The Bar at the Edge of the Sea
Author: Tom Abrahams
Date: 2020-09-08 00:00:00+00:00
Description: A world underwater. A missing weapon. A fight for redemption. Zeke Watson has his first mission as a Watcher: a quest to find a kidnapped child who knows the location of a missing weapon. In the wrong hands, the weapon will upset the balance of good and evil across the known universe. He seeks the child. The weapon. And redemption. But can he find any of that in a flooded post-apocalyptic world filled with ruthless pirates - where his skills behind the wheel are useless and his newfound power is as unsteady as a skiff on choppy seas? Don't miss the thrilling sequel to The Bar at the End of the

THE BAR AT THE END OF THE SEA

©2020 TOM ABRAHAMS

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Also by Tom Abrahams

THE WATCHERS

BAR AT THE END OF THE WORLD

BAR AT THE EDGE OF THE SEA

BAR IN THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE (FORTHCOMING)

THE SCOURGE

UNPREPARED

ADRIFT

GROUNDED

THE TRAVELER

HOME

CANYON

WALL

RISING

BATTLE

LEGACY

HERO

HARBOR

A DARK WORLD: THE COMPLETE SPACEMAN CHRONICLES

SPACEMAN

DESCENT

RETROGRADE

THE ALT APOCALYPSE SERIES

ASH

LIT

TORRENT

AFFLICTION

POLITICAL CONSPIRACIES

SEDITION

INTENTION

JACKSON QUICK ADVENTURES

ALLEGIANCE

ALLEGIANCE BURNED

HIDDEN ALLEGIANCE

STAND-ALONE WORKS

PILGRIMAGE: A POST-APOCALYPTIC ADVENTURE

EXTINCTION RED LINE (WITH NICHOLAS SANSBURY SMITH)

Contents

ALSO IN SERIES

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

About the Author

ALSO IN SERIES

The Bar at the End of the World

The Bar at the Edge of the Sea

The Bar in the Middle of Nowhere

To Courtney

My compass and North Star

“Damnation seize my soul if I give you quarter or take any from you.”

—Edward Teach

Chapter One

“Where is it?”

Desmond Branch tightened his rain-soaked grip on the bone handle of the Damascus steel blade he held at his side. He wouldn’t ask again.

Lucius Mander stared back at him through a sheet of cold, incessant rain. The man’s eyes were wide with fear. Heavy rivulets hung on his lashes, building into thick drops before falling onto his cheeks. Branch recognized the look. It was virtually identical in everyone—men, women, even children. When their time was finished, when their final moments approached, they were all the same.

It was a pathetic look of fear mixed with resignation, the knowledge that everything they’d ever been would cease to exist. It would evaporate and float away on the breeze, carried over the oceans, which spread endlessly in all directions. Even those who feigned defiance and pretended to steel themselves in the face of death carried the look beneath the thin surface of their welling emotions.

Mander wasn’t a defiant one. He was pathetic and lowered his chin to shake his head. Through chattering teeth, he gave the same answer as he had countless times before. It was the answer those before him had given. It wasn’t the one Desmond Branch wanted to hear.

“I don’t know,” said Mander. “I told you I—”

Branch put a hand on Mander’s trembling shoulder and drove the blade up into the man. He locked eyes with Mander as the man gasped, opening and closing his mouth like a fish starved of oxygen.

“You told me nothing,” Branch said, then withdrew the blade. It was slick with blood. He licked the front of his teeth and held his dead-eyed stare at Mander.

Blood leaked from Mander’s nose and mixed with the rainwater draining down his long, pale face. It diluted the red color, dampening its vibrancy and making it almost pink as it rolled across the dying man’s lips and off the whiskers on his chin.

Mander coughed. He tried to speak again. Before he could manage any words though, Branch lifted his knee, extended his leg, and kicked him with the toe of his boot.

Falling backward, holding his wound, Mander dropped from sight. A moment later, the plunk of his weight into the water below told Branch the man was gone.

A brisk wind drove the rain in Branch’s face as he wiped the blade on his own pants and slid it into the scabbard at his hip. With the back of his arm, he swiped the rain and sweat from his face. Then he crossed the deck of his boat toward his pilot, a trusted man named Pierre Le Grand.

Le Grand was Branch’s best friend, if a man like Branch could have friends. The two would die for each other. At least, Branch knew Le Grand would die for him. He was undecided how loyal he might be.

“That was the last of them,” he said above the wind, sliding alongside Le Grand. “If he knew anything, he would have told me.”

Le Grand shrugged. “Maybe. How many before him?”

Branch counted on his fingers. “Nine. None of them knew anything. I thought by the time I got to the last of them, somebody would have talked.”

“Nothing?” asked Le Grand. “No clues where it is?”

“No.”

“One of them had to know something,” said Le Grand. “Unless the information is bad.”

“The information isn’t bad,” said Branch. “I’m sure of it.”

“Maybe you weren’t convincing enough,” said Le Grand. “A knife is just a knife.”

Few people could use the insolence Le Grand hurled at his captain. Most others would choke on their final words for challenging Branch’s authority. Branch rubbed his chin, studying his pilot with narrowed eyes. Anger born of a thin skin swelled for an instant and ebbed as quickly. Branch let it go but, in his mind, shortened the rope a notch.

He put a hand on the console that framed the bridge. It was polished oak sealed in a thick lacquer that repelled the rain into large droplets, which beaded on its surface. It was slick under Branch’s fingers.

He laughed. “What would you have me do? Nail their intestines to posts? Burn their hands to the bones? Keelhaul them? Make them walk the plank?”

“Nobody ever made anybody walk the plank,” said Le Grand. “That’s lore.”

“It’s not lore,” said Branch. “People did it. Some rope, a cannonball, sharks, and a plank. It could be effective.”

“You know,” said Le Grand, “just because you steal things, kill people, and look for hidden treasure, that doesn’t make you a pirate.”

Branch took his free hand and slapped Le Grand on the back. Water sprayed from the pilot’s soaked shirt.

“It does,” he said through hearty laughter. “That’s the very definition of a pirate. Now, let’s get back to business.”

Le Grand grasped the boat’s throttle lever and pushed it forward. The engine groaned, and the boat lurched before picking up speed. The water was choppy, and the vessel bounced on the waves. The faster they went, the more violent the pitch until they were on plane, riding the tops of the waves. Heavy spray crashed over the bow with each dip. The wash flooded the deck with each rise before it drained through the scuppers or into the bilge.

The water was gunmetal gray crested with white foam. The skies above were dark and angry. A mix of salty spray and pelting rain forced Branch to turn his face to the side and raise his arm.

A mile in the distance was the shoreline. He stole glances at it as they approached. Le Grand navigated the shallower water, steering to the rights of markers, following the rules.

Branch wasn’t much for following the rules. He never had been. He never would be.

Le Grand guided the vessel toward their destination. Branch watched his friend, steely eyed and stoic. The pilot didn’t say much around other people. He let Branch do the talking.

That was why Branch was the captain and Le Grand was the first mate. The one with the personality often took the reins, even if he didn’t man the rudder.

“Maybe the others had luck,” said Le Grand above the loud mixture of wind, spray, and the whine of the engine as it churned against the surf.

Branch nodded at his friend and braced himself against the console. He spread his feet shoulder width apart and bent his knees to absorb the vessel’s rise and fall. They were close enough to shore he could see the gathering of people on the beach. Dozens sat in the sand, clustered into groups. Some were families. Others were groupings he and his men had mustered when they’d stormed the village hours earlier. His men stood at the edges of the crowd, stalking the villagers as they patrolled back and forth.

“If not,” Branch said, “we’ll keep bringing them out to sea a few at a time. We’ll find out what they know.”

“I think that’s a waste of time,” said Le Grand, “and a waste of fuel.”

Branch stiffened. He turned his body toward his pilot, his first mate.

“I didn’t ask what you think,” he sneered. “I can always get someone else to pilot my boat. You can go back to doing whatever it was you did to survive before I rescued you from—”

Le Grand took his hands from the wheel, raising them in surrender. “Okay, okay,” he said. “Forget I said anything. I want to find it as much as you do, assuming it even exists.”

Branch stepped closer to Le Grand, unassuaged by his pilot’s submission. He grabbed the collar of his shirt in his fist, wringing the rainwater from the soaked fabric, and yanked Le Grand within an inch of his face.

“It exists,” he said. “And nobody wants it more than I do. Not a single person on this waste of a planet has spilled more blood, spent more treasure, or traveled farther than I have to find it. That includes you and every man on our crew. You understand me?”

Le Grand nodded and jerked himself free of his captain’s grasp. He raised his hands in surrender.

“Okay,” he muttered. “I understand.”

The two rode to the shallows near the thin strip of the shoreline. This island was like most—small, isolated, and home to people whose ancestors had survived the polar melt a generation earlier.

Instead of continents, archipelagos encircled planet Earth like constellations. Tribes of islanders governed themselves. They forged their own laws. They developed their own customs. Some were peaceful and egalitarian. Others were oppressive and militant.

Those who didn’t live on islands roamed the seas in boats and ships left over from the time before the melt. Most of the seafarers moved amongst the islands, trading goods, sailing from outpost to outpost with good intentions. Others, like Desmond Branch, were marauders living for their own self-interest and in pursuit of the one thing that could ensure a position atop the food chain. It was a weapon as mythic as it was legendary. Branch was so sure that thing was close he could almost feel it in his grasp. He would wield its power and secure his future as the unrivaled king of the sunken planet.

Branch closed his eyes and relished the sting of the cold rain on his face, the boat slow under his feet.

“I will find it,” he said, as much to the wind as to himself. “Or I will die trying.”

Chapter Two

Zeke Watson weighed the balance of the dart, its barrel between his fingers. He leaned into his front leg and flicked his wrist to release it toward the target. The moment he let go, Uriel sneezed.

The dart sailed to the right, stabbing the cork in the black ring that encircled the edge of the board, which indicated zero points.

Uriel bumped Zeke with her hip. “Sorry about that,” she said. “Allergies.”

“That only seem to strike when I’m about to throw,” said Zeke.

She ran a hand along the side of her shaved head and then curled the end of her long, auburn braid around the end of her index finger. The pink bow knotted at the end of her hair looked like a ring atop her knuckle.

“I must be allergic to the way you play the game,” she said.

Zeke stepped back to the circular bar top table behind them and lifted his glass. He toasted her and took the last swig of his Kentucky Bourbon Ale. It had the bite of corn whiskey with the finish of sweet, full-bodied beer. Among the endless options behind the cantina’s bar, this had become his favorite.

He scanned the saloon, noting dust dancing in the shafts of light that shone through windows and around the swinging doors at the entrance. Maybe she did have allergies.

Uriel stepped to the line and held a dart between her thumb and forefinger.

“I need a sixteen to win,” she said.

“Double or nothing,” said Zeke.

Uriel laughed. “You’ve got nothing to double.”

She leaned into the shot and sent the dart sailing. The tip drilled into the lower left corner of the board. Sixteen.

She spun on a heel and joined Zeke at the table. Without taking her eyes from his, she raised her hand and wagged her index finger.

“Pedro,” she shouted above the din of conversation, music from the jukebox, and clinking glasses. “Another round, please. And this one’s on Zeke.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever beat you,” moaned Zeke.

“I know you haven’t,” she said.

Uriel was a study in contradictions. While fierce and hard-charging, she was also undeniably feminine. The fragility of her smile, the round curve of her jaw, and the intensity of her green eyes did little to mitigate the thick tone of her muscles and the broadness of her shoulders. Her tight leather clothing left little to the imagination. But the colorful ink that covered much of her body offered only a glimpse into her creative force.

Despite his love for another woman, Zeke was drawn to her. There was chemistry. An attraction that sent snaps of electricity through his body when he was close to her.

He looked away from her and toward the bar. Pedro, the barkeep and proprietor of the cantina, was approaching. He carried large glasses in both of his hands.

As always, he wore a white linen shirt tucked into a pair of loose-fitting dark denim jeans. The shirtsleeves were rolled to the elbows. Over his shirt was an aged, saddle-colored vest. At his waist was a large brass belt buckle.

Age spots dotted the backs of his hands. Crow’s feet etched the edges of his ice blue eyes. They were the markings of a man who’d spent an eternity in the sun. His tanned face was covered by a wiry beard that was more salt than pepper. He had a thick head of hair to match.

“Here you go,” Pedro said with his customary grin. “Two ales on the house.”

He set the glasses on the table, sloshing the foamy heads over the rims and onto the wood top. Uriel gave him a side eye.

“I said the drinks were on Zeke’s tab,” she remarked.

Pedro leaned on the table. “He’s got enough on his tab right now.”

The barkeep looked past Zeke, toward the second floor of the cantina. Zeke turned to follow Pedro’s gaze to the balcony that wrapped around the bar.

Zeke looked at room twenty-nine. It was behind him and next to his room. The door was closed. He stared at it for a moment, almost expecting it to open. When it didn’t, he turned away and took his beer in his hand.

“Is she ready?” asked Pedro.

Zeke took a long pull from the glass. The scent of whisky traveled into the back of his nose, and he could almost see the barrel in which the ale had aged. It was heavenly. He swallowed, the chill of the beer running through him, and he shook his head.

“I don’t think so,” he said. “She won’t get out of bed.”

Uriel rolled her eyes. “It’s been how many days?”

Zeke held up five fingers.

“It takes some longer than others,” said Pedro. “Coming to terms with where we are and who we are isn’t easy.”

“Especially when you won’t tell new arrivals where they are or who they are,” said Zeke. “I’m not sure I have a handle on things.”

Pedro waved a hand at Zeke. “Come with me,” he said. “I have something to show you.”

Zeke regarded Uriel for guidance. She raised her eyebrows, shrugged, and downed half the glass of beer.

Pedro walked back toward the bar, and Zeke followed. Despite the crowd in the bar, the way parted for Pedro as he moved. He didn’t have to excuse himself or ask for passage. People instinctively got out of his way.

Zeke rode the wake. He strode confidently across the space, this place growing on him by the day, and adjusted his belt, shifting the weight of the large six-shooter at his hip. It was snug in its holster.

They arrived at the bar at the far end of the room, and Pedro eased behind it. The old man ran one hand along the centerpiece of the establishment. It ran wall to wall. Its rich oak finish was worn with age; the ornately carved face was scratched and gouged. Behind it, reflecting Pedro’s image, was a wall-sized mirror aged with black veins. On the shelf to the left of the mirror, Pedro wrapped his meaty hand around the spine of a book. He pulled the volume out and brought it to the oak bar, dropping it with a thud. A cloud of dust plumed from the binding.

Pedro ran his fingers across the face of the cover, almost tracing the gold-leaf lettering. He took in a deep breath and sighed.

“Have you heard of Enoch?” he asked.

Zeke glanced at the book. “Yes.”

“Uriel tell you about him?”

“No,” he said. “It was Gabe.”

“Gabe?”

Zeke nodded. “Yes.”

Pedro stepped back from the bar and called out, “Gabe! C’mon over.”

Gabe, like Uriel, was among a group of mercenaries who called themselves the Watchers. They worked for Pedro. They were powerful, loyal, and they were, as best Zeke could tell, immortal.

“What’s up, boss?” Gabe asked.

Gabe was a muscular man with a barrel chest and a chiseled physique. On his neck was a tattoo that read “Do Not Fear”. Zeke pulled back his own shoulders and puffed out his chest as Gabe sidled up next to him.

Pedro patted his hands on the book. “You talked to Zeke about Enoch?”

Gabe shrugged. “Maybe. I think Phil spelled it out for him.”

“Phil,” Pedro said flatly.

“Maybe it was Phil,” said Zeke. “I think Gabe talked about him too though.”

Phil was another Watcher. He was busy playing cards at a table on the other side of the cantina.

“What did Phil say about Enoch?” Pedro asked.

Gabe shrugged. “I think he said Enoch was a traveling man. He saw good and evil. He saw imbalance and worked to fix it. Some people think we’re real. Others don’t.”

“Thank you, Gabe,” said Pedro.

“Sure. Need anything else?”

“That’ll be all.”

Gabe returned to the jukebox, where a slinky woman dressed in tights awaited him. Zeke didn’t know the woman’s name or how long she’d been around. Her body language told him she liked Gabe. She took hold of one of his biceps when he reached her. She giggled. He laughed.

“Back to the book,” said Pedro, refocusing Zeke. “And Enoch.”

Zeke cleared his throat and bellied up to the bar. He leaned on it with both elbows.

“Enoch,” Pedro went on, “was Noah’s great-grandfather. You know Noah?”

“The ark,” said Zeke. “But I thought that stuff was a legend made up to warn people to be good. Like a…like a…”

“An allegory.”

“Yes,” Zeke said. “An allegory.”

“It’s whatever you want it to be, Zeke.”

“Okay.”

Pedro opened the book. The spine cracked.

“Enoch,” he said, “believed he could see the future.”

“Like a prophet?” Zeke asked.

The corners of Pedro’s mouth lifted into the hint of a smile. “Not exactly. He thought he could see. That doesn’t mean he could. This book, his book, is not a religious text. Not officially.”

Pedro ran his fingers across a page. He lowered his chin.

“The first thirty-six chapters of this tome is called The Book of The Watchers,” he said. “Watchers is a loose translation of the original text. Literally the words mean ‘the awake ones’ because Watchers never sleep. At least, they don’t need sleep.”

“Is the book about Uriel, Gabe, Phil—”

Pedro interrupted Zeke with a hearty laugh. “No,” he said through chuckles. “This long predates any of the Watchers around here.”

He waved his hand in a wide arc, like a magician revealing the end of a trick. His eyes remained on Zeke.

“Watchers have guarded the balance of good and evil for a very long time, Ezekiel. A very long time.”

Zeke shifted his weight on the barstool. The noise of drinking, dancing, and game playing grew muted behind him. His attention was rapt.

“There were Watchers long before Uriel, long before you, and, balance willing, Watchers will exist long after you’ve done your duty,” Pedro said.

“Balance willing? What does—”

A commotion from the opposite end of the cantina disrupted their conversation. Bar patrons were gathering at the swinging door entrance. They looked outside; their faces bathed in bright sunlight. The chatter swelled in volume. Phil was at the front of the group. He waved Pedro over with a slight sense of urgency.

Pedro closed the book and replaced it on the liquor shelf. He snapped his fingers and the music stopped. The cantina fell quiet. Everyone watched Pedro move around the bar and stride with purpose toward the entrance.

Zeke hopped from his seat and followed, finding his way in the human wake that Pedro created wherever he walked. The crowd at the door was virtually motionless. Only the shuffle of their boots scraping and shuffling against the wood plank floor broke the silence.

Pedro pushed his way through the doors. They creaked on their hinges as they swung back and forth.“What is it?” Zeke asked.

He posed the question to everyone, anyone. Nobody answered. Zeke pushed his way to the entrance, squinting against the glare from outdoors.

Before his eyes adjusted, he heard what sounded like water splashing. He stepped past Phil and Gabe onto the wide front porch of the cantina and started for the steps. Pedro put an arm out to stop him.

Zeke blinked his surroundings into focus and his jaw dropped. The desert wasteland surrounding the cantina, with nothing but with a narrow strip of two-lane highway leading to it, was gone. At least, he couldn’t see it. Instead of arid land stretching for endless miles, there was an endless ocean. The water was deep blue, reflecting the cloudless sky above. The horizon looked a million miles away.

It was unlike anything Zeke had ever seen. A briny scent filled his nostrils. The salt air clung to the back of his throat.

Waves lapped at the porch, and splashing toward them was a man who seemed to thrash as much as swim. On his heels was the same horde of men who’d first chased Zeke until he’d found refuge at the cantina. Rather than pursue on motorcycles, trucks, and muscle cars, the angry mob rode in long boats. They rowed hard and in rhythm, driving oars deep into the water and surging with each coordinated pull.

They launched spears and shot arrows at the swimmer. The projectiles pierced the water around him. One hit his shoulder and the man shrieked. He kept moving though. Spitting water from his mouth as he worked his body inefficiently from side to side. He was almost there.

Zeke stood, wide-eyed. His pulse quickened. Without taking his gaze off the hunt in front of him, he spoke barely above a whisper. “What is this?”

“Not now,” Pedro said.

Another arrow struck the swimmer. This one hit his arm as he lifted it from the water. Blood spilled from the wound. The man went under for an instant, gurgling and groaning in pain.

The skiffs closed in on him. The swimmer struggled. His forward momentum stalled as he somehow kept his head above the water.

Meters away from the steps, he pushed his torso up with a strained grunt. Face reddened and squeezed tight with pain, he lunged at the porch.

Pedro squatted and extended his meat hook of a hand, just far enough to reach the swimmer. He clasped the man’s wrist and tugged, heaving him onto the hewn wood porch.

The Horde stopped paddling. A last spear, thrown before Pedro’s grab, drilled into the railing and stuck with a reverberating thwang. Then the longboats, canoes, and skiffs slowly drifted forward. The warriors aboard all stared in silence at the cantina, at the quarry missed.

Zeke spotted the long, thin face of their leader standing on the bow of the closest boat. A chill ran through his body. He remembered him. His nostrils flared as he sniffed the air like a wild dog on the hunt.

He sneered, revealing yellow teeth filed into fine points. His tongue ran across the front of them and he smacked his lips. The sound echoed across the water.

The swimmer was facedown on the deck. His back heaved, watery blood like thin creeks running down it and his arms. He grunted softly as he breathed.

Pedro released the man’s arm and stood over him. Then he motioned to the Horde.

“That’ll be all, gentlemen,” he said. “You know the rules. My friend here is on sacred ground.”

The Horde didn’t respond. None of the boats moved. They drifted in the current, yet Zeke realized they somehow came no closer to the island cantina.

“C’mon,” Pedro said. “Help me with him.”

Together Zeke and Pedro lifted the man to his feet. Each of them took an arm over their shoulder. The man squealed at the movement, two arrows buried in his battered body.

They crossed the threshold of the cantina with the swimmer dragging his feet more than walking. The crowd parted.

“Let’s get you upstairs,” said Pedro.

The swimmer gasped for air. His voice was raspy. “Where am I?”

Zeke wanted to ask the same question.

How had the desert turned into an ocean when in his world all of them had dried up? he wondered. Why? When? What did it mean?

To Zeke, this was a place of unanswered questions. Every time he thought he understood the afterlife, he learned how little he grasped.

The swimmer whispered hoarsely, “What is this place?”

Pedro said nothing and eyed Zeke with a glare that told him not to answer. They found the stairwell and slowly began their ascent one step at a time. The swimmer’s virtually dead weight put a strain on Zeke’s legs and back with each push up onto the next highest step.

The swimmer’s head hung low, his chin on his chest. He reeked of seawater, sweat, and blood. Zeke held his wrist for leverage. The skin was wet and cold. His pulse was weak.

The man lifted his head toward Zeke as they rose another step.“Who are you?” he whispered.

The barkeep answered for Zeke. “I’m Pedro. This is my place.”

They reached the top of the steps and helped the man to a room at the far end of the second floor. Zeke sensed the watchful, interested eyes of everyone in the cantina below as they moved along the balcony.

No music. No darts or cards. No clanging glasses or conversation.

Zeke wondered if this was what had happened when he’d arrived not that long ago. He couldn’t remember the time between his arrival and the moment he woke up in bed, miraculously healed.

When they reached the room, Pedro pushed open the door and led them inside. He motioned toward the bed with his chin, and Zeke assisted in getting the swimmer onto the mattress.

It was then Zeke noticed the swimmer was unconscious. Between his last question and now, he’d lost his fight to stay awake. Zeke wondered if it was the pain or the exhaustion that had slipped the stranger into an uneasy sleep. Probably both.

They laid the swimmer on his side, the two long arrows protruding from his body.

“We’ll need to cut these out,” Pedro said. “Could you call down to Uriel? She knows where to find my tool kit.”

“Tool kit?” Zeke replied.

Pedro wiped his hands on the sides of his leather vest. “Medical kit.”

Zeke stood there for a moment and appraised the unconscious man on the bed. He was the first stranger to arrive at the cantina since Zeke had shown up, however long ago it was. A few days? A couple of weeks?

Zeke’s girlfriend was here now too, recovering down the hall in a room just like this one. He hadn’t witnessed her arrival, though; she wasn’t a stranger. Did that mean something?

Pedro raised an eyebrow. A warm smile spread beneath his thick mustache.

“You’ve got a lot of questions, don’t you, Ezekiel?”

“Always,” Zeke replied.

“Any I can answer before you go get me the tool kit? We have time for one or two.”

“What the hell just happened?”

Pedro stared at Zeke for a moment before answering. He rubbed his beard as if considering the best way to answer.

“New arrivals bring parts of their worlds with them,” he said. “A familiar landscape helps with the shock of the transition.”

“This man came from a world covered in water?”

“Yes.”

“Is it Earth?”

“Of course,” said Pedro. “Everyone here came from Earth. They came from different times, different versions.”

Zeke wasn’t sure he’d heard Pedro correctly. “Different versions?”

Pedro smiled again. This time, it was the knowing grin of a parent teaching a child about something so obvious the child should have known the truth without being told.

“There is more than one Earth, Ezekiel,” he said. “That’s what makes keeping the balance so difficult.”

Zeke didn’t know what to ask. He was light-headed, almost disoriented by this new information. He thought about the water, about the Horde, about his own arrival into the no-man’s-land. His gut clenched.

“What about my car?” he asked.

Pedro cocked his head to one side. “The Superbird? What about it?”

Zeke shot the barkeep his best incredulous glare. “The water? Everywhere? My car is out there.”

“It’s fine, Zeke.”

The tension in his body relaxed. He didn’t know what to think. A part of him thought his brain might explode if he tried hard enough to comprehend what Pedro was saying. He stared blankly at the stranger on the bed—a man from a different version of Earth.

“Who is he?” he asked.

Pedro pivoted toward the bed and took a step closer to the swimmer. The man’s breathing was quick and shallow. His bloody body trembled almost imperceptibly as he lay on his side.

“His name is Lucius Mander,” Pedro said. “And he is your first mission.”

Chapter Three

Desmond Branch stood on the edge of the rocky beach. The rain had stopped, but the air was thick with moisture. Behind him, the wash of the surf slapped against the uneven shore. In front of him, a dozen men and women were on their knees. Some of them whimpered. Others were stoic, their eyes cast somewhere far away.

“I know someone on this island has information,” he said. “I will keep killing you, one at a time, until nobody is left.”

A thin woman at the center of the kneeling villagers scowled at Branch. Her eyes bore a defiance that Branch rarely saw.

“Do your worst,” she spat.

Branch took an uneven step toward her. The rocks shifted and scraped under his weight.

The woman was young. Her skin was pale, almost alabaster. High cheekbones dominated otherwise delicate features. Streaks of seaweed green colored her otherwise long golden hair. If not for her insolence, Branch might have thought her weak. Instead, she was a leader. She had guts.

I can work with this, he thought. She knows something.

Branch stopped in front of her, his eyes cast down in an attempt to intimidate her. She wouldn’t look at him. Her gaze was straight ahead, her scowl intact.

Lowering himself, he squatted onto his heels and balanced his weight on the balls of his boots. A thin smile wormed across his face.

“And who are you?” he said.

Her expression, sour and angry, held as she met his glower and answered him.

“I’m the one who will kill you,” she said, venom dripping from each word.

Branch lifted his chin and laughed. He rested his arms across his thighs and scanned the line of cowering people in front of him. Soft cries punctuated the crashing surf.

Rather than speak to the angry girl, he reached out and touched the wizened man beside her. He flinched and blinked at Branch, but said nothing. His face looked like a topographical map. The tears running along his cheeks followed the wrinkles like water through dry creek beds.

“What’s her name?” Branch asked.

The man’s chin quivered. His mouth opened and closed. His frightened eyes darted back and forth between the pirate and the girl.

“You can speak to me,” said the girl. “Don’t have others do your bidding. That’s a sign of weakness. Are you weak, Desmond Branch?”

She said his name like it was foul on her tongue. Branch raised an eyebrow in surprise. Most cowered before him. Few stood tall against him. Never was it a girl.

“How old are you?” he asked.

A hint of a smirk flashed at one corner of her mouth. “I’ll give you one of two,” she said. “What do you want, my name or my age? You can’t have both.”

Without warning, Branch backhanded the girl across the face. The smack drew gasps and amplified the whimpers. The girl, however, said nothing. Her head hung to one side, jaw clenched, the right half of her face reddened.

Branch growled, “I’ll have whatever I want.”

With his hands, he pushed himself to his feet. Towering over the girl now, he paced along the kneeling row of islanders. His guards leveled their weapons at them.

Fifty yards inland, the rest of the villagers sat clustered together. Guards watched them too, keeping them in place. All of them, aside from the girl, carried their bodies in a way that told Branch he frightened them. They were weak, and they wouldn’t resist him.

He was also certain the girl’s parents weren’t among those on the island. He could see it on faces, in postures, as he studied the way the others reacted to his strike. The girl was alone. She had nothing to lose.

In his experience, Branch found people with everything to lose were cowards. They let fear govern their actions, their lives.

Those with nothing to lose were dangerous. They acted rashly. They defied conventional wisdom. They challenged authority.

“I am looking for a map,” he said. His voice boomed, carrying above the crash of the surf on the larger rocks at the coastline of the small island. “This map is old. It is special. I know the map is here.”

Branch paused and studied the islanders’ expressions. None of them except for the girl would look at him. Leaning into a step, he started moving along the rocky beach. His boots pushed against the smooth gray stones. They squeaked and ground against each other as he moved, his hands behind his back now.

“I have traveled this forsaken planet from archipelago to archipelago, from ship to ship, in search of this map,” he continued.

He stopped and spun to retrace his steps. With a sweeping wave, he accentuated the breadth of his quest.

“I have done whatever I know is necessary to unite me with this map. The map is here. Until I have it in my hands, you will die one at a time.”

Branch stopped walking and stood in front of the defiant girl. Pausing for effect, he sucked in a deep breath as a thick cold drop of rain hit his cheek. Then another and another.

Thunder boomed overhead and the downpour began anew. Sheets of rain washed over the island. The sound of it hitting the rocks, the surf, the roofs of poorly constructed huts was almost deafening. Branch motioned to one of his guards and pointed at the crusty man next to the girl.

“Start with him,” he said. “Then pick nine others. Leave the girl.”

The guard closest to Branch, a man named Limahong, marched toward the old man. He jabbed his weapon at him and ordered him to his feet. Instead of complying, the man raised his hands in defense.

“Take the girl,” the old man shrieked. “She knows about the map.”

Limahong looked at Branch for direction. The pirate captain raised his hand and flicked his fingers to order the guard back a step. Limahong retreated, but kept his weapon aimed at the old man.

The girl hadn’t reacted at all to the old man’s betrayal. This told Branch the traitor was right. She knew something. Branch’s smile returned.

“I’ve picked my question,” he said to her. “What’s your name?”

“Anaxi,” she replied, voice swelling with pride. “Anaxi Mander.”

“Ahhhh, Mander,” said Branch, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder toward the ocean. “I just offed a Mander. Was he your—”

“Father. Lucius was my father.”

“And your mother?”

“I don’t have a mother.”

“Very good,” Branch said. He leaned down to stare straight into her eyes once more. “I thought your confidence was born of having nothing to lose. I was wrong.”

Chapter Four

Through the curtain of rain, Anaxi Mander watched the only home she’d known disappear over the horizon. Her body shivered in the cold. Her clothes, little more than rags, were soaked through and clung to her thin frame.

She was alone at the ship’s stern. Tears mixed with the rain on her face, and she tasted the salt on her lips. This was what she’d always feared, the time for which she’d always prepared.

Anaxi thought of her father, Lucius. She’d never met a kinder man. Sure, her experience was limited. The only people with whom she’d had contact were the ninety-six members of her tribe and the occasional visiting mariner.

A visiting mariner she’d never met was said to be her mother. Lucius rarely spoke of the woman, and only told Anaxi that her name was Josephine, and that she’d left the tribe seven days after giving birth.

No note. No explanation.

A tepid wind flapped across limp sails above and nearly drowned out the puttering sound of the motor at the ship’s aft. Anaxi looked down at the bubbling churn of water. She’d never seen a working motor. Her father had told her about engines and fuel. They seemed mystical to her, something from a dream. Now, she stood above one as it rumbled.

The Saladin had three masts: the mizzen toward the rear of the ship, the main mast at the ship’s center, and the foremast at the front. There was a large pole that extended diagonally up from the bow of the ship, which connected small jibs to the foremast. They served as small spinnakers, which gave the ship extra speed in the right conditions. At least that was what Anaxi understood from hearing bits and pieces of conversations amongst the sailors on board.

There were two catapults on the deck. One each on the starboard and port sides. The mangonel designs sat adjacent to standard wheeled cannons perched on short rails meant to absorb recoil. Both of the mangonels’ frames were anchored through the deck planks and into the crossbeams that ran below deck in the ship’s belly. Water slopped into the payload buckets. Anaxi thought about the catapults. It was an odd choice for a pirate ship.

Incessant tears blurred her vision, but she stared at the water. Somewhere beneath the surface was her father. He was gone. Like her mother, she would never see him again.

She closed her eyes and thought of him. It was only hours since the thugs had forced him aboard the skiff and she’d watched him drift away from her, knowing he wouldn’t come back. He’d warned her this day could come, when she would be separated from him—when her training would matter.

In her mind, she held a favorite memory of him. He stood on the beach, teaching her to skip flattened stones into the ocean. The sun shone. A breeze came along with the tide. He smiled and laughed with her as she tried side arming the rocks into the surf.

He picked up a rock of his own and held it between his thumb and forefinger. Instructing her to do the same, he used his free hand to adjust her grip.

Anaxi remembered the rock was cool in her hand. Her father’s touch was warm.

“Ana, hold it like this,” he’d said.

Lucius bent at his knees, took a step forward, and flung the rock spinning toward the water. It hit once and skipped off the surface twice more before plunking below the surf.

She tried again, mimicking his delivery. Dropping her right shoulder low, she flicked her wrist and released the stone. It hit the water and jumped once.

“You got it,” he said. “Great job.”

Lucius beamed with pride. She recalled the smile on her face was so wide it hurt her cheeks. Anaxi replayed that vision of her father’s smiling face again and again. She cataloged him; his windswept black hair, his bronze skin, amber eyes, toothy grin.

How long could she remember his face before it faded from memory? Days? Weeks?

Her father told her he could barely remember her mother’s appearance after so much time. He didn’t remember the color of her hair, her eyes, the shape of her face.

Was she tall or short? Thin or plump?

He didn’t recall. And standing on the back of the ship, the stormy ocean playing with her balance, she didn’t want to forget.

She described him to herself on repeat within her mind. Windswept black hair. Bronze skin. Amber eyes. Toothy grin. Tall. Lean. Kind.

A hand touched her shoulder, shaking her from her moment and causing her to jump in fright. It was the pirate, Branch.

“What’s our heading?” he asked.

She willed away the tears. Anaxi didn’t want this man to see her cry.

“Our direction?” he said, incorrectly assuming she didn’t understand the question in its first iteration. “To find the map?”

“Wherever you want to go,” she said. “You can search every archipelago and every atoll in this part of the world, and you won’t get any closer to it.”

With a forceful jerk, the pirate spun her around to face him. The wind at his back blew his hair across his face, but she saw a flash of unbridled, desperate anger. He spoke through his yellowed teeth, spit spraying her face as he did.

“Don’t play games with me,” Branch said. “You have no power here. I can make you talk.”

It was her turn to smile. She did. Then she laughed at him. His face flushed crimson. His grip tightened on her shoulders.

“You don’t understand,” she said. “I’m not playing games. You can’t get closer to the map than you already are.”

The pirate’s expression hardened. His mouth opened to speak, but nothing came out. His grip loosened on her shoulders and he stepped back. Rain whipped between them. The ship’s hull creaked as it swayed in the intensifying swells.

Lightning strobed above them and flashed in the pirate’s eyes. Thunder cracked and deepened into a boom that reverberated through Anaxi’s shivering body. She was sure he understood now. An epiphany.

The ship lurched to one side and it changed course. Anaxi lost her balance and grabbed onto a gunnel on the port side. Branch held his balance, unfazed by the sudden shift.

The mainsail boom rattled and the patchwork sail lost its billow. It flapped back and forth for a moment until it caught wind again and snapped taut. The ship righted itself.

A man called from behind the helm, “Apologies. Trying to keep the wind. It’s tricky with the storm. Had to come about.”

Branch waved him off without taking his eyes from Anaxi. He folded his arms across his chest and scratched the scruff along the underside of his jaw with clawlike fingers.

“You have the map now?” he asked.

His eyes drifted across her, studying her. His brows twitched with confusion when she didn’t answer.

“How could you have the map?” he said.

Anaxi considered how to answer the question. She saw a crack in the pirate’s confidence. It was infinitesimal, but it was there. Now the epiphany belonged to her.

I can work with this, she thought.

As much as she was a prisoner, there was opportunity. She knew where the map led and what treasure the pirate sought. As far back as she could remember, her father had lulled her to sleep with the same fantastic tale. It was a story of her mother, of hidden treasure, of a map that guided a seeker through dangerous waters and onto equally precarious land. Lucius had insisted she memorize every bit of the story word for word. She had.

Never in a million lifetimes did she believe her father when he said she’d someday leave their home. Never did she expect to use the bedtime story or think she would have the chance to find the treasure herself. This wicked pirate was her chance. He wasn’t as smart as he thought he was. While brutal, she could do him worse. And if the challenges that lay ahead didn’t end him, she would.

Anaxi wiped a sheen of water, sweat, and tears from her face and ran her finger through her hair. She lifted her chin and locked her gaze on his. Adrenaline surged through her body and she balled her small hands into fists.

“I don’t have the map,” she said. “I am the map.”

Chapter Five

Zeke checked his hole cards. A pair of queens stared back at him. A third queen gave him three of a kind on the flop. He upgraded to a full house with a pair of threes on the turn. Only he and Gabe were left in the game when the dealer added the river. Five cards, faceup. It was Gabe’s move, his turn to bet.

Gabe grunted. Phil, sitting between the two, chuckled.

Uriel sat across from Zeke, biting her nails. She’d folded on the flop, as she did every hand.

She withdrew her finger from her mouth and smirked. Her hand slapped against the table, knocking over the small pile of chips in front of Gabe.

“It’s not a life-or-death decision,” she said with no hint of irony. “It’s a single hand.”

Gabe frowned at her. He scanned the table again. Shifting in his chair, its feet scraping against the floor, he lifted the corner of his hole cards.

“Those aren’t changing,” groaned Uriel. “They’re the same two you were dealt.”

Zeke watched Gabe intently. There was the possibility his opponent had four of a kind. He might hold the other threes in his hand. It was unlikely. Gabe, however, had no idea Zeke was holding a pair of queens.

Risk averse, Zeke had played his hand conservatively and not bet the farm. He’d offered small raises or called the bets, nothing obvious. He was stone faced and hoped Gabe couldn’t see the rapid pulse in his chest and at his neck.

Gabe exhaled. He tossed his cards into the center of the table. “I’m out.”

Zeke couldn’t suppress his grin. Without turning over his winning hand, he slid the cards into a mess of them to his left. He wrapped his hands around his loot and pooled it toward him.

Gabe raised an eyebrow. “You’re not going to tell me what you had?”

“Nope.”

Uriel laughed. “Good for you,” she said. “You might be one of us yet.”

“Might be one of what?” someone asked.

The voice came from behind Zeke. It was masculine but meek and unsure. The man cleared his throat, and Zeke spun around. It was Lucius Mander.

Zeke recognized the wide-eyed disorientation on the man’s face. His skin was pale. His hair was slicked back against his scalp. He wore a loose-fitting cotton shirt and baggy pants that had zippers wrapped around the thighs. His feet were bare. Abandoning the first question, he asked a second. His voice was stronger this time.

