“Good.” She straightens, closing her eyes and exhaling sharply before flicking them open once more. Resolve hardens within them. “If you want to lure the sorcerer away from his castle, you need to bleed. And you need to bleed alot. He told me that’s how he can track you. Through your magic or your blood.”
I blink at her then, not quite understanding. “I need… to…”
“Bleed,” she emphasizes before turning on her heel. Turning her back on me, resolute, and stalking out the galley door. Over her shoulder, she bites out, “If your blood is in every sea, the sorcerer won’t be able to track you easily. Even with an army and whatever magic he has. If your blood is in every sea, and the sorcerer is spinning his wheels trying to nail you down, we’ll have the time we need to infiltrate his castle.” Then, lower, she repeats, “You need to bleed.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
ARION
The sight of blood does not usually sicken me.
But right now, watching Zephyra’s arm weep crimson rivulets over the four seas makes my stomach turn and my mouth pool with hot, copper saliva. I cannot be sick. She is counting on me. She is a mermaid, her life is in my hands now, and for some wild reason, I don’t contemplate ending it. Not even for a second. Not even if our bond didn’t exist.
I grasp her wrist with firm fingers, holding her steady even as her pulse slows.
We perch on the end of a wide plank that juts out from the starboard side of the ship. Her nails curl into my thigh as she struggles to maintain her balance, her teeth grinding whenever the ship swoops too low or too fast from one of Amaya’s magical winds. Zephyra’s hair whips between us, until it almost looks as if it’s part of the sunset skies. A gilded horizon streaked through with pretty pink. “Are we done yet?” she hisses.
“Is bleeding profusely the reason for your foul mood, or is that due to the flying?” I ask, trying to keep my voice light. Casual. As if this isn’t affecting me in the slightest.
She glowers at me, a peach flush spreading across her round cheeks. “I’m sorry, warlock. Are youenjoyingthis?” She glances downat my own wrist, which bleeds in the same controlled rhythm as her own. But I merely mask my own pain, my own agony. The magic I’m using… it could be enough to kill me. Tomorrow. Next week.
Soon.
I’m not thinking about that, however. Just as I’m not thinking about how fucking angry seeing her hurt is making me.
“More than you,” I answer her. “Definitely.”
The ship cuts straight through a cloud, and mist dampens the pale blue of her blouse and the black of her vest. Behind us, on the deck, Amaya’s crew shifts the sails, following her brusque command to head north toward the Sol. Vesper sulks near the mast, sitting on a jute stool she must have stolen from the galley and trimming her hair with a dagger she didn’t have thirty minutes ago. Beside her, Gavriall has started drawing a new map to replace the one we damaged with fire and rain. I scoff under my breath. Some crew—and now our futures are in their hands.
“If I pass out,” Zephyra says, “make sure I don’t tumble to my death.”
I glance up to find her gaze burning through mine.
“I mean it, warlock. If I splatter against the rocks below, I’m making it everyone’s problem. I’m haunting this entire ship for eternity.”
“You know if that happens, I’ll be dead too.”
“I’m aware.” Her gaze falls to our wrists. My blood collects in a bucket, while hers collects in the sea. The Syl first, then the Sel, now the Sol, and then on to the Sal. We’ll make another full trip around the globe after that, visiting the seas in a different pattern, zigzagging over every inch of the world so the sorcerer can’t begin to guess Zephyra’s true location. It’s as sound a plan as any we’ve had so far. Zephyra volunteered it when she returned with Vesper. When Vesper announced that she wouldn’t be attempting murder—at least, not anytime soon. I trust her even less than I trust the others, but there’s nothing we can do about that now. She’s here, and Zephyra won’t let us kill her or lock her up again.
Zephyra’s nose wrinkles at the sight of the crimson sloshing in the pail. “This is revolting,” she declares, blinking slowly. Too slowly. “My head is swimming.”
“I believe it’s actuallyflying,” I say, my wings spread wide behind me, reveling in every second of the wild breeze. My feathers rustle and preen.
“If you start telling jokes now, I might jump.”
I arch a brow. “Is that all it would have taken? One bad pun, and you’d have strung the noose around your own neck.”
“Happily,” she deadpans. Her nails slice through the thick fabric of my pants, bruising my skin, but I ignore the fragments of pain. She really does look as if she’s going to faint. “What can I do?” I ask, even as I bloodlet her with my magic.
The effort of it—the control of inflicting wound after wound while trying to simultaneously replenish her veins—steals half my breaths, but there is no other way.
She leans forward, bracing her head on my bicep. “Make the earth stop spinning.” She groans. “I’m starting to think Vesper only suggested this for her own perverse enjoyment.”
“Oh gods, you’re right,” I say, my voice dark and hard. “She just moaned. And—shit—she’s pulling up her skirt, and Gavriall is kneeling between her thighs—”
“What?!” Her eyes fly open and she bolts upright. Too fast. Her face pales, and she falls back against my arm. “You fuckingliar.”
I laugh. Harder and louder than usual.
