally gets to his feet, hands raw and red.