“Where am I?”

Uriel answered him. “Not sure you’d believe us if we told you.”

Lucius shrugged. “About which?”

“Either,” said Gabe.

“Both,” said Phil.

Zeke scooted his chair back and stood. He offered a hand to Lucius. “I’m Zeke Watson.”

Lucius hesitantly took his hand and shook it, distrust in the movement. “Lucius Mander.”

“We know,” said Uriel. “You’re the new guy. Quite a dramatic entrance. Impressive. I’m Uriel. This is Phil. And Gabe. And everyone else.”

Lucius’s eyes darted around the room. He released Zeke’s hand and crossed his arms over his chest. His shoulders drew inward. His gaze narrowed and he scanned the table now, studying each of the card players.

“I don’t remember much of anything,” he said. “I mean, I remember swimming here. I remember being chased by those—by the—”

“Horde,” said Uriel. “Cute, aren’t they? I like the tall, dark, and handsome type, but two out of three does the trick.”

She winked at Lucius, who clearly wasn’t sure how to take her. His brow furrowed with confusion. He didn’t reply to her. Instead, he looked to Zeke.

“The bartender told me to find you and get a drink,” he said. “That’s what I’m doing. I mean, what I did.”

“How did you know it was me?” asked Zeke.

“The hat.”

Zeke touched the Stetson atop his head. It was a gift from Pedro. The hat had become part of him in the short time he’d worn it. He ran his fingers along the brim and tugged down to adjust the fit.

“Let’s go,” he said, leading Lucius from the table toward the bar.

“Can I come?” asked Uriel as they passed her. Her hand brushed across Zeke’s chest, her fingernails scratching him.

“Maybe later.”

A few steps from the table, Lucius leaned into Zeke. He whispered above the din, “Who is she?”

“Uriel,” Zeke said.

“Right. But who is she?”

“Who are any of us?” Zeke said. He wasn’t sure what he was allowed to tell the newcomer and what he had to keep secret. Being vague seemed the best option.

They reached the bar and Zeke pointed to an empty stool. Lucius climbed up and Zeke took the seat next to him.

Pedro, who was busy drying a glass, had his back to them. He glanced up and eyed their reflections in the back mirror.

“What’ll it be?” he asked. “First round is on the house.”

Lucius swallowed hard and pressed his palms flat against the bar. When he lifted them, the moisture left behind slowly evaporated. The newcomer was nervous. Not surprising. All of this was confusing. Zeke knew that firsthand. He leaned toward Lucius.

“It’s not a trick question,” he said. “You can have whatever you want.”

“Water?” Lucius ordered it as if water might not be on the menu. Or perhaps it was that he wasn’t sure if that’s what he wanted.

Pedro turned around, empty glass in hand. He slapped his rag over the shoulder of his leather vest. One large step had him bellied up to the bar.

“Ice or no ice?” he asked.

Lucius looked at Zeke the way children look at parents for permission. Zeke shrugged.

Lucius cleared his throat and said, “Ice.”

Pedro nodded. Then he smiled, a hint of mischief washing across his face. “And nothing in the water…with the ice?”

Lucius shook his head. “Just the ice water.”

“And you, Zeke? Whisky? Bourbon?”

Zeke rapped his knuckles on the bar. He scanned the shelves of liquor, stopping for a moment on the spine of the large book about Watchers, which was back in its place, and then he pointed at Pedro.

“How about a beer,” he said. “Phil was drinking a beer with hints of whiskey.”

Pedro dropped a pair of ice cubes into the glass and shot a blast of water over them. He set the glass on the counter and slid it Lucius. Then he raised a finger, shaking it back and forth.

“Kentucky Bourbon Barrel Ale,” he said. “Good choice. It’s a beer that’s aged in bourbon barrels. You know the barrels are only good for a single use when it comes to the bourbon. They get repurposed. Adds a nice sweet burn to the beer.”

Pedro disappeared through a door next to the liquor shelves. In a moment, he was back with a pair of beer bottles. He set them on the counter in front of Zeke and Lucius.

Zeke thanked him, toasted him, and took a healthy pull. The beer was chilled. The zing of alcohol bubbled in his head. The swallow started with the aromatic sting of the bourbon and finished with the sour of the beer. It was delicious. He took another quick swig and swished it around in his cheeks.

“I didn’t want a beer,” said Lucius. “Thanks. But I’m good with the water.”

“Let’s see if that’s how you feel after our discussion,” said Pedro. “If you don’t want the beer, I’m sure Ezekiel will gladly imbibe.”

Pedro was right. Zeke could drink these all day.

Lucius took a hesitant sip of the water. He licked his upper lip and motioned around the bar with the glass in his hand. The cubes clinked together.

“What is this place?” he asked. “Where am I?”

“What’s the last thing you remember?” asked Pedro. “That’s a good place to start.”

Lucius took a deeper gulp of water this time. Stray drops rolled down his chin. He wiped them with the back of his hand and apologized.

“Not a problem,” said Pedro. “Been a while since you had ice?”

Lucius checked with Zeke, then admitted he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a cold drink. Cold food, yes. Cold drinks, no.

Pedro whipped the cloth rag from his shoulder and swiped the bar dry around Lucius’s sweating glass of water. It was a quick, expert movement. Then he leaned on the bar with his elbows, his thick, browned forearms appearing to flex.

“What can you remember?” he whispered.

Lucius cleared his throat. “I remember seeing the ship offshore. It wasn’t one we’d seen before.”

Zeke pivoted in his seat to watch Lucius as he spoke. He remembered sitting in that very seat, a newcomer in a strange land. Everything made sense, but nothing did. It was surreal and vivid, like a nightmare without the panic.

Lucius’s eyes were closed. He’d squeezed them shut. His face looked pained as he recounted the memory.

“There were traders who’d visit,” he said. “This wasn’t one of them. The way the ship approached. The number of men aboard. We knew it was bad.” His hands tightened into fists. His knuckles whitened. “We tried to rally our limited defenses. The children hid. The women protected them. The men tried to fight.”

Tears leaked down his cheeks. Lucius’s breathing sped up. Each word was breathier than the last.

“There were too many of them,” he continued. “We aren’t violent people. Nobody in our chain of islands fights. We’re peaceful. We told the pirates we were peaceful.”

Zeke shifted to regard Pedro. He arched his eyebrows and mouthed the word, “Pirates?”

Pedro returned the glance. He frowned, lifted a finger to his lips, and shook his head.

“They took me from my daughter,” said Lucius. “Ripped me from her and took me offshore. When I didn’t give them what they wanted, they—he—I…”

Lucius spread his fingers and put both hands to his chest. He opened his eyes and looked down, patting himself like he was looking for something he’d misplaced.

“What did they want?” asked Pedro.

Lucius wiped his eyes with his knuckles. “A map.”

“To what?”

Lucius opened his mouth to speak. He said nothing and closed it again.

Pedro pushed the glass of water toward him. Lucius picked up the glass and downed the rest of the water. The ice, fused together now, hit his teeth with a clack.

“What map did they want from you, Lucius?” Pedro asked.

The newcomer lowered his head. Chin against his chest, he stared at the floor. No answer.

Pedro lowered his voice. “Let’s try this instead. Who wanted the map?”

Lucius looked up. “His name is Desmond Branch.”

“And he’s a pirate?”

“Yes.”

“And you live in a chain of islands?”

“Yes.”

“And this Desmond Branch believed you had a map?”

“Yes.”

Pedro ran his hand along his white beard, stroking it, as he watched the newcomer struggle in his seat. He scratched at the scruff where his jaw met his neck. He pursed his lips, then spoke. “Did you have what Desmond Branch wanted?”

Lucius brought his hands up to the bar. He clasped them and began rubbing his thumbs across one another.

A hand touched Zeke’s back. A familiar floral scent told him who it was before he saw Uriel squeeze into the seat beside him.

She put her lips to his ear and whispered. It sent a shiver up and down his spine. Electricity sparked in his chest and branched toward his fingers and toes. “How’s the newbie? He looks so serious. And he’s older. I mean, I like an experienced man. But usually the newbies are younger. Like you, Zekie.”

She’d started calling him Zekie since they’d returned to the bar with his girlfriend, Adaliah. Or ex-girlfriend, he wasn’t quite sure anymore. And he didn’t know if the name was a genuine term of endearment from Uriel, or a barb with which to jab at Adaliah.

Regardless, Zeke inhaled her intoxicating aroma. It offered more of a buzz than the bourbon beer. He shifted to whisper a response. “Not a good time right now.”

“Is it ever?” she replied and raised her hand to order a drink.

Pedro ignored her. He repeated his question to Lucius. “Lucius, look at me, son.”

The newcomer lifted his chin.

“Did you have what Desmond Branch wanted from you?” Pedro asked.

“Indirectly,” said Lucius. “My daughter has it.”

In that instant Lucius emerged from his stupor. His expression brightened. He moved to get up from the stool.

“I need to go,” he said. “I have to get back to my daughter. She’s in danger.”

Lucius spun around, surveying the bar. He stepped from the bar and stumbled into a chair. The poor man looked like a drunk who’d awoken with no recollection of where he was but was certain he was late for something and likely in trouble.

He grabbed the back of a chair and spun to the bar. His panicked gaze swept from Uriel to Zeke to Pedro and back.

“Help me,” he pleaded. “I need to get out of here. I have to find my daughter.”

Uriel leaned in toward Zeke. “Sound familiar, big boy?”

Zeke ignored her. It did sound familiar. It wasn’t that long ago he’d been anxious to leave this place, to get back to his hometown and rescue the woman he’d abandoned. Now she was upstairs, unable to cope with the reality they had yet to explain to Lucius.

Pedro stepped from around the bar and moved toward Lucius. The newcomer appeared to cower, like the walls were closing in around him. He crouched against the chair, sinking into a squat. He dropped his head into his hands and sobbed. His back heaved. His body shuddered.

The barkeep crouched beside him and placed his hand on the man’s shoulder.

“We can help you,” said Pedro. “But you must tell us more about the map, about your daughter, and about this pirate, Desmond Branch.”

Chapter Six

Anaxi had never seen anything like it. From her vantage point, on the deck of Branch’s boat, the Saladin, the vessel blocked out the sun.

“It’s impressive, isn’t it?” said Branch.

He stood next to Anaxi, one hand on her shoulder and the other tucked into his waistband. They watched as Pierre Le Grand navigated the Saladin next to the enormous metal ship anchored next to them. The crew aboard the larger vessel tossed down a rope ladder, which twisted and flattened against its rusted hull. One of Branch’s men used a shepherd’s crook to hook the ladder and draw it toward the Saladin.

“You’ll go aboard with me,” said Branch. “We’ll negotiate a price. Then we’ll be on our way.”

The pirate pulled away from her and reached into a deep pocket at his hip. He withdrew a leather pouch cinched at the top, bounced it in his palm, and handed it to Anaxi.

She weighed the bag in her palm. It was heavier than it looked. She massaged the leather and the rounded edges of coins, then looked up at the pirate, his face dark from the shadow cast by the much larger ship.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“Payment,” he said. “That’s what we exchange for fuel.”

Anaxi bounced the bag in her hand and studied the massive vessel next to them. To see the deck of the thing, she had to lean back and crane her neck.

Branch seemed to sense her question coming.

“This is what’s called a tanker,” he answered before she asked. “A relic of the world before the melt. There are a few dozen of them. They ration out their stores for food, coins, women.”

Branch smirked at her. They both knew, she supposed, that he was trying to frighten her. It was a pointless ploy. He needed her more than he needed fuel.

“You will need more than fuel,” she told him. It was the first clue she’d offered in the days since they’d left her home island, since her father disappeared into the deep.

“Is that so?” Branch said. “What am I going to need?”

Anaxi tossed the bag, juggling it between her hands. She considered whether she should reveal any of the waypoints on the map inside her head.

“Courage,” she said.

Branch laughed. “Is that all?”

“Fortune.”

“All men need good fortune,” he said. “I make my fortune. Always have. And I have courage to spare.”

Anaxi stopped tossing the bag. “Do you?”

The silence between them hung in the air with the salt and the spray. Anaxi scowled, her knowing gaze locked onto the pirate. His smile evaporated. He grabbed her arm and shoved her toward the rope ladder.

“Let’s go, girl. Make yourself useful.”

Anaxi suppressed her satisfaction at irking him and, with a crewman’s help, stepped over the side of the Saladin. She held the coin bag between her teeth and grabbed the ropes on either side of the wooden rungs that made up the ladder.

Branch was right behind her as she climbed one rung at a time. Occasionally she’d sense his hands close to her feet.

“Keep moving,” he said. “Almost there.”

When she reached the top, a pair of calloused hands helped pull her aboard the tanker. Once on the tanker’s deck, the man attached to the rough hands welcomed her before helping Branch.

Now in the sunlight, it took Anaxi’s vision a moment to adjust. When it did, a man unlike any she’d ever seen before stood proudly in front of her, a broad smile on his bronze face.

He was wiry, with shoulder-length, ink-black hair and dark brown eyes. The sinew of his muscles revealed a life of hard work. He wore a sun-bleached shirt bearing lettering Anaxi didn’t recognize and loose-fitting pants that billowed in the salty breeze.

“Welcome aboard the Texas,” he said. “We are happy to conduct business with you.”

His accent was unfamiliar and, though she understood him, it wasn’t easy. He extended a hand to Branch.

“I am Mafuta,” he said. “I must tell you in advance, friend, we do not take women as payment.”

Branch held Mafuta’s hand after the shake was over. “No worries, Mafuta. She’s not for sale. I have coin.”

Mafuta pulled away his hand but maintained his affability. He bent at the waist and nodded toward Anaxi.

“Good to know, friend. Follow me.”

The ship was a nest of pipes and narrow passageways. They clanged up a twisting set of vented metal stairs. Mafuta moved briskly, leading them into the ship’s bridge tower. The chipped and peeling paint on the railing flaked on Anaxi’s hand as she ascended.

On this ship she saw things of which she’d never conceived. There were people whose skin spread across the spectrum of colors. Some were dark. Others so light skinned they appeared almost translucent. One woman had hair the color of dead palm fronds. Some had painted faces. Decorations in their ears that made the lobes sag.

Clothing was a cornucopia of fabrics and textures. Anaxi was transfixed by the bright blue and green tunic dress that covered the entirety of a thin bronze woman save her face and hands. Her eyes were a bright blue, like a cloudless sky.

The smells were another thing altogether. Some good, some bad. It was like passing through fabled bazaars about which her father had told her. Markets with spices and fresh meats. Vegetables and fruits the colors of which seemed impossible. Rainbows of goods with odors to match. Feasts for eyes, ears, and nose.

If only my father could see this. He wouldn’t believe it either.

The bridge was a musty space, the stale odor of cigarette smoke clinging to the yellow haze filling the tanker’s operational hub. Three men, all of them appearing much older than Mafuta, stood at controls overlooking the bow.

Through the haze, Anaxi peered through the large glass windows. This perspective of the ocean was incredible. She’d never been so high in the air. The world looked bigger, the curved edge of the horizon impossibly far away. The soft chop of the waves looked like white eyelashes blinking over and over. To the port side, a squabble of seagulls rode the currents of the warm sea air. They flapped their wings in unison and then stopped, gliding above the churn of the tanker’s wake.

She was so transfixed by it all, she almost missed the transaction happening beside her. Branch wrapped his hand around the back of her neck. His squeeze brought her back to the moment.

“Anaxi,” he said, “hand the captain the bag.”

The captain was a squat man with an open shirt that exposed his round belly. His dark skin looked stretched taut across his midsection. He had yellow eyes and teeth to match. Divots marked his oblong scalp. A wrap of dark hair ran from ear to ear around the back of his head.

He extended a hand to Anaxi and flexed his fingers as if grabbing at the air, coaxing her to give him the coins.

Instead of handing it to him politely, she flicked her wrist and tossed it to him. The captain caught it against his chest, the coins clinking loudly against each other.

He took the bag in both hands and uncinched the top. With pursed lips he peeked inside the opening before dumping its contents into his palm to weigh the bounty.

“This is good,” he said. “You’ll have your fuel.”

Branch’s grip eased on Anaxi’s neck. “Very good.”

“Stay for a drink?” asked the captain.

“Of course,” said Branch. “I’m never one to turn down a generous offer.”

The captain jutted his chin at Mafuta. “Get the men to move the fuel to the Saladin.”

Mafuta bowed. “Yes, Captain.”

He hustled from the bridge to take care of business. His footsteps clanged on the staircase and echoed against the iron walls.

“Come,” said the captain.

He guided them through a port into a wide galley that smelled like grease and smoke. Above a countertop, hanging by the feet from twine hooked to the ceiling, were three dead gulls. Their bodies swung together with the gentle motion of the ship.

Anaxi winced at the sight, then gagged from the smell.

The captain grabbed a pair of glasses and a bottle of brown liquid and led them to a round table. He took a chair facing the bridge and motioned for them to sit opposite him. He formally introduced himself as he poured two glasses.

“My name is Nahodha,” he said. “My men and I thank you for the business.”

He lifted his glass and toasted his guests. With a single gulp, he downed the liquor. Branch had his glass in the air. He tipped it forward and raised his eyebrows at Nahodha before taking a drink himself.

Branch thanked the captain for the drink. Nahodha beamed with pride and poured himself another glass.

“It’s a rum,” he said. “Very old. Very rare. We have a few bottles left. I have to hide them from the men, or they would be gone very fast. Very fast.”

He snapped his fingers and laughed. Another swig and the glass was empty again.

“Tell me about yourself,” Nahodha addressed Branch. “We haven’t done business together before. Where have you been? Where are you going?”

Branch took another sip before answering, “I try to spread my business, expand my network. It’s always good to find a new partner. My name is Desmond Branch. I am captain of the Saladin. This is my…ward, Anaxi.”

Anaxi pressed her lips together. Beneath the table, she crossed her legs at her ankles. In her lap she clasped her hands together and flexed them in and out. It took everything in her not to tell the captain exactly who she was and what Branch was attempting to do. She remembered a phrase her father had often repeated when she was quick to anger, when her impulse control threatened to get the better of her.

“Discretion is the better part of valor,” he’d said.

“Which means what exactly?” she’d questioned.

“It’s from an ancient play,” he’d explained. “From one book that survived the melt.”

She remembered the library on the island. The village had twelve books. Most of them were warped from water damage, some of them had missing pages, and only adults could touch them. Anaxi had looked forward to the day she’d be able to read them for herself, hold them in her hands. Now that day would never come.

“What play?” she’d said to her father.

“Henry IV,” he’d answered. “A man pretends to be dead on the battlefield to avoid being killed. Then he proclaims that discretion is the better part of valor.”

“It sounds like a joke.”

“A joke?”

“He’s a coward,” she’d said. “He pretended to be dead to avoid being killed. That’s gutless. It seems like he’s joking. Or that the person who wrote the play is joking.”

Her father had smiled. “You’re too smart for your own good.”

As she sat in the Texas’s galley, letting Branch spin his lie, was she being a coward? Maybe her father and whoever wrote the play were right. Discretion was the better part of valor. Live to fight another day. She decided to stay quiet and let Branch speak uninterrupted.

“We’ve come from the central archipelago,” he said. “It’s been a while since we’ve fueled up. Long journey ahead.”

Nahodha folded his arms across his chest, resting them on his protruding belly, and regarded his guests. After a longer than comfortable silence, he clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “You tell half-truths, Desmond Branch.”

Branch was unmoved. He quietly took another sip of the rum.

“I know who you are, friend,” Nahodha went on. “You are a pirate. You take what is not yours. You hurt people who do not deserve it. You are a man without a home, without a village.”

Branch set the glass on the table. “And I’m a legend. You forgot that.”

Nahodha chuckled. It was the laugh of someone who sensed the tension rising but sought to ease it. He unfolded his arms and put his fingers on the table, walking them across the worn, cigarette-burned surface.

“I did not forget, he said. “Everyone knows you, Desmond Branch. You travel from place to place. So many places. Where are you going now? And whose child is this?”

Nahodha pointed at Anaxi, but didn’t look at her. He was focused on the pirate.

“Are we going to have a problem, Nahodha?” Branch asked, his voice firm. “I’ve paid for my fuel. I didn’t take anything from you. We’re in business fair and square, no?”

The captain raised his hands in surrender. “No problems. You did pay. There is no judgment from me, my friend. No judgment. I only say what I know is truth. Do you have a problem with truth?”

Branch balled his hands into fists then extended his fingers. He flexed them back and forth.

“The truth is,” he said, “you are either judging me, or you want something from me. Otherwise, as I see it, you wouldn’t be sitting here with me, drinking this fine rum.”

The captain said nothing. He poured a third glass for himself and offered a refill to Branch. The pirate declined. The captain dropped his hands beneath the table.

“I know people who would pay me lots of money for you,” admitted Nahodha. “You have many enemies, my friend. People you have wronged. People from whom you have taken valuables. That is the truth.”

Branch laughed. “Is that what this is about? The bounty on my head? You planning on killing me?”

The captain shrugged and lifted a pistol, which had apparently been secured to the underside of the table. He leveled it at Branch’s chest.

“You are worth more alive than dead,” Nahodha said. “Much more. Do you think I would do business with a stranger? I know you. Raise your hands, friend.”

Branch raised his hands. Anaxi saw the muscles in his jaw flex.

Nahodha used the gun to motion toward Anaxi. “The girl too.”

She raised her hands. Behind her, from the bridge, she heard shouts and what sounded like a struggle. In front of her, Nahodha’s expression shifted. His nervous confidence melted into confused concern.

“I think you might want to lower the weapon, friend,” said Branch. “If you knew me as you claim, you never would have tried this.”

Three of Branch’s men appeared in the galley. Two were bloodied and one of them had Mafuta by the collar of his faded T-shirt. The man had a large swelling under his eyes and blood draining from what might have been a broken nose.

Branch lowered his hands and stood. “My men have control of your ship now. Go ahead and put down the gun.”

Rage flooded Nahodha’s features, but he didn’t lower the weapon. He opened his mouth to speak but sputtered something unintelligible.

“Go ahead,” said Branch. “Shoot me. You’ll be dead before my body hits the deck. So will your woman. And your child.”

Nahodha’s hand trembled now. He couldn’t keep his aim straight. His rage mixed with fear.

Branch stepped behind Anaxi. He tapped her shoulder and pulled out her chair as she stood.

“That’s right, Nahodha,” he said. “I know my business partners too. And I know their half-truths.”

Sweat beaded on Nahodha’s head. It pooled in the divots at his crown and ran down his forehead.

“Bring her in,” said Branch.

Another of his men entered the galley with a small child in his arms. She was beautiful. Her dark brown skin was flawless, hair pulled tight against her head in braids. Brightly colored beads decorated the rows of styled hair. Her crystal blue eyes were wide with fear as she sucked on her thumb.

“Mtoto,” Nahodha whispered. The gun dropped to the floor. “Don’t hurt her. Please.”

Branch nodded at his man holding the child. The crew moved across the galley and handed Mtoto to her father. Now the captain’s arms were full. Nahodha kissed the girl on her forehead, then her cheeks. He held her tight against his bare chest.

“Let’s go,” said Branch.

Anaxi grabbed Branch’s arm. “Don’t do this.”

The pirate shrugged free of her hand and marched from the galley to the stairwell. He didn’t wait for Anaxi or the others. They followed without direction until they were at the stern of the large ship. It was a march that took several minutes at a brisk pace.

“Branch,” called Anaxi, “stop. Don’t do this. These people did nothing to you.”

He ignored her. Branch didn’t turn back. He didn’t even slow or hesitate.

As they moved through the ship, Anaxi saw the pirates in control. They passed dead bodies and wounded men nursing injuries. The woman in the tunic lay on her back. Blood stained the bright colors of her dress. Her eyes were lifeless now. Anaxi stepped over blood and in it. It struck her how much damage the pirates had inflicted on the Texas crew and how silently they’d manage to be in the commission of it all.

Until the Saladin arrived at her home island, Anaxi had had little violence in her short life. Since its unwelcome visit, she’d seen little else other than the worst humanity might inflict upon itself.

A bright orange lifeboat hung from the stern of the ship on a winch.

Branch’s men had the captain, his wife, and their child huddled together near it. Three other crew members, including Mafuta, remained with them under guard.

Branch stepped to one of the two entry ports on the side of the lifeboat. He motioned to one of his men. A relay of information passed among crew members until the winch began to clank and hum.

Slowly, the winch moved the boat away from its stowed position. It took two minutes for it to reach a place where people might board. Branch stepped to the boat and unlatched one of the two entry doors. Then he motioned to the opening in a sweeping movement of faux graciousness.

“All aboard,” he said.

Nahodha furrowed his brow. He frowned at the lifeboat, barely big enough to fit all of them and with only a propeller on the back, and then at Branch. He lifted his chin and pulled back his shoulders.

“No,” he said.

Branch drew his sword. Sunlight glinted on the steel. The blade sliced through the air and stopped less than an inch from Nahodha’s face. In a second quick action, the razor-sharp tip touched Nahodha’s wife’s cheek, pushing at her fleshy cheek.

Branch was expressionless, his voice dispassionate. “One way or the other, you and your family are getting off this ship. Your choice as to the method.”

“Branch,” said Anaxi, “what are you doing?”

Again, Branch ignored her. His focus remained on Nahodha.

Nahodha’s eyes moistened. He swallowed and his Adam’s apple worked up and down against his throat. Saying nothing, he took his wife’s hand and led his family to the square portal on the starboard side of the lifeboat.

Awkwardly, they climbed inside the cabin. Three more men followed them, including the dejected Mafuta. He was a shell of the man Anaxi met earlier and hardly recognizable as he disappeared into the lifeboat.

Branch sheathed his sword, climbed toward the portal, and said something to those aboard. Anaxi couldn’t hear it, but saw the familiar self-important smirk on the pirate’s face when he emerged and lowered himself to the tanker’s deck.

He closed the portal and twirled a finger in the air, signaling it was time to get moving. Anaxi watched intently as the mechanism shifted and carried the boat toward the water. Once clear of the ship’s deck, the lifeboat sank toward the water before the taut lines holding it aloft disconnected, and the boat dropped into the sea.

Branch moved to the edge of the tanker and leaned over to check the boat. He clapped his hands together and gave his crew another signal.

“C’mon, Anaxi,” he said. “Time to leave.”

Two men helped her from the ladder to the Saladin despite her efforts to push them away. She didn’t want any help. Grunting and frustrated, she steadied herself on the deck of the smaller ship and watched the rest of the men climb down in single file, like ants following a prescribed path. Amidst the Saladin’s crew, a few of the men from the Texas lowered themselves. Once on the deck, they were bullied or beaten into submission. One was tossed overboard when he didn’t move fast enough toward the steps leading below deck.

Anaxi wrapped an arm around the ship’s worn foremast and leaned her head against it. Exhaustion rippled through her body. First, she felt it in her eyes, then her shoulders. Her chest was heavy. Her legs were weak. Anaxi wanted to sleep. She wanted to crawl into her small bunk in the corner of the fo’c’sle and drift into a happy dream. This waking nightmare was too much.

The acrid smell of smoke stung her nostrils, the back of her throat, and brought her to the present.

The sky blackened above her. The day had instantly turned into night. Letting go of the mast, she walked amongst the busy crew toward the starboard side of the ship. From the right side, farthest from the Texas, she could better get a view of the tanker. Through the thickening pillows of black smoke, she couldn’t see much above its deck. Then, from within the black, she saw an orange flicker. It was a flash at first. Then again. And bigger.

The Texas was on fire.

Her weight shifted underneath her and she almost fell to the deck. The Saladin was underway. She felt the low vibration in the deck planks beneath her feet.

Anaxi maneuvered her way through the hive of activity on the deck and found a spot toward the rear where she could watch the Texas burn. Above the roar of the flames and the wash of the ocean against the Saladin’s keel, screams pierced the air.

One after the other, people jumped from the burning tanker into the sea. Some of them surfaced. Some didn’t. Their arms splashed in the water. They waved them above their heads. There was no helping them.

Even the lifeboat that carried their captain, Nahodha, was too far away—an orange speck hiding and reappearing amongst the chop.

“I told Nahodha not to come back for their men,” said Branch.

He was behind Anaxi. She didn’t turn to look at him and focused on the men jumping from the tanker. Some hesitated before leaping. Others didn’t.

Tears clouded her vision. She wasn’t sure if it was the emotion welling inside her or the biting waves of smoke that drifted across her face. Instead of wiping away the tears, she kept her eyes open. A burning sensation forced her to blink.

Branch put his hand on the top of her head. She clenched her jaw. The last thing she wanted right now was anyone’s touch, anyone’s talk. But he spoke.

“You might ask why I burned the tanker. It seems counterintuitive, right? It’s a source of more fuel than the Saladin could use in a decade. We had control of it. Why not kill the captain, enslave the crew, use it as a waypoint when we embark upon more delicate missions aboard my beloved Saladin?”

He said the name with the same reverence Anaxi had heard men speak of their wives. There was a sweetness that was absent in everything else he said.

He tousled her hair and stepped next to her. His fingers pinched his nose and he sniffed the air, perhaps clearing the smoke from his nostrils. Then he spit onto the deck in front of him. Anaxi watched the bubbling glob stick to the plank, holding its shape while the pirate talked. She said nothing and lifted her chin. A man jumped from the tanker and banged off its hull before splashing limply into the water.

“There are other tankers,” he said. “We’ll find them when we need them. I thought it better to send a message. And I—”

Anaxi interrupted him. “My father had a saying.”

“Did he?”

“He did.”

Branch stepped forward. He stood between Anaxi and the burning ship so she had to look at him, or at least, through him.

“What was it?”

Anaxi glared at him. “He’d say you’re biting off your nose to spite your face.”

Branch rolled his tongue around in his mouth. He used it to poke at the inside of his cheek.

“It might appear that way,” he said. “However, before you interrupted me, I was about to tell you the more important of the two reasons I chose to burn the tanker.”

She raised an eyebrow. Smoke and flames framed both sides of him. The Texas shrank as the Saladin motored farther from it, Le Grand pushing their motor to full power.

Branch pinched his nose again. He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together.

“We have more important business at hand,” he said. “That takes priority over everything else. And I have other reasons.”

“What?” Anaxi asked.

“What would I do with a tanker? I can’t haul it around with the speed of my ship. I don’t have enough crew to man it. Certainly, I couldn’t trust the Texas’s loyalists to do my bidding. It was more hassle than it was worth.”

“Shortsighted. You didn’t have to kill all of those people. You could have enslaved them and put them to work on the Saladin. Given them a choice.”

Branch regarded her and said, “I have a saying too. Your father didn’t have a monopoly on pithy colloquialisms.”

She seethed. “You have no right to compare yourself to my father.”

He grinned. “I like to watch things burn.”

Anaxi sucked in as deep a breath as her lungs would allow. The air stung as she inhaled, and it stopped her short. She cleared her throat and took a step closer to her captor.

“You’re crazy,” she said. “One day you’ll sink like that tanker.”

She motioned past him, jutting her chin toward the flaming vessel. Branch turned to follow her gaze at the very moment an enormous ball of fire exploded from the Texas. An instant later, the percussive sound and wave from the blast reached them. It knocked them both from their feet.

The Saladin leaned hard to one side and Anaxi slid along the deck toward its edge. Her body caught something hard and it lifted her into the air. She tumbled and landed hard on her side. She grabbed blindly for something to hold. Nothing. Something sharp stabbed at the back of her thigh.

Another blast rocked the ship again. Her ears rang. A sharp pain radiated from the back of her head. Men screamed and groaned. Water washed over her, stinging her eyes. She gagged on a mouthful of ocean.

Through the haze of disorientation, she tried to pull focus on whatever it was in front of her. She thought she might be blinded. But she rolled a shoulder and realized she was pressed against a storage box bolted to the deck. Her nose was close enough to it that all she could see was the black metal of the box.

Under her weight, as she rolled onto her back, the ship pitched. However far the Saladin was from the Texas, it wasn’t far enough.

She lay on her back until the ship steadied on the sea. It might have been a minute or an hour, Anaxi wasn’t sure. Intermittent cries from the injured punctuated the wash of the sea against the ship’s keel.

The back of her head throbbed with each accelerated beat of her heart. The back of her leg burned. Her jaw was sore. Salt stung her eyes as she blinked the world into focus. Branch stood above her. Tendrils of blood ran down his face from a gash above his right eye. He reached down with an outstretched hand.

“Here. Let me help you.”

Anaxi slapped the hand away and pushed herself onto her elbows. Under her own power, she maneuvered onto her feet. Her vision blurred for an instant as the blood drained from her head. She wobbled and Branch steadied her by holding her elbow. She didn’t reject his help this time. If she had, she might have fallen again.

Looking at him, she pointed at his wound. “You’re hurt.”

He released her arm and gently tapped the injury. When he lowered his hand to look at the blood, he rubbed it between his thumb and forefingers as if testing its viscosity.

“A little lower and I’d have lost an eye,” he said. “That’d make me a right proper pirate, wouldn’t it?”

Anaxi rubbed the back of her neck, tilting her head to one side and the other. The back of her head throbbed.

Water sloshed on the deck, washing her feet, and she steadied herself on the storage box. Instead of standing, she dropped onto the box. Her shoulders sagged with exhaustion. She brushed hair from her face. The grit of salt scrubbed against her fingers.

Without an invitation, Branch sat next to her. His hip touching hers, he bent forward and rested his arms on his legs. Blood dripped like sweat from his forehead. He ignored it.

“One eye or two, you will never find that thing you’re looking for, and it doesn’t matter whether I’m with you or not,” Anaxi said. “Not if you keep acting out of insecurity. Not if you think power is the exertion of force or violence.”

He lowered his chin and sighed. He clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, perhaps considering her lecture.

“All right,” he said. “Tell me then, Anaxi Mander. What do I need to do?”

Two crew members passed in front of them. One helped the other walk. The injured man limped, not putting weight on one foot. Bright white bone protruded from his bloodied skin above the ankle.

Branch pretended not to notice them, despite the measured grunts from both men. He kept his focus on Anaxi and repeated his question. “What do I need to do? What is it I need to see?”

Anaxi suppressed a smile. He was more predictable than she’d imagined. His need for what lay at the end of the map had clouded his judgment. The haze would only thicken the closer to their destination they got…if they reached their destination.

“There are obstacles,” she said. “Three challenges you must face. Those challenges require sacrifice.”

His eyes widened. His expression brightened like a child awaiting the revelation of a surprise. Blood dripped from his chin as he lifted his gaze to meet hers.

“And if I sacrifice, if I defeat the challenges, then what?”

“Then the Kalevanmiekka is yours,” she said.

Chapter Seven

Zeke stood on the front porch of the cantina. Strains of brass-heavy music filtered from the bar through the twin louvered saloon doors. Beyond the porch, deep blue water stretched in all directions. In the distance the Horde sat in skiffs and canoes. They bobbed on the undulating waves, but somehow stayed unmoved by the current.

“I’ll never get used to that,” Zeke said. “They freak me out.”

Pedro put an arm around Zeke’s shoulder. “That’s the point. They’re meant to coax an uneasiness. We’re never too far from the darkness.”

“Without darkness, there is no light,” said Zeke. “That thing?”

Pedro patted Zeke’s shoulder and took two steps toward the edge of the porch. He leaned on the railing and glanced over his shoulder at Zeke. “Something like that.”

Zeke joined Pedro at the railing and rested on his forearms. The wood was warm through the thin fabric of his shirt. The sun was relentless here. It was the only thing in this place of which he was sure. The sun always shined. It never set.

“If I didn’t know any better,” Zeke said to Pedro, “I would think all of the vague answers to direct questions signal that you don’t know anything. Not for sure anyhow.”

Pedro’s face stretched into a grin. “Do any of us?”

Zeke wagged a finger. “That’s what I’m talking about.”

From behind them, the twin doors rocked on their hinges. Boot steps thunked against the wood porch planks. Without turning, Zeke knew the rhythm of the exaggerated walk. It was Uriel. Then she spoke, feigning a lilting Southern accent.

“Y’all talking about li’l ole me? Enough already. I can’t take all the constant attention.”

“Of course we’re talking about you,” said Pedro. “Of whom else might we speak, Uriel?”

She joined them at the railing and clasped the balustrade to swing herself forward and back. Her braid was draped over her shoulder, the bow at the end of it bouncing at her chest.

“We were about to discuss the mission,” said Zeke.

Uriel opened her mouth and pretended to cover it with her flat palm. Her eyes were wide with pretend surprise.

“Mission,” she said. “You. Have. A. Mission?”

Pedro scratched his beard at his chin. “Yes, he does, Uriel. I’m assuming that’s what brought you out here? You want in?”

She spun on her boot heels to face the barkeep. Planting her hands on her leather-clad hips, she huffed offense.

“Of course that’s not why,” she said. “I came to see my two favorite gents. But since you’re asking, yes, I’m interested. I accept. I’ll join your mission, Zekie.”

“I haven’t asked you yet,” said Zeke.

Uriel pouted, pushing her lower lip out in a curl. “How rude. Is she going? Is that why you’re not asking me?”

She was Adaliah. Or Li, as he called her.

Zeke shook his head. “No. Li’s not going. She’s not ready. And I didn’t say I wasn’t asking you, Uriel. I said I hadn’t asked you yet.”

She grinned, and warmth spread from his chest. He tried not to look her in the eyes and mistakenly focused on her décolletage. She put a hand to her chest, covering the parts her leather top did not. His face flushed. Pedro laughed.

“Ahhh. Uriel,” said Pedro, “you are a little devil.”

She winked and blew a kiss to the barkeep. “Don’t you wish, old man.”

The double doors slapped open again. More boot steps. Heavier. More purposeful.

“Am I missing something?” Gabe asked. “We drawing straws?”

Phil followed right behind him.

Zeke waved a hand at the group. “I’m guessing you all want in on this?”

The others exchanged glances and nods. In unison they said, “Yes.”

Pedro held up his hands. “Hang on a minute. Since this is Ezekiel’s mission, he chooses the team. The rules dictate no undue influence from any of you.”

“You believe in free will?” asked Zeke.

“That’s a much larger question,” said Pedro. “It requires a long explanation, one for which we don’t have time. Suffice it to say I…we…are proponents of self-determination.”

Zeke adjusted the Stetson on his head. He tipped it back and scratched his forehead. “What’s the difference?”

“You have much to learn, young Padawan.”

Zeke’s brow furrowed. “Pa-da-wan? What’s that?”

“You are so cute,” Uriel said, smirking. “Stupid and cute.”

“It’s a pop culture reference from the late twentieth, early twenty-first centuries,” said Gabe. “Before your time.”

“Was it part of his timeline?” asked Phil.

“Hard to know,” said Uriel. “I get a lot of these divergences confused. It’s hard to keep—”

Zeke’s eyes darted from Watcher to Watcher. “What are you talking about?”

“It’s my fault,” Pedro said. “I typically shy away from obscure references. Just forget I said anything.”

“Okay,” said Zeke. “But what’s a Padawan?”

“Someone who’s cute and stupid,” said Uriel.

Zeke looked at the others for confirmation. They exchanged glances and shrugged.

“Fine.” Zeke sighed. “I invite all of you to be on my team. I can’t imagine the humiliation if I didn’t.”

Pedro clapped his hands together. “Good. That’s settled. You have a team of four plus your charge, Lucius Mander.”

“And the task is to find his daughter?” asked Zeke. “Rescue her and restore the balance of good and evil?”

Pedro pursed his lips. He folded his arms and took in a deep breath. His gaze fell on the Horde sitting patiently upon the water. A gull swooped low along the surface and dove. It surfaced a moment later with a fish, but struggled with the added weight. Its flapping, black-tipped wings beat against the water on their downstrokes until it lifted itself skyward.

