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“Well,” he says quietly. “Your mother’s lie was a lot kinder. My mom used to tell me they were aliens hunting for children who misbehaved to feed the creatures of the sea.” He chuckles and goes back to stripping the wire.

“What do you want that for?” I ask.

“Might be able to barter with the wiring and fittings at the markets. Angie’s meds aren’t cheap.”

I lean against the wall and watch him work.

He closes his bag and slings it over his shoulder. “At least this wasn’t a total waste of time. Come on, let’s go.” I don’t argue. The memory of the people who died here feels like a livewire under my skin, like their screams are trapped inside this ravaged metal tomb.

We climb back out into the gray daylight and make a break for the wall, and I blink as my eyes adjust. We’re halfway across the beach when movement on the horizon catches my eye.

A dark shape cuts through the water with a speed that makes my stomach drop. I grab Arlo’s arm and point.

He stops and squints out at the sea. It’s a ship but not the kind we’re used to seeing. The supply boats that crawl into Purgatory Island’s harbor every few weeks are big, ugly vessels with patched sails, rusted hulls, and decks piled with crates that never hold enough. They limp in, unload, and reload before leaving again.

This ship is nothing like that. Its hull is dark, almost black, slicing through the gray water quickly. Despite the low wind, the sails are full and stretched taut, and even from this distance, I can tell it’s massive. Three masts, maybe four, towering above the deck.

“That’s not the kind of ship that carries grain and livestock,” Arlo says.

“No it isn’t,” I mumble.

It’s the kind that carries a king.

He watches it for a moment, his eyes narrowing as the ship draws closer to our coastline, heading toward the flesh markets. Then he shakes his head and turns back toward the wall.

“I heard some of the others talking yesterday, some of the men who donate blood in town. The King’s Guard stationed outside the blood bank appeared worried, apparently.”

“Worried about what?”

“The treaties between the islands.”

We keep walking, but Alro’s voice lowers while his eyes are scanning the beach ahead for any sign of patrol.

“They said pirating has gotten worse. Ships are being attacked between kingdoms. Supply routes aren’t safe anymore.”

“Why would the kingdoms be pirating each other’s ships? They take what they want from here.”

“Because every island is struggling. Not just us. Supplies are running out everywhere, and when there’s not enough to go around—”

“The kings fight over what’s left,” I finish.

Great, this is just what we need. Not only is the sea turning against us, but soon the kings will turn against each other, and we’ll all be caught in the crossfire.

“How’s Sable?” he asks, changing the subject.

“Worse,” I say finally. “The cough is deeper. You can hear it from across the barn when she tries to take a full breath, and the fever won’t break. She needs medicine, or I need herbs to make some, or at least food so she can try to fight it.”

We make it back over the wall faster than we came, knowing soon the town will wake up and our risk of being caught will rise. Arlo goes first again, catching me when I drop, but his hands don’t linger this time.

We stick to the back route of narrow alleys between buildings. We’re rounding the corner to the main street when his arm shoots out across my chest, pressing me back against the wall.

Voices, low and gruff, come from the street just ahead.

Arlo pulls me sideways behind a stack of wooden shipping crates, and we press flat against the cold stone, watching.

Through the narrow gap between two crates, I can see two big lycan guards. Not just tall, either. They’re broad, thick through the shoulders and arms, moving with that particular ease that lycans carry, even in human form. Neither seems fazed by the cold. One of them tilts his head slightly, nostrils flaring as he scents the air.

Arlo’s hand finds mine behind the crates.