The Deacon could not abide the travesty any longer. “You know the words, child.” Sorcha strode over and snatched up her Gauntlets. “But you should not meddle in the Order’s affairs.”
Nynnia flushed scarlet and scampered back to her side of the cabin. “Forgive me. I just heard the chant around the Priory.” She picked up some socks she was darning for the Captain and remained silent for the rest of the night.
Though the explanation made sense, it also disturbed the Deacon. What if Nynnia was more than just a stranger they’d encountered by chance? Sorcha shook her head. No—if anything was amiss with Nynnia, she trusted Merrick would have seen it. The world was already full of enough complications.
Trying her best to ignore her silent young companion, she decided that if the Pretender had given up his room, it was her golden opportunity to do some snooping. On the table were spread various sea charts that she could not see much of interest about, and the rest of the cabin was sparsely decorated. The only items that were intriguing were an old sea chest and a large leather-bound journal that she found rammed down the back of a battered chair.
Head on one side, she considered. One hand strayed to her Gauntlets while the other traced the outline of the embossed cover. She drew out one of the fine pins that held up her hair and set to work on the large brass lock of the journal. While the sea chest might contain treasures, the pages of a journal would reveal even more.
The little brown-eyed mouse in the corner squeaked. “I don’t think you should—”
Sorcha glanced over her shoulder. The woman was barely out of girlhood, sitting with her hands folded ever so properly. Undoubtedly she had some moral objection to Sorcha’s little piece of thievery, but then, maybe she’d never had to live in the real world. With a snort, Sorcha focused on the lock once more.
“No, I really think you should—” Nynnia ventured again.
“Don’t you dare—” Sorcha rounded on the other woman and then stopped. Standing in the doorway was the owner of the book she was trying to pry open.
For a moment, all three of them stared at one another like some comic tableau. In this light the Captain’s eyes were hard and green. Sorcha’s mind scrabbled for a witty excuse. In the intervening silence, the Pretender’s voice was flinty. “May you excuse us, Miss Macthcoll?”
The girl exited the room without so much as a whimper. Yet she shot Sorcha a strangely triumphant look, the expression of a far older woman.
Sorcha straightened and as calmly as possible slid the pin back into her hair. “I wasn’t aware that we had anything to say to each other, Captain Rossin.”
He carefully closed his own door and walked over to the table, his lips pressed together in a thin line above his neatly trimmed beard. Sorcha was not much of a Sensitive, but she was enough of one to sense something strange about the man. This close and all alone, he had a faint attractive scent: leather and sea salt. She couldn’t help it; she let her Center fall toward him.
Merrick was right. In the normal world Raed was a handsome man, but through geist-Sight this man blazed, and not just visually. Her partner had not mentioned the scent, but that was probably because he was a male. Raed’s was like a heady perfume. Sorcha’s Center enhanced all her usual senses, which could produce some rather uncomfortable chemical and physical reactions. With a little gasp, Sorcha put away her Center and dropped back into her body. She shook her head to try to get past the effect.
“Are you all right?” Raed leaned forward, his hand resting on the top of the charts. “Or just trying to apologize?”
Sorcha tried to still her racing heart. The unliving had many aspects, many ways to tempt mortals to bend to their will, and few were more primitive than sex. The possessed often displayed aggressive sexual behavior or urges. This man, this cursed man, had a flame in his core, a flame that was designed to draw people to him. Even those who weren’t Deacons would be unconsciously attracted to him; would find him good-looking, charming and very, very sexy.
Sorcha knew of nobles who would kill for such effects. But she was damned if she was going to tell him this. “I don’t know what you mean,” she snapped, feeling her body respond to the unliving effect.
The flicker of concern slipped from his features and was replaced by the kind of dark scowl that should have thrown ice over her. It didn’t. “Well, then maybe you can explain why you are taking advantage of my good nature by breaking into private property?”
She felt a pang of guilt, but didn’t let it show. Shoving the book toward its owner, she tried to act flippant. “As a Deacon, I have the right to examine any item I think may contain information on the unliving.”
His jaw clenched. “Again, we are back to that.” He leaned forward once more, both hands now on the table. “I am not—repeat, not—a citizen of the Empire, so your foolish rules do not apply.”
Sorcha laughed shortly. Spinning on her heel, she threw herself onto the chair in a studied example of indifference. “I would think our agreement gives me the right. After all, I may have to throw myself between you and a raging geist at any point.”
His mouth opened and she was sure there was a bitter retort ready to come, yet he bit it back. Sorcha swung her leg over the arm of the chair and tried not to inhale his scent.
Instead of replying, he made a grunt of displeasure and turned his back on her to open the sea chest. She tried to crane her head as subtly as possible, but it appeared all he was taking out was a clean shirt. Ignoring her completely, he stripped down to the waist.
If Sorcha didn’t know better, she would have sworn that he was deliberately trying to distract her. Admiring the shifting planes of the muscles in his back was certainly diverting, but the fact remained: this man was the burning light, and the places they were going would be full of very large, very dangerous moths. She clenched her fingers in the arm of the chair and reminded herself that her reaction was all related to the Curse.
When he turned around suddenly, Sorcha quickly flicked her eyes away—hopefully, quickly enough. “I appreciate your talents, Deacon Faris”—his voice was softer—“but I am still captain of this ship. And, while on my ship, I would be grateful if you at least showed me the common courtesy of a houseguest to a host.”
Sorcha’s mouth twisted. “A host that could turn into a raging beast at any moment.”
For a moment, his hazel eyes reflected the light of the waning sun. “Yes, and you’d do well to remember that in the future,” he growled, his body tense like a coiled spring.
Sorcha’s heartbeat leapt up two levels and her skin prickled as if in the presence of a geist. Every instinct screamed to her to leap out of the chair and wrench on her Gauntlets, but a quick flick of her Center revealed nothing but the flaming presence of the Pretender.
She forced herself to remain still, though her mouth was dry and her hands trembled with their yearning to be wielding power. Instead, she let him get away with something she rarely allowed: having the last word. He stormed out of his own cabin, taking his disturbing presence, thankfully, away.
For the next two days, Sorcha took Merrick’s advice and stayed in the cabin. Even Nynnia was better company than the Captain. Merrick, however, seldom ventured below. Her partner had taken it on himself to watch the seas for more unliving activity. Across the Bond, Sorcha could feel his guilt at not having spotted the sea monster that had brought them to this. He ran himself hard, napping on the quarterdeck when exhaustion claimed him.
While he slept, Sorcha would venture above decks, drape her cloak over him and take up his duties as best she could with her Sight. The crew seemed to take comfort in the fact that two Deacons were on board. After their initial fright, they began to see the advantages and show some proper respect for their passengers.
They also seemed intrigued by the Breed horses. The stallion and mare were in the small confines of the