“Seagulls are smart animals,” said Pedro. “They’ll drop breadcrumbs to attract fish when they hunt for themselves. They swoop down and stay close to the surface. If they’re not hunting, they’ll steal from others. Other birds, animals, even people. Sometimes, when desperate, they’ll eat their young.”

Zeke didn’t know Pedro well, but he knew him well enough to understand the gull was a metaphor for something, or someone. The old man constantly spoke in riddles and lessons.

The barkeep raked his fingers through his beard. “This mission is more complicated than a simple rescue and balance. Those are easy.”

Zeke thought about his effort to rescue Li. He’d not thought there was anything easy about it.

After running for his life and leaving her to fend for herself, his conscience forced his return to his home city, an authoritarian protectorate where he worked as a bootlegger for a black-market purveyor. It was a violent extraction, which, while successful, ended with Li leaving her life behind. And she hadn’t come to terms with where she was and who she’d become.

Yeah. Nothing easy about it at all.

“How much do you know about the missing Watchers?” Pedro asked.

Zeke thought about what Phil once told him, then said, “Not a lot. That they sometimes go on missions and don’t return. They disappear along with their weapons.”

Pedro nodded. “What else?”

“You can’t go after them. If they’re smart about it, they grow more powerful. They influence good and evil. Typically, another Watcher has to bring them back.”

Zeke had seen the power of a rogue Watcher. One named Theo had chosen evil, and he’d stopped him from rescuing Li.

“Very good,” said Pedro. “And their weapons?”

“They become legend. Mythical. Every culture tells stories about these weapons. And I guess every version of Earth has them?”

Pedro flashed a smile. “That’s correct. There is more to it, however, and that’s where this mission gets complicated.”

Zeke wasn’t sure how much more complex things could become.

He was dead but seeking redemption. His friends were fallen angels called Watchers who were tasked with maintaining the balance of good and evil in what he now believed might be a multiverse. His new home was a bar and boardinghouse in the middle of nowhere. Once surrounded by a desert wasteland, it was now an island at the edge of a vast sea. What was next? A frozen winter ‘asunder land’?

Pedro seemed to sense Zeke’s concern. He offered a sympathetic frown. “I understand this is a lot to grasp.”

Zeke said nothing. He ran his fingers along the brim of his hat.

“When a Watcher’s gifted weapon disappears,” Pedro said, “it’s lost to us. We can’t see it. We can’t retrieve it.”

“Why not?” asked Zeke.

“Once gifted, the weapon belongs to the Watcher,” Phil interjected. “Only he controls it and has the ability to harness its power. If he leaves it on Earth, intentionally or otherwise, it stays hidden from us.”

“She,” said Uriel.

Phil’s face squeezed with confusion. He tilted his head to one side.

Uriel rolled her eyes. “He or she. You said he controls it. There are women Watchers, Phil.”

Phil bowed his head. “Apologies.”

“There are exceptions,” said Gabe.

Zeke chuckled nervously. His head was beginning to spin.

“There are,” Phil admitted.

Pedro held up his hands. “Let me do this, friends. One voice. One explanation. It’ll make it easier to digest. In fact, perhaps it’s best if you get yourselves some drinks or toss some darts.”

The trio stood there. None moved.

Pedro shooed them into the bar. His features grew serious. “Now.”

Uriel huffed. Gabe grunted. Phil mumbled something under his breath. Together they sulked back into the bar. Zeke watched the louvered doors swing back and forth on their hinges.

Pedro sighed. “Children.”

“Let me get this straight,” said Zeke. “When a Watcher loses or leaves a weapon on Earth, you can’t find it. I’m guessing the longer it stays on Earth, the more legendary it becomes?”

Pedro nodded. “Both those things are true. As Gabe said, though, there are exceptions. If a human finds a weapon, he or she can wield it. That upsets the balance, which is not good. Once the human uses it, we can see it. We can find it. We can retrieve it.”

“What does this have to do with my mission?”

“Everything,” said Pedro. “Besides finding Lucius Mander’s daughter, you are tasked with retrieving a weapon before the man who took her can wield it.”

“Okay. What is the weapon?”

“A sword. Once the weapon of a Watcher named Josephine. Long ago, she disappeared and her sword vanished with her.”

“How long?”

“Centuries,” said Pedro. “Give or take a millennium or two.”

“What does it do?”

“The sword?” Pedro asked and answered, “It’s similar to your pistol, to Gabe’s batons, Phil’s flail. To Uriel’s…body.”

“So it’s a pulse weapon.”

“More or less. It harnesses the energy of good and evil and displaces one or the other to set things right.”

Zeke absently put his hand on the grip of his pistol. “Does the sword have a legend?”

Pedro nodded. “Many. Different civilizations have called it different names. The Japanese called it Kusanagi. The British named it Excalibur. To the Greek it was Harpe and used to decapitate a snake-headed monster named Medusa.”

“What do you call it?”

The barkeep’s features brightened. “Excellent question.”

“The answer?”

“I refer to the sword by its Finnish name,” Pedro said. “Kalevanmiekka. Translated, it means Kaleva’s sword. If you look to the night sky toward Orion’s Belt, you’ll see stars with this name.”

“Kalevan…” Zeke attempted to pronounce.

“You need to find the sword to stop an imbalance of power,” said Pedro. “Mortal humans can’t be trusted with such a weapon. They’ve proven repeatedly that use of the sword, or any of our arms, leads to a strong imbalance. It has been a long time since a human possessed one of our weapons. It never ends well. Even the seemingly worthy, like a legendary boy nicknamed the Wart, caused more harm than good in the end. You and your team need to prevent it.”

“I thought you said we can’t find it until a human touches it?”

“I did.”

“We have to find it after this bad guy touches it but before he uses it,” said Zeke. “That sounds impossible.”

Pedro shrugged. “Anything worth having isn’t easy, Ezekiel.”

“By anything, you mean redemption.”

“I mean anything. Balance in all things requires sacrifice, complications, tweaks and shifts.”

Zeke clenched his fist before he flattened his palms against the sides of his hat. There were so many things to say, so many questions to ask. None of them crystalized. Instead, he snapped at the barkeep, “Who comes up with these stupid rules? And these random exceptions? All of this is too much. Every time I think I have a handle on where I’m headed, what my task is, I find out I have no idea. It’s… It’s…”

“Overwhelming,” said Pedro. “Confusing. Maddening. All of those things and more. I understand. I empathize. This part of your existence is always going to be a balance of those things. You are free to leave if you can’t handle it.”

“Leave?”

Pedro laid his hands on the railing’s balustrade. He faced the unending sea and focused on the Horde. The flotilla was there. Waiting. Watching. Stalking.

Zeke’s jaw dropped. “That’s my way out? It’s either this jumbled mess of rules and regulations, or it’s them?”

Pedro said nothing. He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. “Salt air is so much more refreshing than the arid heat of the desert,” he said to Zeke and to nobody in particular.

Zeke removed his hat and held it against his chest. The music inside the cantina had stopped. It was replaced with laughter and the clack of billiard balls slapping into one another.

He scanned the sea, looking toward the horizon where the pale blue sky transitioned to the dark blue water. It was cloudless. The sun was a white-hot smudge of orange in the sky. Its light danced on the rise and fall of the waves moving across the ocean’s surface. A flock of gulls rode a current of air, gliding without moving their wings. Their bodies shifted almost imperceptibly from one side to the other as they balanced themselves. The flock moved in sync, one organism adjusting and compensating for changes in the environment.

Zeke was never one for balance. Not in life. Not in death. He’d always acted in his own self-interest at the edges of society. When he was committed to something, he was all in. When he wasn’t, he was out and didn’t look back. When he loved, it was with his soul. When he hated, it was to his core.

He turned his attention to the leader of the Horde. He was the tallest of the motley group of ghouls and monstrous beings. The skeletal man with sunken black eyes stared back. He ran a gray tongue across yellow daggerlike teeth. And Zeke understood why they were always there, why they patiently bided their time within sight of Pedro’s Cantina.

They waited for arrivals to give up, to give in, and choose whatever it was they offered. They waited for Zeke.

The leader lifted his chin and sniffed the air. His wide nostrils flared.

Pedro motioned toward them. “They’re called the Harbingers of Real Death. If you go with them, they’ll gladly take you home. They know how difficult becoming a Watcher can be. They count on it. Many of them once stood where you do now. They sought refuge at the bar. I granted it. I tasked them with missions. They failed or gave up. Now they are among the Horde.”

A wave of guilt washed over Zeke. He was here, offered a second chance for his soul, and he complained about impossibilities, difficulties, challenges. Whatever lay ahead was surely a better alternative to an eternity in the ravenous Horde.

Zeke puffed his cheeks and blew out a warm breath. He faced Pedro and offered his hand.

The barkeep regarded the offering for a moment before taking the smaller hand in his meat hook. He shook vigorously.

“To what do I owe this?” asked Pedro.

“We have a deal,” Zeke said. “I’m in. All or nothing. I’ll find this Calvin Maker. I’ll save the girl and put the bad guy in a world of hurt.”

Pedro stopped shaking but held the grip. “Deal. And it’s not the Calvin Maker. It’s the Kalevanmiekka.”

“Calvin Maker. Kelvin Meter. You have your name for it, I have mine.” He chuckled. “Maybe I’ll stick with Excalibur.”

“Fair enough,” said the barkeep. “I think you’re worthy.”

Chapter Eight

Zeke scratched his head. This was not what he expected.

He stood on a thin strip of land that arced around the back of the cantina. It extended in a curved arc away from the building like an atoll. The water inside the sandbar was teal more than blue. Colorful varieties of fish swam near the surface in sharply moving schools.

Uriel stood next to him, her hip leaning into his thigh. Zeke had trouble concentrating. Her perfume was intoxicating, as always. Next to them, standing with his hands over his mouth, was Lucius Mander. He looked like he would puke.

Zeke’s Superbird sat parked on the sand. Beside it was a jacked-up Ford F-150, black with large thirty-seven inch tires. The wheels were scuffed and scratched, revealing the steel underneath.

Gabe loaded gear into the back of the truck. Phil leaned against the passenger’s side door, checking his appearance in the side-view mirror.

Zeke motioned to the water with an exaggerated sweep of his hand. “So how do we do this?” he asked. “The Superbird doesn’t float.”

Phil glanced up from the mirror. “Neither does the truck.”

Lucius took two steps forward, his feet sinking in the coarse sand, which sloped to the water. Then he spun around and retraced his steps. He did this several times before stopping and throwing up his hands.

“I don’t understand this,” he said, desperation bubbling in his voice. “How are we supposed to save my daughter? You don’t have boats? You have these machines, which you say can’t float, and that’s it?”

He threw up his hands twice more, then regarded each of them with a mixture of confusion and disappointment.

Uriel was the first to speak. “You’re welcome.”

Lucius’s brow twitched. “What?”

Uriel took four confident strides toward the newcomer. She appraised him with an elevator glare and repeated herself. “You’re welcome.”

Lucius shook his head. “I don’t understand. For what?”

Uriel moved close to the rear of the Superbird. Her fingers ran along the distinctive spoiler’s vertical strut before she leaned on the passenger-side door. She folded her arms lazily across her chest and crossed her legs at her ankles.

“You’ve got a team of badass warriors ready to go to battle for you,” she said. “We’re doing this of our own volition despite not knowing you or your precious daughter. And I say precious because I assume her to be so. Otherwise, why would you leave the relative sanctity of here to go back there? Then again, every father should think his daughter precious. And you know what they say about assuming anything…”

Lucius contorted his face and shook his head. “No. What do they say about assuming?”

Uriel smirked. One corner of her mouth lifted higher than the other. It was an odd-looking expression.

Zeke found it endearing.

She noticed him staring, with a sidelong glance his way. He cleared his throat and averted his eyes. She answered Lucius. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that we’re helping you, and all you’ve done is whine about it. If this is how it’s going to be, I think we should quit. There are others we could help.”

Zeke didn’t know who the others she referred to were. Lucius Mander was the first arrival since he’d returned with Li. He did know he didn’t like Uriel taking control of his mission.

Sure, she was more experienced with these things. She’d performed countless assignments to various versions of Earth. But this one was his. Pedro gave it to him.

“He doesn’t need to say thank you,” said Zeke. “We’re not doing this for a pat on the back or appreciation. We’re doing it because it’s what we’re called to do. Okay? Let’s figure this out and get going. I’m sure time is important.”

Uriel glared for a moment before the hard look softened into something closer to admiration. He hoped. She shrugged her shoulders.

“Okay, boss,” she said.

Zeke nodded, then faced Lucius. “I’m sure we have a way to get to where we need to go.”

“We do,” said Pedro. He emerged from the bar and into the daylight. He shielded his face with his hand at his forehead. His knuckles glinted in the sunlight, and Zeke realized he wore something on his hand.

The barkeep walked with his usual powerful stride toward the team. He squinted despite the shade on his face.

“It’s a hot one today,” he said. “That sun is bright, isn’t it?”

“Always is, Pedro,” Gabe answered for the group. “What I’d give to be a weatherman in these parts. Easiest job in the world.” He sat in the truck’s bed now, legs dangling over the edge and his feet almost touching the hard-packed sand.

Zeke wondered what a weatherman was. He decided not to ask for clarification. Instead, he stared at the identical rings adorning Pedro’s fingers.

“The water does present issues for traditional transportation,” Pedro said, motioning to the water. “But we are anything but traditional.”

“What does that mean?” Zeke asked.

“It means, Ezekiel, that your fine automobile will function in the water. So too will the truck. You’ll be able to drive as normal to the gate. Then you’ll find…modifications…which will allow the proper travel.”

Zeke didn’t question Pedro’s assertion. His hand brushed the revolver at his hip. His eyes drifted to the tattoo at Uriel’s midsection. In the space between her low-slung pants and the bottom of her cropped leather top was a flaming sword that ran across a two-dimensional sun. It was positioned diagonally from above her hip to her navel. It was the source of her power.

He remembered the way she’d dispatched threats with lightning speed and magnificent force. The colorful ink on her body glowed and pulsed blue when she was energized, harnessing the invisible force of good or evil. It was the same hue that emanated from his gun, from Gabe’s Escrima fighting sticks, and from Phil’s malevolent-looking flail when engaged.

Pedro was right. There was nothing traditional about him, this place, or any of the Watchers.

From his hand, Pedro removed the rings, and Zeke realized they weren’t pieces of jewelry. The brass-colored adornment was a single piece. The barkeep offered it to Lucius. The newcomer eyed the gift with suspicion before accepting it.

“This is yours,” he said. “It’ll add a kick to your punch, Lucius. Use it wisely.”

“What is it?” he asked.

Pedro sighed. “Depends on where you’re from. Knuckledusters, an English punch, knucks, or just plain brass knuckles. Whatever you call them is less important than how you use them.”

Pedro’s hands were much larger and thicker than Lucius Mander’s. But when Lucius spread his fingers and slid the weapon onto them, they fit him like a glove in the same way they’d snugly wrapped Pedro’s.

Lucius made a fist. He raised his prize in front of his face and then feigned a swing. A weak jab. A lazy uppercut. A lolling roundhouse. Lucius wasn’t a fighter any more than Zeke was an expert shot. It wouldn’t matter once the glow took hold.

Pedro slapped Lucius on the shoulder. “I’ll see you on the flip side.”

With that, the barkeep spun to return to his bar. Over his shoulder he called back to Zeke, “You’ve got this, Ezekiel. I know it.”

Zeke opened his mouth to thank him, but hesitated long enough that Pedro was back inside the bar by the time any real words came out. The rear door to the building clattered shut.

“That was an endorsement,” said Uriel.

Zeke shrugged. He didn’t know whether to be encouraged or overwhelmed. There was a lot of pressure inherent in someone else’s confidence. He motioned to Uriel to get in the car and walked around the driver’s side of his 1970 Plymouth Superbird.

“Let’s go,” he said.

He climbed in behind the wheel and ran his hand along it. It was comforting. A relic from a past life. And unlike Adaliah, it was unwaveringly dependable. He knew everything there was to know about the late-twentieth-century muscle car: its modifications, its strengths, its weaknesses. He couldn’t say the same for Li.

To his right, Uriel folded her seat so Lucius could climb in the back. The newcomer shot her a wary glance but squeezed himself into the cramped rear seats.

Zeke’s mind drifted to the room Li refused to leave. She hadn’t said more than two words to him since their arrival. Unlike Lucius, she couldn’t function. She was a ghost of herself. She didn’t eat. Zeke wasn’t sure if she even slept.

Here, in this place, people didn’t actually need to eat or sleep. They were time wasters, things to do that helped one hang on to a sense of mortality, to familiar habits from a past life. Drinking or playing games were good ways to do that too. Li tried none of it.

He loved her. Or rather, he thought he did. He’d risked damning his own soul to save hers, after all.

Now, however, he wasn’t sure if he’d made the right decision. Her wish that they spend their lives together was just that, a wish they spend their lives together. She likely hadn’t understood the only way they could be together was to spend their afterlives together. When Zeke had put the final bullet in her, when he’d killed her to fulfill that wish, he’d gone too far. At least that was what he was beginning to realize. Perhaps it was mercy. Instead it was selfishness. It was rash. He should have let things happen as they were meant to be and not played God. The longer Li stayed in her room, the longer she refused to accept her new reality, no matter how surreal it was, the more convinced he was that he’d made a mistake.

Zeke was knocked from his reverie by a punch to his right shoulder.

“Earth to Zeke,” Uriel said. “You with us?”

Zeke nodded. His hand went to the car’s ignition and he cranked it. The Superbird responded with a vibrating thrum.

“I’m with you,” he said. “Just thinking. Sorry.”

As if reading his mind, Uriel said, “She’ll be fine.”

Zeke forced a smile. “Thanks.”

“Or she won’t. Too soon to tell.”

The smile evaporated. He bit his lip and shook his head. “Right. Whatever. You ready?”

He checked the rearview mirror and saw Lucius Mander sitting in the middle, his knees tucked close to his chest.

“Ready,” he said. His expression told a very different story.

“Let’s do this, then,” said Zeke.

He shifted the car into gear. And though no road lay before him and no signs offered direction, Zeke instinctively knew in that moment he should drive into the turquoise blue water in the center of the atoll.

Uriel cranked down her window and stuck her arm outside. She twirled her hand in a motion signaling it was time to go. Behind them, the earthy rumble of the lifted truck drowned out the Superbird.

Zeke shifted into gear and held his foot above the accelerator. Then he punched it.

The car didn’t hesitate, responding with a quick jolt of speed. In an instant, they were at the water’s edge. From the back seat, Lucius gasped and closed his eyes. Uriel clicked the harness together at her waist and put a hand on the dash in front of her. Zeke gripped the wheel as tight as he could and braced himself.

The water parted.

It was as if giant invisible hands swept a clean path in front of the car. Fifteen-foot swells crested on either side, prepared to crash but holding their sway as if frozen in place.

As they advanced, so did the walls of water, creating a topless tunnel forward. A constant, almost pleasant spray of ocean water misted through Uriel’s open window.

Behind them, the truck plowed through the wash, and in the rearview, past the truck, Zeke saw the giant waves crash together. In his side view, undulating waves danced where a moment before he’d sped his car.

“What is this?” stammered Lucius, peering through one eye. “Where are we?”

Zeke exchanged a knowing glance with Uriel. Neither of them answered. Instead, she braced herself with both hands. Zeke pushed harder on the accelerator and the car shifted into a higher gear.

The waves on either side rose higher. They were six meters at least now, their foaming crests suspended and churning. The salt air mixed with the Uriel’s citrus perfume, and the aroma filled the cabin.

Lucius tried again. “C’mon. Give me something.”

In the rearview, the man now appeared pained more than frightened. His face, gaunt and sallow, was twisted with bewilderment. Zeke wondered if that was how he’d appeared when he was in Lucius’s position not that long ago. He felt for the guy. Among all the other emotions, this overwhelming disorientation only served to complicate things.

They likely would need his help when they got to their destination. It wouldn’t be smart to have him lost. Zeke relented, but did it in a way that mimicked Pedro’s style. He answered a question with a question.

“What do you remember?” he asked.

Lucius’s eyebrows twitched. They knitted together. His hand went to his gut. “What do you mean?” he replied.

Zeke flipped the windshield wipers on to clear the ocean spray. They swiped back and forth, leaving a film only a bit more transparent than the saltwater sheen.

“I mean…what do you remember? What’s the last thing you remember before you ended up here?”

“I already told Pedro,” said Lucius. “I remember Desmond Branch and his pirates showing up at our island. We set up our defenses. They didn’t help. I know he wanted the map.”

“The map your daughter has?” asked Uriel.

Zeke took his eyes from the path ahead. He adjusted the rearview mirror. Lucius had his head in his hands. His elbows pressed into his knees. His face was squeezed tight and his eyes were closed.

“I…maybe,” he said through clenched teeth. “I’m trying to think.”

The Superbird plowed ahead. The parting waves towered, the whitecaps curling inward, threatening to crash and swallow them whole. They rose some fifteen meters above them now, and the higher the walls of water stretched, the cooler the air and the darker the sky.

Zeke reached down to open his window. As he cranked the glass lower, he momentarily took his foot off the gas. The water walls shrank in size, dropping several feet like fountains losing pressure. He pushed the accelerator and they grew again in size.

Uriel released the harness holding her in her seat and twisted around. She shot Zeke a sympathetic look, brow furrowed, before turning to Lucius. She put her hand on his knee.

He flinched at her touch. His eyes opened. They glistened with tears.

Uriel flashed a crooked smile. “Lucius, it’s okay. This is a confusing time. I’ve been there. Zeke’s been there. We all have. Your memory will come back to you. The gaps will fill, and the haze will fade. I promise.”

Tears rolled down Lucius’s cheeks. He didn’t bother to wipe them away.

Uriel’s voice softened. “We’ll get through this. We’ll find your daughter. We’ll stop Desmond Branch.”

Lucius sat up. A tear dropped from his chin. His voice trembled. “How can you be sure?”

She shrugged. “I have faith. In us.”

“You haven’t met Desmond Branch,” said Lucius. “He and his people are…”

He stopped mid-sentence. His expression shifted as he searched for the word. He wasn’t looking at Uriel anymore. His gaze was distant, detached. His brow twitched. His mouth hung open. Tears welled again and streamed down his face.

Uriel touched his knee again. “Lucius?”

His eyes fluttered and he refocused on the moment. “Vicious. His people are vicious.”

He sank back into his seat. His shoulders slumped. It was as if some realization or memory had zapped him, left him feckless and without hope.

Uriel opened her mouth to say something, but didn’t. Instead, she pivoted back into her seat and buckled her harness.

They rode in silence, the sound of rushing water filling the spaces between their breaths. Zeke knew that none of them had any idea what lay ahead.

Chapter Nine

The sea was rougher today, and the Saladin pitched against the rise and fall of the onslaught of waves. Wind filled the sails, pushing them taut.

Anaxi’s gut roiled and she imagined her insides resembling the churn of the ocean. Her hands gripped a railing on the port side of the ship, which heeled dramatically to that side as it plowed through the water with determined speed.

In the distance, along the horizon, clouds plumed skyward. They were charcoal, almost black, and looked heavy. Curtains of rain poured from some of them, appearing to pull the clouds into the sea. It mesmerized Anaxi and helped keep her mind off the nausea threatening to buckle her knees.

She longed to set her feet on solid ground. To curl her toes in the sand. To sit on the beach as the surf washed around her. To hold her father’s hand. To hear his voice. His laugh. To listen to the elders tell great tales around the fire. To play with other children. To feel safe.

Anaxi tried to count the days since the pirates stole her life. Was it three? Four? Seven? Had it been a week? It couldn’t be a week already, could it?

It was at least a day since she’d given the heading to the Saladin’s pilot, Pierre Le Grand. They’d wanted more than directions. She’d offered only what was necessary.

The ship pitched wildly, the bow lifting skyward onto the crest of a large wave before settling with a deep drop into the trough. Water crashed over the ship, pooling on the deck. A heavy spray slapped Anaxi across her face. It was cold and sent a shudder along her spine.

She tightened her grip on the railing and steadied herself as the ship pitched up again, suppressing a wave of nausea that threatened to crash against her insides.

Anaxi had never suffered seasickness. She wondered if this was what coursed through her uneasy body or if it was something else. If it was knowing that with every bit of information she gave to Branch, she held less power over him. Another spray of water stung her face, and she turned away from the sea. In her peripheral vision, she caught movement. Desmond Branch approached her with the skill of a lifelong sailor. Her stomach turned over, and Anaxi decided the sea had nothing to do with her sickness.

“Beautiful day,” he yelled above the wind and surf. “Don’t you love the open sea?”

Anaxi shrugged. She thought the expression odd. The entire planet was open sea.

The wind whipped against his shirt, flapping it back and forth against the sinews of his triceps. It was unbuttoned to below his chest. The definition of his pectoral muscles was clear. He was a strong man in every sense of the word.

He smiled a toothy grin and pointed to the ship’s bow as he sidled up next to Anaxi. The man moved on the ship like it was an extension of his body.

“Today’s the day,” he said. “You tell me what lies ahead. The first obstacle.”

Anaxi swallowed. “Are you sure you want to know?”

He tossed his head back and laughed. The man was too dramatic. He loved hearing his own voice. Anaxi was convinced of both those attributes, and they were among his better qualities.

Lowering his chin, Branch’s expression grew serious. The smile disappeared as if the wind had whipped it from his face. He moved his body into her space and, twisting, grabbed a fistful of her shirt. Branch yanked hard and pulled her face close to his.

He spit as he growled, “No more games, child. I want the Kalevanmiekka. It’s my destiny. I’ll do what it takes, sacrifice what’s required to possess it. I’ve come this far. I won’t let you stop me.”

Anaxi’s heart raced. Her chest tightened. Fear shot through her body and, mixed with the nausea, it was too much. Acid raced up her throat. She puked all over the pirate.

It splattered on his face and his flapping shirt. Branch’s eyes widened with shock before narrowing in disgust. He released her shirt, shoving her in the process. She fell to the deck, sliding on her backside into a puddle building on the warped wood.

Saying nothing at first, Branch stood at the railing. His hands were at his sides, palms up, as he surveyed the rotten mess that coated his upper body. He sneered and wiped the foamy, greenish regurgitant from his face. Bits of it flicked onto the deck and overboard. The smaller pieces caught in the wind and blew back into his face.

Branch’s face grew a deep red. The muscles of his jaw flexed back and forth. He lowered his chin and glared down at Anaxi. His hands balled into fists.

“You little—” he growled.

Anaxi lifted herself onto her elbows and slid back on the slick deck. She wanted distance.

Branch steadied himself as the ship pitched again and deepened its heel. When the movement settled, he stalked toward her.

She scooted back farther, struggling to find purchase. Even the defiant knew when to run.

Rolling onto her stomach, Anaxi tried pushing herself to her feet. She reached one knee before Branch seized the back of her neck and heaved her into the air.

She kicked her legs, writhing to try to reach behind her. No luck. Branch’s hand squeezed around the sides of her neck.

She clawed at his fingers, digging into them, trying to pry them from her neck.

Branch grunted behind her, but his grip tightened until air couldn’t reach her lungs. Blackness clouded the edges of her sight. Her legs stopped kicking. Her fingers stopped prying.

And the world went dark.

Chapter Ten

The putrid odor made Desmond Branch wince. Anaxi stunk. He might have to relent and allow her a bath. His nose wrinkled with disgust.

He sat beside her bunk below deck. Beneath his feet, the wood planks hummed from the rush of water underneath the ship. Pierre Le Grand was next to him, as together they watched her sleep. The sides of her neck were badly bruised.

Le Grand nudged Branch’s shoulder. “You’re lucky you didn’t kill her. We’d be lost without her.”

Branch didn’t want to hear it, but his friend was right. He’d let his temper get the better of him. His rational self had told him to release her, to punish her some other way. His feral instincts, the ones that ruled him, ignored reason. He had wanted nothing more than to squeeze the life from the insolent punk. She’d been a burden more than an asset since stepping aboard. Other than providing a general heading, she’d offered nothing that brought them closer to the Kalevanmiekka.

Maybe it was better he toss her overboard and figure it out on his own. He’d gotten this far with no outside influence.

Next to the bed, stacked against the curved hull from floor to ceiling, were burlap sacks of grain. He’d stolen them from an island settlement west of the prime meridian and north of the equator. The sacks lined the walls throughout the quarters below deck. They added a lot of weight to the Saladin and slowed her top speed, but they were worth safekeeping. He could barter with them, or use them for food if he ever got in a pinch.

Branch considered if he should strap the girl to one of them and let her sink. He envisioned the satisfaction of pushing her overboard. The plunk of her body hitting the water and dropping like a rock to the dark depths of the ocean. As he saw this in his mind’s eye, he also imagined the immediate regret he’d feel once she was irretrievably gone. Sure, she hadn’t helped them yet. But she might. And her death would put a swift end to that possibility.

Le Grand motioned toward the girl. “You think she knows where it is?”

Branch rubbed his chin. The whiskers on his chin were rough and scraped against his calluses. He considered this. It was possible she was lying. He discounted it.

“Yes,” he said, unwavering. “I’ve seen it in her eyes. Her fear isn’t for her life. It’s about giving up the map.”

“How can you be sure?” Le Grand replied.

Branch pinched his nose and sniffed. The ripe odor stung his nostrils. He winced and cleared his throat. Then he waved his hand in the air, wiggling his fingers like a magician about to perform a trick. “I just am. I have a sense about these things.”

Anaxi’s eyes fluttered. She groaned. Her hands went to her neck.

“Good morning, sunshine,” said Branch. “We’ve been sitting vigil, awaiting your revival.”

The Saladin swayed from side to side. The seas were rougher now. The winds were stronger. The boards creaked around them, protesting the strain of stormy seas.

Groggily, Anaxi opened her eyes. Her brow knitted.

“Where?” she croaked.

Branch inched toward the cot. “You’re below deck. We brought you here to sleep. To recover. You’ll be fine.”

She shifted on the cot to study him. The look on her face was dubious. She said nothing.

“Here,” said Branch. “Take this.”

He offered her a glass bottle filled with water. The bottle was cold in his hands. It was sweating, condensation coating its smooth surface.

He wiggled the bottle in his hand. “C’mon. Take it. It’s cold water.”

Cold water. That was the key. It was a delicacy. There was plenty of water to drink. Almost none of it was cold though. Refrigeration was a luxury.

Anaxi blinked in succession again, appearing to focus her vision. She cleared her throat. Winced again. Pushing herself to her elbows, she took the bottle. She thumbed back the cap and gulped.

Branch chuckled. “You’re going to make yourself sick. Slow up, Anaxi.”

She grimaced with each swallow but didn’t stop. The bottle was half empty when she finally stopped to take a breath. She wiped her chin with the back of her arm.

“Can you speak?” Branch asked.

Without answering, Anaxi took another healthy pull from the bottle. Water leaked from the corners of her mouth and down her chin. She took several gasping breaths and drank more until the bottle was bone dry.

“You almost killed me,” she said. Her hoarse voice was audible, but little more than a croak still.

“Almost doesn’t count,” he said.

She scowled at him. Using her wrists, she pushed herself up against the curved wall at the head of her cot, as far away from him as she could be without leaving the bed.

“Truce, okay?” Branch said. “I think things will be a lot easier for both of us if you simply do as I ask.”

She rubbed the sides of her bruised neck. “You don’t ask.”

“Fair enough. You’re right. I don’t ask. But I figure, why pretend? We both know that even if I ask, you have no choice. You have to do what I ask. I might as well tell you what to do. It cuts through the falsities.”

“I don’t trust you at your word.”

“What if I promised?”

“Promised what?”

“What would you like for me to promise? We have a witness. Le Grand here. He’s a witness to my promise. He’ll hold me accountable.”

Anaxi swallowed again. “Promise to keep your hands off me.”

He raised his hands in mock surrender. “I promise.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Well, I will endeavor to try,” said Branch. “Le Grand is witness to me promising I’ll try. That’ll have to do. You really don’t have a choice, Anaxi.”

“Fair enough,” she said.

Branch slapped his knees with his open palms. “Good, then. We understand each other. Now, let’s get to business.”

Anaxi looked at Le Grand. “Why is he here?”

“An extra set of eyes and ears,” said Branch. “What you have to tell me is important. I want to make sure I remember it.”

Anaxi studied both men. Her eyes shifted back and forth. She nodded. She inhaled, taking in a slow deep breath such that she appeared to grow. Then she exhaled, pushing her lips together as she did. She closed her eyes and crossed her legs in front of her. The backs of her hands rested on her knees. Her back was straight. Her chin was up. She cleared her throat and exhaled again.

“What is she doing?” asked Le Grand. “What are you doing?”

The girl didn’t respond. Instead she spoke. Her voice was raspy but clear enough for Branch to understand each word, even if he didn’t understand the meaning.

Across the sea, through sun and shower

There is a sword of heavenly power

Its blade honed sharp, its grip is true,
in the hand of the righteous, its strength glows blue

Many shall seek, one shall find

This gift and curse, this fruit and rind.

Hunt with a warning, all who dare

The course is rough, the challenge unfair.

Begin heading west and into the storm,

Where the first of the feats shall quickly form.

Be wary these beasts for they are not the last,

To reach the next, you must hold fast.

Anaxi took another deep breath and exhaled. She opened her eyes and sank back against the wall. The ship rocked and the hammocks hanging from beams swayed back and forth. The girl braced herself against the hull.

“What was that?” asked Le Grand. His voice was pitched two octaves higher.

Branch wasn’t sure if the question was for Anaxi or if it was for him. It didn’t matter. He answered.

“That was the first part of the map,” he said. “The first challenge, right? We’re about to face our first challenge.”

Anaxi said nothing, but slowly nodded.

Le Grand stood. The speed of his rise knocked his stool over. He didn’t seem to notice. He stumbled as the ship swayed, but steadied himself by holding onto an overhead beam.

“Fruit and rind?” he questioned. “Beasts? What is this? It’s mumbo jumbo. It’s witchcraft. It’s voodoo.”

Branch reached behind the pilot and righted the stool. Then he too stood. He put a calming hand on his friend’s back.

“It can’t be mumbo jumbo, witchcraft, and voodoo,” Branch said. “Maybe it’s one of them. Could be two of three. But not all them. Plus, it’s nothing to fear.”

“Why not?” Le Grand said.

“Because we’re doing it. We’re heading into the storm. We’re facing the challenge. We’re passing the test and moving one step closer to the Kalevanmiekka.”

The pilot shook his head and backed away. Fear gripped his features. “This isn’t good.”

Branch smiled. “It is.”

“How so?”

“Because now we know our friend here is the map. Any doubts we had are gone. She’s the key. She will lead us to the sword. We will find it. We’ll be unstoppable, Pierre. Unstoppable. Together.”

Le Grand eyed the girl, who silently watched them bicker. Then Branch. The girl again. He shook his head.

“You might be right,” he said. “She might be the key. But this is freaky.”

Branch put his hands on Le Grand’s shoulders and squeezed. “We’ve searched for so long, Pierre,” he whispered. “We always knew there would be risks. And now it’s in front of us. Don’t let a poorly worded poem, written by a hack who thinks he can rhyme, scare you off course.”

Le Grand lowered his chin and nodded. “You’re right.”

“I always am,” said Branch. “Go relieve your mate and take the wheel. I want you at the helm when we hit the storm.”

He patted his friend on the back once more and led him toward the exit to the deck. When Le Grand was through the door, Branch turned back to Anaxi.

“He’s always been a few cannonballs short of a monkey,” Branch said. “No guts. Wants the spoils without the sacrifice. He’ll be okay.”

Anaxi said nothing, merely stared aimlessly at the wall.

Branch changed course and said, “That’s some poem.”

“A monkey?” Anaxi asked.

“What about it?.”

“You said he was a few cannonballs short of a monkey. I’ve never seen a monkey with a cannonball before.”

Branch chuckled. He understood the question now. “Ahhh, that kind of monkey. Yes. Different monkey. Not an animal. It’s a brass plate we put underneath a pyramid stack of cannonballs. Helps save space on deck.”

He could see her mind working. She was trying to visualize his explanation. He changed course again to try to refocus her.

“Are there more of them?” he asked.

“What?” she asked.

“Poems. Are there more poems? Can you recite them for me?”

She seemed to consider this. Then she said, “Yes. There are more. One for each feat. No. I can’t recite them.”

He wondered if she couldn’t or if she wouldn’t. It doesn’t matter, he decided. Once they passed the first test, he’d learn the second. No point in looking too far ahead.

“All right,” he said. “We’ll get to it when we get to it.”

Without waiting for a response, Branch rested his hand on the pommel of the sword at his waist. He rubbed his palm across its smooth finish and turned to leave. He’d reached the door when Anaxi stopped him.

He turned to see her sitting on the edge of the cot, her feet dangling. The bruises along the sides of her neck gave the appearance that her head was floating. She looked at him, her raspy voice cutting through the dank air of the Saladin’s cramped quarters.

“You’d better be ready. If you’re not, there won’t be a second poem.” She was dead serious. No pretense. No sarcasm. No defiance. This was a warning.

Branch’s hand rested on the doorframe. The worn oak was smooth against his palm. The ship listed to its starboard side and righted itself. It rocked to the port side. The Saladin was a pendulum.

He tightened his hold on the door. “What do you know that you’re not telling me?”

“Nothing,” she said. “But I know what is coming wants to end us. The sword only goes to someone worthy of finding it. Others don’t get close.”

He laughed. It was a nervous reaction and it surprised him. He steadied himself.

“And you think I’m not worthy?” he asked.

He hadn’t once considered his worth. He was Desmond Branch. What he sought, he found. What he found, he possessed. Worth had nothing to do with it.

“I’m worthy,” she said. “It doesn’t matter what or who you are. Regardless, the feats can kill us.”

Again, the girl was absent mirth. She was taking no joy in telling him his deficiencies. This wasn’t about his survival. It was about hers.

Branch offered her a weak nod and pulled himself through the door. He balanced himself with an outstretched hand, navigating the clutter below deck until he reached the narrow stairs that led through the hatch to the deck. The shift and movement of his ship told him the storm was worsening even before he climbed into the pelting rain.

Heavy, cold drops of water slapped against him from wind-driven waves. The downpour was thick enough that he couldn’t see much beyond the next step. The wind howled, screaming across the Saladin as if trying to frighten it away.

It was midday, but it may have well been midnight. The pitch-colored cloud mushroomed around them, blotting out the sun. The sea was drawn with white and steel gray. It lashed angrily at the sides of the ship, reaching across its gunnels and crashing onto its deck.

A spark of electricity ran through Branch’s body. The hair on his neck and arms pricked. Before he could process whether it was from the cold or something else, a fork of lightning sparked overhead. Instantly, thunder pealed into a violent crack. Another flash. Another deafening, percussive boom in his chest. In his hands and feet.

He was flat on the deck now. Water splashed his face and washed across him. He swallowed saltwater and choked it down before coughing.

The ship’s aft drifted as the bow lifted into the sky. Another strobe. Another crash.

His heart raced. He was breathless. Desmond Branch had no idea how he’d ended up prone on his ship’s deck.

The ship’s bow dropped steeply, as if falling from the edge of the cliff, and it rode the back side of the wave to the trough, where it slammed to a stop. Walls of seawater joined the blasts of rain and crashed onto the ship.

Branch heard his men yelling, struggling to control the Saladin.

He struggled to his feet and, wobbly, traversed the deck, catching his balance on rails and masts until he reached Le Grand. His pilot was working hard, gritting his teeth as he white-knuckled the handles. The tiller ropes strained along the pedestal.

“I’m trying to put the stern toward the waves!” he called through his teeth. “The storm hit us so fast… I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Branch hung onto a line that ran diagonally over his head. “What about the sails?”

