Frozen

“Don’t—” the girl in black warned. “It’s—”

But it was too late, Wes was already on board and had headed down to the lower decks to see if he could find the crew. Down below, the empty cabins were filled waist high with water. He walked back up to the upper deck to the bridge, and there he found the answer to his question. Two deckhands, both dead—shot in the head, it looked like. The captain was at the helm, slumped over, cold and dead, another bullet in the middle of his forehead. The bridge was enclosed in glass on all sides. Wes could see the holes where the shots had entered and exited. The bullets had come from another vessel, and the clean shots to the head told the rest of the story. If the ship had been attacked by slavers, the men would have seen them coming and hid from their fire. But the crew never saw these shots coming. Only a trained sniper could take out a mark from nearly a click. The dead men never even knew they were targets.

Whoever did this hadn’t even bothered to board the ship to look for passengers. With the crew dead and the hull leaking, the ocean would claim anyone left on the boat. Only the RSA would let its citizens drown and starve as punishment for crossing the forbidden ocean.

So, the naval carriers were out on patrol. They would have to be even more careful now, make sure none of the boys or Nat stayed up on deck during the daylight hours; the crew would hate it, no one liked being trapped down in the cabins, but if the snipers were out there . . .

The ship lurched to the side and Wes climbed quickly down the narrow stairs that led back to the deck. He nearly tripped on the last step. Something had changed, the walls were moving, the ship was taking on more water. The sinking ship had three open ports and maybe even a few blast holes that were allowing additional water to enter the craft, increasing her rate of descent as she sank quickly now into the sea. Wes reached the deck, but it was too late; one side of the craft had caught on the tip of a trashberg and the other was submerged below the water. The ship’s metal hull ripped and the ocean flooded in all around him.

Wes ran back to the bridge where the dead men rested. Their blank eyes stared at him from all sides. The black water was following him up the stairs. In a moment the ship would be entirely under water. He pulled the captain’s chair from its mount and rammed it through the broken glass. The shattered pane collapsed and the chair flew into the ocean. Wes climbed out, cutting himself as he struggled to reach the roof of the bridge.

He leapt from the wreckage toward the rope that was dangling from his ship, but the distance was too far, and he flailed, falling to the water.

He locked eyes with Daran—who held the rope, his eyes flat and cold. Where was Shakes? “THROW IT BACK!” Wes yelled. Daran remained impassive, and Wes knew what he was thinking. Without Wes, Daran would only have Shakes to deal with, and that wouldn’t be too hard; he would be able to take care of Shakes and Nat, throw them overboard with the stupid starving family as soon as Wes drowned, then take control of the ship and head back home.

“THROW IT BACK, I SAID!”

But Daran merely shrugged. He watched without remorse as the water rose.

Wes screamed as he plunged below the surface. He tried to close his eyes and mouth, but it all happened too fast. The black fluid burnt like alcohol in his mouth. He pressed his eyelids closed in an attempt to push back the black water. His arms flailed in the smooth alien liquid. But his legs kicked hard, and he was able to pull himself up, and break through, gasping for air. He squinted, looking around, but his blurred vision saw only gray sky and water. The rope was gone.

Nat . . . , he cried in his mind, can you hear me?

Cold waves crashed over his head. He closed his eyes as he sank below again. Something crashed into his spine. Maybe it was a rail from the ship or just some random piece of junk; either way, it stung, and he opened his mouth involuntarily. Black water filled his lungs. He was drowning. He would die.

But just as he took his last breath, he felt a warm, powerful force lift him up from the water and toward the rope, and he lunged out and grabbed it, as Shakes and Nat pulled him to safety. He fell onto the deck on all fours, and they helped him up, Nat putting her arms around him.

“All right, boss?” Shakes said, patting his back. “I’ll get you a Nutri, be right back.”

“Thank you,” he said, taking Nat’s hand. He felt the lovely warmth of her skin, so like the warmth that had saved him from sure death. He should have kissed her the other day. He wanted to kiss her now.

“Nat . . . look at me,” he said. “What’s wrong?”

She bowed her head.

“Don’t cry.”

“It’s nothing,” she said, pulling out of his grasp.

Wes let her go, feeling his emotions roil within him. She’d heard him call for her. There was something between them they couldn’t deny anymore. It scared her—and it scared him, too. But another part of him was happy, happier than he’d ever felt in his life. He wished she hadn’t run away like that. He felt a sudden emptiness, as if she had answered his question without him asking it, and the answer, alas, was no. This was not meant to be.

“What was that all about?” Farouk asked.

“She pulled him from the ocean,” Daran spat.

“How’d she do that?”

“She can do that sort of thing because she’s marked, dumb-ass. Or are you as blind as Shakes?”

“She’s marked . . . right . . . I forgot . . .”

“And she’s not the only one.” Zedric nodded, pointing to the girl draped in black.

30

NAT STUMBLED AS SHE WALKED AWAY from the group gathered around the rail. She had heard Wes call for her—had seen his distress so clearly—the black water around his face, his open mouth in a silent scream. Before she knew what she was doing, she had been able to focus her power like never before, to send her strength to save him. He unlocked something in her that she’d never been able to do before, and it frightened her. She could sense the voice in her head was silent, disapproving. Wes was falling for her, too, and it was wrong of her to encourage it. It had been a flirtation, nothing more, but now . . . now it was different. The way he looked at her! He couldn’t feel that way about her. He would only get hurt. She could only hurt him. That’s what she did. She hurt people.

Fire and pain.

Rage and ruin.

Daran with his bloody, burnt hand.

She would push him away, she decided. She would make him forget her. It was wrong of her to have led him on . . . to have made him think that he could ever be anything to her but a runner she had hired.

When she’d recovered, she looked back to see what the crew was staring at—the girl wearing long black robes, a cowl over her head, a scarf around her neck and mouth, long black gloves on her hands. Her bright violet eyes and golden hair glittered from the darkness of her hood.

“I know what you are,” Daran sneered, pointing his gun at her menacingly.

“Leave her alone,” Shakes warned, coming up next to him and unlocking his gun.

But Daran wouldn’t stop or he couldn’t help himself. He’d gone unhinged, Nat realized. He was on the edge before, but now he was well and truly lost. Nat feared for the girl. Daran had shown his hand—had revealed his tell—he’d already tried to hurt Nat and, just moments before, he’d even tried to get rid of Wes. He was dangerous, a powder keg ready to explode.

“What do you look like under that curtain you wear? Like a candy-colored corpse? Or a painted skeleton?”

Zedric backed away nervously.

“She’s a guest,” Wes warned, his tone commanding. “And this is still my boat. Put the gun down, Daran. I won’t ask you again.”

There was an ugly silence, and no one moved; Nat felt as if she had forgotten to breathe. Daran shifted, and Wes preempted his strike, but Daran had already cocked his gun. He was raving. “I don’t want no dirty sylph