Frozen

Nat pulled a knife from Wes’s belt and severed the rope. Her hands on his waist unnerved him for a moment, but he quickly recovered and nodded. “Good call.”

The gray cord went flying across the deck and slapped Daran hard in the back. “Watch it!” The soldier glared in their direction.

“Sorry!” she called.

When he saw it was she who had caused it, he grimaced and tried to smile. “It’s all right!”

But the boat was free, and they shot away from the pier, out of danger finally—when from belowdecks came the sound of a gunshot. He cursed the slaver and his lazy crew. Wes and his boys knew how to secure a ship from a thriller infestation, but obviously the slavers didn’t care to take the same precautions.

“Take the wheel,” Wes ordered, giving Shakes command of the ship.

“I’ll come with you,” Nat said.

He didn’t argue, and Daran followed them down the stairs as backup.

* * *

Down below, Zedric had a gun pointed at one of the creatures. The thriller had a gunshot wound in its shoulder where the soldier had shot it. Under the bright lights of the cabin, Nat could see the thriller’s face. It was a girl. Her skin was mottled and gray, and her purple eyes were lifeless as the rest. And she was wearing a familiar-looking pair of light-gray pajamas.

“Help me,” she whispered. “Please.” Her hair—Nat saw that underneath the mud and the dirt and the filth, the girl had hair the color of light, a bright, dazzling yellow. She was a sylph, or had been once, and Nat felt her blood run cold at the discovery. What was happening to them? Why were they like this?

Daran raised his gun to fire, but Wes grabbed the barrel. “Give it a rest, man, we’ll let this one swim,” he said, twisting the weapon from the soldier’s grip.

The creature saw her chance and dashed away, out onto the deck, and there was a splash as she fell into the ocean.

Zedric kicked the wall but Daran hustled him out of the cabin. “Come on! She didn’t touch you? You’re sure?” he said, yelling at his brother.

“Why’d you do that?” Nat asked Wes, staring at him. “Why’d you let her go?” He never shot to kill, she had noticed.

He put away his gun and led them back upstairs. “She’s not our first stowaway. They all want to come with us, hitch a ride out to the water.”

“The thrillers?”

“Yeah.”

Nat looked out at the pier, where hundreds of them had gathered, shuffling and groaning, their arms reaching out toward them, begging, asking for something. There were a few more bright-haired sylphs underneath the grime, and white-eyed ones with silver hair. Drau. They had to be, but these weren’t frightening at all, just incredibly sad. It was why Wes didn’t shoot them. Because the thrillers weren’t attacking them, they were asking for help.

She had never been close enough to see them before. When she had escaped, she had seen them from a distance, and had managed to keep away from them, but now she saw all too clearly the truth.

So there was one thing the government hadn’t lied about.

Those who were marked by magic were marked for death.

The thrillers weren’t the victims of chemical testing or nuclear mutation. They were people. Marked people. Magic people whose mages’ marks rotted them out from the inside, melting their flesh, their bodies decaying while their minds remained tragically alert. The military herded them into the safe zones and centers to keep them away from the rest of the population, kept the borders tight for that same reason.

It was why the military personnel in K-Town didn’t care to arrest the marked girl working as a cashier. As far as they were concerned, she was already where she belonged. She was already refuse, already part of the garbage. The thrillers were escapees from MacArthur, refugees who could not find passage, left to roam the Trash Pile, unable to die.

Looking for refuge, hoping for the Blue.

Just like her.

If she stayed, the magic inside her would kill her slowly, draining her of life, but keeping her alive. She would be trapped in a decaying physical shell, while her mind was alert to the full breadth of the horror happening to her.

She watched the marked masses flailing on the pier, their terror and their desperation at their inability to escape. Take us with you. Take us home.

Wes looked at her. “Ready to go?”

They were out of the shallows and in the open sea.

Nat gave him the same answer she’d given just a few days ago. “Ready.”

If she stayed, she would rot. But if she went . . .

She closed her eyes. There was a monster in her, a monster that was part of her, and the closer she drew to it, the closer the dark voice in her head sounded to her own.

There would be fire and smoke and devastation in her future. She would be the catalyst for something terrible. She could feel the power within her, the wild, savage, and uncontrollable force that had the ability to destroy entire worlds.

I am the monster, she thought. The voice is mine.

Part the Third

THE VOYAGE BETWEEN

“God save thee, ancient Mariner!

From the fiends that plague thee thus!—

Why look’st thou so?”—“With my crossbow

I shot the Albatross.”

—SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE, “THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER”

21

SHE SHOULDN’T HAVE BEEN SO HARD ON him about his boat—Nat felt a little bad about that—because even with her inexperienced eye, she noticed that, like the LTV, Wes had improved upon its structure to fit its new environment. He had upgraded the hull, attaching layers of steel and carbon fiber paneling over the old aluminum shell, and every inch of the craft was painted—splattered, really—with shades of gray and black paint, a camouflage meant to mimic the dull sludge of the ocean.

The crew cabin was outfitted with bunks, the beds nothing more than metal mesh hammocks strapped to the walls, each with a blanket. The room next to it had a big plastic picnic table bolted to the floor, near a black charcoal grill. The ceiling above the grill was open to the sky, so the smoke could escape, and piled next to it were a few wood crates filled with food stores they had brought on board for the journey.

The ship offered little privacy and no amenities, but what else was new. Unless she was tossed in solitary, back at the center she had had a cot in the middle of a room the size of a gymnasium. She found a corner bunk that looked unclaimed and threw her pack on the rough blanket. She peeked through the dirty porthole. Outside, the gray sky was nearly indistinguishable from the gray waters of the Pacific. The toxic sea never froze but seethed with poison, occasionally glistening in the dim light of day, glowing in iridescent colors. It could be beautiful if it wasn’t so deadly, its shimmering waves swirling with clouds of orange and green, the waves dancing