Without taking his hands from the helm, Le Grand jutted his chin toward the bow. “I’ve got the mainsail reefed. We’re running on the storm jibs and the trysails.”

Branch saw the mainsail was rolled onto itself, decreasing its size. Men were working to lessen it even more.

At both the fore and aft parts of the ship were smaller sails meant to help strengthen control during storms. Le Grand knew how to operate Saladin better than anybody. This was the best they could do.

“You didn’t see it coming?” asked Branch.

Le Grand shook his head. “There were clouds. Rain on the horizon. The surf’s been rough all day. Lots of chop. Some wind. Nothing like this. It just—”

Another strobe and crash. Lightning and thunder. A bolt reached down from the sky and struck the water off the starboard bow. Again, the boom vibrated in Branch’s bones.

All around them storm clouds joined the sky and the sea, one indistinguishable from the other. And then they were. An enormous wave crested ahead of them, larger than any Desmond Branch had ever seen.

His muscles tensed. His chest tightened. His stomach knotted.

The world went silent around him as the ship’s bow reached the base of the gargantuan wave and began to climb. The bowsprit, the long pole that connected the jibs to the foremast, pointed up. It reached higher and higher until Branch was sure it would peel back atop them.

The line dug into his fingers as he gripped. His weight shifted and his feet came out from underneath him, and he found himself facing the black sky through the veil of the folded, flapping mainsail.

Another strobe of light preceded a boom. Branch felt as if he were inside the thunder. He felt it in his chest. In his toes.

In his gut, he sensed the ship beginning its descent on the back side of the wave. Now the pendulum tipped, and the Saladin began to ride the wave down. There was a weightless sensation that followed the heaviness of the drop.

Branch looked straight into the ocean now, the bottom of the wave’s trough. They were headed straight down. The lines dug into his hand, tearing into the calloused flesh.

Beside him, Le Grand worked the helm as best he could. His jaw clenched, teeth gritting through the stress of the drop. Wind whipped across his face. He was drenched

The two exchanged a glance in the moment before the Saladin careened toward the low point of the wave. And as they hit, Branch was sure the bow would pierce the surface of the roiling water and they would break through, diving deep into the ocean.

The sea rose to meet the ship and, as another crash of thunder shook his world, it hit the bottom of the trough with such force that Branch’s feet swung out from under him. A deafening collision, the crack of wood snapping and bending.

Branch lost his grip on the line and found himself in the air. Unaware of direction, he thought he was falling one instant and ascending the next. The world tumbled around him. Sea and sky spun and flipped.

He landed hard on his side, the sword’s handle digging into his side, and he saw stars as his vision blurred from the impact. A heavy weight pressed the side of his face into the deck as he lay there.

Branch had enough of his wits to know the ship was climbing another wave, and gravity was forcing him flat against the deck.

He rolled onto his stomach and pressed his hands onto the wood. A chill ran through his body as rain pelted his back. He was cold. Except for the slick warmth on his palms. They were bleeding.

He closed his eyes, waiting for the drop he knew was coming. But it didn’t. He opened his eyes.

Water sloshed around him. The rain became a drizzle, drops like a fine mist. He lifted his head and looked at his hands. Deep gashes ran along both palms. Blood mixed with rain and seawater, making it pink as it ran down the meat of his hands and onto his wrists.

They burned. His head ached. His side hurt. He rolled over, away from his sword, and struggled to his feet.

He was on the mid deck, not far from where he’d lost hold of the lines. He faced the rear of the ship. Looming beyond them, the path they’d just traveled, was a black thicket of clouds. Gray sheets of rain connected them to the sea.

Careful not to move too fast and risk falling, Branch spun to face the front of the ship. The bowsprit was gone. The stubby shard of it affixed to the bow was splintered at its end. The jibs were torn and flapped limply in the wind. Useless.

But the sky ahead was clear. Sharply distinctive rays of sunlight reached for the bluer surface of the water. The sea wasn’t calm. It was manageable though. They were through the worst of it.

“You survived. Pity.”

It was Anaxi’s turn to sneak up on Branch. He pivoted again and balled his wounded hands into fists as he saw her. Then he opened them and looked again at the wounds before eyeing the girl.

She stood with her feet shoulder width apart. Confident. She had her sea legs now.

Branch’s eyes drifted from her and scanned the ship. How many men had he lost? How many more would he have to sacrifice? Le Grand, thankfully, remained at the helm. A streak of red ran across his face from his forehead, along his nose, to his chin. The helmsman appeared otherwise unfazed. His features were squeezed with tension. His jaw muscles flexed.

Branch’s eyes fell again upon the girl. He took an uneasy step toward her. She held her ground, squaring herself to his approach.

“So that was the beast in your poem?” he said, wincing from the ache in his side. “We survived the beast? It formed quickly, like you said.”

Branch tried to hide the anxiety in his voice. He was aware as he spoke, he’d failed. There was too much hope in the words, which in turn revealed too much fear.

A smile spread across Anaxi’s face. Her eyes narrowed. For the first time, Branch noticed the darkness in her. She was more formidable than he’d imagined.

She looked up toward the sky, the mist falling on her face. “That was the storm, Desmond Branch,” she said. “You haven’t met the beast yet.”

Desmond opened his mouth to speak. Before he did, there was a loud thump. The ship shuddered. He felt it in his legs. It had come from underneath the water.

Another bump staggered him. This one was harder. It vibrated through his body. He stepped forward to maintain his balance.

Anaxi was unmoved, as if she’d steeled herself in anticipation. She sneered

“That,” she said, “is the beast.”

Chapter Eleven

Zeke sat at the helm of a Chris Craft 312 Stinger Fittipaldi. A boat. His hands wrapped around the leatherette steering wheel. The white bolster behind him cushioned his lower back as the thirty-three-foot boat bounced along the chop of the ocean. The motor hummed. The sun bore down on the back of his neck. Uriel was in a matching captain’s chair to his left.

He had no idea how he got here. One second he was pushing his Superbird through the high-walled tunnel of ocean waves. The next he was driving a ship on the open sea under a cloudless sky.

Uriel smiled. Her eyes were closed, her head tilted back, relishing the warmth and light from the sun. She must have sensed Zeke staring at her, jaw agape. She tilted her head toward him and opened one eye.

“Cool, huh?” she said.

Zeke thought he’d seen it all. Until he hadn’t. “I don’t—”

Uriel sat up and pivoted toward him. “Look behind you.”

Zeke hesitated. Both his hands clutched the wheel tight.

“This isn’t a car,” she said. “There’s no road. No traffic. You can take your eyes off where you’re headed.”

He shifted his hips and the seat spun. He looked back over his shoulder. First, he spotted Lucius Mander. The man was alabaster white. His hands gripped his seat. His eyes were wide, pupils small. Fear tensed every inch of his body as he stiffly bounced with the motion of the boat.

Fifty yards behind him was a large black boat. It sliced through the water, seemingly unaffected by the Chris Craft’s wake.

“That’s Gabe and Phil,” said Uriel. “They got a nice one this time. Eighty-four-foot Riva Cantata, I think. That’s what they requested.”

There was a faint blue glow that appeared to be fading around the boat. Within seconds it was gone. Zeke’s eyes drew closer, to the rear of his own vessel. He smiled at what he saw there.

Extending across the stern of the boat was an angular spoiler that resembled the one on the back of his Superbird. It was elevated a meter from the rear gunnels, and the more Zeke looked at it, the more he realized it was essentially identical to the trademark feature of his late-twentieth-century muscle car.

Was this his muscle car? Had Pedro snapped his fingers and transformed it into a boat?

“This isn’t your car,” said Uriel, as if reading his mind. “It just looks like it.”

Zeke spun back to face her. Her feet rested on a faux leather bolster that extended from her chair toward the opening that led below deck, legs crossed at her ankles. Her black leather pants looked glossy in the sunlight.

Zeke studied her for a moment then looked straight ahead, blindly correcting course.

“You’ve done this before?” he asked. The answer was obvious. He felt stupid for asking the question. His face flushed. He cursed himself under his breath.

“Oh, Zekie,” she said, every bit as patronizing as he’d expected, “I’ve done everything before. Eh. Vree. Thing.”

Uriel smiled then tucked her tongue in the corner of her cheek. Her left eyebrow rose, hinting at something untoward.

Zeke doubted it. Uriel was nothing if not a hyperbolic tease. Still, she didn’t seem fazed by the sudden transformation of his car into a boat.

He ran his palms along the soft leatherette of the wheel. The wind in his face was warm. The bounce of the boat was rhythmic. He’d never been on a ship before, of any kind. Never seen so much water.

As much as the ocean stretched from all sides of Pedro’s Cantina, this was vaster and more unending. The color of the water was a deep blue. Aside from Gabe and Phil in his wake, there was nobody and nothing else as far as he could see. Not in any direction.

He tightened his grip on the wheel and rotated it to the left. The response was slippery. Unlike a car where the turn was instantaneous and sharp, a boat’s turn was spongy. It drifted.

Uriel reached out and put a steadying hand on his left arm. Her fingernails dragged across his jacket. Despite not touching his skin, the touch sent goosebumps running across Zeke’s body.

“A boat steers more than a car,” she said. “You’re propelling yourself by forcing water in different directions behind you. You know, for every action in nature there is an equal and opposite reaction. That kind of thing. The water goes one way. You send the boat in the opposite direction.”

Zeke was getting the feel for it. He’d drifted his Superbird before. The feeling behind the wheel of this boat was similar. There was only one issue.

“Where are we headed?” he asked.

Uriel squeezed his arm, sending another wave of electricity through him, then let go. She shrugged.

“Not my town,” she said. “Ask Shell Shock back there.”

Lucius Mander appeared frozen in position as he gawked off the starboard side of the boat, deep in thought.

Zeke checked with Uriel. “Can you take the wheel?”

“Sure.”

He got up from his seat and used the plush back to aid himself in moving back to the white bench seat that stretched from one side of the boat to the other. Having spent his life on dry land, Zeke wasn’t accustomed to seeing so much water let alone traveling upon it. Movement was difficult. Every step felt as if he might lose his balance. He slid into one of the two empty seats next to Lucius and pressed his hands flat against the warm cushion.

Uriel eased into the captain’s seat and put a hand on the wheel. She rested her right elbow on the starboard gunnel. The woman was always comfortable, always in her element.

Zeke found it hard not to stare at her, to study her lithe movement, the graceful way she checked the pink bow at the end of her braid, touched the top of her hair, ran her fingers along the sides of her shaved head. But he had work to do.

The boat’s twin inboard engines were housed underneath a glossy red stern behind him. They growled, not unlike his Superbird, with the spoiler stretching over the engine casing. Zeke felt a smile edge at the corners of his mouth.

“I don’t understand any of this,” said Lucius. “Am I dead?”

He looked up at Zeke. His glossy eyes, ready to spill tears, searched him for answers. His lower lids twitched, as did his chin. The man was a wreck.

Zeke wasn’t sure what to say. He was impressed though. It had taken Lucius almost no time to reach the conclusion Zeke hadn’t considered until he’d seen his own body hanging from a building. Lucius was a smart man. He had an intuition Zeke hadn’t noticed until now.

“Do you think you’re dead, Lucius?” Zeke asked.

A tear ran down Lucius’s cheek. He fluttered his eyes but didn’t bother to wipe it away. Then he sucked in a haggard breath and blew an exhausted sigh.

He stared past Zeke, toward the horizon. “I don’t know what to think. It’s one of two things. Either this is the most vivid dream I’ve ever had, or I’m dead. I don’t remember going to sleep. I don’t remember dying.”

“What do you remember?”

Lucius’s face tightened. “You already asked me that,” he snapped. “Pedro asked me that. I. Don’t. Know. Okay? I don’t know.”

The tears flowed now. His nose ran. His chin quivered.

Zeke tried a different tactic. “Okay. I get it. Look, I was there. I was as confused as you. All of this is overwhelming. You’re ripped from the world you knew and plopped down into this new reality.”

Lucius’s eyes widened with recognition. He suddenly realized something.

“What?” Zeke asked.

“Or I’m crazy.”

Zeke spoke above a gust of wind that whipped across his face. “What do you mean?”

“That’s the third option. I’m crazy. None of this is happening and I’ve lost my mind out at sea. Too much sun or…or something.”

“Lucius,” said Zeke, “do you think you’re crazy?”

“No. Crazy people never think they’re crazy.”

“Good point.”

Uriel spun toward them in her seat. “Just tell him, Zeke. No point in dragging this out. It only complicates things. We need a heading sooner than later. Not as easy finding one measly ship out here as finding the only city in a desert.”

Zeke didn’t think Uriel was listening. He thought the engine and wind were too loud for her to hear the conversation. Then again, she was Uriel. He hesitated. Uriel didn’t. She groaned and rolled her eyes before locking her attention on Lucius.

“You’re dead,” she said matter-of-factly.

She spun back around. One hand found the throttle and she pushed it forward. The bow lifted and the engine roared.

Lucius’s expression remained unchanged. Zeke wasn’t sure he’d heard Uriel until he spoke.

“Makes sense. It does.”

He regarded Zeke, but his mind was elsewhere. Thinking, processing the truth. He opened his mouth and closed it again. The tears were dried on his cheeks. His voice was absent any emotion. It was like he was telling someone else’s story and not his own.

His hands went to the top of his head. He laced his fingers together and kept them there.

“I think I remember,” he said. “As soon as she said I was dead, it flooded my mind. It came from nowhere. I see it now. They took us out on a ship. They threatened us. They…they…”

Lucius’s face twisted. His brow furrowed. Tears welled again. Zeke knew he was replaying his death in his mind. The poor man lowered his hands, placing his palms flat on the center of his chest. He gasped.

“Oh. Oh. Oh no.”

His eyes absently drifted toward the water. He said nothing.

Zeke didn’t know what to say. Should he say anything?

Lucius pointed toward the ocean. “I’m down there,” he said before Zeke had to decide. “He dumped me there.”

“In the ocean?” Zeke asked.

Lucius nodded and slowly turned to face Zeke. “In the ocean. He drove a sword through me and pushed me overboard.”

“I’m so sorry,” Zeke said, and he meant it. “I know how it feels. I was murdered too.”

He let the words hang in the air for a moment. Lucius knuckled the corners of his eyes. He sniffed, wrinkling his nose.

“I’m here with you now,” said Zeke. “We’re together. We will find your daughter. We will stop the—”

Lucius’s eyes widened, almost bulged. His face brightened. “The Saladin.”

“The what?”

“The Saladin,” Lucius repeated. “That’s Desmond Branch’s ship. That’s where my daughter is. I’m sure of it. Anaxi knows the map. She’s the only one who can lead him to the Kalevanmiekka.”

“All right. Where do we find the Saladin?”

Lucius shook his head. “I don’t know where it is, but I know where it’s going.”

“Can we get there from here?”

“Yes, but it won’t be easy. We have to pass through the same trials, conquer the same feats as anyone seeking the sword.”

“Nothing worth having is ever easy,” said Zeke.

Uriel raised her fists over her head, extending her arms. “Truth. Preach on, brother.”

Lucius shot Uriel a confused glance.

Zeke waved it off. “Don’t worry about her,” he said. “She likes to talk. Which way do we go?”

Zeke looked to the sun. “If we’re in the northern hemisphere,” he said, “the sun is south. Are we in the northern hemisphere?”

Lucius nodded. “Yes. We are north of the equator.”

“How do you know?”

Lucius pointed off the port bow. In the distance, on the horizon was a series of sloped shadows. Islands.

“That’s my home over there,” Lucius said. “I recognize the archipelago.”

Zeke stared at the bumps. Even from this distance, he could tell they were relatively small spots of land. Nothing like the barren wasteland he came from.

“Do we go there?” Zeke asked.

Lucius shook his head. “No. We go west.”

Zeke blinked at him. “West? Just west?”

“You want something more specific?”

Uriel nodded dramatically from the helm and said, “Yes.”

Lucius pursed his lips together, then licked them. The wind blew into his face. He closed his eyes and spoke.

Across the sea, through sun and shower

There is a sword of heavenly power

Its blade honed sharp, its grip is true,
in the hand of the righteous, its strength glows blue

Many shall seek, one shall find

This gift and curse, this fruit and rind.

Hunt with warning, all who dare

The course is rough, the challenge unfair.

Begin heading west and into the storm,

Where the first of the feats shall quickly form.

Be wary these beasts for they are not the last,

To reach the next, you must hold fast.

Lucius opened his eyes. Zeke and Uriel exchanged glances, though Zeke wasn’t quite sure what she was thinking. She twisted her puckered lips to one side. Zeke remained speechless.

The hum of the twin engines and the wind filled the silence. Uriel shrugged. She spun in her seat to face the helm. With the heel of her palm, she rotated the wheel as hard to the left as she could. The boat leaned to its port side and changed course.

“West it is!” she called out over her shoulder.

Chapter Twelve

Another bump thudded against the Saladin. Then another. It was a staccato of hits. Bump. Bump. Bump. Bump.

Branch leaned over the railing running along the ship’s starboard side. His eyes focused beneath the water. He started to speak, but his voice caught in his throat.

The Saladin was above a shallow reef. The ship’s draft was barely thin enough to miss the juts of porous coral, which rose from the bed like colonies of stalagmites. However, it wasn’t the coral that had Branch white-knuckling the rail. It was what swam above it.

A mass of brown and black flesh writhed and stretched in a serpentine motion. It appeared, at first, like a breathing mass undulating beneath the ocean’s surface. But the beast from Anaxi’s poem wasn’t a single mass. It wasn’t one animal. It was hundreds, and they were swarming.

There was no other way to describe it. Swarming. In preparation for a hunt.

In all his years at sea, Branch had never seen anything like this or even heard about it.

He’d never liked challenges, rites of passage. They were useless, demeaning, and without merit. Nothing good came from them. That was his experience. This was further proof of that belief.

The mass of what appeared to be giant eels now stretched from the starboard side of the ship, underneath it, and well past its port edge. Each of them was over three meters long and thick as a tree trunk. Their maws stretched and snapped, revealing dagger-sharp teeth. Their brown eyes, rimmed in bright blue, were absent anything other than predatory focus.

Branch marched, steadying himself as he fought the shifting deck, to the helm. Le Grand eyed his approach. His shaky voice carried a question as much as a statement.

“Eels?”

Branch reached the helm and held onto the line that had cut into his palms during the storm. This time he curled his fingers around it in an iron grip.

Le Grand repeated the obvious. “Giant moray eels? And they’re keeping pace with us. They’re swimming with the ship. I can’t shake them.”

Branch clenched his jaw. His mind spun, the gears grinding against each other, trying to forge some answer to the problem. People, he could fight. A storm, he could survive. Hundreds of giant eels bent on destroying the ship?

“I thought the storm was the first feat,” said Le Grand. “Was it? Or is this it? I’m not even sure where we are. The storm, it—”

“What used to be called the Red Sea,” said Anaxi. “That’s where we are.”

She sat behind them, cross-legged on a metal crate. The backs of her hands rested on her knees like she was meditating. Impossibly calm.

Le Grand’s eyes darted from Branch to Anaxi. “Red Sea? It doesn’t look red.”

She locked eyes with him. “It isn’t red. But blooms of algae would sometimes turn the water from blue to reddish brown.”

Branch jutted his chin toward the water. “What about the eels? Are they eels?”

Anaxi nodded. “Giant morays. They’re aggressive and deadly. Much larger than they were before the melt. They’re an alpha predator now. They hunt in packs and—”

Branch stopped her. “Enough. I get it. How do we stop them?”

Anaxi said nothing. Instead, she closed her eyes and mumbled to herself. It almost sounded to Branch as if she were humming.

He clenched his teeth in frustration.

The eels bumping against the hull was almost a vibration now. It ran through his body, tingling like fingers or hands waking up from having fallen asleep.

The ship began to rock from side to side. At first, Branch thought he’d lost his balance—that his own equilibrium was at fault—but as other men on the deck struggled to maintain their feet, he knew it was the ship.

“Do something!” yelled Branch. “They’ll tip us.”

The back and forth was violent enough now that the Saladin listed far to one side. Two crewmen went overboard, flipping over the railing and into the water. Their screams pierced the air before they gurgled to silence.

The ship swung sharply back in the other direction. Another of Branch’s men went overboard, but he clung to the railing. Branch left the relative safety of his position beside the helm and hurried to the sailor.

He couldn’t lose all his men. He needed them.

Another sharp lean pulled his feet out from under him. He fell back and slid along the sharp angle of the sloppy deck. He tried bracing himself with his hands, but his injuries burned and involuntarily forced him to pull his hands off the planks.

The soles of Branch’s boots slammed against the gunnel as the sailor he rushed to cried out that something had his leg. Then the man dropped from sight.

The ship listed so far to the starboard side, Branch could see the roiling ocean almost beneath him. The swarm of eels writhed, the foam of blood dissolving into the blue water.

Branch slipped, the gravity of the list almost lifting him off his back. But as he felt the beginnings of weightlessness, the swarm forced the ship in the opposite direction. Branch’s body slid headfirst toward the port side.

Another body hurtled past him. Another sailor on his way to a horrible death.

“They’re moving too fast!” yelled Le Grand. “I can’t—”

Branch didn’t hear the rest of Le Grand’s proclamation. His head slammed into the base of the mast pole. The smack rang in his ears. His vision blurred. He felt his body sliding again, wrapping around the pole at first before he moved toward the port gunnel.

He was going overboard. He knew it. He didn’t have the strength or wits to stop himself.

More screams rang out. More thunks in the water. More men yelling for help. How many had he lost already? How many were victims of the beast?

Even through the haze, he could see the ship’s low wall growing larger in his field of view. It raced toward him. And then it didn’t. The ship’s weight shifted underneath him, and he settled long enough to hold on to a large cleat.

“Hoist now!” Le Grand barked. “It’s working. Hoist. Hoist.”

Branch’s focus returned, and above him he saw the mainsail lifting skyward, unfurling and billowing taut. It snapped in the wind.

“That’s it!” yelled Le Grand. “That’s it!”

With the crook of his arm around the cleat, Branch struggled to his feet. He stumbled two steps toward the starboard side. The Saladin was running now. She was moving faster. The vibration was gone. The thumping against the hull was gone. The screams were gone.

Branch stumbled toward the helm. Anaxi sat behind Le Grand. Her eyes were closed. Le Grand’s were wide and wild as he worked the wheel.

“What happened?” Branch asked when he reached the spot next to Le Grand. “What did you do?”

Le Grand shook his head. “It wasn’t me.”

He swung around and looked beyond the stern. The roiling mass of deadly eels was a hundred meters behind them. Rubbing his eyes, Branch narrowed his focus to be sure. Yes. The mass was in their wake.

A warm breeze felt good on his body. He plucked his damp shirt from his skin and turned toward Le Grand. He started to ask a question, but Le Grand answered it before he spoke.

“It was the girl. She saw it before I did. I don’t know how.”

Branch was confused. “Saw what?”

“The sails. We’d lowered them for the storm. Then the eels, they happened so fast I didn’t think to raise them. The girl saw it. She told me what to do.”

Branch watched Anaxi. She held the same position, unmoved. Legs crossed, hands on her knees…calm.

“Why?” Branch asked, incredulous. “Why didn’t she let the beasts take us? It would have been easy.”

Anaxi opened her eyes. Her expression was as flat as her voice.

“I’m not ready to die,” she said. “When I am, you’ll be the first to know.”

The sea washed against the Saladin, which creaked in protest to the damage she’d suffered in the pair of attacks on her integrity. But the main sails were full, all but the jibs carrying the ship west.

“What’s next?” Branch asked the girl. “What’s the second feat?”

“Twenty-nine,” she said, as if that meant something.

“Twenty-nine what?”

“Men. You lost a ton of men between the storm and the beast.”

Branch exchanged a grim look with Le Grand. He considered asking the girl how she knew, but thought better of it. Instead, he asked her where they should head now.

Anaxi looked to her right. “South.”

Branch followed her line of sight. “South?”

She unfolded her legs and stood. “Go south.” Saying nothing else, Anaxi left the helm and disappeared below deck.

Branch studied the sky. The sun was low on the horizon now, swollen and deep orange. The water reflected the light as much as it absorbed it. The sea was almost glassy now, with the Saladin cutting through the surface like a sword through soft flesh.

Without arguing, Le Grand eased the Saladin from west to south. Branch lifted his eyes skyward toward the storm clouds behind them. His head hurt. His palms were on fire. The muscles in his sides throbbed.

Yet, he smiled. He was one step closer. Soon the Kalevanmiekka would be his, as would all the power in the world.

Chapter Thirteen

“The melt happened a generation before I was born,” Lucius explained. Uriel had asked him for details about his world. It was strange. As if they’d never been here before.

“I only know what the elders told me,” he went on. “All our history is oral, you see. I’m sure some of what I know is a warped version of the truth.”

“The telephone game,” said Uriel. “One person says something. Another passes it along. And so on and so forth. By the time you get to the end of the line, the whole story is different than it was at the beginning.”

“What’s a telephone?” Lucius asked.

Uriel’s features corkscrewed. “Really?”

Lucius studied the woman. She was a walking contradiction. The soft pink bow on her braid contrasted with the shaved sides of her head and pompadour atop. The leather and the tattoos told the story of a hardened woman, yet she appeared as empathetic as the man called Zeke. Still, there was something striking about her, a vulnerability underneath the rough veneer.

Lucius glanced at Zeke. He was steering the boat, the brim of his cowboy hat waffling in the wind. He could tell Zeke was listening to the conversation even if he was looking forward, guiding the boat west.

Lucius considered that Zeke and Uriel were a couple. An undeniable chemistry existed between them. Or maybe they were an ex-couple. One wrong move from exploding at each other.

His attention shifted back to Uriel. “I don’t know what a telephone is,” he said. “We don’t have, whatever that is, I guess.”

“It’s a communication device,” said Uriel. “Handheld. Can transmit voice over long distances.”

Lucius rubbed his chin and absently put his hand on his chest. There was the faint memory of pain, as if he expected the spot in his chest below the sternum to ache when touched. He pressed harder. Nothing. No ache. No tenderness. No evidence of a scratch let alone a mortal wound.

Mortal. He rolled the word around in his head. What was mortality? Was it one phase in a soul’s evolution? Was it one of many tests? Was there no such thing as mortality? Was everyone immortal, destined to live forever in one set of circumstances, one branch of reality or another?

He felt a hand on his shoulder. It drew him back to the present, to this version of his reality. It was Zeke. The hat was tipped back on his head. His brow knitted.

“You okay?” asked Zeke. “I mean, all things considered?”

Lucius wanted to laugh. Or cry. His voice was shaky. “Our fathers and mothers—” Choking on the words, he cleared his throat, sat up straight, and began again. “Our fathers and mothers say the world was once very different. There were billions of people living on wide stretches of land. Some land reached kilometers into the sky. Mountains, they called them. Some land was blanketed in rolling dunes of sand. People called them deserts. No water anywhere. And there were places where the trees and plants were so thick the sun was blocked from the ground. These places were called jungles.”

Lucius paused and took a deep breath. It was comforting. The salty air smelled and tasted like home.

“Have you ever heard of mountains?” he asked Zeke. “Deserts? Jungles? Do you know of these places? Did they once exist?”

Zeke rolled his lips inside his mouth, appearing to consider the question. He nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I’ve seen deserts. And mountains. No jungles though. Where I come from, they’re—”

“Tell me more about the melt. How did that happen?” Uriel interrupted. She’d moved to the helm and slowed the boat to a putter.

“It happened when my grandparents were children,” said Lucius. “They didn’t talk much about what happened. Most of those who survived talk about what it was like before the melt, but not the actual melt.”

Uriel spun in her chair and shot Lucius a dubious side eye. The boat idled. “So you don’t know what happened?”

Lucius shook his head. “I didn’t say that. I said they didn’t talk much about it. I think it was horrible. The lands sank into the seas. Walls of water flooded everything. The earth shook. Fire came from the sky.”

“Earthquakes, tsunamis, volcanoes? That’s what you’re talking about?”

She crossed the short distance to the bench in front of the engine compartment. Plopping down next to Lucius, Uriel leaned into him and tucked her feet up underneath her. She leaned an elbow on the back of the bench and rested her cheek against a closed fist.

Lucius looked to both sides. He drew his legs together and put his hands in his lap. The world around him constricted. He didn’t enjoy being in the middle. Why were they stopped? Shouldn’t they be moving?

“Shouldn’t we be moving?” he asked. “Time is critical, isn’t it? We need to find my daughter before it’s too late.” He hoped the impatience in his tone hid the anxiety swelling in his gut, tingling in his fingers and toes, dampening his forehead and neck with sudden blooms of perspiration.

He stood and turned around to face his guides. Beyond the stern of the Fittipaldi was the larger cruiser crewed by their allies. Unlike them, it moved at a good clip and zipped past them.

“We’ll catch up to them in a minute,” said Uriel. “Before we get into the middle of this, we need to understand what kind of world this is. How it got this way. What the obstacles are.”

Lucius glanced at both of them. Behind him, the rumble of the eighty-four-foot Riva Cantata softened. Then Uriel untucked her feet, planted them on the deck, and stepped to Lucius. She was close enough to him that a hint of citrus perfume wafted across him. It was sweet smelling. Her penetrating eyes, almost hypnotic, locked onto his as she spoke.

“That poem of yours spooked me,” she said. “I don’t like it. Sounds like voodoo stuff. Witchcraft. Whatever. I half expected you to start talking about eye of newt and toe of frog.”

“Eye of—?”

Uriel wiggled her fingers like she was sprinkling something into a broth and then waved him off. She shook her head.

“Nothing,” she said. “Suffice it to say, we’re dealing with legend here. Feats of strength. Odysseys. And I’m not sure why we’re here or what your mission is.”

Lucius shrugged. He didn’t understand what exactly she meant. Though, she was right that legend was involved. The poems he’d memorized and passed onto his daughter were the map to a magic sword he was never sure even existed. Perhaps only entertainment passed down from elders.

What did exist were the beliefs and persistence of evil men who sought it. Whether or not the sword existed and could do what legend claimed it could, the threat was real. How could Uriel question that?

“The mission is to find my daughter,” Lucius said. “I’ve said this. She knows where the Kalevanmiekka is hidden. She knows the challenges any seeker must survive. She’s in danger.”

“Your daughter knows the poem?” Zeke asked, moving closer.

A lump caught in Lucius’s throat. He opened his mouth to speak but said nothing. What was there to say?

There it was. His flaw. His sin.

He’d left his daughter behind. Rather than give in to Desmond Branch, he’d taken the easy way out. He’d chosen death, and his daughter was left behind to face the pirate on her own. For all he knew, she’d followed his example and was dead already. But then, why was he here? He had to believe she was alive and his return to this world from Pedro’s bar had a reason. Lucius convinced himself he had purpose. Otherwise this was an exercise in futility. It was hell. He refused to accept hell was his eternal destiny.

Uriel shrugged. “There we have it. Now we know why you washed up at our gin joint. You’ve got issues.”

The words and the tone jabbed at Lucius, deepening the wound. She sounded like a disappointed parent.

“She knows the poem,” Lucius reiterated, head sinking into his palms. “I left her alone. I left her to face those heartless pirates on her own.”

Zeke’s hardened expression softened. He shook his head. “I don’t know about that. You had no way of knowing Desmond Branch would kill you, and you have no way of knowing he took your daughter. That’s a leap, isn’t it?”

Uriel laughed humorlessly. “Like when you left your girlfriend and you had no way of knowing the bad guys would go grab her, torture her, imprison—”

“Not the same thing,” Zeke bristled. “I knew what I was doing. I paid for it.”

Lucius didn’t know the history, but this development made him second-guess his previous assessment of Zeke and Uriel’s relationship. The tension was palpable, thick in the humid air. Zeke unfolded his arms and put a hand on Lucius’s shoulder.

“It’s not the same,” he said. “You can’t take the blame for this. We’ll find your daughter.”

“Thank you,” said Lucius, “but it is my fault. I left her to fend for herself. I have to make it right.”

Uriel sighed. “Doesn’t matter whether you knew what you were doing or not. We’re here. In your world. Water world. It’s like a bad movie.”

Lucius tilted his head to one side. “What’s a movie?”

“Sheesh.” Uriel brushed past him, her shoulder bumping into his. She slid into the captain’s chair and motioned for him to find a seat. “Buckle up, buttercup. Let’s go find some toil and trouble.”

Chapter Fourteen

Adaliah Bancroft stared at herself in the mirror. She didn’t recognize the reflection. Her bronze skin was sallow. Her lifeless eyes looked back as if they belonged to a stranger. Her hair lacked luster.

There was something ethereal about her appearance. She couldn’t put her finger on it. It was like someone had drained the light from her, leaving her as a shadow of her former self.

She ran her fingers along her chest, down the center of her bosom. The faint remnant of adhesive stuck to her skin. Her skin, however, was smooth. No healing wound. No scar. No puncture.

The phantom pain of the gunshot was there sometimes. Flashes of a hot, burning bullet stealing the life from her.

Worse than the specter of physical pain was the very real emotional hurt. It was relentless. Debilitating. Mind numbing. It was what kept her in this room so many days since her arrival…wherever she was.

The man who put that bullet into her was the love of her life. Or she thought he was.

Against all odds, despite her deception and his betrayal, they loved each other. They had loved each other. Then he pressed the barrel of a gun against her and pulled the trigger.

Ezekiel Watson. Charmer. Protector. Lover. Bootlegger. Killer.

Li glanced past her reflection at the unmade bed on the opposite end of the sparsely decorated room. She pictured Zeke sitting on the edge of the mattress after she’d first arrived, trying to explain why he’d done it.

“I love you,” he’d said. “This was the only way.”

The only way. Right.

True. They were together. In some boardinghouse in the middle of nowhere that smelled of dust, sweat, and cheap liquor. Music filtered from the bar below. Faint laughter punctuated the hum of strings and thump of percussion.

She thought about the sadness in Zeke’s eyes as he spun his excuses. Others had stood at the foot of the bed, supporting Zeke. If they were supposed to help make his case, it hadn’t worked.

There was the curly-haired man with the bowler, who scratched his beard and nodded in agreement with everything Zeke said. He didn’t even look like he wanted to be there. Like someone had ordered him.

The other man, the one with the ironic tattoo on his neck, was stoic. But his body language told Li he too agreed with Zeke’s choices. His name was Phil, she thought.

Yes. Phil. He was sincere. Perhaps.

There was the woman too. The one with the mohawk pompadour, the leather, the ink, and the attitude. Li remembered her. Uriel. She was as dry and caustic as unrelenting grains of sand.

Li’s jaw tightened at the thought of the tattooed ingénue who she knew was interested in her man. It was obvious. The way she looked at him. The way her lips moved when he spoke, like she was communicating with him telepathically.

Li closed her eyes, angry at herself for caring. Why did it matter? Zeke wasn’t hers. She didn’t want him. Let the harpy have him.

A knock at her door startled her. Li exhaled. “Who’s there?”

“It’s Pedro. I thought you might like something to eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“A drink, then?”

She padded across the floor and stopped two feet from the door. Her eyes fixated on the patinated brass handle. The barkeep’s presence hung on the other side of the door. She felt it.

Saying nothing, she turned the handle and pulled the door into the room. Pedro stood with two sweating glasses in his hands.

“May I come in?” he asked.

Li pulled the door wider and stepped away from the entry. She motioned into the room with a wave of her arm.

Pedro’s footsteps thumped against the wood planks. He crossed the room to the tall dresser pressed against an exterior wall. Wide, multipaned windows framed the dresser. Thin white sheers muted the sunlight, which lit the space in a warm yellow hue.

He set the glasses on a silver tray atop the dresser. “I chose something light. Vodka tonic. On the rocks. Slice of lime.”

Li released the handle. “Ice?”

A smile broadened across Pedro’s face, stretching the heavy beard that covered his jaw and neck. White tendrils reached onto his cheeks and he scratched at them. She noticed then his eyes were bright blue, almost electric in color.

He picked up a glass and offered it to her. “Zeke told me it’s a delicacy where you’re from. Very little water, let alone ice.”

She moved to the barkeep and took the glass. She ran her thumb across the cool condensation and drew it to her lips.

The drink hit her throat and burned. How long had it been since she’d imbibed? Weeks? Months? It was hard to know. Li swallowed and motioned toward the dresser with the glass. The ice clinked.

“You offered me food, but didn’t bring any,” she said.

Pedro eyed the silver tray, the untouched second drink. “Observant. Zeke said you were smart. He said you were worthy of this place.”

She took another sip. This time it didn’t burn. But she felt the liquor in her otherwise empty gut.

“I wouldn’t trust everything Zeke tells you,” she said.

The barkeep rapped his fingers on the dresser. He was studying her. Or he was waiting for her to say something else. She bit.

“I don’t know what this place is, let alone why I’m here. The only thing I know is that Zeke put a bullet in my chest. He killed me.”

Pedro stopped rapping. He arched an eyebrow. “You remember him doing that?”

“Doing what?”

“Killing you. Putting a bullet in your chest.” Pedro tapped his chest with his fore and middle finger.

Li took another drink. Loose ice cubes hit her face. She shook her head.

“No,” she said. “I don’t remember it.”

“Then how do you know that’s what happened?”

She swirled the glass. The melting ice spun around the bottom. “He told me.”

“Ezekiel?”

“Yes.” Li took one last swig. The liquid was cold and mostly water now. A thread of lime pulp stuck to the roof of her mouth. She sucked it free with her tongue.

Pedro picked up the other glass. He offered it to her but didn’t move from the dresser. Li moved toward him to retrieve it, her fingers gripped around the rim of the first one like a claw. Before he handed her the refill, he hesitated.

His eyes locked onto her hers. “It was a selfless act.”

She took the glass from his hand. “What was selfless? Killing me?”

She laughed. Toasted him. Took a long draw. The vodka was cold on her teeth, in her throat. No burn. And no buzz. Not really. Not what she’d expect from a second glass on an empty stomach. Li licked her lips and looked away from his unnerving gaze.

Pedro leaned an elbow on the dresser and rested his bearded chin in his hand. Despite the dresser’s height, Pedro towered over it.

He was a big man. Tall and broad, he would have made a good soldier back home. She could picture him in black tactical gear, patrolling and enforcing the totalitarian rule that governed her previous life. She’d worked for those autocrats as a spy. That was how she’d met the selfless Zeke Watson. What a joke.

“He killed himself too,” Pedro said. “He put a bullet in his head. It was the only way to be with you.”

Now the alcohol hit her. A dizzying shock buzzed through her head and sparked into her extremities. She staggered back two steps and searched for a place to sit.

Pedro, perhaps seeing this, hurried from the dresser and took her by the elbow. He guided her to the overstuffed club chair in the corner across from the bed. He lowered her onto the cushion and took the drink from her.

Li sank into the chair. The room spun on its axis. Pedro talked, but she didn’t hear him. Instead, she focused on what she could remember, what her mind told her had happened without the benefit of Zeke’s explanation.

She could taste the dust in her mouth, the ache in her gut, the exhaustion in her legs and lower back.

“You saved me,” she’d said that night. “I don’t care about the rest. Just stay with me.”

Zeke had stepped back from her. She’d sensed his reluctance, the conflict in his eyes.

He motioned toward the transports. “I don’t think I can. There should be plenty of fuel among those trucks to get you to wherever it is you want to go. You’ll—”

Then he’d glanced at her and his expression shifted. Concern replaced hesitation. His mouth opened and closed before he spoke. The confidence in his voice was gone.

“You’re hurt,” he said. “You’re bleeding.”

Bleeding? She followed his gaze to her stomach. Her hands touched the slick, viscous liquid on her black uniform. When she pulled them away, her trembling fingers were bright red. A wave a nausea washed through her, bringing with it a deep chill. Her vision blurred with tears and she sank into Zeke’s body. He was so warm against her.

