It’s madness, pure and simple. Even though we’re on solid ground, it feels like we’re tossed in the middle of the raging sea.
Vinicola’s voice echoes through the ship, a frantic wail of terror. “You! Leave me alone!”
I grit my teeth and push harder, the pain in my leg flaring like someone’s twisting a knife in it. I round a corner just in time to see Vinicola careen through a door and into what looks like the cargo hold. He stumbles over crates and barrels, arms flailing in desperation as he tries to put as much distance between himself and the lunatic chasing him.
Gypsy’s hot on his heels, moving with a speed and grace that is, frankly, unfair. She leaps over everything in her path like some kind of bloodthirsty goddess, eyes locked on the poor bastard chasing him.
I have no business noticing the way her perky tits jiggle as she runs or how a thin layer of sweat covers her neck and cleavage. But what can I do? Noticing her has become second nature, like it’s embedded in my blood, a sickness I can’t shake.
She’ll be the death of me.
The bastard chasing Vinicola skids to a halt, eyes darting around the hold like a rat sniffing out his prey. And then he locks onto something in the shadows. My stomach twists—he’s found Vinicola.
But the bard’s quicker than he looks. I watch as Vinicola slips through another door, out into the storm. I follow, bursting out onto the deck just in time to see him climbing the rigging, scrambling higher.
Then something stops me cold. Everything’s wrong. The deck, the masts, the jagged rock splitting the ship in half—it’s all slick with blood. Or at least, that’s what it looks like. But no, not blood… not exactly. It’s the rain.
Bloodwater.
It takes me a second to piece it together, but the horror creeps in quick. The storm’s turned, and now thick, red droplets fall from the sky like some goddamn omen. The entire deck is soaked in it, the air thick with the metallic stench.
Roche’s voice echoes in my head, uninvited:“If you Bloodwater falling from the sky, death is coming.”It was one of the things he never joked about. Roche, the man who doubts everything, never dismissedthat.
Is that what this is? Death’s grand entrance?
I glance at the crimson-soaked deck, at the man hunting Vinicola, and then at Gypsy, who’s charging ahead like nothing’s out of place. My gut twists, but one thing’s clear.
If death is coming, it better come for him.
Because it sure as hell won’t be taking us.
23
Vinicola
This is a nightmare.
My precious shirt is ruined. Stinging drops of red rain keep falling into my eyes. There’s an angry, scary-looking man chasing after me.
Nightmare. Absolute nightmare.
My breath comes in ragged gasps as I weave through the moldy deck, the decaying ship underneath my feet just moments away from crumbling down and throwing all four of us into the rocky abyss. I can hear the man’s footsteps gaining on me, his harsh breathing mirroring my own panic.
“Keep running, Vini!” Miss Captain roars somewhere behind us.
Easier said than done, Miss Captain, considering the human mountain chasing me is probably part ogre. I mean, sure, no horns or tails (that I’ve noticed), but everything else? It checks out. That permanent scowl? Check. Soul that feels half-dead? Check. Murderous intent? Oh, definitely.
And from three on ascent, there came four,
But the fourth was trouble, and more.
He sought to kill all the rest,
To take the compass on his quest.
Like a brute, savage and unkind,
The bard must flee, leave all behind.
