20
Gypsy
The wind is changing.
There’s a buzzing in the air that makes the little hairs on my arms stand up, prickling with a tension I can’t shake. The salty scent of the sea has sharpened, and the taste of brine lingers on my lips.
I’ve felt it for a while now, this strange, irregular thumping in my chest, like my heartbeat is syncing up with something out there in the water, something waiting.
It started subtle—just a twinge, maybe an hour ago—but now, with every mile we sail, it’s growing stronger. Worse, every time the compass needle wavers, my head spins, and a slow, nauseating churn sits heavy in my gut.
I don’t know what it is, or why the sea’s pulse is suddenly pounding through my veins like this, but I know one thing for certain.
Something’s coming.
“Is it going to be a storm?” Vinicola steps up beside me, his voice hesitant, wind whipping his pale hair into his eyes as he gazes at the bruised sky.
“Looks like it,” I reply, my voice low.
The birds are gone, not a single one left in the sky, and the heavy silence that’s settled over us is thick, unnatural. The waves are turning restless, the wind biting sharper, and the humidity is clinging to us like a wet cloak. But it’s that damn buzzing—that crawling, charged-up feeling humming just beneath my skin—that tells me we’ve got more than just a storm coming our way.
She’s finally about to make a move, isn’t she?
Vinicola’s voice breaks through my thoughts, pulling me back. “Should I get the sails?”
For a moment, I glance at him and see the eager, wide-eyed man who I first saw on this ship, uncertain but burning with curiosity. But now? Three days at sea, and already he’s changed. His eyes, once bright with wonder, have narrowed, instinctively squinting against the sun and wind, the shine in them dulled just a little. His hair has lightened even more in the salt air, and the skin at the corners of his eyes is starting to crinkle.
A bit of that vibrant spark has worn off, giving way to something closer to wistfulness. He’s learning—slowly, but surely. Thanks in part to Zayan’s late-night games of half-truths and lies. Guess wrong too many times, and you end up on your knees scrubbing the deck. And Vinicola, being the bard he is, trusted too easily at first.
He’s been scrubbing a lot lately.
It’s a wonder what a little piracy can do to a man.
“Not yet,” I say, my eyes scanning the horizon. The storm isn’t quite upon us, but it’s lurking, waiting for the right moment to strike. If we don’t find shelter soon, it’s going to hit hard, and I don’t trust this patched-up schooner to hold together. Not after everything it’s been through. Not when it’s held together with jungle twigs and desperation instead of proper carpentry.
The wind is starting to howl, picking up speed, and I grip the railing tighter, feeling the ship sway beneath my feet.
“How’s the compass looking?” Zayan’s voice cuts through the wind. I turn to see him on deck, hands busy securing the water barrels so they don’t get tossed overboard when the storm hits.
And it will hit. No doubt about that.
“We’re heading north now,” I shout back.
“Any islands nearby?”
I squint at the horizon, trying to recall the last map we studied. Not that it matters now—those maps are below deck, secured with the rest of our belongings, out of reach in the wind’s fury. My gut is telling me we’re in uncharted waters anyway.
“None in the immediate area!” I reply. The familiar prickling under my skin makes me shudder even as I try to conceal it.
Zayan curses, loud enough that even the wind can’t drown it out. But he knew this was coming. We all did. Ever since we made the decision as a crew to follow the compass, it has felt like we’ve been living on borrowed time.
At first, the sea was calm. No sign of The Lady.
But the compass kept shifting. The first time it shifted, it was subtle. Barely a twitch. Almost easy to ignore. But now? Now it pulls at us, yanking us from one direction to the next, like it’s got a mind of its own.
I glance down at the compass, my fingers tightening around the wheel. The needle jerks violently to the northeast, then quivers, like it’s caught in a tug-of-war with something unseen. My heart skips a beat, and I instinctively adjust our course, hands white-knuckling the wheel as I fight the urge to swear under my breath.
I am not used to this. Hell, I don’t think I will ever get used to this.