Her mouth was dry, but she spoke. “I want to be with you.”

Zeke took another deep breath. He exhaled. His breath was sweet and hot. She was so cold.

He looked straight into her eyes. “There is only one way we can stay together, and I don’t know if it’ll work.”

She swallowed again. “Just tell me. I’ll do anything.”

Anything, she’d said. She would do anything.

Zeke held her up. Her weight rested on him as he whispered, “Do you trust me?”

It took everything in her to mouth the words, to force air from her lungs. “More than I did a day ago. I know I shouldn’t, but I do.”

Zeke had mumbled something she didn’t understand. Then she was here. Racing from a horde of demons who chased her with a ferocity she’d not seen from the worst of people.

Somehow, despite the wounds to her body, she fought them off. She beat them to the oasis in the middle of nowhere. Pedro picked her up from the porch steps and carried her across the threshold in his strong hands…

She studied those hands now. They were laced together in front of him. His thumbs rubbed back and forth across each other.

Li folded her arms and rubbed them. Her skin was cold. The memory chilled her. She lifted her gaze to meet Pedro’s.

“I was hurt already,” she said softly. “Zeke pulled the trigger, but I was already going to…”

She couldn’t say it. She couldn’t finish the sentence.

Pedro said nothing. He bent down and picked up shards of glass from the floor. She’d dropped it and not realized it until then.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. Though, as she said the words, she wasn’t sure for what she was apologizing. Was it the glass? Was it Zeke?

Her eyelids were heavy. She wanted to sleep despite not feeling tired. She wanted to crawl inside herself and shut out the world, as she’d done since arriving at this place.

Pedro squatted, balancing himself on the balls of his booted feet. One hand held shards of glass; the other palmed a melting glob of ice.

He put on a warm smile. “It’s okay,” he said. “You’ll be okay. Soon enough everything will make sense and you’ll begin the next part of your journey.”

She wrung her hands. “Where’s Zeke? I need to—”

“Zeke’s not here,” Pedro said.

“Where is he?”

“On the next part of his journey.”

Chapter Fifteen

Anaxi watched the sun burn along the horizon from the bow. Another day was dying, another night in its infancy. The Saladin plowed through the calm seas, the crests of the wake peeling off the sides the only real visible movement along the undulating surface.

The ocean was abnormally calm. Almost impossibly calm. If the legend was true, they were getting close. Anaxi steadied herself along the railing. It was time.

She turned toward the ship’s rear. They headed south, though they’d slowed considerably from the lack of wind. Anaxi was surprised Branch hadn’t come to her sooner, asking about the change in conditions.

She made her way by taut lines and men hustling to work the deck. The diminished crew was busier than before, each man responsible for the work of three. Anaxi watched one sailor swab the deck with a large mop. The water in the aged wooden bucket was brown, and a matching stain on the wooden planks wasn’t disappearing. Blood had a way of leaving its mark.

The sailor peered at her through the strain on his face, sweat dripping from his chin. He said nothing as he drove the mop across the deck, as if driving a spade into dirt.

She reached the helm and found Le Grand at his post. Anaxi wondered if the man ever slept. Both his hands rested on the wheel’s felloe, on either side of a handle. The water was so calm he needn’t do more than gently guide the Saladin on its course.

Anaxi slid next to him. “Where’s Branch?”

Le Grand was dismissive. “Eating dinner.”

“It’s time.”

She kept her eyes forward, looking south, and felt Le Grand’s gaze on her. He said nothing. He didn’t need to speak. Anaxi sensed his body tense. His hands moved to a pair of adjacent handles on the wheel.

“What’s the next challenge?” he asked. There was purpose in his voice now. Or was it fear?

“I’ll wait for Branch,” she replied.

Le Grand motioned toward the closest deckhand. The boy, who wasn’t much older than Anaxi, was coiling the end of a line.

“You, go get the captain!” Le Grand barked. “Now. The girl needs him.”

The boy dropped the line, unraveling his work, and scurried across the deck like a rat.

Le Grand took one hand from the wheel and wiped his brow with the back of his forearm. “How is it you know where the sword is?”

“How is it you don’t?” Anaxi said.

The pilot laughed. It was genuine. “You’re a quick one. Clever. Too clever.”

Anaxi turned toward him, an eyebrow raised mischievously. “Can anyone be too clever?”

He laughed again. “Have you met Desmond Branch?”

She smirked along with him, then motioned toward the starboard catapult. “Tell me about those.”

“What about them?”

“Why catapults? Aren’t the cannons enough?”

Le Grand lifted his chin and scratched his neck. “You can’t ever be too careful. We like to have options.”

“For killing people?”

“Defense too.”

“What do the catapults do? I’ve never seen them on a ship before. Are they common?”

The truth was she’d never seen a pirate ship of any kind. There were ill-intended seafarers who’d visit her village from time to time. But none as fiercely vile as Desmond Branch, his people, and the Saladin. For all she knew, catapults were typical for marauders.

Le Grand shook his head. “No. They’re not common. They were Desmond’s idea. He wanted a way to send alternative forms of punishment. Cannonballs are too direct sometimes.”

Anaxi studied the mechanism. The bucket was held in place at the end of an arm that connected to a cantilever-type spring. She didn’t know the names for the parts of the catapult, but looking at them and how they fit together, she innately understood how they worked.

“What does that mean?” she asked.

Le Grand chuckled. “It means Desmond is creative. Sometimes, he likes to hurl surprises at the enemy. We’ve launched all sorts of goodness from those machines. Keeps people off-balance. They expect the cannons. They don’t expect…other things.”

She didn’t even want to imagine what he referred to. Instead, she turned on him. “Why do you work for him?”

Le Grand shifted his weight without lifting his feet. His hands gripped the wheel handles again. He swallowed hard enough his Adam’s apple bobbed, and as he opened his mouth to speak, Branch appeared on deck.

The pirate captain pointed at Anaxi as he marched, face red. A piece of cloth was tucked into his collar. It was stained with whatever Branch had been eating.

“This’d better be good,” he grumbled. “For more than a day we’re basically floating. I finally sit down to eat, and now you call me here?”

Anaxi didn’t look at him. Instead, she closed her eyes and recalled the words her father had taught her.

Across the sea, through sun and shower

There is a sword of heavenly power

Its blade honed sharp, its grip is true,
in the hand of the righteous, its strength glows blue

Many shall seek, one shall find

This gift and curse, this fruit and rind.

Branch held up a hand to stop her. “I’ve heard this. Fruit and rind and whatever. We’ve passed the first test. We survived the storm and the beasts. What now?”

Anaxi opened her eyes. She regarded Branch without expression. Her dry lips were pressed into a straight line. Her lids hung heavy on her eyes. It was as dispassionate a look as she could affect.

Branch’s eyes shifted back and forth between Anaxi and Le Grand. The pilot shrugged. Anaxi inhaled deeply through her nose and slowly let it out.

The pirate cursed. “Fine. Go ahead. Finish the rhyme.”

Anaxi, being too clever, started from the beginning. This time Branch was silent until she finished.

Across the sea, through sun and shower

There is a sword of heavenly power

Its blade honed sharp, its grip is true,
in the hand of the righteous, its strength glows blue

Many shall seek, one shall find

This gift and curse, this fruit and rind.

Hunt with warning, all who dare

The course is rough, the challenge unfair.

Sail south until the seas are calm,

The bright sun melts, the light is gone.

A moon shall rise, blood red and full,

All your strength this feat shall pull.

Smoke and flame are in your path,

To reach the next, extinguish its wrath.

She opened her eyes and looked at Branch. His exaggerated frown glared back at her.

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “What is that supposed to mean? Blood moon? Smoke and flame?”

Le Grand answered before Anaxi could speak. “It means there will be a fire. We’ll have to put it out and—”

Branch exploded, his voice echoing from its volume. “I know it means fire! I know it means we have to put it out. I’m looking for a little more than the obvious.”

There was saliva on his chin. His face reddened again. The pulse in his neck visibly throbbed.

Anaxi shrugged. “Should we turn back? Is this too much for you?”

Branch’s jaw clenched. The muscles flexed. He growled and jabbed his finger at Anaxi’s chest.

He started to speak, but pulled back his hand and formed a fist. His eyes drifted past Anaxi and toward the sky. Then his jaw slackened.

A smile twitched at the corners of Anaxi’s mouth. “You see it, don’t you?”

Off the port side of the ship, the moon hung in the darkening sky. It was full, the curvature of the Earth making it appear larger than usual, and it was red. Deep, blood red. A shiver ran along his spine.

He’d seen a moon like this before. Years earlier, before he’d commandeered the Saladin. Before he was a pirate. Before he’d even met Le Grand…

* * *

Desmond Branch lived on a long narrow island on the far side of the flooded Earth. He was the younger of two boys to an angry father and an obedient mother. His older brother, Derek, was stronger, better looking, and smarter. At least, that was what Desmond’s gut told him. He believed it. Everybody did.

His village was large by post-melt standards. Two hundred men, women, and children lived in rusted, two-hundred-year-old Quonset huts, tents, and in the many caves that populated the island. The people sustained themselves on fish, tree fruits, and cultivated amaranth. They called their island Thiaki.

The Thiakians were mostly peaceful, living under a definitive patriarchal structure. Men ruled. The stronger the man, the greater his proverbial plumage, the more stature and power he held.

Derek Branch was destined to be the Thiakians’ de facto ruler. His cult of personality was a magnet. Women wanted him. Men wanted to be him. Desmond lived in the darkest, farthest reaches of his brother’s shadow.

Derek seemed to know this. He always encouraged Desmond to work harder, to fulfill his unlimited potential. The words rang hollow against the constant berating from their father. And no matter how supportive Derek might be, Desmond resented him.

But even if Derek sensed Desmond’s distaste, he never expressed it. His brother was always in Desmond’s corner. He was too good in every way.

Thiaki, the southernmost in a chain of fertile islands, was rimmed with an expansive coral reef. The waters around the island were calm, almost placid. Beyond the coral was a break where a constant barrage of waves built and crashed. Conquering them was a rite of passage of young Thiakian boys. They had to swim beyond the reef, past the break, and back; to meet the waves as boys and return as men.

On the night of his challenge, Desmond stood on the beach with his toes curled into the sand. His heart pounded in his chest. The pulse in his ears was deafening. All the village’s men and many of the young women stood behind him. Some were there to cheer his success, but more of them were there to celebrate his failure.

Desmond wasn’t well liked. He lacked the magnetism of his brother. He wasn’t as skilled or as smart. Yet every advantage was handed to Desmond. Not because of who he was, but because of who his family was. At least, this was Desmond’s warped perception. It was his justification for wallowing in the negativity that threatened to consume him.

The reality was that nobody on Thiaki thought about Desmond at all. They neither liked him nor disliked him. They were too consumed with their own lives to consider Desmond Branch. Occasionally, someone might pick on him. They’d belittle his size or strength or wit. This was the type of hazing all young men weathered on Thiaki. Desmond Branch wasn’t like all young men.

Desmond stared out at the dark water. The sun was setting and only the whitewash of the crashing waves was visible beyond the reef.

Derek stood behind Desmond. His hands squeezed Desmond’s bare shoulders. His voice was confident and reassuring. “You can do this, Desmond. I believe in you.”

Saying nothing, Desmond stepped forward toward the water. His feet squeaked on the soft, dry sand. Whispers behind him carried in the still, humid air. They were doubts, judgments, jeers. Desmond couldn’t make out the words, but he was sure of this as the sand hardened into the ground packed hard by the ebb and flow of tides.

The ocean washed over his toes, then his ankles, and his calves. Goosebumps prickled across his body as the ocean reached his upper thighs.

Someone called from behind him, “Just do it already.”

A chorus of laughs followed the directive. Desmond’s face flushed. He didn’t turn around. Instead, he pushed off from the floor and swam along the surface above the coral. The water splashed onto his face, the salt stinging his nostrils and eyes, as he swam chest up across the stretch of shallow water.

He worked to keep his breathing even as he lazily kicked his feet. His arms did most of the work, his elbows arcing high and behind him as he lifted them from the water. Then he drove his cupped hands below the surface and pulled them along his sides, propelling himself closer to the rougher waters ahead.

All Desmond could hear was his own breath and the splash of water. The world behind him was silent. The crowd. The doubters. They were invisible to him now as he reached the break. The crash of waves ahead of him drowned out his own thoughts. He couldn’t see them. It was too dark now. The faintest hint of red glow danced on the surface of the water as he hesitated.

He reminded himself of Derek’s words. “You can do this.”

At least his brother believed in him. If nobody else did, there was that consolation. He couldn’t lose his brother’s faith. Even if he loathed to admit it, Desmond needed his brother’s support, his approval.

Desmond lifted himself out of the water and then dove to propel himself through the rougher current. The churn hit him and drove him back and down. The top of his foot scraped against a coral outcropping. He reflexively let out his breath in pain and grabbed for his foot.

That disoriented him. He was under the water, surrounded by darkness. Was he right side up? Was he on his side? His heartbeat quickened. Eyes open, he searched for the bubbles coming from his nose. They traveled past his eyes.

Desmond extended his body and reached up with both hands. He pulled down alongside his body and lifted himself to the surface.

He popped up and sucked down a deep breath of salty air. He coughed and treaded water. His hands waved back and forth. His eyes stung. His chest hurt.

A wall of water slapped the back of his head. And again.

Desmond faced the island now. It was far, and in the dark all he could make out was the dim collection of lights beyond the beach. The torches flickered, sparks lifting into the sky like glowing bugs.

He didn’t see anyone on the beach. Were they there? Had they left him? Even Derek? Was he gone? Did his brother give up on him?

Desmond gritted his teeth, lifted his arms above his head, and slapped the water with the heels of his balled fists. He spun around in the water and tried again.

This time, he dove headfirst beneath the surface and swam forward using a wide pull. He kicked his legs out and back in unison. Above his head, he sensed the waves crashing. His body moved forward with each pull but drifted to the side and back between efforts. He wasn’t making much progress. He blew out the stored air through his nose, his lips pressed closed.

His muscles burned. His chest tightened. His head buzzed.

Desmond resurfaced and found himself in the middle of two breaks. He was amidst the wash, tossed and hit repeatedly by powerful waves.

His body was racked with exhaustion.

This was as far as he could go.

He couldn’t make it.

But how would they know? It was dark. If he couldn’t see the beach, they couldn’t see him. He could tell them he’d made it. He’d tell them about crossing the second break and making it back. He could do that. They’d be no more or less likely to believe he accomplished the task.

All of this ran through his mind in fractions of a second. He didn’t have time to debate the merits or morality of his decision. He sucked in another breath through his nose, coughed on the remnant saltwater in his sinuses, and turned back. He surrendered to the might of the ocean.

Desmond took a single stroke when a wave hit him from behind. The water slammed into the back of his head and shoulders and knocked him underwater.

His body spun under the surface, tumbling deeper and deeper. He reached up toward what he thought was the surface. The last of his air leaked from his lungs. His chest hurt. His hands and feet tingled from the lack of oxygen.

No light shone into the water. Desmond was in a black shroud. His fingers splayed. His legs kicked. Nothing. He was stuck under the water. Flashes of white light strobed across his vision. The world was fading.

And then he felt something grip his arm and pull him from the depths. He surfaced. Air filled his lungs. He coughed. He was on his back, a strong arm wrapped across his chest from his shoulder. Someone was behind him, doing all the work to keep him from sinking.

The man’s voice was breathless. “You okay?”

Even in his fog, Desmond knew his savior. It was his brother.

Desmond coughed again. He choked out an answer. “Yes.”

Derek’s feet scissored underneath Desmond’s back. He pulled him along, through the violent churn of the breaking waves.

Derek huffed, spitting water from his mouth. “I followed you out. Just to be safe.”

And there it was. Proof that his brother hadn’t believed in him. Desmond closed his eyes. He wanted to sink beneath the surface. He clutched his brother’s arm.

“Let go of me, Derek,” Desmond groaned. He was disoriented and on the verge of allowing panic to consume him.

Derek didn’t oblige. He kept pulling Desmond toward shore.

“We’re almost there,” Derek said. “Just hang—”

With what little strength remained, Desmond wrenched his brother’s arm from his chest. He pulled away, kicking his feet to free himself.

Derek was close enough his features were visible. His face was twisted with confusion. He treaded water, his shoulders bobbing at the surface.

“What are you doing, Desmond?” he asked.

“I don’t want your help! I don’t need it.”

Even in the relative darkness, the hurt on Derek’s face was clear. His chin dropped. His brow furrowed. Then he lifted his head and his expression shifted. He was angry now.

“You would have drowned,” he said. “Would you rather have that? If I hadn’t been there—”

Desmond spoke before he considered what he was saying. “I would rather die than have you save me.”

Derek opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Instead, he turned to swim away from Desmond. But before he’d completed his first stroke, his body seized. Derek cried out in pain. It was an unearthly grunt. He threw back his head.

Desmond called out, “Derek? What are you doing?”

The older brother growled, “My leg. It’s cramped. I can’t. It won’t—”

Derek’s head dipped under the water, resurfaced briefly, and dropped again. His arms splashed. The water roiled.

Frozen in disbelief, Desmond did nothing. He treaded water and watched his brother struggle. This couldn’t be happening. The water was calm here. It was shallow. Derek was immortal. Except that he wasn’t.

By the time Desmond reacted, his brother was gone beneath the surface. It was too dark for him to see. No matter how many times he dove under the water, searching blindly with wide sweeps of his arms, he couldn’t reach his brother.

He searched until his body was too exhausted and all he could do was float. Dejected, sobbing, struggling to breathe, Desmond let the gentle tide carry him to shore. When he reached the shallows, he dragged himself onto the dry sand and lay on his back. High above him in the sky sat a red moon. Not orange. Blood red.

He wanted to sleep. He wanted to dream good dreams and awake with his brother next to him. Instead, he saw the shadows of the waiting crowd creep into his field of view until they eclipsed the moon.

“Where’s your brother?” someone asked.

“What did you do to him?” accused another.

“Why did you survive?”

“He should have lived. You should have died.”

“You’re worthless.”

“He died for nothing.”

* * *

Presently, Desmond stared at that same red moon, thinking about the years of isolation on that island. His regret. His boiling anger. The day the Saladin anchored beyond the reef and his father had sold him to the captain for a bushel of bananas and a fishing net. The plotting insurrection. The mutiny. The return to Thiaki. The looks on their faces. The shock. The horror. The false penance. The revenge. His father at the center of a pyre.

You’re worthless.

Died for nothing.

Desmond thought about these things and glowered at the pompous little girl who knew nothing of sacrifice or sheer force of will.

He looked back at the moon, the flicker of flames on the horizon, and answered Anaxi’s question about whether he saw.

“I see everything I need to see,” he said, gritting his teeth. “Bring on the next challenge. I’m ready for it.”

Chapter Sixteen

Zeke couldn’t hear himself think. The moment lightning flashed overhead, rolling cracks of thunder whipped through his body. One after another, percussive booms pealed from the sky. It was late in the day, but the sky darkened in a way that prevented sunset.

His hands gripped their boat’s slick wheel. He felt the thunder vibrate in his fingertips.

Despite the dark shelf of clouds on the horizon, the storm hit the Fittipaldi with an impossible suddenness. An instantaneous gale of wind and torrent of rain smashed them head-on as if someone had thrown the storm at them.

Now in the belly, the Fittipaldi’s twin engines whined against the lifting surf. The speedboat raced up and down the cresting succession of waves. On each descent, the fiberglass shell shook like it was slamming against asphalt. It jarred Zeke’s teeth. Each rise and fall tossed his stomach. He swallowed the onset of bile and focused on the path ahead.

Uriel gripped the console from the seat next to him. Their passenger, Lucius, was below deck, lying flat on the curved sectional, which wrapped both sides of the salon.

Zeke understood they needed Lucius alive. They couldn’t risk losing him to the angry sea. Without him, their mission was over. They would fail. None of them wanted that.

To the starboard side, the larger Riva Cantata appeared to handle the storm far better. It powered through the rough water almost unaffected.

The Fittipaldi lifted underneath Zeke and dropped, another slam against the ocean’s surface. Zeke’s bones ached. Water clouded his vision, and he wiped it from his face with shoulder shrugs. He feared letting go of the wheel with even one hand might toss them out of control.

He wasn’t a sailor. He’d never seen an ocean until this mission. The raw power of the undulating, angry turbid mix of seawater, rain, and jetsam made this as frightening as any bootlegging run with authorities tailgating his bumper.

To the port side, a wave swelled as if a monster might surface. It was four stories high as it neared the boat.

Uriel yelled something at him, but Zeke couldn’t hear it. The cymbal crash of water deafened him.

He tightened his grip on the wheel, wishing he were at the controls of his Superbird instead, pushing hard on the pedal to accelerate, the engine rumbling as it promptly responded to his touch. He wanted back on dry land. He turned into the wave, hoping they could ride the crest and emerge on the other side.

Instead, he hit the bottom of the immense swell at an angle. The Fittipaldi pitched. Zeke lost his grip and the wheel spun. Uriel lost her footing and dropped to the deck. Her body lifted, as if weightless, and she flew to the stern. She was gone, cast into the wave and unable to empower herself with her otherworldly gifts.

Zeke called out, “Uriel!” He couldn’t hear himself.

Jaw clenched, he reached out and took hold of the wheel. It fought against him, but he maintained his grip. To his right, all he saw was a wall of water rising above him, curling with froth.

The Fittipaldi rode the crest on its side. Only his hold of the wheel kept him inside the boat. His feet lifted from underneath him. Zeke held his breath, certain the wave would swallow him.

But instead of succumbing to the wave, the Fittipaldi rode the crest to the back side of the wave, racing now to the trough. His stomach lurched, and above the rush of water he heard a scream.

Behind him, Uriel hung to the stern. In a handstand, she held the low taffrail that framed the aft deck covering the engine.

Zeke’s relief was tempered by the rising ocean surface beneath them. Salty spray blinded him as he found the wheel with both hands. They were about to hit the trough at an odd angle, which would surely capsize them. Neither of them had time to engage their power.

Zeke yanked the wheel, turning it hard to the right. The bow drifted toward the trough as they dove. He held the wheel until they were aimed straight at the ocean below them. The engine sputtered and gurgled as it took sips from the air before dunking into the sea again.

They hit the trough and the Fittipaldi’s bow dipped beneath the surface before the stern slapped hard on the roiling surface. Zeke rode the throttle, trying to use the boat’s momentum to regain control.

They rode the valley between the wave they’d crested and the next monster threatening to build. It was like he was back home, steering the Superbird through a tight alley, maneuvering between obstacles while outrunning his pursuers.

The port side began to lift again into the next swell, but Zeke steered out of it and kept the boat perpendicular to the current. Rain blinded him. It was sideways with the howls of wind, which chased him across the open sea.

Uriel hung on behind him. Quick glances reassured him but also tugged at his strong desire to let go of the wheel and pull her body fully into the boat.

At the moment he considered letting go, allowing the boat to ride the wave to its port side, and reaching out to help Uriel, the rain stopped. The wind died.

The storm was over. The clouds parted. The rain turned to mist. The thunder stopped. Shafts of sunlight found their way to the water’s calmer surface.

Zeke had once seen something called a washing machine. It was an electronic box into which he’d seen a wealthy man stuff dirty shirts and pants. The front of it was glass, and when the machine worked, foamy water filled the tub and splashed from the agitation. The shirts and pants flipped and spun inside the machine until, without warning, the cycle stopped. The water became still.

This was the only reference he had for what he was experiencing now. They were on plane again in an instant, moving at speed without obstacle and absent dangerous conditions. As if there were never a storm at all. He moved to the back of the boat and reached for Uriel. She took his hands and he pulled her into the boat. They stood facing one another. Their soaked bodies pressed together. His hands on her hips. Hers on his arms. They stood there, both of them breathless. After a moment that felt too long and too short at the same time, he blinked and stepped back.

“What just happened?” he asked.

She shook her head, rendered speechless for what seemed like the first time since Zeke had met her. Her fingers touched his arms. Her pompadour was flattened against her head. The reddish color was dampened and looked almost black. Droplets of rain and surf beaded off her leather jacket and pants.

The sun dipped beneath the horizon, the last light of day brightly reflected on the water in striking oranges and reds. The water. It was everywhere.

Zeke wondered if it would shrink the leather constricting Uriel’s body. Was it even possible for her clothing to get any tighter?

“Is it safe?” Lucius called from below deck.

Neither of them answered at first. Zeke wasn’t sure, and Uriel was busy wringing the water from her hair.

Lucius peeked his head through the opening between the captain’s chairs on which Zeke and Uriel sat.

“Is it safe?” he asked again. “Can I come—”

Lucius was tossed into the air before he could finish his sentence, launched headfirst toward the engine compartment at the rear of the boat. The front of the Fittipaldi shot into the air, its bow pitched skyward.

Before Zeke could do anything to control the boat, he was thrown from behind the wheel and into the ocean. He hit the surface hard, his chest slapping before he sank.

Saltwater rushed up his nose and along the back of his throat, stinging. His eyes burned. The weight of the gun at his hip, his boots and jacket—it all dragged him down.

Zeke looked up and saw the dim warbling sunset that marked the sky beyond the undulating surface. His legs kicked. His arms pulled. There was little air in his lungs, but he managed. Swallowing against the desire to take a breath, he surged upward. His muscles strained against the weight.

In his peripheral vision, he saw shadows moving underwater, but he couldn’t make out what they were. He heard his pulse beating in his ears, the muffled drone of a motor. He swallowed again and shook his head back and forth. With his eyes squeezed shut and a dizzying sensation overpowering his senses, he surfaced.

The air was warmer than the water, and he sucked in a deep, open-mouth gulp. His chest was pounding. His neck throbbed. But he was breathing. He was alive.

He spun in the water, kicking with his legs as hard as he could while searching for either of his team’s boats. He didn’t see either. He pivoted again, flailing his hands to move position.

The water in his boots tugged at him, drawing him down. He kicked furiously beneath the surface to keep himself afloat. To find his party. He didn’t know how to swim without exerting too much energy. He’d never done it. But it made sense to do everything he could to keep his head above water.

Where is Uriel? he asked himself. He smelled her sweet scent from their brief embrace minutes earlier. He still felt her touch on his arms. Her chest pressed to his.

“Uriel? Can you hear me? Uriel?”

He spotted the Fittipaldi. Behind the glare of the sun off the water, the red boat was capsized. Its twin propellers spun in the air, spitting water like fans.

Lucius splashed next to the boat. His arms waved. He choked and coughed as he called for help. The search for Uriel would have to wait.

Without thinking about it, Zeke buoyed himself and swam forward. He kicked his legs out and back and mirrored the motion with his hands. He kept his head above water so as not to lose sight of Lucius. He had no idea what his body was doing. He’d never swum before. Somehow, however, his muscles understood what to do. It was as if they had a memory about which his brain had forgotten.

He was laser-focused on his target. Despite the exhaustion, the shock to his system, Zeke had to get to Lucius and pull him from the water somehow. He spat water as he churned forward. The salt was heavy and bitter in his mouth.

Lucius stayed above the water until Zeke reached him. His eyes were wide with panic. The men grabbed onto each other’s wrists, and Zeke yanked him closer to the capsized Fittipaldi.

Something bumped against Zeke’s leg, but he ignored it. They helped each other onto the side of the boat. Zeke pushed Lucius up the side of the hull.

Another bump against his right leg. This time something sharp dug into his calf, above his boot. The pain was incredible. Searing.

He struggled to lift himself from the water and join Lucius. The boat’s underside was slippery. Zeke couldn’t find purchase. He kicked his legs harder.

Another bump.

This one felt like a slithering grind against his uninjured leg. His pulse quickened, something he didn’t think was possible. Panic shot through his body.

Despite being essentially immortal, Zeke wasn’t immune to pain. He wasn’t okay with giving up and returning to Pedro’s Cantina a failure. He groped again for a grip on the hull. To his left, something moved out of the water and disappeared again.

Zeke’s hand slipped and he noticed his fingers coated in watery blood. At first, he thought it was paint from the boat. Then he realized that Lucius was bleeding. The back of his leg was gashed, and the wound leaked onto the red hull.

He moved away from Lucius toward the bow and grabbed onto one of the ribs that ran along the length of the boat’s underside. With all his strength, he heaved himself from the water and onto the hull. The boat listed to one side, and he adjusted his weight to even it out. The Fittipaldi settled, and then Zeke saw what had torn into his flesh and wounded Lucius.

At first, he thought they were snakes with the way they slithered through the water. Medusa came to mind. The legend of the sword called Harpe that Pedro had mentioned.

Then he noticed they were too thick to be snakes. Or even eels. They were wide bodied, similar to the iguanas Zeke had seen roaming the wastelands in his previous life. But these were bigger. They looked meaner.

He knew for sure they weren’t snakes when one of them reached from the water with a clawed leg and latched onto the edge of the hull. They weren’t eels either. This was a lizard. A nasty marine lizard at least two feet in length.

Zeke exchanged a worried glance with Lucius. He scanned the boat’s surroundings. The water bubbled with the creatures. They were everywhere. Swimming to the surface. Snapping open their jaws. Clamping them shut with force. Disappearing under the water again.

It was a frenzy.

A second lizard grabbed hold of the hull. Its claws scratched at the fiberglass, emitting a squeaking sound that sent a chill along Zeke’s spine. Lucius winced at the noise.

Three lizards tested the hull, latching on, trying to climb it. It was a matter of time before they figured it out. These animals were learning. They were smart.

Zeke’s leg pulsed with pain. He ignored it and tried to clear his thoughts. His hand went to his hip. He called out to Lucius, who lay on his stomach and straddled what was now the top pitch of the capsized boat.

“Do you have your knuckles?” he asked.

Lucius furrowed his brow at first. Then his eyes went wide with understanding. The brass knuckles. The gift from Pedro. He nodded.

“Get them,” Zeke said. “If these things get too close, you’ll need to use them.”

Lucius awkwardly reached for his pants pocket. Zeke scanned the horizon.

Again, his gut tightened. Where was Uriel? What happened to her?

The Riva Cantata was close now. Its hulking black shape cruised through the water.

Zeke’s thumb flipped the strap on the holster and he drew his gun. Every time he held it, the heft surprised him.

He flipped open the cylinder to check. It was full. Six rounds.

Zeke pulled back the hammer. Balancing himself atop the hull and bracing himself with his legs, he took aim. Where the hull met the water, four of the lizards were climbing aboard. Their skin was almost iridescent in spots as the sunlight bounced off their wet, scaly skin. Claws dug and scratched against the fiberglass.

“Hold on. This thing packs a punch,” Zeke warned Lucius.

He put his finger on the trigger. The gun warmed against his palm. The cylinder glowed blue. Zeke applied pressure, and the weapon kicked in his hand with a violent whoomp.

A radiating pulse of energy shot from the gun. Zeke tightened his grip as the boat spun in the water from the recoil. The effect on the ocean’s surface was like a massive boulder dropped from a kilometer in the air. A giant hole opened in the sea before the water collected into a towering spray. Dozens of lizards rained down. They slapped against the water or thunked against the boat’s hull.

The upside-down boat surfed the resulting wave, spinning clockwise from the momentum of the pulse. Extreme gravitational force pushed Zeke to one side, and he slipped as its spin slowed. Lucius screamed, clinging to the boat with all his might.

The lizards kept coming. With urgency now, like they were energized by the deaths of their brethren. Zeke leveled the weapon again as he slid.

He took aim at a grouping of lizards poised to climb, when from underneath the boat, Zeke felt a rumbling. It was an augmenting, soundless vibration emanating from underneath the water. It wasn’t the Riva Cantata.

Lucius pointed at the water. His voice trembled. “What is that? What’s happening?”

The water started glowing an electric blue identical to the fading color on Zeke’s pistol. It throbbed under the water, like a heartbeat. That was the source of the vibration, and Zeke knew what it was.

The water began spinning clockwise. The circumference of the spin grew in size and its center deepened. The whirlpool’s pull was immense, drawing in legions of the reptiles. It sucked them under.

“It’s Uriel,” Zeke answered Lucius, his eyes fixed on the powerful vortex.

The boat started slipping toward the outer rim of the whirlpool, tilting them off-balance. It threatened to pull them down with the monstrous lizards.

“She’ll kill us!” Lucius cried out.

Before Zeke could tell him he was wrong, Uriel surfaced a dozen meters from the overturned boat. She shot into the air, spinning. Her arms were drawn tight to her chest, elbows at her sides. Her legs were straight, toes pointed. The ink that covered her body pulsed bright blue.

Uriel stopped spinning, suspended a meter above the water. The whirlpool subsided. The lizards were gone.

Uriel relaxed her body and dropped into the water. Zeke was transfixed as he watched her swim lazily toward the overturned Fittipaldi. Behind him, he heard Phil call out, “Need a ride?”

Zeke’s gaze lingered on Uriel as the glow faded from her body. She swam past the Fittipaldi toward a ring buoy Phil tossed into the water. The bowler, like always, was pitched back on his high forehead. Water dripped from the thick curls of hair sticking out from underneath the sides.

Lucius shifted into a sitting position atop the hull, casting nervous glances toward the water. “You think it’s safe to jump in?”

Countless dead lizards floated on the surface, their bodies like a reptilian carpet that moved in unison with the motion of the sea. Uriel swam through them, parting them as the Superbird had the ocean before they’d crossed into this alternate reality.

“It’s as safe as it will be,” Zeke said. He stowed his gun and ran his thumb along his holster’s strap to secure it.

Uriel grabbed onto the buoy, and Phil pulled her toward the yacht’s aft end. From there, she boarded using the access ladder at the stern.

Zeke watched her climb, her lithe body soaked. The ink seemed radiant on the small of her back, her side, the back of her neck. Phil handed her a towel and she draped it over her shoulders. The pink bow at the end of her braided ponytail was tied perfectly.

Lucius tapped Zeke on the arm and motioned with his head toward the yacht.

“How did she do that?” The shakiness remained in his voice. His eyes dropped to the holster at Zeke’s waist. “How did you do that?”

Zeke shrugged. “I don’t really know. I’m figuring all of this out myself. C’mon, let’s get over there.”

He slid down the side of the hull and into the water. His body bumped into the bodies of dead lizards. He shivered but treaded water away from the capsized boat. Behind him, Lucius made his entry, splashing into the sea. He groaned at the reptilian corpses but chugged through the water and caught up to Zeke.

They were halfway to the yacht when Phil tossed them the buoy. Zeke took it and handed it to Lucius.

Phil pulled him to the boat, dragging him through the water. Uriel wasn’t on the deck any longer. At least not that Zeke could see.

He went to wipe the salt from his eyes. As he did, he saw something familiar floating, bobbing, on the surface beyond the dead lizards. He touched the top of his head, running his palm along his sopped mat of hair, and only then realized he’d lost his hat.

Zeke swam toward the object, keeping his eyes up. As he approached it, a smile spread across his face. The hat was there. Wet. Worse for wear. But he’d found it.

He took the hat and dumped out the water filling it. With a tug, he lowered it on his head and spun back to the Riva Cantata.

Zeke kicked his legs, heavy from the water-laden boots, and pulled his way closer to the yacht. It was amazing to him he could stay afloat, having never seen an ocean let alone swum in one. But he managed well enough to reach the ladder at the stern of the yacht, pulling himself onto the deck. But his body, this immortal body, knew what to do. It was as if some external force controlled his movements. Lucius sat on one of the wooden seats under the canopy that covered most of the aft deck.

Uriel appeared. She reached down to help Zeke up. He took the offer. Her skin was cool, her fingers strong yet feminine.

A wave of guilt washed through him as an image of Li flashed in his mind. His face flushed. He cleared his throat.

“Thanks,” he muttered.

Uriel winked. “No problem, gunslinger. Nice try out there.”

He tipped his hat. “You too. What was that? I thought for a minute that—”

“That I’d drowned? That I died again? Nope. Remember, we don’t need to breathe. It just feels like we do. I could’ve stayed underwater for another hour if I needed to do it. I’ve done it before. It hurts like hell. Or whatever. But we can’t drown.” She patted his chest. “But thanks for worrying about me.”

Zeke offered a weak smile. “Always.”

He said it before he realized what was coming out of his mouth. He wanted to take it back and offer an explanation. She planted her hands on her hips and narrowed her eyes.

“Are you flirting with me, Ezekiel Watson?”

“I…uh…”

She let him off the hook. “Oh, sheesh. I’m only kidding, loverboy.”

“Sorry to break this up, but we need to head south,” Lucius called from the wood bench.

They turned together to face him. He was draped in a pair of towels, which made him look older and sicklier than he had before the lizard attack. His eyes darted between the two of them and then found the deck.

Zeke took a step toward him. He had more questions for Uriel. What she’d done to end the threat was unfathomable. Even in his new reality, in which power appeared limitless for some, her whirling dervish routine stunned him. Those questions would have to wait. He asked one of Lucius instead. “Did you know about the lizards?”

Lucius shook his head. “Not specifically.”

Uriel chuckled. “How about nonspecifically?”

“I knew what you knew. A storm. Beasts. That’s it.”

Zeke ran his hand along his jaw. “Does that mean you can’t tell us what’s next?”

Lucius swallowed. He bit his lower lip and wiped his face with the towel. Then he locked eyes with Zeke and said, “Only that it’s worse than what we just survived.”

Chapter Seventeen

“What is this?” Le Grand asked.

Anaxi wasn’t sure who he hoped would answer the question. She didn’t know what to say. And from the stunned look on his drawn face, neither did Desmond Branch. Though all three of them could hazard a good guess.

Fire was fire. It was unmistakable.

Out of nowhere, the distant sparks of flame surrounded them. It was as if the ocean itself was fuel for the inferno that encircled the ship. At first, Anaxi thought the water was on fire. She looked to the sky. Above them, visible beyond the smoke, was the constellation of stars her father told her was Orion’s Belt. “Find the belt, find where you are in the world,” he’d often said.

Smoke thickened above her, and her eyes fell back to the water. The flames took on almost recognizable shapes. They were other boats. They were smaller than the Saladin, but the flames that outlined their hulls and masts and sails were impressive. They shone against the dark night, the orange, flickering glow reflected off the dark water, burning mirror images of the floating conflagrations that inched closer and closer.

The heat on her face forced her eyes shut. Fire was everywhere, it seemed. The smoke was thickening, making it difficult to breathe. Anaxi dropped to her knees on the deck and then lowered herself to her stomach while the men barked or followed orders.

She’d led them into this. And despite not wanting Branch to find the sword, to have the power, she didn’t want to die either. She didn’t want to burn alive.

Cannons exploded from the deck. Each percussive shot rang through her body. The deafening blasts boomed but appeared to do little to the burning ships. They didn’t sink them. They didn’t stall their approach.

Crew crossed the deck and manned their posts. Some loaded bags into the catapults. Others carried buckets with water. Still more hauled cannonballs. The deck was awash with frantic activity. None of the men seemed to know what to do other than what they’d always done.

The smoke choked out the blood moon, but the Saladin may as well have been bathed in light. The flames cast long shadows across the deck, tracking the harried movements of the crew. With her body as flat against the deck as she could get, Anaxi used her elbows and knees to squirm along the deck.

Particulate burned her eyes. She blinked back tears and kept moving until she bumped into a post. Reaching out almost blindly, she ran her hand along it. It wasn’t vertical, and she was too far from mid deck for it to be a mast pole. Through the wisps of glowing smoke, she saw the bucket. This was a catapult.

An idea popped into her head.

Her heart racing, adrenaline powering her across the deck, she scrambled back toward the helm. Even if Branch wasn’t there, she’d find Le Grand. From memory, she scurried across the planks, avoiding the heavy boots of deckhands running aimlessly from one end of the ship to the other as if they could help anything.

