What the hell just happened?
“We’re making it!” Vinicola’s voice comes from near the hatch, rough and shredded from shouting through the storm. Not that smooth, bard-like tone he carried when I met him. He sounds almost like a sailor now, if you can believe it. “Oh, by the holy wine of my godmother, we’re actually making it!”
I glance at him. A shaky grin splits his face, the relief palpable in his wide, silver-blue eyes.
“Don’t celebrate too soon,” I mutter. Without the thunder’s roar, my words seem to carry.
Zayan moves next to me. His hand reaches for the railing, his moss-green eyes searching mine, like he’s looking for something. A question, maybe. Or worse—a damn expectation. Like now, after all of this, I owe him some kind of acknowledgment. Like I’m supposed to admit out loud what I’ve just seen.
“You’ve seen it,” Zayan says, proving it to be true. “Do you believe it now?”
My stomach twists. There’s a pull at the edges of everything I am—everything I thought I knew. It’s uncomfortable. I hate it.
“Believe what?” I ask, refusing to look at him. I turn away, focusing on the horizon instead, where the sky’s still thick with the remnants of the storm.
“Come on, Gyp—“
“Coincidence. That’s all.”
Even as I say it, the words taste bitter, like I’ve just spat out something I don’t believe. The compass… the storm… the way the wind shifted the moment I tossed it away. It doesn’t sit right, but I can’t—no, I won’t—give it more thought. Not here. Not now.
Instead, I grip the wheel harder, steering us through the now-calmer waters. The clouds thin, revealing patches of clear sky. The wind eases into a brisk breeze, and the waves settle into a choppy but manageable rhythm.
I hate it. I hate all of it. The sea might have always been fickle and wild, but this? This is something else. Something I can’t explain, and I despise the way it makes me feel.
Then, as the horizon shifts, an island appears up ahead. A knot tightens in my chest.
I don’t recognize this island. I don’t know where the hell we are. But one thing’s clear. We have to head for it.
We don’t have a choice.
12
Gypsy
Ijump into the water, the sky splitting open with the first rays of dawn. The island’s only a cannon shot away from the schooner, so the swim doesn’t take long. But by the time I drag myself onto the sand, I’m breathless anyway.
I’m so damn tired.
I can’t feel my fingers or toes, and my body’s soaked, the water leaving slick, swirling patterns on my palms. They’re numb as I crawl up the wet sand, digging my palms and knees deep, the weight of exhaustion pulling me down, the waves tempting me to just sprawl out and let them take me.
But then I hear splashing behind me, and I know Cagney’s catching up. No way in hell am I letting him see me like this—beaten down, half-dead on the sand.
I force my legs to move, muscles screaming, and somehow I get to my feet, though my legs wobble beneath me. I turn just in time to see Zayan haul himself out of the water, standing at hip level, hands raised like some damn hero with his pistol and dagger—both miraculously still in his grip. Of course, his steel survived the chaos while mine didn’t.
What a joke.
“Don’t even think about coming near me.” I jab a finger in his direction, voice hard, even though I can barely stand. “I don’t want to see your face, Cagney. Crawl back to whatever hole you came from.”
He hauls himself out of the water, grinning like he just won a fight instead of nearly dying. “Keep that attitude up, love, and I’ll start thinking you missed me after Daddy let me go.” His voice is easy, casual, dripping with that damn cocky charm that makes me want to slap him.
I scoff, shaking off the water from my hair. “Miss you? I’d rather choke on saltwater.” I run a hand through my soaked hair, pushing it out of my face. “Go slither into the grass with the rest of your kind.”
“My kind?” He cocks an eyebrow, all mock surprise.
“Snakes!” I throw the word over my shoulder, venom lacing my voice.
He laughs. Of course, he laughs. “Snakes, huh? You’re the one who belonged to the Serpents, Gypsy. Not me.”
