“This way,” Engle said, wiping long strands of light brown hair out of his eyes. The stairs began at the left end of the mountain and wrapped around its back, all the way up to the tower. Engle was right, they looked ancient—each step a misshapen rock, barely holding on.
“Careful on your way up,” Melda said, tying her hair back with one of her ribbons. “The rocks are slippery, and falling would be deadly.”
The higher they climbed, the truer her statement became. One wrong step, one fallen stair, and they could all go tumbling to their deaths. The sea crested wildly, all whitecaps now.
“Watch out!” Engle said, as a wave fifty feet high rushed right toward them. Tor pressed himself against the mountain, trapped, nowhere to go but up. But Melda was at the front, and she stood frozen in fear, staring at the rushing water.
Just short of them, the wave finally crested and crashed against the cliff, right below their feet. The ice-cold spray showered Tor, and Melda gasped. Salt in her eyes, she took a wrong next step and fell—
Only for Engle to grab her by the back of her shirt. “The water’s rising,” Engle said, voice trembling. “Go, go!”
Melda turned and began running up the steps, her boots squeaking against the wet stone. Engle was behind her, then Vesper, then Tor. Captain Forecastle was at the very end, coughing as he rushed to keep up. Tor’s chest felt frozen solid, his lungs hurting with every breath. He was soaking wet and freezing.
He slowed down to wait for the pirate, but Forecastle waved him away. “If we’re meant to go, we’d be happy to be buried in the sea.”
Another wave crashed, higher, inching closer with every moment. Rock crumbled from the mountain, down into the abyss. Tor knew he couldn’t drown, but wondered if he would survive falling into the frigid water.
He watched the tide pull out the water below them to form another massive wave, leaving hundreds of rocks, sharp as knives, in its wake. He swallowed. He might not drown, but if the freezing water didn’t kill him, those would.
The rain blurred his vision almost completely now, coming at him sideways. He didn’t dare stop and kept his eyes on his feet, his hair wet and dripping across his face. Thunder rumbled above his head, followed by a long strike of lightning that seemed dangerously close.
“Just a few more steps!” Melda yelled from the front. Then, sooner than Tor had expected, he heard the loud creak of a rusty door opening.
He tumbled into the tower, slipping and falling onto his knees. He coughed, his chest incredibly tight.
The thread pulling him to the isle tugged yet again. Tor looked up and saw that the tower was a lighthouse with spiral stairs to its top.
“There,” he said, voice barely making a sound. “It’s there.” He started up the stairs, and the rest followed. “No.” He turned around. “Stay. Please. We don’t know what’s upstairs or what will happen. We don’t all have to go.”
Melda stepped forward. “No. You did this last time. Engle and I stayed behind and you had to face the Night Witch alone.” She shook her head, resolute, and Tor knew there was no changing her mind. “Never again. We go together.”
With Tor at the front, they ascended. At the top, there was a hatch.
He opened it.
The peak of the tower was large and domed. The window Tor had seen from below was carved into its side, huge and completely open, the storm raging on just beyond it, some rain making its way inside, pounding hard against the smooth stone like knocks on a door. The room was empty, save for one thing.
An oyster shell, sitting in the middle of the floor.
Tor could feel its power buzzing around him, the frenzied ocean waves drawn to it, rushing toward it.
The Pirate’s Pearl. It was inside the oyster shell.
He moved to take it.
A fiery burst of purple lightning lit up the room, striking Tor right in the chest.
“Tor!” Melda screamed, rushing to him. Engle fell to his knees.
But Tor did not move again.
The spectral appeared out of thin air, the Calavera captain at his side, and the Swordscale traitor at his other.
Vesper turned to the spectral and bared her teeth. She made a move to strike him—and, in an instant, the spectral summoned purple flame in his palm, then aimed it at her head.
It flew, but missed, tearing a gaping hole right through the tower instead.
The Swordscale traitor had pushed the spectral aside.
Seeing his chance, Captain Forecastle shot five arrows, one after the other. But this spectral was stronger than the others—it had a smoke wall up in less than a second, blocking every single one. The pirate continued to fire, getting closer. The lighthouse wall on the opposite side was crumbling, disappearing before their very eyes as it tumbled into the sea. The storm found them inside, lightning illuminating the room in terrifying flashes and rolls of thunder masking Melda’s sobs.
Captain Forecastle aimed more arrows, one after the other, pushing the spectral back, getting close enough to make a deadly blow. The spectral narrowed its eyes, and, with a whip of his wrist, brought up a new barrier, purple as his fire. The two arrows hit it, then ricocheted and pierced the pirate right through the stomach. He slumped to the floor.
On the opposite side of the room, Vesper was approaching her brother, who had just saved her from the spectral’s fire. “Calder,” she said. She reached out a hand to her brother. “Please, don’t do this. Not to Swordscale. Not to me.”
For a moment, he hesitated. Then he reached out to take her hand.
Before he could grip her fingers, the spectral struck his chest with a fistful of purple flame. And he was thrown back through the window, down to