The smoke thickened. The ring of fire closed tighter. She reached the helm and pushed herself to her knees.

Anaxi coughed. “I have a plan. Where’s Branch?”

Le Grand glanced at her. He blinked his reddened eyes and coughed. A bandana was wrapped over his nose and mouth. “What plan?”

She told him her idea, explaining how she couldn’t do it alone and they were running out of time. He stared at her for a moment, tears streaming down his cheeks from the smoke, and nodded.

“I’ll get the ship in position.”

One hand pressed to his shirt, he called to a pair of deckhands and ordered them to help Anaxi below deck. The men obeyed. They flanked her and guided her through the chaos toward the hatch.

The burning ships were close enough now they formed what looked like a completed circle around the Saladin. The flames cast a haunting orange and red glow, illuminating the thick pillows of black smoke that crowned the ring of death.

Below deck, the air cleared. Anaxi took a deeper breath and swiped the sheen of sweat from underneath her eyes. Now clear of the frenzy above, she explained what she needed from the deckhands. They stood motionless; their faces squeezed with confusion.

She raised her voice. “Do it, or I’ll tell Branch you’re the reason his quest failed.”

Anaxi hadn’t finished the sentence before they sprang to action. It was an empty threat. If they didn’t do what she instructed, they’d all die. There’d be no need to tell Desmond Branch anything.

Both men disappeared, climbing up through the hatch. Anaxi put her hands on her hips and took stock of the stores surrounding her. There had to be at least fifty lumpy burlap sacks holding grain. It should be enough. All they had to do was escape the circle. If they did, they were a step closer to the third feat.

A step closer to the sword.

A step closer to ending this nightmare one way or another.

Anaxi spun toward the hatch at the sound of boots bounding down the steps. Branch led six of his crew into the space.

His face was dark with soot. His eyebrows were singed. He marched to her and directed his men to start grabbing bags of grain.

She studied him for a moment. “Where the hell were you?”

“Commanding the cannon fire,” he answered, as if that should’ve been obvious.

“That’s not working,” she said. “You have to extinguish the flames.”

“Your poem doesn’t say that.”

She groaned. “Does it need to say it? It’s obvious.”

Branch wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You came up with this?”

Anaxi nodded. “The cannons aren’t working. Putting out the fire is the only way.”

He pursed his lips. Then he moved past her and slugged a bag onto his shoulder.

She followed him up the steps and through the hatch, avoiding the crew returning below deck to grab more bags. The smoke was thicker now on the deck. She took a breath that burned her throat and chest. Choking back a parade of coughs, she weaved her way through the confusion, keeping close enough to Branch to find a path.

Le Grand kept his promise. The catapult closest to Branch was aimed at the smallest of the flaming vessels. A bag was already loaded into the bucket.

Branch dropped the bag on his shoulder. It fell onto a stack of bags. Before Anaxi could stop him, he ordered the men manning the catapult to do their jobs.

“Fire.”

The men followed the order. They released the tension line and the bucket whipped forward. The bag launched into the black, disappearing for an instant before a loud crash echoed from the target. The flames were unaffected.

The men worked to load the next bag. Branch frowned at Anaxi.

“It didn’t work!” he yelled.

“You have to cut the bag,” she advised, quickly realizing the error. “Otherwise it’s no different than the cannonballs. Slice it open, let the grain free.”

He grumbled under his breath as if to start arguing with her, but didn’t. Instead, he drew his sword and sliced the next bag loaded onto the catapult. The flames glinted across the steel blade.

“Now, fire,” Anaxi said.

The team launched the second bag. It vanished into the smog. A moment later, when it landed, Anaxi saw its impact. The fire flickered and dimmed in the spot where the bag exploded on impact. The shower of grain deprived the flame of oxygen, smothering it. Her plan was working.

Branch must have seen it too. “Again,” he ordered. “Faster. Move!”

The men obeyed. They launched the next bag. He stopped abruptly after only a handful and turned to Anaxi.

“Come with me,” he said.

Together, they crossed the deck to the other side of the ship to the second catapult. Men were already working to spin the mechanism to face the same direction as the other.

“It’s not happening fast enough,” Branch said. “We need both working. Tell these men what to do.”

He pulled a knife from his waist and offered it to her.

She studied the weapon. It was long with an upswept point at the tip of its steel blade. He motioned to her. She glanced up at him, unsure why he would give her a blade.

“Take it,” he urged. “I need you to cut the sacks of grain on this side. I can’t be in both places, and we need both catapults working at the same time to put out the fire. Otherwise, we won’t make it.”

She took the knife from him. For a brief moment, she considered jabbing it into his gut.

She wouldn’t be fast or tall enough. He’d run her through with the sword. Even if she succeeded in hurting him, he’d do the same to her, with a much deadlier weapon. It was better to bide her time. This wasn’t the moment.

“Get to work!” Branch ordered.

He spun and vanished into the smoke. She turned and did as instructed. In quick succession, the men loaded the catapult and fired. After several volleys from the twin siege weapons, the fires on the smallest ship and the one next to it were weakened.

Anaxi drove the blade into one bag after another, dragging the knife in a downward motion in the burlap to open wounds that seeped grain.

It was a satisfying exercise. Empowering. She worked faster and faster.

She was so focused on her task that she didn’t hear the men cheering. She didn’t sense the movement of the Saladin through the ring. She wasn’t aware they’d cleared the feat until she felt a hand on her shoulder.

Startled, she spun around with the knife raised. It was tight in her fist, ready to keep stabbing.

It was Le Grand. He backed away, hands in front of him, palms facing her in surrender. “Whoa, ease up,” he said. “We did it.”

She blinked. Focused on his face. Saw the clean tracks of tears streaked through the soot on his cheeks.

Her tension eased and she lowered the knife. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine. But why don’t you give me the knife before you hurt someone.” He extended his hand and wagged his fingers.

Anaxi again regarded the blade. “I don’t think so.”

She imagined what she could do with it. Le Grand wasn’t any better than Branch. In some ways, he was worse. She was convinced that, at his core, Le Grand was a good man who knew better than to follow a depraved sadist like Desmond Branch, but lacked the fortitude to do anything about it.

“What do you need the knife for?” he asked. “You’ve got nowhere to go. Even if you use it against me or Branch, you won’t get away with it. We’re the only ones keeping you alive. Only he and I understand your importance to the mission. The others on board would just as soon…”

He let the thought linger, let her imagine what might come next. Anaxi didn’t like any of the possibilities. Le Grand was right. Having the knife was useless.

She flipped the knife in her hand and offered him the handle. He took it and tucked it into his waistband. Then he offered her a hand up. She was on her knees beside a triple stack of bags.

Anaxi waved off the help and used the stack to leverage her weight as she stood. With the backs of her hands, she wiped the sweat from her face. Her skin came away black from soot.

The smoke remained thick, but it dissipated enough for her to see across the Saladin to the other catapult. Branch stood near it with his hands on his hips, looking out onto the sea.

They’d turned, and the burning circle of ships was behind them. It wasn’t burning anymore though. The flames had been reduced to patches of glowing embers. Arms of gray smoke drifted into the sky. It was as if their escape had extinguished the threat figuratively and literally.

Branch spun on his boots, spotted Anaxi, and marched toward her. A broad grin dominated his features. His teeth were a sharp contrast to the dark smudges that darkened his face.

He extended his arms as he approached. Anaxi thought he might embrace her. She recoiled. Her shoulders turned in on themselves and she shrank from him.

“You did it!” he exclaimed. “Incredible. Just incredible. I never would have thought to use the stores of grain as a way to escape. Brilliant, really. I’m impressed, little one. Maybe you have a future on the Saladin. I might have to keep you around.”

Anaxi’s thoughts immediately went to Le Grand. Would she become like him? If she stayed aboard too long, might she keep quiet for self-preservation? No. She wouldn’t. She couldn’t. These people killed her father. They’d ripped her from the only home she’d ever known. They wanted power to which they weren’t entitled.

A thousand ways to respond cycled through her mind. Instead, she said nothing. She glowered at Branch, hoping her dour expression rife with anger and disgust would provide the answer to his proposition.

It must have worked. His smile evaporated. His eyes narrowed.

“Or not,” he said. “To be determined.”

Le Grand cleared his throat, cutting the tension. “I need to get back to the helm. What course should I chart?”

He was obviously asking the question of Anaxi. Only she knew what came next. Branch answered the question instead.

“Keep your course for now. The men need time to clean the ship. They need to eat. Drink. Sleep. They’ve had a time of it.”

Le Grand nodded, stealing a glance at Anaxi as he did.

Anaxi wiped her eyes again and looked off the port side of the ship, watching the smoldering ring of ships grow smaller as they moved away from them. A colony of large gulls glided alongside the Saladin, riding the current. They mirrored each other’s movements, traveling in unison.

“Head east,” she said, with the vim of a captain. “The men can eat, rest, and pretend they’re heroes regardless of our course.”

The birds dipped together and flapped their wings. They drifted away from the ship and caught a draft back toward the port side. Anaxi felt the heat of both men’s stares as she focused on the flock.

Branch huffed. “Do it. Head east as she says. She knows the way.”

She did. They both knew it. And they both knew she was commanding the ship. Slowly and surely, the Saladin and its crew were becoming hers.

Chapter Eighteen

Zeke stood on the aft deck of the Riva Cantata. He had his hat in his hand. Wind swirled around him, the warm current of air feeling good against his skin. He focused on the wake fanning out from behind the yacht. The ride on the much larger boat was markedly smoother than his speedboat, even if it was less exhilarating.

They were headed south, and the sun was low to his left, peeking above the horizon to signal a new day. They’d powered through the night. Zeke hadn’t slept. Neither had the trio of Watchers. They crowded around the helm, drinking and singing songs.

Zeke could hear them from the aft deck. They sounded happy, but he couldn’t find it in himself to rejoice. Not with so much at stake. They’d unsuccessfully tried to cajole him into imbibing with them. Uriel had teasingly and perhaps accurately called him a self-loathing martyr who enjoyed wallowing in despair.

Lucius slept through the night. He’d found one of the salons on the lowest deck of the ship and disappeared. As far as Zeke knew, Lucius was asleep.

“Coffee?”

Zeke turned around to see Uriel holding large ceramic mugs in both hands. One of them read PUNCH TODAY IN THE FACE. The other displayed a cartoon cat hanging upside down from a tree branch. It read “MONDAYS”.

Zeke forced a smile. “Sure. Thanks.”

Uriel handed him the cartoon cat mug. Then she cupped the other in both hands and took a sip. The bottom of her mug had a fist painted on it.

He toasted her. “Figures you would pick a mug with a fist on it.”

She licked her upper lip and eased next to him, facing the ocean off the stern. The spray danced above the generous fan of the boat’s wake.

She raised her mug and said, “The caffeine doesn’t do anything. It’s all psychosomatic for us. If you feel a buzz, it’s in your head.”

“Like the alcohol?”

“Exactly.”

He took a sip and winced. The coffee was bitter. Uriel giggled.

“I’m not much of a cook,” she said.

“That’s the issue with the coffee. You don’t cook it.”

She shrugged. “Did you get much coffee where you came from? I mean, given that water was in short supply?”

“A couple of times. Both times it was a shot. What do they call that? Expresso?”

Uriel corrected him. “Espresso. There’s no X in it.”

He tried to correct his pronunciation. “Es-press-oh.”

“Yep. It’s Italian. The full name is caffè espresso. It means pressed-out coffee.”

“Italian?”

“The language of a country called Italy. It existed before your time.”

Zeke took another sip. “I think I’ve heard of it. From a book Li had in her library.”

Uriel ran her thumbs along her mug. The early morning light cast a glow on her face. Her eyes sparkled.

“Which one?” she asked.

“Which one what?”

“Which book?”

Zeke closed his eyes. He envisioned the walls of books in their apartment. They were prohibited in their city, but she’d flouted the law and collected as many rare volumes as she could find. Zeke had helped her with his black-market connections.

“I think it was actually a play about two star-crossed lovers,” he said. “An Italian play by an…English writer, or something.”

“Romeo and Juliet,” Uriel said.

Zeke shook his head. “I don’t think so. I wasn’t—”

“Two families hated each other? Girl from one fell for a boy from the other? They profess their love. Girl pretends to be dead. Boy thinks she’s dead and kills himself. She wakes up. Sees he’s dead. Kills herself. That it?”

“Yeah,” said Zeke. “But it wasn’t Romeo and Juliet. I think it—”

“It was Romeo and Juliet. By a guy named Shakespeare.”

Zeke considered it and conceded. “Could be. I guess.”

Uriel removed a hand from the mug and fingered the bow at the end of her braid.

Zeke took another drink of the coffee. It actually wasn’t that bad. He turned to her.

“When are you from?” he asked.

She lifted an eyebrow. “When?”

“Yeah. I figure that’s a better question than where.”

A broad grin spread across her face. She reached out and grazed the side of his face with her fingers. Then she pinched his cheek, like a grandmother might an adorable infant.

“Just when I think you’re a moron, you surprise me with your intellect,” she said. “It’s remarkable, really. In one moment, you’re telling me that a piece of classic literature isn’t what I know it to be, and the next you issue an insightful query.”

Zeke wasn’t sure how to take that. Any compliment from Uriel was an achievement, but she also called him a moron. And the tone of her voice was so condescending it made him want to crawl inside himself.

“Thanks?” he said, dragging out the end of the word. It was the best he could come up with.

She smirked. “It wasn’t a compliment. It was an observation.”

“I figured.” He finished the coffee. “What’s the answer?”

“The late twentieth century.”

“Twentieth? As in the nineteen hundreds?”

“Yep.”

“You’re that old?”

She shot him a side eye and tapped her PUNCH TODAY IN THE FACE mug. “See this?”

“It was an observation.”

Her expression softened. “Touché. And yes. I’m that old.”

Zeke thought about his next question. There were too many of them. He sighed.

“In my past life,” he said, “I rarely had questions. Whatever happened, happened. I did what I was told. I accepted a lot of things at face value. Now it seems all I have is questions. They’re constant. They make it difficult to concentrate sometimes, especially because I get answers to so few of them.”

“They’re like gray hairs. You kill one and two more come to the funeral.”

Zeke shook his head. “I don’t understand half of the stuff you say.”

“Maybe that’s why you have so many questions. You’re stupid.”

Zeke scowled for a moment. Then both of them laughed. It felt good. The tension eased in his shoulders. The knot in his stomach loosened.

“Ask me something,” Uriel said. “Anything. I’ll try to give you a straight answer.”

His eyes widened with surprise. “Really?”

“Really.”

Zeke bit the inside of his lip, searching for the right question. It was like a bar with too many bottles behind the counter. Too many choices to make one. Finally, he settled on one closest to the surface.

“How did you do what you did back there?” he said. “The spinning? The whirlpool?”

Uriel’s gaze left his and aimed out toward the ocean. The steady hum of the Riva Cantata’s twin eighteen-hundred-horsepower diesel engines filled the space between them until she locked eyes with him again.

“I don’t know,” she said.

Zeke’s brow furrowed. He frowned.

Uriel shrugged. “That’s not true. I don’t know how it works, but I know that all I have to do is focus hard enough and I can make it happen. I think about what I want my body to do, how I want the muscles to move or react, and I do it. Within reason.”

“You told your body to spin into the air?”

“Sort of. I was underwater. It took me a minute to figure out what had happened. The lizards flipping the boat was disorienting. I looked up. I saw the swarms of them above me, the overturned boat. I figured I had to do something.” She paused and grinned impishly. “I mean, given how useless you are.”

Zeke narrowed his gaze. “Can you just tell me how it works? Let’s agree I’m a worthless moron. Get that out of the way. It’s a given, okay?”

Uriel offered a thumbs-up. “Given.”

“So?”

She finished her coffee and licked her upper lip with the tip of her tongue. “I summoned my power and made it happen. There’s not much more to it. It’s almost like my powers knew what would work and I did it.”

Zeke studied her for a moment. “Why did you get the powers you have?”

“Pedro gave them to me,” she replied.

“Right,” said Zeke, “but why those powers? Why did he give me a gun? Lucius brass knuckles? Gabe’s sticks? Phil’s—”

She interrupted. “I get it. And I don’t know. I’ve asked. Pedro’s coy about it. He says the same thing to everyone. He gives you what he thinks best suits you.”

“Does he have weapons of his own?”

Uriel laughed in a way that answered the question before saying, “Of course.”

“Which ones?” Zeke asked.

The smile on her face disappeared. “All of them.”

The words hung in the air. Zeke tried to imagine Pedro wielding the fighting sticks while spinning in the air with brass knuckles affixed to his fingers. It was comical. And it was frightening.

“What’s the point of all this?” he asked after a short bit of silence.

Her smile returned for a moment, flashing at the corners of her mouth. “That’s the only question worth asking, isn’t it?”

Of course, she answered it with another question. That was par for the course. Instead of complaining, Zeke kept his mouth shut. He hoped that if the silence lasted long enough, she might offer something more. He was right.

“I wish I had the answer, Zeke,” she said. “Sometimes I think I know. It’s redemption. It’s balance. It’s yin and yang. It’s how to keep the natural order of things interconnected. Then things happen and I wonder if there’s a darker purpose.”

“Darker?”

She shook her head. “We’re not always the good guys, Zeke. I think I told you that. Or it was Phil. Someone explained that. There are missions where we’re the bad guys. Those are the hard ones. That’s when I question what all of this is about, why we’re here.”

Her expression shifted. The light in her eyes was gone. Her skin dulled. The color leeched from her cheeks. Even the ink on her skin lost its vibrancy.

“If you have to maintain the balance of good and evil, it makes sense that sometimes you have to tip the scales away from too much good,” Zeke said, trying to rationalize their job. “I get that. I’m not saying it’s easy. But I get it. It makes sense.”

Uriel didn’t respond. Her gaze told Zeke she was somewhere else, visiting another place and time in her mind. Then she blinked. Her eyes fluttered. She cleared her throat. The color in her cheeks returned. Her eyes reflected the sunlight again.

Uriel put on a thin smile, but Zeke could tell it was fake. “We’re Watchers,” she said. “It’s what we do for as long as we’re told to do it. No point in dwelling on the negative, right?”

Zeke wasn’t sure what to say. Her sudden mood shift had him regretting having asked the question.

She took the mug from him. “Want a refill?”

“No, thanks,” he said. “I’m good.”

“I’ll have another,” she said. “I’ll add some liquor to it this time.”

“Liquor? It’s kind of early.”

She twisted her lips to one side of her face. The look was both mischievous and disapproving. Zeke wasn’t sure how she managed both expressions at once.

“It’s never too early in the afterlife,” she said. “Time is relative. It’s a construct developed to help our feeble minds understand the—”

Zeke raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, I get it. But why the drink?”

Uriel started toward the salon. As she moved down the steps, hips swaying, she glanced back at him over her shoulder.

“I’ve heard the second poem from our friend Lucius,” she said. “And when you hear it, you will want that drink too.”

Chapter Nineteen

“Where are we?” asked Anaxi. “What is this place?”

A smile twitched at the corners of Le Grand’s mouth. “It’s the port city of Kathmandu.”

“Port?”

“A place where ships can refuel, find provisions, take a break from the endless sea.”

Like the people aboard the tanker Texas, the vibrancy of this place called Kathmandu was unlike anything Anaxi had seen or about which she might have dreamed.

The Saladin was one of a half-dozen ships moored to three long wooden docks that stretched like fingers from the wide mouth of the port’s cove.

The land rose quickly from the shore toward an awkward peak atop which flags flapped in the wind. Between the peak and the half-moon shoreline were clusters of tents and shanties crowded with people. Strains of music filtered through the air along with the strong, welcoming odors of cooked meat.

From the deck of the Saladin, Anaxi heard laughter and shouts. There were calls from men and women offering their wares. Bells chimed.

Anaxi’s heart fluttered. It was all too much. Is this place real? Am I awake, or is this an oasis of a dream within my broader nightmare?

Perhaps sensing her apprehension, Le Grand extended a hand. “C’mon. Don’t be afraid.”

Reluctantly, she took his hand and followed him from the deck to the long dock, which led to shore. The planks were sturdy beneath her feet. Water lapped at the pilings underneath. The odors grew more pungent, the cacophony louder.

“I’ve never seen a port,” she said. “Or a city.”

“This is one of a handful around the world,” said Le Grand. “All of them are in places that legend holds were once miles in the sky, far from oceans. They were covered in ice.”

She looked up at him. “But the ice melted.”

He nodded. “And the seas rose. Most of the earth sank beneath the surface. Only the highest peaks remained above ground. Most of those only peek above the water enough to support small villages like yours. That’s most of the world’s land, right? But a few became ports, places big enough to house a lot of people and welcome travelers.”

“Have you seen other ports?”

He nodded and they reached the end of the dock. A man with a basket slung over his shoulder approached them. He was a thin, wiry man with a wrapped cloth covering his head. His skin was bronzed and his fingers delicate.

“Red apples?” he asked.

His toothless smile was warm and friendly. He plucked an apple from the basket and held it out for Anaxi.

Le Grand waved him off. “No.”

The man persisted. “Red apples.”

Le Grand shook his head and tried to move past.

The man stepped in their path. His affable smile evaporated. He jabbed the fruit at Le Grand. “Red—”

Le Grand let go of Anaxi’s hand and slapped the apple from the man’s grip. It dropped to the ground, rolling away, and the man grunted. He went after the apple. Le Grand and Anaxi moved past.

“What was that about?” she asked.

“People want to sell things. They’re pushy about it.”

“You said you’ve been to other ports?”

“Most of them are in this region. There’s the port cities of Annapurna and Cho Oyu. Both of them are far busier than Kathmandu.”

Anaxi couldn’t imagine some place busier than where she stood now. There were more people in her line of sight than she’d seen in all of her days. Hundreds. Could it be a thousand?

Le Grand tugged her forward. “Let me show you.”

They wove through the bustling crowds of people. There were languages she’d never heard. Words she didn’t understand. She caught clips and fragments of conversations. Her heart raced at the unexpected newness of it all.

As she walked, Le Grand guiding her, her head swiveled from one side to the other. She didn’t want to miss anything. The music she’d heard aboard the ship grew louder as they neared a large building built of stacked stone. Outside the building was a trio playing stringed instruments. One of the men sang along to the rhythm of it. Anaxi bobbed her head. Her cheeks hurt from smiling.

Against the stone building, to one side of a curtained entrance, there was a stack of bones. Arm and leg bones piled into a pyramid atop which human skulls rested askew.

They stopped at the entrance. Le Grand motioned with their clasped hands toward the bones.

“Those are ancient,” he said. “No worries. They’ve been here longer than any visitor here has been alive.”

“What are they?” Anaxi asked. “I mean, whose are they? Where did they come from?”

Le Grand pivoted to face the peak in the distance. The collection of flags flapped in the opposite direction.

“The story goes that we are standing now on what was once the highest point on the planet. These were mountains that touched the sky. They were covered in ice. They were dangerous. But people climbed them. They were adventurers who wanted to reach the highest peaks.”

Anaxi looked at the flags and back at the bones. “What happened to them?”

“Some of them succeeded. Others did not. They died on the mountains. The ice froze them, and they remained here on the highest peaks until the melt. These bones are what was left of them. They serve as a reminder of what the world once was.”

Anaxi studied Le Grand’s face for any hint of jest. She didn’t find it. She grinned. “You’re teasing me. We’re hardly above the sea. There is no way this was the highest spot on the Earth.”

Le Grand led her through the curtain and into the stone building. “Come with me. I want to show you something.”

The inside of the stone building glowed with candlelight. The odor of cooked meat was stronger here. The place smelled of grease and fat. The space was warm with the radiant heat of the burning tallow candles. There were tables around which people sat, eating and drinking. None of them paid attention to Anaxi and Le Grand as they wound their way toward a wall at the far side of the rectangular space. They were too busy scraping clean their bowls and slurping the dregs of their meals.

Men and women shuffled past them, carrying baskets. They were the servers, Anaxi deduced. Their frowns and sagging faces told her they weren’t happy. How could someone be unhappy in such a wonderful place?

“Look at this,” said Le Grand. He pointed at a large painted skin on a wall. It was as tall as she was and maybe as wide.

“What is it?” she asked.

Le Grand released her hand and swept his fingers across the skin. “It’s a map.”

“Of what?”

“Of the world.”

This was not how Anaxi had envisioned maps. In her head, they would be three-dimensional and in bright color, only revealing what she could see in the moment. This map on the wall was flat and static. She couldn’t make sense of it.

Perhaps sensing her confusion, Le Grand ran a finger along the skin until he reached a spot marked with a red X. Then he tapped the X.

“This is where we are right now,” he said. “Kathmandu. The red mark tells us that. Do you see the other ports near us?”

She did. She saw shapes that represented the various ports. Many of them were clustered close together. But there were some far away. One to the northwest was called Ultar. Another, on the opposite end of the map, was called Huascaran. North and west of Huascaran was a port called Denali.

“There are not many ports on that side of the map,” said Anaxi. “Most of them are here. Have you ever been over there?”

She stepped to the side of the map with only a few ports, Denali at the top. She craned her neck to look at it.

Le Grand stood beside her. “I have. It takes a long time to get there. The sea never seems as endless as it does when you’ve gone weeks without seeing a port. The smells, the food, the women.”

She scowled at him. His face flushed.

“I’m standing right here,” she said.

“Sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

For the briefest moment, Anaxi forgot she was a prisoner. She forgot her father was dead and likely she would join him soon. All her anger and fear, her growing want for retribution evaporated. She was a child learning about her world from an adult, a child experiencing a place far beyond anything she’d thought possible. It was like a dream.

Almost the entire map was sea. For the first time in her young life, Anaxi saw how little of the planet boasted habitable land. All that remained were clusters of small islands. It was as if some high power had stood above the planet and sprinkled crumbs onto it.

“It looks flat,” she said. “Is the world flat?”

Le Grand shook his head. “There are silly people who say it is. They also think there are no forests. But I can tell you the world is round. If it weren’t, I’d have sailed off its edges long ago.”

He pointed to Denali. “See this port?”

“Yes.”

He ran his finger to the left edge of the map. “If you sail this way, you’ll end up over here.”

Le Grand took three steps to his right and stabbed his finger at the right edge of the map. Then he dragged his finger to Kathmandu and the red X.

“Where is my island?” she asked. “Can you show me that?”

He stepped back from the map. He folded his arms across his chest. His features darkened.

She asked again and he reluctantly pointed to a spot near the center of the map. Her island, the place that was the entirety of her world for all her life, was barely a speck.

“That’s it?” she said.

Anaxi stepped closer to the map. She narrowed her eyes, squinting to make sure she wasn’t looking at the wrong thing. She lifted her hand and touched the speck with her index finger and rubbed it back and forth.

“It’s so small.”

Anaxi sucked in a deep breath and held it. She tried to picture her home island, the village and the villagers. Her father. Their modest home. The way the waves broke onto the shore. The sweet odor of rotting fruits and legumes before they dropped from their trees. She closed her eyes and pictured herself there. Somehow her finger on the map connected her one last time to that place she would likely never see again. Her chest tightened.

Eyes open again, she took two steps back from the map. She studied it. Tried to catalog its features. When she finished, she sighed.

“Thank you,” she said.

Le Grand looked puzzled. “For what?”

“Letting me see my home one last time.”

Before Le Grand could respond, a familiar booming voice cut through the noise of the stone building. It silenced the rest of the place, and everyone stopped eating. They turned to see the boisterous man who’d entered the space.

“There you are,” said Desmond Branch. “I’ve been looking for you two. Not surprised to find you where the food is, Le Grand.”

Nobody in the stone building touched their food. Nor did they speak. It was hard for Anaxi to tell if they were even breathing. Some of them were stricken, the color sapped from their faces.

Branch took deliberate strides toward Anaxi and Le Grand. A broad smile leeched across his face. The shadows cast by the flickering light gave him a ghoulish appearance.

“Don’t stop eating on account of me,” he said coyly, palm to his chest. “Even if my reputation precedes me.”

Nobody moved.

Branch stopped by one man holding his bowl at his chin. The man squeezed his eyes shut, and Branch bent down, put a hand on his shoulder, and whispered, “I said eat.”

The man lifted the bowl to his mouth and slurped. Others did the same. Branch tossed back his head and laughed.

“I guess people know him,” said Anaxi.

Le Grand nodded. “They do.”

Branch found his way to their sides. He planted one hand on his hip, the other on the hilt of his sword. He jutted his chin at the map. “Giving geography lessons?”

“I was,” said Le Grand. “She’s never—”

“I was talking to the girl,” interrupted Branch. “She’s the one with the map in her head. Didn’t I tell you to find out as much as you could? Showing her this? Asking questions?”

“She’s never seen one. Doesn’t mean anything to her. I haven’t even asked if—”

Branch put his hand on Le Grand’s shoulder to silence him. Then he eyed Anaxi.

“What,” he asked, “do you see on the wall? Any hints? Any guiding notions?”

“No.”

The dream was over. The moment gone. Anaxi was back in captivity and wanting revenge.

“No?” Branch pressed.

“No,” Anaxi said. “This map doesn’t know what I know. It can’t tell you what I can.”

Without waiting for a response, Anaxi walked away from them. She maneuvered through the tables of people and out into the sunlight. The humidity hit her along with the breeze that swirled from the docks to her left and the peak to her right.

She imagined what the world was like when this was ice. When standing here might mean a frozen death. She picked up a skull from atop the pile of bones and studied it.

She wondered whom it had once belonged to. A man? A woman? A good person? A bad one? None of it matters, she supposed. Whoever it was, whatever he or she had done, they were long dead. Their flesh and soul defrosted and decayed. She envied the skull.

As they sailed from port hours later, she turned her back on the land. In front of her and to either side was the endless sea. She couldn’t bear to watch the port shrink on the horizon as they ventured farther from it. She was awake now and couldn’t waste time with dreams.

Chapter Twenty

Pedro leaned on the polished oak counter separating him and Li. “You can come around the bar if you’d like.”

Li ran her hands along the shellacked wood, feeling the imperfections in the topcoat and the thick grain that ran along the surface of the massive bar. In her previous life, she’d worked at a bar. It was where she’d met Zeke. It was where they’d fallen in love. It was where things had fallen apart.

Pedro flipped the rag from his shoulder and ran it across the surface, soaking up the condensation from chilled glasses and previous pours. He smiled at her and motioned with his chin.

“Really, come around,” he said. “I know you have an appreciation for this.”

Li nodded almost imperceptibly and pushed herself away from the bar. She squeezed between a pair of stools and wound her way to a hinged section of the bar where it met the wall. She lifted it like a hatch, sidestepped behind the bar, and closed it.

The floor behind the bar was sticky underneath the soles of her boots. Pedro faced her, his right side leaning against the bar. His leather vest was open. A large buckle at his waist gleamed. He was watching her boots.

“I should get out the mop,” he said. “It’s a bit of a mess back here. Sometimes, when it gets busy, I’ll spill as much as I serve. My apologies.”

Her boots peeled from the floor with each step. She stopped when she reached him and shrugged. “It doesn’t bother me.”

Pedro nodded. “Good. I’ll let the film build up another couple of layers.”

Li scanned the shelves that ran along the back wall. The length of it was covered with an aged mirror. The corners were speckled with black dots, which lessened in frequency toward the center of the reflective glass. On both sides of the mirror were the rough-hewn planks of wood that held the myriad bottles of liquor.

Pedro jutted his chin at the inventory. “What’s your poison? I’ve everything from Rebel Yell to Macallan. Take your pick.”

“Lagavulin. Malted Scotch,” Li said. “There’s something familiar about it.”

Pedro said nothing. He let her talk.

She rolled her tongue around in her mouth. Her eyes narrowed. “I…I…can taste it.”

Li took two steps toward the shelf. She grasped the bottle’s neck and lifted it from the shelf. Swirls of dust danced. She swallowed; the burn of the Scotch settled in her stomach even though she hadn’t drunk any. It was the oddest sensation. She closed her eyes and made sense of the flavor.

“The dryness is offset by the sweet,” she said. “Some salty notes and a strong earthy finish.”

She ran her fingers along her throat as if tracing the path of the liquor. Her eyes fell to the floor. Why was the drink familiar?

Pedro motioned to the bottle.

She lifted her chin and looked at Pedro. The bright blue of his eyes, almost electric, locked onto hers. It was like he knew what she was thinking. Did he?

“That was Zeke’s first drink here,” he offered. “I picked it for him.”

She ran a thumb across the label. “What does that mean?”

“It means you have a connection. Whatever bond you shared in your past life is strengthened here. But I’m not telling you something you didn’t already know.”

Li thought about her connection to Zeke. He was a mark at first, a bootlegger her government bosses handpicked for her to meet, seduce, use. She’d done that. As a skilled spy, she’d infiltrated his off-books existence. She’d learned how the Aquatic Purveyors, the collective of black-market gangs, stole and transported the most valuable commodities.

Zeke never suspected she was a spy. That was how good she was at her job. He’d fallen for her. He was putty in her hands. And then, unexpectedly, she’d fallen for him too.

Even in this afterlife, or echo, or purgatory, there was something binding them. It was ethereal. She felt it in her chest.

Pedro interrupted her thoughts. “You have lots of questions. I can see it on your face.”

He was right. She had more questions than she could ask. The Scotch turned sour on her tongue.

“Could I have some ice water?” she asked.

Pedro flipped a glass from the counter behind the bar and dipped it into a steel bucket of ice. He ran the glass under the faucet until water spilled over its rim. He handed it to her; a splash sloshed over the side.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

He wiped his hands on the sides of his vest. “Sorry about the mess.”

Li took a sip. The cold water was delicious. She licked her lips and smiled.

“No worries,” she said. “It’s only water.”

The incongruity of the sentiment, given the water-starved place from which she’d come, wasn’t lost on her. Nor did she think it was lost on Pedro, who offered a rueful grin. He then folded his arms and pointed at her with the back of his hand.

“You’ll get used to it here,” he said. “Or you won’t. Either way, it’s best if you settle into the place. Have a few more drinks. Play cards. Shoot billiards or darts. Whatever strikes you to pass the time.”

“Is there nothing else to do here?” she asked. “It seems boring.”

“I thought about putting in a putting green or maybe a movie theatre. I love movie theatre popcorn. The fake butter is addictive. It’ll kill you, I’ve heard. But if you’ve gotta have a vice, might as well be a tasty one.”

Li took another healthy gulp from the glass and set it on the bar in front of her. She held it in both hands. The chilly condensation felt good against her palms. Leaning on her elbows, she surveyed the bar.

“I’m just saying you might want to find something else for people to do,” Li said. “What about a gym? Or a swimming pool?”

“You talk as if the place from where you come had so many different things to do?” Pedro noted. “I seriously doubt you had a swimming pool of all things.”

She shrugged. “We didn’t. I read about them in my books. I’m saying if you’ve got all this magical power, why can’t you offer more than the mundane?”

It reminded her of a scene from one of her forbidden novels. Something from Patrick Hamilton absent the prostitutes and barmaid, or Louis L’Amour without a desperado with fingers twitching above a hip-holstered pistol.

It was brighter than the dank underworld club in which she’d worked. And Pedro seemed like a more affable proprietor than the leech for whom she’d worked.

She watched the various tableaus play out on the other side of the bar. There was the card game, which seemed friendly until the pile of money in the middle grew too big. They were playing Texas Hold ’Em or some close facsimile. All the men at the card table swigged from large steins of dark beer.

The billiards table saw two couples playing nine ball against one another. One man and woman were touchy with one another. She’d put her hand on his arm or touch his chest. He’d hold her hips from behind or brush against her. She laughed at everything he said.

The other couple couldn’t be bothered to flirt. They were focused on the game.

Nobody played darts. A lone man, slender and tall, leaned against a stainless and glass machine. He fiddled with a toothpick between his teeth while he stared at whatever was behind the curved, lighted glass display. After a minute, he punched a series of buttons on the side of the machine. Almost instantly, music filled the cantina. It carried a thick bass and heavy percussion. The man bobbed his head to the beat.

Pedro interrupted Li’s thoughts again, as if he was reading them. “It’s a jukebox. And the man over there is named Barach. He was a soldier in his past life. He’s a tactical genius and the one who typically designs each mission’s recon, the insertion, the extraction.”

She studied Barach. Thick stubble dotted his wide, strong jaw. There were dimples in his cheeks and at the center of his chin. His straw-colored hair was parted down the middle and hung over his ears. He danced to the music with his eyes closed. His boots shuffled along the floor. The soldier was in a world all his own and unabashedly confident in his movements. Li noticed that nobody else in the bar paid Barach any attention. They were involved in their own stories.

Li took another drink from her glass. “You said typically?”

Pedro’s blue eyes sparkled. “You caught that. You’re as observant as Zeke says.”

“But I bet he didn’t tell you something you didn’t already know.”

The barkeep’s smile broadened into a genuine grin. “I like you, Adaliah Bancroft. Even if you don’t like my place.”

Now it was her turn to smile. And she didn’t expect the reaction. It was natural. She lifted her glass and toasted her host.

“I like you too. Especially when you answer my questions. Just consider a swimming pool.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Back to Barach,” she said. “You said he typically plans missions?”

He wagged a finger. “Yes. I said typically. That’s because he doesn’t always do it. Sometimes, I want someone else to get a chance, to experience the highs and lows of planning a mission that succeeds or fails.”

“Did he plan Zeke’s mission?”

“No. Zeke did. For the most part. He didn’t choose the mission, but he picked his team and how to approach the challenge.”

She set the glass on the bar, trying to set it in the same spot where a ring of condensation marked its place. Her eyes again fell on Barach as she spoke to Pedro. “What is the mission?”

“That’s a broad question without a narrow answer,” Pedro replied. “Our mission changes. Sometimes we must tilt the balance this way. Other times it needs a lift over here.”

She studied him. He had his hands out in front of him, palms up, as if balancing two weights.

“What about Zeke’s mission?” Li asked.

“Zeke has many missions. They evolve and—”

Li was tired of the games and the endless circle of questions. She changed the subject. “Did you build this bar?”

His eyebrows shot up with surprise. He whipped the cloth rag from his shoulder and swiped it across the shellacked oak counter, drying a spot that wasn’t damp.

She tried again. “Cantina, I mean. Did you build it?”

He kept running the rag across the bar. “I did. With some help.”

“How long did it take you?”

“Time is relative. I couldn’t say. We’d build. We’d rest. We’d build some more. The construction was an evolution.”

Li swirled the ice around in the bottom of the glass. She stopped spinning and the ice continued to move in a clockwise direction. Time is relative.

“Why did you put it here?” she asked. “In the middle of a desert?”

Pedro slapped the cloth back onto his shoulder. He faced Li and leaned on the bar with his right arm. “It’s not in the middle of a desert. Not now.”

She glanced toward the door, her lips twisted.

Pedro gestured to the bar doors. “Go take a look.”

Li ignored the sticky sensation on her shoes as she rounded the bar and slalomed her way between the tables and the gathered crowd of denizens. She moved with purpose and pushed her way through the swinging doors. On the porch, she stopped.

It was the smell in the air that hit her first. Even before she processed the visual, her olfactory senses told her this wasn’t the desert. There was a briny, almost fetid stink. The humidity was suffocating.

But what almost dropped her to her knees was the sight of an endless sea. Waves lapped at the lowest steps leading from the porch. A collection of skiffs and small boats bobbed in the surf a hundred meters from the cantina. The things, the Horde, watched her. Paddles in hand, they all sat silently, their full attention on her. It was like they’d known she was coming outside at any moment.

Her heart raced. Her breathing shortened. She worried she might have a panic attack or hyperventilate. She’d never experienced a feeling like this before, but she’d heard about people having involuntary, visceral reactions to shocking turns of events.

