Page 58 of When the Sky Breaks

My head swam and my stomach lurched. Neal shoved the basin back into my lap just in time.

“Well,” Ansel said, straightening his waistcoat and rolling down his sleeves, “I’ll just put this . . . detritus . . . overboard and see what I can do about calling off the nixie.”

Neal and I remained frozen, silent. Ansel had just strangled Iksura’s operative, with his bare hands, in his bedroom no less—a jarring, gruesome reminder of exactly what his Outer Court monster-hunting duties had required of him over the past four centuries.

“You do that,” I managed to choke out.

Twenty-Two

Neal

Sorcha’s skin was dry and burning by the time Ansel dragged the body out to the promenade and shut the door behind him. She curled against my chest, murmuring that she felt worse than usual.

I carried her back to our bed, let Milkweed hop up and nestle down beside her, then glanced at my watch. It was almost one in the morning and her fever was up—even worse now with how dehydrated she was from the seasickness. She needed yarrow and creosote, which required hot water, which we likely wouldn’t be able to find at this hour.

I thought of all the places I could check, mused how the crew mess might still be open, then realized that investigating any options properly would mean leaving her alone for far too long. And I wasn’t about to do that—not with her half delirious with fever, not mere moments after our friend and mentor had strangled a man in front of her.

“I’ll be back in just a minute,” I said softly, kissing Sorcha’s head. “Just stay. Don’t try to get up.”

“Don’t try to get up,” Milkweed repeated, ears flattening against his back in worry.

She nodded vaguely, eyes glassy and unfocused.

I ducked out onto the deck, and rain was still lashing against the ship, the wind howling like some living, tormented thing. Clearly Ansel hadn’t found a way to call off the nixie just yet.

I made my way up to the salon—near deserted at this time of night—and found one lone man behind the bar. I asked first if he had any boiling water and he shook his head, then I asked if he could get me the room number for Andrew Merrick, lying vaguely about wanting to play cards with him since I couldn’t sleep with the storm.

I rushed to Andrew’s room and pounded on the door until he woke and answered it.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“Sorcha’s sick,” I said. “Ansel’s . . . indisposed. I need hot water to steep medicine for her. But I can’t leave her long enough to go find some.”

“I’ll see to it,” Andrew agreed immediately.

That caught me off guard, I’d expected to have to convince him, make excuses. I was fully prepared to beg.

“I’ve got a wife and a daughter,” Andrew said. “I know how pregnancy can get. And I’ve heard it’s even worse for the Elves. I’ll handle it. Go back to her.”

I hurried back to our cabin and opened the door to find Milkweed hopping around desperately, too agitated to mimic, only chirping. Sorcha lay on our bunk, skin flush and dry, limp and unconscious.

“Wake up, love,” I said, shaking her shoulder. “Come on. Wake up.”

“Come on. Wake up,” Milkweed chirped.

“Sorcha, come on!” I shook her harder.

She didn’t stir. I took a deep breath and thought back to how Ansel had roused her back in the Texas desert. I twisted her earlobe between my fingers, barely getting a reaction. Failing that, I dug my knuckles into her sternum, hard enough I watched bruising bloom on her chest. She winced, pulled away, but her eyes didn’t open and she didn’t make a sound.

The door slammed open and Andrew appeared, cup of dark, steaming water in hand.

“I found something,” he said, rushing in and slamming the door in his wake. I glanced back to Sorcha, hoping the noise would have roused her—it hadn’t. He handed me the cup and I crushed yarrow and creosote into the steaming water. It smelled foul, like grease and smoke and stagnant salt.

“Where did you find this?” I asked.

“Engine room,” Andrew replied.

“Are we sure it’s safe to drink?” I asked.