With that, he spins to his workbench, muttering under his breath as he sorts through jars and vials, like some sort of demented apothecary. His hands fly across glass and metal, pulling out this and that, murmuring too softly to catch, but there’s an intensity in his eyes now—a dark focus that would be almost impressive, if it wasn’t so creepy.
“Give me an hour at best,” he says finally, not even looking back. “I’ll see what I can manage.”
This answer seems to satisfy Fabien Rancour enough.
29
Gypsy
The first thing Zayan and I do is buy two cloaks large enough to swallow us whole. They’re the kind of drab, shapeless things no one would look twice at. And that’s exactly the point.
I toss a couple of coins at the old merchant, whose eyes don’t even lift from the ground, trained on the dirt, like he knows too much to care who buys his wares.
He’s smart to do so. No one who buys camouflage wants to be remembered. And everyone on this island is capable of murder.
“Where did you get that money?” Zayan asks, eyebrow raised, his tone half-curious, half-amused, as he slips his cloak over his head.
I pull my cloak around my shoulders. “Surprised you didn’t go rooting through Fabien’s stash,” I murmur, voice low. “If you had, you’d know he keeps a fair bit of coin lying around, practically begging to be taken. I helped myself.”
Beneath his hood, I see a glint of amusement. He steps closer, his hand catching my waist, pulling me in a way that’s like his second nature now. His lips hover by my ear, hot against the coldair. “I had better things to do in my free time,” he says, voice low and smug.
A smirk tugs at my lips. “A miracle, then, that I managed to snoop around when you weren’t all over me,” I whisper back.
“Definitely a miracle,” he purrs.
A heat stirs in me, part from his words—part from the thrill of this, of all places. It’s new, this thing we’re doing: hands on each other in broad daylight, careless in front of every sneering bastard and snake-eyed trader or shifty whore on this island. They wouldn’t guess I’m a former Serpent, Silverbeard’s daughter, or that he’s the same Zayan who dives for treasure like he’s born to it, Roche’s pet terror in the Marauders.
No, they wouldn’t guess it. Because they’d never believe two supposed enemies would be here, tangled up together, right out in the open. It’s as reckless as it is exhilarating.
I tilt my head, catching his gaze with that same reckless glint. “You do realize,” I drawl, feeding the sick thrill of it, “our old crews could be here, too. Watching.”
What would my father do if he saw me here and now? I doubt he’d try to kill me. But Roche would most definitely try to kill Zayan. That man is the most ruthless motherfucker on the Whisperwind Sea, even though Zayan claims he has a heart. I’m inclined to believe it’s just a piece of lung lodged higher in his airways that he mistook for one.
Zayan leans in, his breath warm at my neck, making me stumble a little. It’s ridiculous, but I can’t help a small grin. “We’re at the very edge of their territories,” he murmurs, pressing close. “Why would they bother coming here? After Escindida, it’s unlikely.”
“Unlikely,” I echo. “Not impossible.”
Since we crossed paths with Fabien at that cursed wreck, the compass has been pointing us in a completely new direction—no longer dragging us east, but pulling us back north, dangerouslyclose to the Whisperwind Sea, the very waters where Silver and Roche circle each other like sharks.
Zayan’s grip tightens around my waist, pulling me closer until there’s barely an inch of space between us.
“Possible, yes,” he concedes, his tone a rasping whisper meant only for my ears. “But I’m done being afraid of them, Gypsy. That fear’s dead and gone.”
He pulls back just enough to meet my gaze, his eyes catching the faintest light—a glint of something wild, dark, and oh-so-familiar. It’s that feral look, the one he wears when he’s weighing his odds of another reckless idea, right before he dives headlong into it. I know this look too well; it’s like staring into a mirror that refuses to break. Odds are, I’ve worn the same expression more times than I’d like to admit.
“Right,” I murmur, barely loud enough for the words to pass between us.
For that brief beat, the marketplace fades away, and it’s just the two of us, pretending we’re invisible.
And then, a memory strikes like a barb. My lips press together as something cold digs its way up from the back of my mind. We may have put old grudges and grievances aside—or so we tell ourselves—but there are matters we’ve left untouched, festering like unhealed wounds.
“What about Silverbeard?” I ask, a calculated edge creeping into my voice. “Does he not scare you even a little?”
“Why would he?”
“You’re the reason I left his crew in the first place. Or did you forget? I chose to walk away, yes, but I know my father. Leave him to stew, and he’ll twist things up in his head until he sees a traitor in his own shadow. You might just be the traitor he’s conjured up.”
A flicker of unease crosses Zayan’s face.