The doors swung on their hinges behind her. Heavy boot steps clopped toward her.

Perhaps sensing her confusion or again reading her mind, Pedro put his hand on her shoulder to draw her attention to him. His explanation was as esoteric as every answer he’d given up to now. His voice was soft. Comforting.

“The bar isn’t in any one place,” he said. “It’s wherever it needs to be. Does that make sense?”

Li frowned. “Not at all. Almost nothing here makes sense.”

“I understand your confus—”

“Why water? Why not the desert? What happened?”

“Our newest guest comes from an Earth with an endless sea. When he arrived, our surroundings took on the landscape of what was familiar to him. Just as when you arrived, we were in the middle of a wasteland.”

“What is this place? What did you build?”

“A gateway. It’s a bridge between where you’ve been and where you hope to go.”

Li turned from the water for the first time since Pedro joined her on the porch. She wiped the bloom of sweat from her brow and looked up at him. She understood now. Despite all his verbal gamesmanship, she got it.

“Purgatory,” she said. “Plato wrote about it. A temporary destination while awaiting the final, eternal destination.”

Pedro shrugged. “Meh. Not so much. Good guess though.”

She tried again, couching her belief. “Limbo, then. The permanent edge of hell.”

“This is distinctly not limbo,” said Pedro. “We’re not on the edge of hell.”

“Then what are those nasty-looking beasts on the boats out there? What are they if not the things that would drag me to hell if I didn’t get to your place in time?”

Pedro blinked. He stole a glance at the skiffs and then leveled his gaze back on her.

“They’re the Harbingers of the Real Death,” he said. “Some of us call them the Horde.”

She snapped, “Who are they though? I didn’t ask you what they’re called.”

Li didn’t intend the sharpness in her tone. She regretted it. Her frustration and confusion were getting the best of her. She opened her mouth to apologize.

Pedro lifted a hand to stop her. “No need to say you’re sorry,” he said. “This is difficult for the best of us. Frankly, I’m impressed with how well you’re handling all of this. C’mon, let’s go back inside to finish the conversation. I don’t enjoy looking at the Horde any more than you do.”

Again, he didn’t answer her question. She believed this was her version of hell: a place where each question bore two new ones, ad infinitum.

Pedro took a step toward the doors to the bar and waved her along. He stepped in front of her and swung out an arm to open one door for her. She went first, the cool blast of drier air hitting her like a wall when she entered the bar.

Pedro stepped next to her and kept pace with her as they moved back toward the bar. Li was self-conscious now, feeling the eyes of others on her. Nobody spoke to her. Nobody greeted her. They were ambivalent to her, it seemed. But that didn’t stop her from narrowing her shoulders and shortening her steps.

They reached the bar and found Barach sitting on one stool. His boots rested on the brass foot-railing. He drank a beer from a pewter mug. A thin line of foam framed his upper lip.

Pedro rounded the bar and offered for Li to sit next to Barach. The scruffy soldier ran one hand through his mop of straw-colored hair. He offered her his right hand as she eased onto the stool next to him.

“I’m Barach,” he said.

Li took his hand. His grip was strong but not overpowering. “I know.”

Her face flushed. She felt the heat in her cheeks. Pedro stepped in to rescue her.

“I told her about you,” said the barkeep. “You were over there at the jukebox. I was introducing her to the place. You came up.”

She let go of his hand. “I’m Adaliah. My friends call me Li.”

He smiled. The dimples on his cheeks deepened. “I know.”

He was more attractive up close, if that was possible. There was something unique about his aura, his energy.

He angled his head toward the room upstairs where she’d stayed since her arrival. “You’re the new girl. Zeke’s friend, right?”

“Woman,” she corrected with a sly grin. “I’m the new woman. And yes, Zeke is responsible for me being here.”

That drew a genuine laugh from Barach. His teeth were impossibly white and almost glowed against the burnt olive hew of his rugged skin.

Li stiffened. “Are you laughing because I don’t want to be called a girl?”

Barach shot a look at Pedro. Pedro raised his eyebrows as if giving Barach permission for something. Then the soldier shook his head.

“No,” he said. “Apologies for that though.”

“Then what?” Li asked.

Barach narrowed his eyes at her, making sure she was looking at him. The connection sent heat into her chest. A tingle radiated to her fingers and toes. He laid his hand over hers. She twitched, but didn’t pull away.

“We’re all here of our own doing, Adaliah, and the only way we get to leave is atoning for what we’ve done,” he explained. Like everything else the people in this place told her, what he said only generated more questions.

Chapter Twenty-One

It felt good to put her feet in the wet sand as the incoming tide washed over them. Anaxi found comfort in standing on solid ground, even if it shifted between her toes and under her heels.

She had her back to the surf and sun. The warm breeze that came with the rising tide blew her hair across her shoulders. Something was different about the salt air here. It wasn’t as oppressive as it was aboard the Saladin.

Water washed at her ankles, and her heels sank deeper into the black sand. She leaned forward at her hips to keep her balance. The water receded, rushing between her toes, tickling the tops of her feet. In front of her, a clam dug itself beneath the surface. Bubbles popped at a colony of holes that freckled the beach. Flecks of light danced on the obsidian grains of sand. It made the beach sparkle.

She picked up her feet and turned to face the ocean. The sky was deep blue and reflected in the rich color of the water. There was almost no horizon, making it appear to merge into the ocean. Only the distant movement of the current made the thin, distant line visible on the edge of the world.

The Saladin floated several hundred meters from shore. The last of the rowboats carried crew members from the ship to the island, with about half of Branch’s men staying behind to watch the ship. It was halfway between the Saladin and the beachhead. It towed an even smaller boat filled with cargo they’d need to spend two days on the deserted spot of land. Unlike so many of the islands post-melt, this one wasn’t part of a chain. It sat alone, the only visible land in all directions.

The beach sloped up to a rocky plateau, and further into a pair of peaks rising high above sea level. One peak narrowed to a jagged point. The other was smaller and carved along one side as if a God had reached down and scooped out part of it.

Anaxi knew what it was. This was a volcano, which had erupted in the months and years surrounding the melt. Somehow, its twin survived, maintaining its original shape. Or maybe the volcano was the mother that bore its neighboring offspring.

Anaxi walked up the beach toward the edges of the rocky plateau forged from lava flow. She stared at the volcano. The airy pumice shifted under her feet as she moved. It was rougher than the black sand and harder to navigate in bare feet. She kept her balance and inched higher, sometimes needing to use her hands to steady herself.

As she climbed, Anaxi imagined what it must have been like to feel the rumble in the earth before the mountain exploded, spewing red-hot magma into the sky along with ash and smoke.

Might this spot have been underwater at the time? The island forming only after the release? Countless tons of ocean-cooled lava building upon itself? A new stretch of land emerging from the steam after days, or weeks, or months of flow?

These questions raced through her mind. This was as free as she’d been in days or weeks. She was unchained. At least for this moment.

She considered what it would be like to witness the birth of an island; to see it morph from something bubbling and lifeless to a beautiful, rich place with sparkling beaches and birds nesting in its peaks.

It would be as miraculous, she thought, as the revelation that the legend of the Kalevanmiekka was real and not a fairy tale.

That somehow there were things in this world that were fantastic beyond the imagination. Instant storms, colonies of giant eels, flaming ghost ships. What would be next?

Had her father told her what the poems really meant, that they weren’t rhymes made up as frightening bedtime stories, she wouldn’t have believed him. Lucius Mander was a practical man. He eschewed folly for work. His sense of humor was nonexistent. There was no possible way he believed the mysticism that dusted the poems in magic otherworldliness.

Or was there?

Was the knowledge that these poems were true guides to a hidden weapon what drove the humor from him? Was it that knowledge that made him always focus on the daily grind of work and self-preservation?

She watched a large bird circle the top of the intact peak. It flapped its wings and then glided, tilting its body to find the current and ride it closer to the solid ground atop the mountain.

The questions swirled around in her mind, searching for purchase. Instead, they generated only more questions. Each query was a flap of a wing, displacing the air around it.

Which of the questions held the answer?

The bird disappeared behind the damaged peak, diving into the gaping, dark hole that formed its zenith. Anaxi held her gaze there, hoping to see it reemerge. It didn’t.

A gust of wind, cooler than before, tossed her hair across her face. She swiped it from her eyes, from between her parted lips, and spun around toward the water. The rowboat was close now. She could hear the paddles chop at the surface.

Did her father die because he refused to give Desmond Branch what he wanted? Did he refuse to tell the pirate what he knew because he wanted to keep the man from finding the Kalevanmiekka? Or did he think the poems irrelevant and not worth sharing?

The latter was unlikely, she decided. If her father, Lucius Mander, believed the poems irrelevant or untrue, why force her to learn them, to memorize them, to make them a part of her? He believed them. He knew their promise and their danger. Anaxi was sure of this as her gaze settled on the water beyond the Saladin where the sunlight cast shafts of bright light, turning the ocean a gleaming, hot white.

Her father knew. That meant he’d refused to help Desmond Branch despite knowing that he could. And he knew the only other person who could guide Branch to the fabled sword was his daughter.

Anaxi’s chest tightened as she considered this. A knot swelled in her throat. Her hands balled into fists at her sides, and she dug her fingernails into the soft flesh of her palms as she considered the only two possibilities. Either her father had died to protect her, or he’d died because he was a coward. Both considerations were difficult to reconcile. One meant he was selfless. The other the opposite. And only Lucius Mander knew which path he’d chosen.

She wanted to believe he’d protected her and that he did not know his life was over. That her father believed there was a way to escape Branch’s cruelty without giving him what he desired.

But in the back of her mind, where she held her fears and her insecurities, the other possibility gnawed at her. That in the moment, the instant, of the greatest challenge to her father’s character, he died hoping to escape greater torment, all the while knowing that his daughter might be forced into a decision he’d been unwilling to make.

The brave thing to do was the hard thing to do. Dying was easy. Surviving was tough.

It meant pain. It meant facing the monsters in the poems. It meant leading an evil man like Desmond Branch to the brink of omnipotence.

Anaxi drew a deep, ragged breath and tried to calm herself. There was nothing she could do about her father now. His decision, regardless of its reason, had brought her here. That was all that mattered now. Today mattered. Tomorrow mattered. The third feat mattered.

Desmond Branch approached her. The calf-deep water sloshed as he plowed through it and onto the black sand beach. His eyes were locked onto hers as he marched onto the volcanic rock. Despite the sun at his back and his face in relative shadow, she could see his stare. He was anxious, but he was ready. She knew this about him.

“I figured we could stand a few days on shore,” he said. “After the past few days, might be nice to wake in the same place where we fall asleep.”

“How generous of you,” Anaxi replied.

The sarcasm was lost on him. Or he chose to ignore it.

“I do what I can,” he said.

He stumbled on a loose rock but kept his balance. Anaxi noticed he was breathing audibly. The short uphill hike taxed him.

“The men need a break,” he said. “So do I. This quest, while rewarding, is taking its toll.”

Anaxi agreed. “You’ve lost more than half your crew.”

He shrugged. “We’ll find more. There are always plenty of volunteers.”

She laughed humorlessly. “There are.”

Anaxi had allowed the pirate to think stopping on the island was his idea, yet she was the one who’d suggested it to Le Grand. It was she who set the break into motion.

Two men dragged the rowboat up the beach past a wavy line of tidal debris. They turned the boat parallel to the shoreline and dumped the oars into the hull. One of them pointed at the trailing supply boat, and a group of men descended upon it like ants.

One by one they took an armful of whatever they could grab and walked it up to a clearing where others were assembling the kindling for a fire. Anaxi thought they’d have been smarter and lined up shoulder to shoulder and passed supplies one at a time to and from one another.

They weren’t that smart. They were brutes. Or they were slaves. Or they were brutish slaves. Another breeze blew in with the tide. It made Anaxi’s eyes water. She blinked and wiped the tears from beside her nose.

“Tell me about my father,” she said.

“What about him?” Branch said. “I didn’t know the man.”

“How did he die?”

Branch adjusted his sword at his hip with his palm. He dug his boot heel into the space between the rocks. The rocks squeaked underneath the weight.

“I ran him through with my sword,” he said. “It was quick. He didn’t see it coming.”

“Then you pushed him overboard?”

Branch swallowed hard. He nodded. His eyes fell to his boots and then out to sea toward the Saladin.

His admission surprised her. Not because of the dispassionate way in which he described the moment he took her father from her, but that he offered a modicum of solace.

Anaxi pressed him. “Why did you kill him?”

Branch rolled his shoulders. “He didn’t give me what I wanted. He was useless. I don’t have a need for useless people.”

“When you don’t need me anymore, you’ll kill me then? When I don’t see it coming?”

He rubbed the soft part of his chin with his thumb and forefinger. Anaxi figured he was deciding whether to tell her the truth rather than deciding whether he would kill her quickly.

Branch dropped his hand from his face. He rested it again atop his sword.

“Let’s focus on the truth of the moment,” he said, dodging the question.

Anaxi didn’t back down. “What is the truth?”

“I need you now.”

She laughed. He wasn’t funny, but his words came across as ludicrous. Yes, he did need her. He wouldn’t find the Kalevanmiekka without her. But hearing him say aloud that he needed her sounded so incongruous with who the pirate had proved himself to be.

Branch frowned. “You think I’m funny?”

It was her turn to avoid the question. “How many people have you killed in search of the Kalevanmiekka?”

His frown deepened. Branch considered her for a moment and turned back toward the water. Lifting his chin, he took in a deep breath through his nose.

“As many as needed killing,” he said. His voice was flat, absent inflection.

The answer didn’t surprise her. The way he said it sent a chill along her spine.

The smell of burning wood drifted past her, and Anaxi checked over her shoulder. The men had the fire lit. Orange and yellow flame flickered from beneath the pile of driftwood and palm fronds.

The fire popped, crackling as it grew in size. Smoke curled into the air. Le Grand sat on a large outcropping of porous rock in the glow. He stared into the flames, mesmerized.

Anaxi shifted her weight on the rocks. The island, which minutes before had been a welcome respite from the rigors of seafaring, seemed unwelcoming now. The idea that the monster standing next to her controlled her fate was untenable. Even if she ultimately stopped him from wielding the powerful sword, he’d taken her free will from her. None of this was her choice. Whatever power she might think she held was imaginary. No doubt. Even coming to this island hadn’t really been her decision.

Anaxi wanted to run from the rocks, pad through the sand, and dive headfirst into the water. She imagined swimming beneath the waves, hair pressed flat against her face and head as she propelled herself deeper and deeper. The water would cool as she descended. The light would fade. Her chest would burn. The edges of her vision would darken and blur.

“What’s the next poem?” Branch asked, surfacing her from the reverie.

She lifted her eyes to his. “Are you sure you want it now? You don’t want a night’s sleep before—”

“No time like the present. Please?”

It wasn’t a request. Both of them knew it.

Anaxi nodded. She licked the salt from her lips and ran a hand through her hair, raking her fingers along her scalp.

Across the sea, through sun and shower

There is a sword of heavenly power

Its blade honed sharp, its grip is true,
in the hand of the righteous, its strength glows blue

Many shall seek, one shall find

This gift and curse, this fruit and rind.

Hunt with a warning, all who dare

The course is rough, the challenge unfair.

Rising from the roiling water are two strong hands,

Beyond the rocks, beyond the sand.

One a fist, the other an open palm,

From them the third feat is drawn.

You must climb at first and then descend,

From the light to the dark, you’re near the end.

Branch stood silently, eyes closed. “Repeat it.”

She did. In the distance the fire popped again. A breeze drew a wave of smoke across them.

Saying nothing, Branch opened his eyes and pivoted. The rocks shifted under his boots. Anaxi didn’t need to look at him to know he’d turned his attention to the peaks behind them.

“Beyond the rocks and the sand,” he said above a whisper, “one is a fist, the other an open palm.”

He understood. They were here because this was the final challenge. This place. His lips parted then closed. The man was speechless for maybe the first time in his life.

Anaxi put an end to the suspense. “Yes. We have to climb the island to the peaks. Then we have to enter the one on the left.”

“The open palm,” Branch said.

“Yes.”

“How many of us?”

She shrugged. “That’s up to you.”

His expression carried with it a childlike optimism. Or was it worry?

“And inside I’ll find the Kalevanmiekka?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Anaxi lied.

He craned his neck to study the peaks. That bird reemerged from the one with a hole at the top, flapping its wings furiously as it ascended into the darkening sky above.

Branch gripped her shoulder tightly. Then his hand slid to the back of her neck as he said, “You’re coming with me.”

She stiffened against his touch. “When?”

“First thing in the morning. Might be smart to get a good night’s sleep, little one. You’ll need it.”

She stepped free of his hold and faced him. “You’re the one who will need all the help you can get. You think you’ve seen challenges? You haven’t seen anything yet.”

Anaxi brushed past him, balancing herself on the rocks as she walked away without acknowledging him. She was hungry, and something was cooking on the fire. But, mostly, she was tired.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Zeke didn’t understand what he was seeing. They looked like shooting stars streaking across the sky in wide arcs, their light flickering before fading. But they weren’t shooting stars.

The night was cool. The wind from their movement across the open sea blew across the deck, whipping around the stern.

He adjusted his hat to keep the breeze from prying it loose from his head. The blood moon hung against a milky black sky.

Uriel stood beside him, holding her arms and using his body to block her from the cool wind.

Zeke sensed her body tremble. He lifted the brim of his hat, holding the Stetson in place, and raised an eyebrow at her. He wasn’t sure the chill was from the cold.

Both of them watched the streaks of light grow in intensity. They were as beautiful as they were foreboding.

“This is one of those times when you regret your clothing choices,” he said. “You know, you could have picked something more…sensible.”

She offered him a bemused smile. “You’re right.”

The answer surprised him. He took a step back for effect. “Did I hear that right?”

She hugged herself. “It’s cold out here.”

“This should help.” Zeke took off his jacket and offered it to her.

Uriel’s eyes creased. Even in the relative dark, he saw the suspicion creep onto her face, but she snatched the jacket anyway. It was too big for her and made her look slighter than she already was.

That too surprised Zeke. Uriel was powerful. She was as strong as anyone or anything he’d seen. Lithe and sleek. Quick and fast. She was unrepentant in the ways she wielded her body for the sake of cross-dimensional balance. But up close like this, in the dark and in his jacket, she was small.

Gabe appeared on the deck behind them. His barrel chest heaved from near breathlessness.

“We’re getting close,” he said. “It’ll be any minute now.”

The boat zipped across the water on plane. The gentle rhythm of its skim across the calm sea vibrated in Zeke’s joints.

Uriel jutted her chin toward the streaks of light. “So that’s it, huh?”

Gabe nodded. “No doubt. They’re coming toward us. See that?”

The strong man lifted an arm the size of an outboard motor and traced the arcs of light with an extended finger. He moved closer to Zeke. The smell of a woodsy cologne masked the odor of sweat and salt.

Zeke ignored it and studied the arcs. Gabe was right. They weren’t streaking across the sky so much as they were launching toward them before disappearing.

Uriel narrowed her eyes as if to focus. “Are those what I think they are?”

Gabe lowered his arm and nodded grimly. “Bolts.”

Zeke furrowed his brow. “Of lightning?”

Uriel said, “No, silly rabbit. Bolts as in arrows. Flaming arrows.”

Smoke and flame are in your path,

To reach the next, extinguish its wrath.

Zeke nodded, then shrugged. “Can’t we just go around them?”

Gabe shook his head. “We’re trying. Every time Phil changes course, the fire follows us. It doesn’t matter what heading we set. We’re always headed straight for it. We’ve got maybe ten minutes. Give or take.”

From the salon steps, Lucius Mander appeared on the aft deck. He stood behind Gabe, shoulders drawn inward, one foot on the top step.

“We can’t avoid it,” he said. “The feat demands we face it and that we overcome it. That’s the only way.”

Uriel pulled the coat closed and held it at the collar with a fist. She stepped away from Zeke and next to Gabe. She stared down at Lucius.

“You knew it was flaming arrows?” she asked.

He shook his head emphatically. He stuttered his response, like a stubborn engine unwilling to start.

“N-n-o. I-I-I c-couldn’t have known. No. No. Nobody knows. I told you everything.”

Gabe grunted. “You told us nothing. You rhymed a bunch of nonsense about flames and smoke. Just like the last time. That first poem had nothing about killer mutant lizards in it.”

Lucius’s eyes widened. The whites glistened in the red moonlight. “I didn’t know about the lizards. I-I-I th-think it’s different. Different for everyone.”

Uriel took another step closer to him. He leaned away from her but held his ground, one foot on the deck and the other on the steps. Uriel didn’t appear so small anymore, despite the swallowing jacket.

She bent close to his ear but spoke loudly enough for Zeke to hear her above the wash. Her voice almost sounded like a rumble or a growl. “How do you know it’s different for everyone if you don’t know what to expect?”

Lucius curled his lower lip under his teeth. His eyes darted from his feet to Zeke to Phil to Uriel.

“Others have tried and failed,” he said, finally. “Each time, the challenge is different. It’s similar but different.”

Zeke interrupted. He waved his hands in front of his face. “Hold on. I don’t get this. How is it that this iteration of Earth, or whatever, is magical, but my version wasn’t? How is it you’ve got attack lizards and volleys of flaming arrows that come from nowhere? Not to mention these poems that seem like they’re mythical? Passed down from generation to generation. But they’re not. It makes no sense.”

Gabe scratched under his neck at his DO NOT FEAR tattoo. He frowned in a way that told Zeke he was considering the question. Then he pointed at him.

“It does make sense, Zeke,” he said. “Ever heard of the Bermuda Triangle? The Loch Ness Monster? Big foot? The Devil’s Sea? The Cyclops?”

Zeke rubbed the sides of his nose with his hands. He searched his memory. None of those things sounded familiar. Not even from Li’s contraband books. Maybe the Cyclops? Probably not.

He shook his head. “No.”

“They’re all myths from my Earth,” said Gabe. “All of them. They exist because they’re real. Most people never believed them. They passed from generation to generation as whispers or as the currency of conspiracy theorists. But believe me, they were real. And I bet if you searched hard enough in your own version of Earth, you’d find something mythical. You’d find some scary story that made it tough to sleep, gave you nightmares, had you second-guessing the noises coming from underneath your bed. Whatever that thing was, it was real. The boogeyman exists.”

Zeke tilted his head to one side. “The boogeyman?”

“A scary monster who comes for you. He’s ethereal. Neither alive nor dead. He goes bump in the night.”

Uriel waved him off. “You’re mixing metaphors, so to speak. Too much. Too soon.”

Her hand went to Zeke’s chest. One corner of her mouth flashed a sympathetic half-smirk.

“You only understood part of your world, Zeke,” she said. “There were monsters there. Mythical things afoot. I would have thought you’d understand that, having seen Theo and what he did to me.”

She searched his eyes, jogged his memory. Zeke opened his mouth to speak. He said nothing. Now he was the one who felt small. After everything he’d witnessed since his death, even before he understood that he was dead, he knew he should readily believe the world exists in layers.

There was the outer layer, the one everyone saw. It existed without question or thought. It was the accepted physical world. Sky and the dirt. Sun and Moon. Ice and fire. Blood and guts. Life and death.

Beneath that layer were the things people understood were true about the world despite not being able to touch or see them. This was the experiential world. Love and hate. Hope and despair. Dreams and nightmares. Life and death.

Then there were the things in which some believed, and others didn’t. Religion and faith. Myths and monsters. Angels and demons. Life and death.

These things, these layers, were real. Even if they didn’t touch the five senses, they were real. Zeke understood it in that moment. And he knew the threads that connected all the layers. Life and death, they ran through everything. Forward and backward. Up and down. In and out.

“Who is Theo?” Lucius asked.

Gabe deferred to Uriel. “You want to take this one?”

Uriel checked the sky. Zeke joined her. The streaks were larger, the flicker of the flames distinct against the faint red hue of the black sky. He tried to count the number of arrows, but it was impossible.

“Long story short,” Uriel said, “Theo was one of us. He was a Watcher who’d gone AWOL. He lived in Zeke’s city, a place called the Protectorate. Nobody knew he was one of us, that he was trying to affect the balance of things on his own. Then, out of nowhere, he revealed his power. He ended my time in Zeke’s world.”

Lucius’s eye twitched. “Watcher?”

Uriel pointed to herself, then Gabe. “That’s what we are. We’re Watchers. Our job is to maintain the balance of good and evil. We watch for things that upset that balance and try to right it. Even it out.”

Gabe picked up the explanation. “Sometimes one of us gets too big for his or her britches, and they disappear and take their power with them. When they do that, it not only upsets the balance, but it changes the mythic quotient. The longer the Watcher stays, or the longer their power stays, the more upset the balance becomes, and the more we find things like that.”

He pointed at the glowing stabs of light in the sky. A constant stream of bolts arced toward the sky and dropped back to the sea.

Lucius’s expression eased. Recognition spread across his face.

“The Kalevanmiekka belonged to a Watcher?” he asked.

Uriel nodded. “One named Josephine. She disappeared on your Earth thousands of years ago.”

Zeke recalled the explanation Pedro had offered in the cantina. He tried to remember the different names of the sword. The British called it Excalibur. The Greek called it Harpe. The Japanese called it Kusanagi. And the Finnish called it Kalevanmiekka. Kaleva’s sword.

He squinted past the glimmering arrows toward the black sky beyond them. Almost behind them, from the spot where the arrows appeared to originate, was a familiar constellation called Orion’s Belt. At that belt was a collection of stars known as Kaleva’s sword. The fire was coming from the stars. Or it looked that way.

He closed his eyes. Rubbed them with his knuckles. Opened them. It was an odd optical illusion, but even as he felt the boat’s course shift under his weight, Zeke could swear the nonstop salvo emanated from the stars.

Uriel drew his attention back to the boat by shoving his jacket into his chest. He took it with both hands and held it against his body.

“Thanks for letting me use it,” she said. “I’m good now. I have a feeling it’s about to heat up.”

Zeke tossed the jacket onto one of the seats. He checked his pistol. It was snug at his hip.

The barrage of arrows intensified ahead of them. The sky brightened with warm firelight.

Beneath his boots, Zeke felt the boat’s speed quicken. He grabbed onto a gunnel to maintain his balance.

The Riva Cantata was a large yacht. The helm oversaw a broad bow, which narrowed to a point. The helm, its salon, and its four cabins were covered. The stern was exposed with a deck. It was the only part of the yacht open to the sky.

Gabe withdrew his fighting sticks from the small of his back. He expertly twirled the escrimas in his hands. As he spun them, they glowed blue. The power from the sticks extended into his arms like a liquid leeching through a straw. The sticks spun faster and faster.

The first bombardment of the flaming arrows mostly hit the water on the port side, missing the boat and steaming into the ocean.

A half dozen hissed through the air on target, forcing Gabe to deflect them with the sticks. Some of them stabbed into the deck. He widened his stance to broaden the effect of his effort as another volley sailed toward them.

Phil abruptly shifted course to the right. The foursome on the deck fell into each other.

Lucius, on one knee, covered the top of his head with his hands. His chest heaved. His face was tight with fear. He struggled to stand and find a spot under the canopy that covered part of the deck.

“Shouldn’t we get inside?” he asked.

Zeke didn’t answer him at first. He was on his side, partially underneath Gabe. The man crushed Zeke’s torso as he worked to free himself. Another volley of arrows came. They sounded like wings flapping as they pierced the air and then peppered the deck in quick succession.

Zeke felt heat in the back of his leg, which quickly radiated toward his feet and into his back. He tried moving Gabe. But the big man didn’t budge.

The boat shifted course again. Suddenly. Gabe’s weight rolled to one side, and Zeke dragged himself out from under the oversized Watcher.

Uriel screamed, “Gabriel? Can you—”

Fire spread across the edge of the deck where it met the water, forming a thin wall along the port side of the stern.

Zeke’s eyes scanned his surroundings. They darted from the flames to the twisted expression on Uriel’s face, to Lucius bracing himself against the salon hatch frame, to Gabe’s frozen expression.

His own eyes reflected the firelight, giving them the illusion of life, but Gabe was gone. His body sizzled and smoked. He was riddled with more than a dozen blackened arrows. One of them was in his neck, stuck in the middle of his tattoo. His sticks remained clutched in his grip; however, the blue glow was gone.

Uriel slid to his side, oblivious to the latest incoming bombardment, which struck the top of the boat above the helm. Her body started throbbing a faint blue.

Zeke swallowed hard. Forgetting his own pain and swelling with adrenaline, he stood. He took two giant steps toward the stern. In a quick motion, he drew the pistol and aimed it toward the rain of fire headed toward them in what was the largest of the salvos yet. Hundreds or thousands of arrows descended on them.

Zeke’s trigger pull kicked the gun in his hand. Concentric circles of electric blue waves pulsed and turned back the arrows as if they’d hit a solid wall.

He didn’t hesitate. Zeke braced himself and fired another shot at the same spot in the sky. This one turned back the next incoming shower.

With the revolver aimed skyward, Zeke shot a glance toward Uriel. “I’ve got three rounds left! That’s it.”

Uriel offered a meager nod at Zeke and stood. She balled her hands into fists and launched her body onto the boat’s roof with a single, impossible leap.

Standing atop it, her body electric blue, she crouched on one knee. Over her shoulder, she locked eyes with Zeke.

“Get ready to shoot,” she said. “Now.”

Zeke obliged. Another trigger pull blasted a volley into the sky. Its power continued on to dispel the next volley, extinguishing the flames and threat.

At that very instant, Uriel uncoiled her body and shot skyward like a missile. At the apex of her ascent, she clapped her hands together, and a monstrous displacement of air and energy washed across the sky. Ripples of blue light spread in expanding concentric circles.

The volleys stopped and Uriel dropped from the sky. She landed at the bow of the Riva Cantata, dropping to one knee that bent the boat’s frame. As she landed, a pulse of energy shot through the boat.

It hit Zeke like a punch to his sternum, and he staggered back onto his heels before steadying himself. Then he looked to the sky, to the constellation of stars, which now seemed somehow dimmer than before, flickering like distant candlelight.

“Is he dead? How could he be dead?”

The sad voice belonged to Lucius. He was on his knees in front of Gabe. His hands hovered over the big man’s body as if magnetically held there. His eyes searched Zeke’s for an answer.

Zeke holstered his gun and kneeled beside the body across from Lucius. He removed his hat and held it over his chest. Beneath it his heart pumped. He tried swallowing back a dry throat before he spoke.

“Gabe’s not dead,” he said. “Not really. He’s just finished with this mission.”

Lucius sat back on his heels. “How does that work? When I—if I—”

“You’d go back to the bar,” Uriel said. “It goes on your record.”

She had moved to the edge of the deck, her back to the water. The blue hue that emanated from her tattoos slowly faded. Her hair was wet and it reflected the moonlight, which made it appear deep purple. Streaks of black mascara rolled down from her eyes.

“Record?” Lucius asked.

Uriel took a solid step forward and away from the rearmost section of the aft deck. Her arms folded across her chest, fingers tapping at her elbows. She started to speak when Zeke stopped her.

“We don’t have time for this,” he said. “We need to know what’s next. Where do we go? This boat is faster, I’m sure, than whatever that pirate is sailing. If we’re going to reach them in time, we need to focus on what matters.”

“But—” Lucius began, but Zeke shook his head to silence him.

He stood tall so he could look down at his charge. He saw himself in Lucius. The uncertainty. The guilt. The endless search for answers. He didn’t like what he saw. It wasn’t productive or helpful. It was, among other things, pitiful.

Zeke squared his shoulders. He spoke using both hands, his movements and tone emphatic. He was sure of himself. He was in command.

“No buts,” he said. “No more questions. Questions only lead to more questions, and more questions. And none of the answers matter if we don’t stop the pirate from finding the sword, wielding it, and shifting the balance of power in the wrong direction.”

Lucius glanced past Zeke at Uriel, as if in search of an ally. He didn’t find one.

“Do as the man says,” Uriel said. “Tell us where we need to be.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

“Let me show you something.”

Barach held out his hand. Li was hesitant. She eyed his inviting smile, the likes of which she’d seen far too many wicked men use to take advantage of others where she came from.

He wiggled his fingers, inviting her to take them. “I don’t bite.”

What can I lose now? she thought.

She stood and did as he asked. He held her hand as a parent would a child, cupped together. The fingers weren’t laced as they would be between two lovers. Li wasn’t sure if she was relieved by that or disappointed.

He then led her through the bar, weaving amongst the tables until they reached the stairs leading to the second floor. He stopped at the landing, the swinging bar doors behind them and the thick humidity of sea air weighing on them. He released her hand and narrowed his gaze. The creases around his mouth tightened. This was serious.

“Pedro said I could show this to you,” he said. “It’s not something new arrivals get to see.”

“Why me?” she replied.

He motioned for her to head upstairs. As he climbed the steps one by one, his boots clacking on the solid wood behind her, he whispered an almost conspiratorial whisper. It reminded her of the countless clandestine conversations in which she’d engaged as a spy.

“Few of our new arrivals are like you, Adaliah Bancroft. This is as much for Zeke as it is for you. It will give you a better understanding of our work and what’s at stake.”

Li didn’t understand what he meant. Then again, she didn’t understand much of what anybody said here…wherever this was.

They reached the top of the stairs and she moved aside to let Barach lead. They passed her room and then turned left. Barach gripped the finial on the balustrade and used it to swing himself around the corner. He dragged a boot heel along the planks in a playful, almost childlike move. The ease of this made it seem as if he’d done it countless times before.

“How long have you been here?” Li asked.

He stole a glance over his shoulder but kept moving with the swagger of a man who knew his strengths and ignored his weaknesses. His long arms shifted with the shrug of his shoulders.

“Some days, it seems like forever,” he said. “Others it’s like a split second.”

He snapped his fingers to stress the comment. Then he reached the end of the balcony and stopped in front of a door.

“This is us,” he said, knocking on the wood.

The door creaked opened and an audible hum leaked into the hall. From inside the room, lights flickered. Barach held open the door and motioned for Li to enter.

She checked over the balustrade, looking below to the bar. Its relative antiquity and charm didn’t square with the light and noise coming from the open door. She hesitated and then entered. Her breath caught in her chest as she took in the surroundings.

Barach shut the door behind her. “What do you think?”

Her eyes adjusted to the shift in light. Her pulse raced. She didn’t know what to make of it.

Barach put his hand on her shoulder. “Impressive, right?”

The room was much larger than she would have thought from the outside, and its size didn’t square with the architecture of the cantina. It was wider and the ceiling taller.

Barach squeezed her shoulder. He lowered his face to whisper in her ear. His breath was hot, but it sent a chill along her spine and raised the hairs on her neck.

“We call it Mission Control,” he said.

Neon blue light bathed the room. The glow danced and flickered from the myriad of large glass panels that ran the length of the room at over two dozen terminals. A man or woman sat in front of each panel at knee-high desks.

“These are operators. They monitor all the missions in real time.” Barach swept his hand across the room, referencing the men and women. They sat in low, backless chairs.

He chuckled and corrected himself. “As real as time can be. I guess I should say they monitor the missions as they happen. There’s no delay. What you see on the screens in front of them is live. It’s like we’re flies on the walls. We can see and hear everything.”

The glass panels appeared to hover in front of the operators. Embedded in the desks were touch pads and keyboards, which operators manipulated with eight fingers and two thumbs. They were too engrossed in their work to notice Li or Barach.

Barach motioned for Li to step farther into the room. “They can’t affect anything,” he said. “They can’t communicate. There’s no interference. Each mission unfolds as is.”

Li’s eyes scanned from one screen to the next. They reminded her of the images from security cameras she’d seen in her previous life, only these images were crystal clear. The sound was impeccable. It was if she were looking through an open window onto a scene playing out on the street in front of her.

On the display closest to her, a group of five men ran across connected rooftops. They had weapons drawn, and they moved with the precision of tactical Marines. What struck her, though, wasn’t the dangerous operation. It was the color of the sky. A milky gray, thick like chowder. The sun was a smudge of light leaking through the haze. Was it ash? She narrowed her focus on the screen and realized the men wore protective suits. Their faces hid behind respirator-equipped masks. Their boots kicked up dust, or ash, or whatever it was from the rooftops.

Li lifted a hand to her mouth. She didn’t understand what she was seeing, but it was awful. It looked post-apocalyptic in a way that made the world from which she came seem like an oasis.

She shifted to the next closest display. On it, a trio of women on motorbikes traversed a dense wood. They jumped and maneuvered through the trees and underbrush.

The vantage pointed shifted from head-on to an overhead view, as if a drone were lifting into the sky to give a wider scope. The operator manipulated her fingers across the tablet embedded into her desk, and the view shifted again. Now she was high above the scene above the tree line; a canopy of green stretched across the display until it melted into a red sky.

The display zoomed. The sky wasn’t red. It was on fire. The forest burned. The inferno stretched from one side of the glass to the other. Thick black smoke plumed from the tops of the trees. The fire moved fast, consuming more and more of the screen.

Li’s eyes skipped to the next screen and the next. All of them showed horrific hellscapes. None of them looked peaceful. None of them made Li want to step through the glass and into a new paradise.

Li gasped. Through her hands, both of which now covered her mouth, she muttered, “Where are these places?”

The hum of the electronics muted her question. Barach leaned in closer and asked, “What did you say?”

She tried again. This time speaking too loudly. “Where are these places!”

Her volume drew the attention of the operators. All of them, dozens of sets of eyes, locked on her. Their expressionless stares somehow carried admonishment with them.

She tried again, finding the middle ground between a whisper and a shout. “What is happening?”

The operators, as if invisibly synchronized, returned to their work, keenly studying the horrible images on their screens and tapping away at controls.

Barach put his hand on the small of Li’s back. He was trying to comfort her, she assumed, but she reflexively jumped at his touch. He pulled away quickly.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said. “I just—”

Li regarded him through glassy eyes. She knew the tears were there. She willed them to disappear, but they clung to her lower lids and threatened to spill over.

“Why are you showing me this?” she asked.

Barach took a deep breath. “You asked three questions. I’ll answer them one at a time.”

She touched her fingers to the corners of her eyes, dabbing them. It didn’t help. The first tear ran down her cheek.

“Please,” she said.

Barach referenced the myriad screens. “As I said, this is Mission Control. Every terminal, every screen displays a different mission. The people you see on the screens are Watchers. All of them are charged with maintaining the balance of good and evil, light and dark. At any given time, there could be hundreds of missions in different times.”

“Different times?”

Barach led her to an empty terminal at the back of the room and sat her down. He pulled out the backless chair next to her and faced her.

“That’s question number four,” he said. “Let me answer the others first. As to where these places are. They’re all the same place in different iterations. Different versions of Earth.”

She studied his face. He was serious as far as she could tell. Li didn’t know him well enough to understand his tells, but he didn’t show the signs of someone lying. He looked her straight in the eye. He didn’t touch his face or hesitate when he spoke. He was telling his truth.

Barach inched forward on his seat. “As to your second question, what’s happening is the effort to create that balance, to tip the scales one way or the other. It’s more complicated than it might seem. There are ripple effects from every mission. It requires a constant reordering of things. Right now, a lot of our focus is on the future iterations of Earth after various apocalyptic events. Once we straighten these out, there will be a need to go back into the past and tweak things here or there. And then it’s back to the future and so on.”

She heard what he was saying, but had trouble processing it. “You’re saying there is more than one Earth? More than one future?”

He smiled in a way that was both sympathetic and condescending. “That’s two more questions. No and yes. There is only one Earth, but there are divergent paths for that Earth. Every time we fix the balance, a new future sprouts.”

She furrowed her brow. This was too much.

“Think of the Earth like a plant,” Barach continued. “It starts as a seed or a bulb. Then it sprouts. There’s a single trunk or stalk, but from that spreads the branches. Each branch has two or three or more branches. And those have more branches. It’s infinite, the numbers of branches that sprout from that single seed or bulb.”

