Guthrie’s eyes shot to the ship, and back to me, confusion marking furrows in his brow. But I was already striding past, forcing myself not to power-walk or worse yet, run. Rans was a watchful presence on my right, and a glance confirmed that Guthrie had followed in our wake.
“What is it?” Guthrie asked, keeping his voice low. “I don’t see anything out of the ordinary.”
“Neither do I,” I replied. “But I don’t have to see them. I can feel them. The Fae are here.”
SIXTEEN
“CIRCLE AROUND THE building,” Rans said tightly. “We’re heading back to the marina.”
“Are we sure it’s not Albigard?” I asked, latching onto that slim hope.
“It’s not bloody Albigard,” Rans replied. “Though I’ll point out that he’s the only person who knew we’d be on that ship. I should have skewered him with iron when I had the chance.”
My mind balked at the implication that Albigard had somehow betrayed us to the Fae, even as my feet carried me around the corner of the cruise terminal. It made a scary kind of sense, but even so—
“No. Why would he do that?” I shook my head sharply. “I mean, why go to the trouble? If he were going to double cross us, it would have been a lot easier to do it back in St. Louis. We already know there’s a standing Fae presence in the city.”
Maybe,” Rans said grimly. “I suppose it hardly matters now.”
“What are you thinking, then?” Guthrie asked, demonstrating an admirable ability to focus on the practical. “Steal a boat and make for a different island? Try to lose ourselves in the biggest available city?”
“Something like that,” Rans replied.
We were halfway along the back of the terminal building, and I could see some of the taller masts of the sailing ships docked at the marina in the distance.
“I’ve got an offline map of the region downloaded to my phone,” Guthrie said. “Can you navigate with GPS? I’ve piddled around on boats, but I don’t know jack shit about using them for ocean travel.”
“That should work,” Rans told him. “Pull up your map and find me the best destination between fifty and one hundred miles from here, preferably before we reach the marina. Zorah, I can’t sense their proximity as well as you can. Are any of them following us?”
I tried to gauge the feeling of skittery discomfort prickling my skin. “I’m not a walking sonar for Fae,” I warned. “But they don’t feel any closer than before. Maybe even a bit further away, like they’re all still on the ship.”
He nodded. We increased our pace as we rejoined the road leading to the small harbor, Guthrie stabbing at his phone’s screen, pinching and zooming.
“Sixty miles as the crow flies from here to St. John’s on Antigua. East by south, once you skirt the Turtle Beach peninsula,” Guthrie said. “That work for you?”
“St. John’s is the chief port on the island, right?” Rans asked.
Guthrie swiped at his phone again. “Yeah. Population of twenty-two thousand, and fairly cosmopolitan. Pretty sure I’ve also got at least one offshore bank account stashed there, too, if it matters.”
“It might,” Rans told him.
We arrived back at the marina dock where we’d enjoyed a casual stroll barely twenty minutes ago. I looked around, surprised at the lack of any kind of visible security for the vessels moored there. There were a few people—owners, presumably—fussing around with the boats. A couple of them looked up at us curiously, but Rans ignored them.
“Next question, mate. What’s your best guess as to the fastest boat docked here that’s not likely to have extensive anti-theft technology?”
Guthrie stared at him. “Okay... one—I’m not a boat expert. Thought I made that clear already. And two—I’d imagine anything here that can get us to Antigua is going to require hotwiring at the very least. Do either of you know how to hotwire a boat?”
“It can’t be too different than hotwiring a car, can it?” Rans asked with an uncharacteristic hint of uncertainty behind his tone.
I scanned the motley collection of vessels, my eyes settling on one that was decently sized and looked fast. “Uh... guys? What about that one?” With a gesture, I indicated what my mind vaguely identified as a powerboat—a sleek fiberglass hull with an impressive-looking engine mounted on the back. The owner was one of the people giving us odd looks. “Pretty sure that guy has the key.”
“Right...” Rans said. “He probably does, at that.”
The strap of my battered carryon jerked rhythmically against my shoulder as we jogged around the edge of the marina. The hapless boat owner was leaning over his craft, a polishing rag held in his hand as he watched us warily.
“Can I help you folks?” he asked in heavily accented English. “You lost or something?”
Rans’ eyes flashed, and the dirty rag fluttered to the dock, forgotten. The man’s eyes glazed over, his mouth going slack. “Tell me if this boat is in working condition,” Rans ordered, “and whether it has enough fuel to get to Antigua.”
The owner’s jaw opened and closed a couple of times before he answered in a flat voice. “It’s a good boat. It has enough fuel.”
“Perfect. Now give me the keys, and tell no one of this. I’ll do my best to see that your property is returned to you unharmed, but just in case, take this money as recompense for your trouble.”
Rans gestured imperiously to Guthrie, who sighed and handed over his money clip. Rans peeled off a handful of bills that probably would have bought two boats to replace the one we were about to steal, and gave it to the man without comment. Slack-jawed, the owner pulled the keys out of his pocket and dropped them into Rans’ open palm.
Rans tossed the depleted money clip back to Guthrie, his attention still focused on the hypnotized boat owner. “Go away now. You never saw us.”
The man nodded absently and wandered off, staring at the
