Frozen

“I have a hobby. I like taking what matters most to people. It keeps life interesting.” She yawned.

“You can’t have the boat.”

“We’ll see,” she said sweetly.

“Fine. Let me see the salt.”

He held it to his eye and then tossed it to the beautiful girl with bright orange hair and gold eyes who was standing behind his chair. A sylph, maybe? Nat couldn’t be sure. The mages’ mark on her cheek shaped like a serpent meant she was a healer, Nat knew. “Check this,” he said.

“It’s real,” the girl said, tasting a little of it with her finger. Her eyes shone greedily.

Nat flicked her eyes away, disturbed. “Show me your cards,” she said, laying down hers: a straight flush.

This time, the slaver smiled broadly. “Full house.” He took the velvet bag of salt off the table.

“My husband will kill me,” she mumbled.

“I’ll make it easy; you win this next one, you can have the bird,” he said with a smile now that he could afford to be generous. He threw the keys to the boat in the middle of the table. “I’m a gentleman.”

Nat nodded. She was prepared. Wes’s words rang in her ears. He’ll get arrogant, he’ll want to show off . . . and when he does . . .

Now was her chance. She had been watching the game closely, counting cards. The dealer put down the first cards. King of clubs. Queen of diamonds.

Avo Hubik smirked.

The next one: two of hearts.

The slaver studied his cards with a frown.

An image came to her unbidden: Avo taking another card and drawing a king, which would give him a high pair, which would win him the game, as she held nothing but garbage in her hand. The image faded. It was a premonition. A warning. She understood that she couldn’t let that happen, and she began to panic. She had to do something! But what? She couldn’t control her power, she couldn’t do anything . . . she was paralyzed, cold—

A sudden gust of wind blew the cards from the deck, which scattered across the table.

“What the . . . ?” the dealer cursed.

The gold-eyed girl stared at Nat, her eyes blazing.

Nat didn’t dare look up and scrunched her forehead, pretending to concentrate on her cards.

Was that her? How did that happen? It didn’t matter; what mattered was that the deck had been shuffled.

Avo didn’t seem to think anything of it. He tossed a card and picked up a new one.

She picked up the next card, and somehow, before she had even looked at it, she knew she held the winning hand. Two of clubs. With the two of hearts on the table, it made a pair.

The dealer threw down the river card. Nine of clubs.

Nat felt her skin tingle with anticipation.

The slaver showed his hand with a grin. Ace high.

Nat showed hers.

She had won with the lowest cards in the deck. A pair of twos.

The slaver’s face paled.

She took the keys off the table. “I believe this is mine.”

20

“THIS is what I won? This is your legendary ship? I say we give it back to the Slob!”

Wes ignored her and jumped onto his boat, which was moored to a rotting pier at the far end of the city. A skeleton of a roller coaster and a Ferris wheel stood not far from them, and a handful of boats bobbed in the water, all of them half-flooded derelicts, their hulls blasted full of holes, engines missing. The rest of the team followed him on board, but Nat remained on the pier, her arms crossed in front of her, an angry, frustrated look on her face.

“Are you going to stand there all day or are you going to get in?” he said finally, as he helped Shakes pull off the tarp.

“I’m not getting in that . . . it looks like it’s about to sink!”

“Suit yourself,” he said, whistling as his crew found their places and hauled in the supplies for the journey. He unrolled the canvas, feeling a glow of pleasure from being back on board. Wes had missed his ship, and its loss had been a harder blow than he would care to admit. He wasn’t one of those sentimental fools, overly attached to their vehicles. A car was just a car, a truck was just a truck. But he did have a soft spot for this one, although he was more amused than annoyed by Nat’s insults. The boat was an old Coast Guard ship, a converted fishing trawler, more than a century old, and built to last, fifty feet long, with a battered hull, a deck pocked with holes and a Jolly Roger painted crudely on the starboard side, ALB-187 etched on the transom. The steel rails had rusted, and the paint was chipped, sure, giving the boat a saggy, dilapidated air, but there was more to Alby than looks alone. Nat might not know it, but he and Shakes had done major work on its engines, and the old girl practically had rocket boosters for propellers, that’s how fast it could go.

“Seriously, we traded one of the most valuable things left on this planet—salt—for this?” Nat was saying. “This isn’t funny!”

Wes looked up from his task, trying not to roll his eyes. He had to hand it to her—she was as tough as they came, she hadn’t blinked once. Without her, he’d never have gotten his ship back. But enough of the princess act already. “We’re not laughing,” he said. “I’m sorry Alby isn’t one of those sleek white whales the navy uses. If I’d known you were such a snob, I’d have turned you in as a border jumper.”

He went back to his task, but she remained on the pier.

“Are you getting in or what?” he snapped. Then he saw the look on her face.

“Behind you,” she whispered.

Wes sniffed the air and sighed. He knew the stench well, knew immediately what was standing behind him. With one graceful motion, he unholstered his sidearm and fired before he’d even turned around. The first bullet struck the deck of the boat and the second flew past the creature’s ear, tearing a chunk of flesh from the earlobe. The thriller, a rotting corpse of a boy that had most likely huddled in the shadow of the canvas, staggered backward, away from him. It was human in shape, but its skin reflected no light and his eyes were a blind, glassy white. Wes emptied the rest of the clip into the air, and the creature dove into the black water.

He exhaled in relief until he saw it wasn’t his only problem. “Nat! Get in the damn boat!” he yelled, firing his weapon once more.

Nat turned to look behind her and screamed. A rotten corpse was reaching for her. It was a girl once, but no more; the face hung from its ear, the flesh had decayed to a turgid, swollen mass, and it was grasping for her with its cold, dead hands. It slumped to the ground, as Wes shot out its knees. “COME ON!” He extended his hand and she finally took it.

They were everywhere—swarming the boardwalk, shambling out of the shadows, out of the rotting carnival booths and the broken carousel. There were so many of them, some of them fell through the rotted wood planks of the pier into the black water. The thrillers were far from mindless, moving with intent, their hands and feet grasping for holds.

“They’re not dead!” Nat said shakily, as he pulled her into the boat.

“Tell me something new,” he muttered. But he knew what she meant. Saw the horror on her face as she processed the information. The thrillers weren’t dead at all. They were very much alive— conscious—their distress and desperation unnerving in its intensity.

“SHAKES! CUT THE ROPE!” he ordered, sliding his key into the ignition and jamming the engine out of neutral. The boat was still moored to the pier, and as he pulled forward, the two aft ropes snapped, their long lines whipping through the air. A third line, wrapped over the bow, pressed against the front of the craft, slowly sawing at the hull. The sound was excruciating.