She understood that. “Okay.”

“The tree or plant never stops growing. It’s always shifting and changing. Sometimes it gets sick, infected with disease, and that threatens all the branches. Our job is to find the root of that disease and cut it out. Sometimes doing that might cause the disease to infect another part of the tree. It’s a never-ending battle.”

Li’s eyes danced across the monitors and the operators manipulating them, cataloguing the missions as they unfolded in real time. Whatever real time meant.

“You asked me why I chose to show you this,” said Barach. “It wasn’t my choice. It was Pedro’s. He wanted you to see this because Zeke is in the middle of a mission right now. He thought you should see him, see what he’s doing.”

All the questions floating in her head, poking their way to her lips, evaporated. She couldn’t remember a single one of them. Not now. Not with the invocation of Zeke’s name.

She stood and searched the floating glass displays. “Where is he?”

Barach put his hand on her back again. This time she didn’t flinch. She kept her eyes up, searching the apocalyptic and dystopian landscapes as Barach stood and guided her toward the far end of the room. There were hundreds of terminals, and it seemed the farther they walked, the longer the path became. The room extended with each step. She glanced over her shoulder and couldn’t see the door through which they’d entered.

They stopped at a terminal with a dour-looking man at the controls. His long, thin fingers appeared to claw at the controls embedded in the desk. The headset was ill-fitting on his oblong, narrow head. He had a beak of a nose and a gray complexion.

Barach seemed to ignore the hawkish operator. He pointed at the display. “Here we are. This is Zeke’s mission. So far, so good, from what I can see.”

Li stared at the screen and soaked in every millimeter, every pixel on the translucent glass display. There was no sound playing, but she could see the world into which Zeke had vanished.

Deep blue water spanned from one corner of the display to the next. The vantage point was from above. White scratches that swelled and shrank marked the waves on the ocean’s current. In the center of the display cruised a large sleek-looking boat.

It was impossible to gauge the speed, but it appeared from the wake that the boat was moving at a good clip. The scale of the ocean around it was immeasurable. It reminded Li of the waters that now surrounded the cantina. She could almost taste the brine, smell the strong odor of kelp and decay.

She kept her eyes on the display, following the boat’s course as she spoke. “Is Zeke on the boat?”

Barach touched the operator’s shoulder. The man was unmoved, but he answered in a monotone voice loud enough for Li to hear him over the constant din of the electronics and the hiss of air flowing through overhead vents.

“Yes,” said the operator. “Ezekiel is on the boat. As are Watchers Uriel and Phil. The charge for this mission, Lucius Mander, is also aboard.”

Barach jutted his chin at the display. His body stiffened. “What about Gabe?”

The operator moved his fingers across the tablet and tapped with his thumbs. The image shifted to a close-up of the boat. On the back deck lay a body. A large muscular man tattooed on his arms and across his neck. His eyes were closed. Several projectiles protruded from his body. As the people around him stood in silent observance, the body dimmed. Then it faded and disappeared. The projectiles, which looked like arrows, clattered onto the boat’s deck.

“Gabe’s role in the mission is complete,” the operator said. “He’s returned to the cantina and is meeting with Pedro.”

Li backed away from the display. Her hands shot to the sides of her head, massaging out a headache. All of this was too much. The more she learned, the less she wished she knew.

Barach nodded slowly, appearing to come to terms with the news.

“It happens,” he said to Li. “Sometimes we don’t make it through a mission. Usually, it’s self-sacrifice. Part of the job.”

Ventilation air hissed above Li, blowing across the top of her head. She took another step back and pointed at the screen.

“He’s not dead?” she asked.

Barach shook his head. “Can’t kill what’s already dead. Like I said, it’s not the first time this has happened. Truth be told, it’s rare we get through a mission without a casualty.”

He made air quotes with his fingers. His dimples returned. His teeth glowed in the blue light. “I got knocked out of the mission that brought you here,” he offered. “I was out early. Pretty nasty one too. Happened in an Impala.”

She studied him but said nothing.

“The car. Not the animal.”

She stared blankly at him.

“Chevy Impala?” he said.

She shook her head. “I don’t know what that is, and I’ve never heard of an impala animal.”

“It’s an antelope.”

“There isn’t much wildlife where I’m from,” she said. “Most of what I know I’ve read about or seen pictures. As for the car, I know what a Superbird is. I’ve seen trucks. Not a Chevy Impala. Is it a truck?”

“No. It’s a car. Kind of a classic, I guess. Pretty popular in the second half of the twentieth century.”

She waved a hand across the room with a sweeping motion toward the rows of floating glass displays. Her eyes narrowed. “Which twentieth century?”

His dimples creased. “Good point. Most of them? All of them? No way to know.”

Li’s eyes shifted and settled back on the screen in front of them. The view was at sea level, tracking beside the boat at the same speed. A figure emerged from the boat’s interior and stood on the back deck. Though he was backlit by the sunlight behind him, Li recognized Zeke.

He was alone. His hands rested on his hips. The Stetson sat low on his head.

Li couldn’t see his eyes. She wanted to see his eyes.

“Is there a way to reposition the angle?” she asked.

She took two steps closer to the screen and stood behind the operator. He maneuvered his fingers on the desk without answering. The view on the glass shifted, rising to the overhead vantage point she’d seen when they first stopped at this terminal.

“Not that way,” she said softly. “Could you please show me his face? I want to see him.”

The operator glanced up at her. His lips were pursed. His pinched nostrils flared.

Barach must have sensed the operator’s hesitation or resistance. He moved to the man’s side and squeezed his arm. “Please do it.”

The operator sighed. His fingers danced across the controls. The angle smoothly lowered and panned. It widened then zoomed in on Zeke.

He faced the boat’s stern. Half of his face was lit, half in dark, and it appeared tight with stress. His gaze was distant, his mind working like it always used to. Li saw these things. She recognized them as both familiar and strange.

The camera slowly zoomed. His face grew larger in the glass display. She studied the visible creases at the edges of his eyes, the stubble that peppered his jawline and the space between his upper lip and nose.

Zeke was hardened somehow. His boyish appearance gave way to something less optimistic. Was it his coloring? His drawn expression? The sadness in his eyes? Or was it worry?

Li saw him take in a ragged breath, his chest rising and filling with air. He held it before blowing it out through puffed cheeks.

From behind Li, Barach offered his assessment. “It’s mission stress.”

“What do you mean?” Li asked, unable to pry her eyes from him. It was mesmerizing.

“I’ve seen that look before. It’s mission stress. There are a million things running through Zeke’s mind right now. Missions are tough enough for seasoned Watchers with a thousand operations behind them. This is only his second, and it’s the first he’s running. That’s a lot of responsibility.”

“What’s the mission?”

Barach tapped the operator’s shoulder. “Mission parameters?”

The operator lifted a hand from the desk and adjusted the headset microphone. He scratched his head and then ran the hand across the back of his neck. He said nothing.

“It’s not classified,” said Barach. “At least not to us. If it were, we wouldn’t be in here.”

Spinning in his backless chair, the operator faced Li.

“The mission requires the retrieval of the weapon called Kalevanmiekka,” he said. “It belonged to the Watcher Josephine. The secondary mission requires the rescue of a child, Anaxi Mander. Her father, Lucius Mander, is the charge.” He looked her up and down as he spoke. It was monotone, as if a rote recitation of something he’d memorized but to which he had no connection or interest.

Without further explanation, the operator pressed his lips into a flat line. He smirked and spun around to face the display again. He adjusted the image to the overhead view of the boat racing through the water.

Barach motioned toward the aisle they’d used to reach the terminal. Li took the hint and retraced her steps, moving toward the distant exit. She slowed and Barach walked alongside her. She caught glimpses of the countless screens as she passed them: a futuristic city of glass and steel, a snowy mountaintop, a rain-soaked conflict along a vast plain, men with guns and heavily armored vehicles fighting each other to the death. There was as much blood as mud on the battlefield.

No two displays were the same. All of them revealed some horror. None of them offered a positive, hopeful view of what the world might be.

She looked away from them and glanced at Barach with a raised eyebrow. “A sword?”

Barach chuckled. “The mission is what the mission is. We can’t choose what—”

“That’s not what I mean.”

They reached the exit door and Barach shouldered it opened. He waited for Li to step through and she did.

The warmer, dense air hit her like a wave. It made her feel heavier. She put a hand on the balustrade to her right and ran her palm along the dusty wood. The door shut behind her and silenced the hum and hiss of Mission Control, replaced by clinking glasses and jukebox music from the bar below.

Li smelled the dust in the air and leaned into the balustrade. Barach eased next to her, overlooking the bar.

“What did you mean back there about a sword?” he asked.

Facing him, she tried to explain. “Why are they hunting for a sword? What does that have to do with the balance of things?”

“It belonged to a Watcher. If a mortal gets control of it, it makes things wobbly. Add to it that Lucius Mander’s daughter needs rescuing and you’ve got a pretty important mission.”

She motioned toward the door to Mission Control. “How many of those missions are rescue missions? How many of them involve missing weapons or missing Watchers? How many involve war?”

Barach tilted his head to the left and right, considering the question. He more tightly gripped the railing and leaned back on his heels, falling away from the balustrade. When his arms extended, he pulled himself up, standing straight again. He did this three times before he answered.

“If you take all four possibilities, I’d say you’re close to one hundred percent. Every mission I can think of has at least one of those elements, if not two or more.”

She thought about what she’d seen, what Barach was telling her. Part of her wished Zeke had never rescued her. It might have been better if she’d stayed alive, if she’d continued her life as a spy for an oppressive government. How was this any better?

“It seems to me,” she said, “you Watchers spend as much time trying to fix your own errors as you do those of other people. So many of you go rogue, lose your weapons, incite war. Maybe the balance of things would be better if you stayed out of it. If you shut down all of those missions and just let things happen without interference.”

Barach smiled. “I’ve said the same thing. I’ve heard others say it too. Sometimes our work seems counterproductive. Sometimes we’re on the wrong side of things. But as Pedro explained to me, it has to be that way.”

Li glanced down at the bar. Pedro was behind it. He poured whiskey into a glass and slid it across the varnished wood to a waiting customer.

“Why is that?” she asked, fixated on the barkeep.

“If we truly believe in the balance of things, of redemption for past sins, then it makes sense that we have to clean up our own mess.”

“How so?”

“If there are good Watchers, there must be bad ones. If there are those who play by the rules, there must also be rogue participants. Light and dark. Without evil, you can’t know good. That old chestnut.”

She motioned toward Mission Control. “But what I saw in there was all bad. Fires, floods, dystopian versions of Earth. None of it was peaceful. None of it was good.”

Barach laughed.

Li stiffened. “What?” she asked defensively. “I didn’t think any of that was funny. Especially seeing Zeke. The worry. The concern. He looked like he’s aged a decade dealing with all of you.”

Her chin quivered. A knot swelled in her throat.

The expression on Barach’s face softened. “I’m not laughing at you, Adaliah. Not at all. It’s more than I’m laughing at what you’re missing. It’s obvious. It’s right there in front of you.”

She swallowed past the knot. Her voice quaked. “What?”

“There’s balance. For every one of those awful images you saw, there’s another one where the sun shines, the seas sparkle, there is peace. And every single one of those missions you saw in there? Every one of them will have a happy ending.”

She blinked. “All of them?”

He equivocated. “Almost all of them.”

“It would stand to reason that if there’s balance, then half of them will fail.”

“Okay. Half of them.”

She again looked at Pedro, incredulous. “Half?”

He said nothing. The dimples were gone. He leaned back and forth on the balustrade as if buying time.

She wasn’t sure why Pedro wanted her to see Mission Control. It was unnerving. To know there were that many iterations of a world gone astray. These were dark versions of the planet, of civilizations, throughout its histories. For every success, there was failure. For every era of peace and prosperity, there was a dynasty of pestilence and war.

Knowing this was an overwhelming burden. Li tightened her hold on the balustrade, worried that if she let go, the heaviness in her chest would sink her to the floor.

Another customer bellied up to the bar. Pedro spun around to pull a bottle from the shelf to the left of the large mirror. Li watched him pour amber liquid into a leaded glass over a pair of chipped ice chunks.

She suddenly found herself thirsty. Her mouth watered at the thought of tasting the chilled bourbon. Her mind drifted to the bar at which she’d worked as a server. She remembered the first time she’d seen Zeke. How different he’d looked from the man she’d just seen in the display. Now she understood.

“Pedro wanted me to see Mission Control because he wanted me to understand where I am,” she said. “The scope of this. He wanted to show me that Zeke’s intentions were good. That he brought me here for selfless reasons.”

Barach’s face eased into a sly grin. “Could be.”

They stood quietly for a moment. The din of the bar washed over them, filling the space between them. Then Barach released the balustrade and put a hand on her shoulder.

“It could also be that he has big plans for you, Adaliah Bancroft,” he said. “That your presence here is more important than you or Zeke could know.”

She stepped back from him but maintained her grip on the railing.“Big plans,” she said. Then she asked, “Is that good?”

As soon as she spoke, she knew the answer. It was obvious. Everything in this place was two sides of the same coin. All light and dark. It had to be.

Barach shrugged, his gaze fixed upon her. “Both.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

Sleep was a luxury Anaxi Mander didn’t have. She couldn’t borrow it either. The sun taunted her as it rose to the east, its brilliant orange hue reflected off the water. She stared toward it, disappointed the night had evaporated with little more than the twilight doze in which her subconscious fought with her waking mind.

Through the night, she’d heard Branch’s men laughing and drinking.

Men were odd creatures, prone to boasting about things they’d never done to people they’d never met. It wasn’t only the pirates who held her now on this secret island. She recalled the puff-chested bravado of the men in her own village.

A wizened neighbor whose face was leathered with age and experience once told her it was their animalistic nature. Men were genetically predisposed to inflate themselves beyond the truth of their lives. It was so they could earn stature among other men and, as a result, gain favor with women.

Anaxi always thought this ridiculous. Her father wasn’t that way. He’d won the affection of her mother, hadn’t he? Her mother, Josephine, who’d abandoned them both when Anaxi was a week old.

Had she left because her father wasn’t outwardly strong enough? Had Josephine learned about her father’s frailties, whatever they might be, and left him because of them?

Lucius was always underneath the surface of Anaxi’s thoughts. Details of him were already fading: the details of his brow, how his teeth fit together in his mouth, the texture of his hands. It was only days or weeks since his body sank to the bottom of the endless sea. How long before she couldn’t remember him at all?

These were her thoughts as she groggily watched the sun rise. Her stomach churned and a tingling sensation spread through her body from her gut. It was the uneasiness that comes with lack of sleep.

Other than being knocked unconscious by her host, Desmond Branch, Anaxi couldn’t remember the last time she’d truly slept. Good, restorative sleep was as distant a memory as her father.

Were his eyes blue or green? Were they brown or hazel?

She stood on the rocks, watching the others stir. She envied their sleep and their absent moral compass. The latter enabled the former.

Anaxi exhaled. It was more of a sigh. She couldn’t get enough air in her lungs, it seemed. The deeper she tried to inhale, the more suffocating her surroundings.

In one hand, she clutched her boots. They’d worn blisters on her heels and calluses across the tops of her big toes. It was more comfortable to carry them and traverse the rocks barefoot. She could feel the smooth edges with her soles, navigate the rough parts with feeling.

From among the stirring men, Desmond Branch emerged, hands set proudly upon his hips and feet shoulder width apart. Branch was always trying to make himself appear larger than he was. He scanned his surroundings like a lord surveying his kingdom, and stopped at Anaxi. A jut of his chin acknowledged her.

She didn’t return the recognition. Instead, she turned her back on him, her soft feet rubbing against the rocks as she pivoted toward the peaks they would soon climb.

Why hadn’t she killed him when she had the chance? He’d given her the knife. What had stopped her? At any time, she could have ended his life or, at the very least, maimed him such that his journey couldn’t continue.

Why hadn’t she killed herself? Jumped into the ocean and let exhaustion take her beneath the surface, pulling her toward a watery grave like her father’s?

Both options, killing herself or Branch, would stop the pirate from finding the sword. The Kalevanmiekka would stay hidden, remaining the thing of legend. A mythical object spoken of at bedtime and whispered about amongst the wisps of husky smoke and dying embers of a campfire.

Anaxi knew why she did neither of those things. If she was truthful with herself, which she’d long ago learned was the hardest kind of truth to tell, she wanted to see the Kalevanmiekka. She wanted to hold it, wield it. She wanted to see the sunlight fleck on its steel blade. To feel the delicious puncture of that blade piercing Desmond Branch’s chest. To see the look of shock and pained resignation his face as his life drained from him and she claimed what he’d dedicated his entire worthless life to finding.

That was why she played along and aided his quest. Anaxi couldn’t imagine this ending any other way, and she was a girl with a strong imagination. She had to be, growing up with a ghost of a mother in the middle of an endless ocean.

Now, the long daydreams of daring adventures were coming true. Even if they weren’t what she’d envisioned during solo outings into the thicket of palms populating the interior of her village’s island, these were adventures.

The crunch of rocks underfoot lifted her from the fog of her daydream. Then Desmond Branch clearing his throat brought her entirely back to the present. The man had a way of interrupting her thoughts.

“Up early, I see,” he said. “Good. Get yourself some food before we start the climb. It will be a long day.”

“I’m not hungry,” she said.

“I didn’t ask you to eat. I’m telling you. I don’t need some malnourished, dehydrated waif collapsing on the hike and slowing our progress. We’re close enough now, I can taste it.”

She glowered at him over her shoulder but didn’t face him. “Is that what you had for breakfast?”

He furrowed his brow in confusion. “What?”

“Your ambition? You said you could taste it.”

The rocks shifted under his weight. He came closer, rank with sweat and spirits. He chortled. The laugh was laced with pity.

“You can joke at my expense all you want, little girl. I can take it. Your insults are like your father. Pitiful. Weak. Lifeless.”

He paused in between each of the three adjectives. The pity dissolved into venom.

Anaxi clenched her jaw. It took everything in her not to spin around and attack him like a feral monkey.

She’d seen one gouge out the eyes of a would-be hunter once. It was gruesome and riveting all at once. She couldn’t tear her eyes from the bloody carnage no matter how much she didn’t want to see it.

This is my life, she thought as she opened her eyes. It was gruesome and riveting. As much as she wanted to crawl into a hole and pretend none of this adventure was real, she couldn’t pry herself from the chaos yet to come.

“You like to talk a lot, Anaxi Mander,” Branch said. “You like to act as though you have all the answers, the wisdom of the pre-melt sages and philosophers. You can have that.”

His stench strengthened as he moved to her side. He put a hand on her shoulder and pushed, forcing her to face him. He stared down his nose at her. Then he held out his hand and used it to imitate a flapping mouth.

“Talk. Talk. Talk. That’s all you do,” he said. “It’s fine. I once heard a saying from a man. I think it was right before I killed him and took his woman. Or maybe I took his woman and then killed him. I can’t remember.”

He pouted in faux consideration, as if trying to retrieve a muddy memory and wipe it clean. Then a broad grin spread across his wan features.

Branch lowered his hands and laced his fingers in front of him. He glanced toward the peaks, his gaze lingering there before again eyeing Anaxi. This was all for effect. A pirate was as much wind as he was sail. She’d learned this.

“Regardless,” he said, “the man told me, ‘You can’t listen if you are speaking. If you can’t listen, you can’t learn.’” He licked his cracked lips. “I listen. I learn. I didn’t have a daddy who told me bedtime stories or relayed ancient pearls of wisdom.”

Anaxi glowered at him. She tried to remain unfazed, unwilling to give him the benefit of anything other than her attention.

Branch unlaced his fingers and tapped his temple. “I’ve got my own wisdom. I taught myself. A lifetime on the sea. A lifetime reading people. Understanding them. Ending them. And I know what you’re about, little Anaxi Mander.”

A breeze blew at her back from the ocean behind her. The morning and the sea chilled it. It swirled around her before rustling the fronds that marked the beginnings of the thickly vegetative path leading toward the peaks. It was as if it whispered to her, but she couldn’t understand what it told her. She did hear Desmond Branch, however. His voice was low now, like a growl.

“You think you can outsmart me,” he said. “You think we’ll find the Kalevanmiekka and you’ll undo me with it. That’s why you haven’t tried to escape. It’s why you keep spouting those rhymes, giving me clues and guiding me toward the power that will make me god of this forsaken planet. It won’t happen. Do your job. Make yourself useful. And maybe I’ll let you live. Maybe.”

How did he know? Was she that transparent? She thought she’d done well to hide her plan, her ultimate revenge. Her eye twitched. It was a tell she hoped he didn’t see.

The sinister grin curling at the edge of his lips told her he had. She’d not noticed the disgusting grayish-brown color of his teeth before. But now, as his pallor advanced, the decay inside his mouth was clearer. Maybe it was his breath that reeked as much as his pores.

“Get your breakfast,” he ordered. “Do it now. We leave soon.”

Anaxi didn’t argue. She said nothing. Instead, boots in hand, she nudged past Branch and traversed the rocks toward the encampment. Refusing to look back at her tormenter, she walked to the tendrils of smoke lifting from a spot where men dipped a ladle into a pot boiling over a renewed fire.

She approached the pot as Le Grand carried away his portion. He blew on the wooden bowl, steam pouring over the edge opposite his face.

“Fish stew,” he said.

Again, Anaxi thought. It was the diet on which they’d lived for days, having run out of greens and fruit.

Le Grand moved past her and she stepped to the pot. A grisly, one-eyed cook grunted and shoved her a bowl. The stew slopped over the edge and splattered onto her top. It burned through the fabric onto her skin and she winced.

Biting the inside of her cheek, her eyes watered. Her face reddened. “Thank you,” she muttered to the smirking cook.

The stew looked thick and unappetizing. She’d as soon eat the sand shifting under her feet and between her toes if she had a choice, but Branch was right about one thing. She had to eat. Her body needed fuel. Especially lacking sleep, every bit of energy she could muster was crucial to surviving the day.

Anaxi distanced herself from the clusters of pirates and found a large rock on which to sit alone. She cupped the bowl and held it close so the steam warmed her face. The cod was especially pungent.

She brought the bowl to her lips. The hot stew, little more than fish, seaweed, and boiled seawater, was bitter. The salty taste overwhelmed the broth as it slid past her tongue and down her throat.

Another blow, almost a whistle across the top of the stew. Another sip. This one a longer pull than the first. The taste dulled with each swallow until, surprisingly, Anaxi found herself hungrily downing the rest of her portion. She swiped the remnants from the bottom of the bowl with her fingers and sucked them dry. Her stomach was satisfied.

She walked the bowl back to the makeshift galley and tossed it into a pile near the boiling pot. With breakfast over, most of the men were up and readying themselves for the hike. The sun loomed well above the horizon now, warming the sand underneath her feet as she trekked back to the rocks. Le Grand stood with his back to her, but over his shoulder, Desmond Branch watched her every move.

From Le Grand’s body language, Anaxi could tell he was talking. His hands gesticulated wildly as his head tilted to one side and the other. Branch had his arms folded across his chest and nodded along like he was listening, but he wasn’t. Even as she avoided his glare, she felt it.

So Anaxi turned around and plopped onto the sand at the edge of the rocks. She pulled on her boots and laced them. Her fingers were stiff. She flexed them in and out before picking up a stray rock at her side. She brushed the sand from the stone with her thumb. She bounced it in her palm. It was lighter than it appeared and pocked with holes.

Shifting her body in the sand, Anaxi positioned herself so the carved peak of the volcano was in her peripheral vision. She lifted her open palm closer to her face and studied the rock. It was hard to conceive how the hardened lava once flowed hot along the path she’d now ascend.

She gripped the rock in a fist and then whipped it sidearm toward the surf. It plunked into the water and skipped once before sinking.

The Saladin was silhouetted beyond it, anchored off the coast. She wondered if she’d ever return to the ship. If not, would she live her life here on this island, trapped here and spending eternity in the shadow of the peaks? Like the stone she just sent free?

Anaxi put her hands flat onto the beach and pushed herself to her feet. Her boots sank into the sand as she took her first steps toward Branch. She met his gaze and wondered if he’d stared at her the entire time.

Le Grand must have sensed her approach. He faced her, took a step back on the rocks, and stood shoulder to shoulder with his taller, broader captain.

Branch rubbed his chin and set a hand on the top of his sword’s pommel. “You ready?”

Anaxi marched toward him, adjusting her gait to accommodate her boots on the rocks. She had her arms stretched out to her sides for balance, and didn’t answer him.

“Good for you,” said Branch. “You’re a quick learner. Silence is golden.”

Silence is golden. Anaxi hadn’t heard that before. So many things were gold to a pirate. She’d not thought silence would be among them. Still, she said nothing.

To her left, men marched up the rocks. Their steps were deliberate and heavy, walking off the weight of a fresh meal. They carried swords, machetes, spears, and long-barreled pistols.

Without waiting for them to reach him, Branch motioned at the peaks and started his march up the rocks toward the curtain of green foliage. It was thick and stretched from the rocks to the low altitude of both peaks.

Anaxi followed Branch, keeping pace, but staying behind him. Le Grand was to her right. She noticed, as they moved, they were the only two without weapons. Le Grand at least carried an unlit torch—they’d need it inside the volcanic crater—but Branch, nothing. Like him, Anaxi had nothing with which to defend herself.

She didn’t like it, but she knew there was no way Branch would give her something to protect herself again. The knife was a onetime offering in a time of crisis. She swallowed hard. Her eyes danced across the patches of dark that reached from branch to limb and trunk to bow. Her body shuddered involuntarily. Le Grand must have seen it.

“You okay?” he asked.

She nodded. There was no worth in telling him the truth. He’d learn it soon enough. They all would.

The rocks shifted underneath their feet. The crunch was the only sound as the party marched onward, closing in on the broadly veined fronds that served as natural gates to the dark jungle beyond.

As they approached, the rocks gave way to a thin carpet of spongy green and yellow ground cover. Branch paused, stroking a large heart-shaped leaf the size of a man’s head. He stretched it out of the way and turned to his men.

“Ready?”

The men cheered and pumped their weapons in the air.

They thought they were ready.

They were wrong.

If what her father told Anaxi about this island was true, they couldn’t be ready for what awaited them in the jungle. Nobody could…

Chapter Twenty-Five

Zeke studied the back of his hand, flipping it over and back again as if anything would change. His fingers flexed, curling into a fist and extending straight. He studied the veins, the thin wisps of hair, the wrinkles that defined his knuckles.

He sat in the salon below deck of the Riva Cantata. It really was a magnificent yacht, finely appointed with rich materials and soothing textures. Uriel sat nearby, curled into the corner of the long sofa-like seating area that ran along both sides of the salon. Her eyes were closed, her face resting against her hands, which were pressed together in prayer. Her body jostled with the movement of the boat.

Zeke assumed she was asleep. Lucius was deep inside in a bunk. Phil was at the helm, as he’d been since they’d left the cantina. He’d not abandoned his position, even when Gabe had succumbed to the flaming arrows.

From his hip, Zeke pulled his revolver and tested its weight in his hand. He could feel the stored energy in the weapon. It was almost as if the electricity transferred itself from the grip to his fingers and then up his arm. He turned it over and studied it, as he had his hand. Then he set it on the seat next to him. The sensation in his arm dissipated.

The energy wasn’t something he’d noticed before. Not really. He thought about it and reconsidered. What he’d long thought was adrenaline, the rush of excitement spiking through his body and into his hands, clearly wasn’t adrenaline at all. It was the otherworldly pulse energy contained with the weapon Pedro had provided him.

Zeke looked again at Uriel. This time he stared. His eyes traveled her sleek body, curled as it was, tracing the lines of her muscles, her curves. She had no weapon other than herself. Had it always been that way, or had she learned to take the energy imbued into her weapon and use it with no external help, rendering her far more powerful than she might have been otherwise?

He replayed the image of Uriel launching herself into the sky, using sheer force to stop the threats against them. What had she summoned to make this happen? Was it contained within the colorful art that painted her body, or was it something else?

More questions without answers. More questions that might lead to more questions.

Zeke scooted on the sofa until he was beside Uriel. She must have sensed his movement. One eye opened to a slit.

“What do you want?” she mumbled.

Zeke removed his hat. He ran his fingers through his hair and put the hat back on his head.

“Did you ever have a weapon?” he asked. No point in beating around the bush. Uriel could smell obfuscation like he could smell the sweet citrus of her intoxicating perfume.

Her other eye opened. Her head remained on her folded hands. She didn’t answer.

Zeke tried again. “Other than your body, I mean. Did Pedro give you some—”

“A hatchet.”

Zeke’s eyes widened. He was doubly surprised, by the admission and by the weapon choice itself. He wasn’t sure how to respond, so he repeated her. “A hatchet.”

Uriel rubbed her eyes with her knuckles. She untucked her feet and sat up. A yawn stretched her face, which was odd because Watchers needed neither sleep nor oxygen.

“Sorry,” she said through the end of the yawn. “Habit. An echo from when I was alive. You’ll carry some of those with you too. They fade with time, but crop up every now and then.”

“Crop up?”

She faced him, twisting her hips against the leather. “Happens. ‘Crop up’ means happens every so often. Colloquialisms are another echo. They’re part of the vernacular from the time you lived. But I digress.”

“Why a hatchet?” Zeke asked.

She motioned to his pistol. “Why a pistol?”

“I don’t know,” Zeke said. “It’s what he gave me.”

Uriel raised an eyebrow. She puckered her lips and twisted her mouth to one side.

“And the tattoos?” Zeke asked.

“He didn’t give those to me,” she replied.

Her hand touched her bare skin at her hip, where, peeking above the waistline of her low-slung leather pants, was a tattoo of a flaming sword diagonally atop a sun. Her finger dragged across the orange rays.

“I would have thought a sword,” he said. “Instead of a hatchet.”

She shrugged. “I had that tattoo before I, you know, crossed over. It was a name thing. Ever hear the story of Uriel?”

Zeke shook his head.

She lifted her fingers to the side of her head. They grazed the fine hairs of her buzzed haircut. Then they found the braid and twirled its pink-bowed end around.

“Uriel was an archangel,” she said. “He was the angel who watched over thunder and terror. He carried a flaming sword. He was the angel of repentance. At least, originally he was. That’s changed with time. Still, he was a badass. Not one to mess with, you know?”

Zeke nodded. “Uriel was your name in life too?”

“Just like yours was Zeke.”

“Coincidental then, right?” he asked. “I mean, aside from being a dude and Pedro giving you a sword. You being an angel now? Someone who helps others redeem themselves?”

Her features darkened. Her tone shifted. “I don’t think coincidence has anything to do with it,” she said. “I know it doesn’t. Coincidence is for people who can’t accept the plain truth of their circumstance. It’s a weak-minded reconciliation of a greater power beyond their control. I think everything is a mix of free will and preordainment. I was meant to do what I’m doing. There was a plan set in motion before my parents named me Uriel, before I died, before I became…whatever it is that I am.”

Zeke tried to interrupt. “I didn’t mean—”

She didn’t let him clarify. “Ezekiel, I can’t put too fine a point on it. And I mean that, pun intended. There is no coincidence. That you think there is, after what you’ve seen and done since crossing over, makes me think you weren’t the right man for this job. Pedro might have put too much faith in you.”

Zeke waited for her to breathe. She kept rolling.

“The ink on my body tells a story. If you pay close enough attention to all of it, and chances are you’ll never see all of it, you’ll see the path of my existence before and after I became a Watcher. It’s there to remind me who I was, who I am, and who I want to be. None of that is coincidence. None of it is unexplained if you truly believe in our mission.”

He studied the frustration in her tight expression. It bordered on disappointment. Or was it anger? Zeke considered it might be both.

He offered an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry.”

Uriel huffed out a breath and used her fists to push herself to her feet. Extending her arms from her sides for balance as the speeding yacht cruised, she maneuvered the short distance to the knee-high refrigerator in the corner of the salon.

She reached inside and plucked a pair of long-neck amber bottles. Holding them as a bird of prey would grasp a rodent with its talons, she elbowed the fridge shut and brought the bottles back to the sofa. Using the corner of a waist-high counter, she uncapped the bottles and handed one to Zeke.

She clinked his bottle with her own and said, “Peace offering.”

The aroma lifting from the open bottle was somewhere between bourbon and beer—the same Kentucky Bourbon Ale they’d drank together at the cantina. Zeke took a pull. The earthy flavors dueled in his mouth.

He swallowed. “How’d you do that?”

“Offer peace?” she asked coyly. “It took a lot. Don’t get used to it. And accept the offer without condition.”

He chuckled and used his thumb to wipe the rapidly forming condensation from the bottle. It was warmer in the cabin than he’d realized. It might have been Uriel’s iciness that fooled his senses.

“No,” he said. Then he shook his head. “I mean, yes, I accept the peace offering without condition. And no, that’s not what I meant. I was asking how you had my new favorite drink on board the yacht. I’d say it was a coincidence, but you’d bite off my head.”

She scowled. “Too soon, Ezekiel Watson. Way. Too. Soon.”

He took a second swig. She took a third. Several drops dribbled onto her chin and she wiped them away with the back of her hand. Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. It was at once sloppy and endearing.

“I didn’t do it,” she said. “Pedro stocks the yacht. Or the truck. Or the RV. Or the dogsled. Or the—”

“Dogsled?”

“You’d be surprised.”

They laughed. It felt good. Zeke tried to count the number of times he’d experienced a genuine laugh lately. He couldn’t remember them. Sure, he knew he’d chuckled or found levity in things since he’d crossed over and begun the redemptive work of a Watcher’s apprentice, but he couldn’t place any time when it felt so sincere.

Was that what he was, a Watcher’s apprentice? He didn’t know. He wouldn’t ask.

“Look,” she said. “I apologize for snapping at you. You meant nothing by the question. Truth is, this life begs a lot of questions.” She waved her beer around the salon. “Most of those questions don’t come with answers. I shouldn’t blame you for not understanding everything about your place. You’ve only been here a short time.”

“Time is relative,” Zeke said.

She nodded as she took another swig and held in her cheeks, swishing it around.

“So Pedro sets up everything for every mission?” Zeke asked.

Uriel tipped her bottle and her head. “He does. Don’t ask me how. He just does. We’re always well provisioned. He anticipates our needs.”

Zeke sipped. “Like Kentucky Bourbon Barrel Beer.”

“Like Kentucky Bourbon Barrel Beer.”

Both finished off their drinks. Zeke took the empties and dropped them into a trash receptacle recessed into the cabinetry surrounding the refrigerator.

Uriel thanked him. He thanked her for the drinks.

“Coincidence is for those who have no faith in their ability or inability to affect their paths,” she said as he returned. “We strongly believe that fate and destiny matter. The things we did, the things we do, all guide the things we will do. We determine our own fate. Chance is the refuge of the uninspired, the spiritually bankrupt.”

Zeke now understood her previous anger. He’d offended her. Still, he had questions.

“Are you talking about religion?” he asked. “Because I—”

She shook him off. “No. Not religion. A spiritual belief in the balance of all things and faith that we are empowered to keep that balance. Everything you’ve done up until now, Zeke, matters. It’s like a snowball rolling downhill. It—”

“A snowball?”

“Sorry,” she said. “It’s cumulative, I mean. All your experiences make you who you are. All your future experiences make you who you will be.”

Zeke flexed his hand and again studied the back of it. He thought about the electric sensation that transferred from his pistol to his fingers and up his arms.

Uriel shrugged. “You get it?”

He watched her triceps flex. The overhead cabin lights reflected off the leather that stretched across the muscles, defining them. It did the same as she bent her arm to touch the side of her face. The tight ball of her bicep strained against the fabric. Her body was a weapon. No doubt.

“I get it,” he said.

He thought he understood something else too. An idea, a belief, niggled in the back of his mind. It wasn’t formed. Zeke flexed his hand again and touched the grip of his pistol.

Both of them studied one another. It was if they were on the verge of revealing something. Neither spoke. Then Phil shouted down from the helm and interrupted the moment.

“I think we’re there! We need Lucius to confirm.”

The boat slowed under Zeke’s weight as he stood. He took a careful forward step to steady himself from the sudden deceleration.

He started toward the opening into the back cabin. “I’ll check.”

Uriel nodded. She said nothing.

The path to the cabin was tight. Zeke put his hands on the walls to guide himself. The cabin’s door was closed. He knocked twice and opened it without waiting for Lucius to respond.

Zeke’s eyes adjusted to the low light in the cramped, dark room. Formless shadows took shape. A bunk to his right was pressed against the interior hull. It curved to fit against the wall and bowed out, giving it the shape of a flattened hammock.

Lucius lay on his side, leaning on an elbow. He blinked blearily.

Sleep wasn’t something people in this world needed. Though, under the right conditions, it happened. Sleep was another echo from a former life. Uriel had told Zeke that the longer he served Pedro, the fewer of his habits or needs from his previous life would manifest themselves.

Lucius cleared his throat. His voice was scratchy. “What is it?”

“We’re here,” Zeke said. “We think. Phil needs you to confirm.”

Lucius cleared his throat again. He swung his feet around to the floor and stood. In the dim gray light of the cabin, he looked older somehow. More frail.

“What does he need me to confirm?” Lucius asked.

“I don’t know,” said Zeke. “C’mon up. Let’s find out together.”

Zeke motioned for Lucius to exit first. He waited and followed. They made their way to the helm. Uriel was already there, seated in the captain’s chair next to Phil.

A large sailing vessel floated off the port side of the bow. It looked old and worn, but seaworthy. It was anchored several hundred meters off the black sand shore of an oblong island that elevated quickly from the coast to a pair of steep mountains.

Neither of the peaks was extraordinarily high, but the short distance between the breaking surf and the summits made them appear larger than they likely were. One of them was formed like so many of the mountains through which Zeke had sped his Superbird when running illicit goods in his previous life. The other was malformed. It looked as if a large chunk was missing. Both sloped to dense green forests before giving way to what looked like rocks and then black sand.

Lucius pointed at the ship, eyes wide with fear. “That’s it. That’s the Saladin.”

Phil checked him over his shoulder. “Are you sure?”

Lucius took a deep breath. His body shuddered as he exhaled. “Yes. I’m sure. That is the ship. This is the place.”

“How are you sure?”

“That ship is where Desmond Branch took me. It’s where I…died.”

The color drained from Lucius’s face. His glassy eyes replayed the final moments of his previous life in an all-too-familiar way. A tear dropped from his right eye and rolled down his gaunt cheek. Lucius made no effort to wipe it away.

Zeke knew what the man felt. The gut tightening. The acidic taste of bile in the back of the throat. He’d suffered the same reaction to seeing the place where he’d left his mortal life.

The image of his decaying body hanging on the front of his city’s government building haunted him. It was a constant reminder of his past sins, his failures.

Uriel clapped her hands together, startling everyone, then slapped Phil on the back.

“All right then,” she said. “Let’s go board the sucker and see what’s what.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

Li was in the passenger’s seat of Zeke’s Superbird. The vibration of the engine rumbled around her. She felt its raw power in her bones. Zeke was behind the wheel; both hands steered them along a street. He drifted the car around a corner before his feet punched the accelerator to reestablish the lightning speed of the muscle car.

She relished his intensity, his focus, his sense of purpose. Despite the danger pursuing them, she felt safe. There was nowhere she’d rather be than at his side.

The Superbird, its red paint reflecting an orange full moon, weaved from street to street. Its shocks absorbed the uneven pavement. Its tires squealed around corners. Its gauges registered the changing speed, the heat of its engine.

Burning rubber stung her nostrils. She tasted it on her tongue.

In her side-view mirror, she saw the red of his taillights illuminating the places they’d dusted. It was angled for Zeke’s benefit though, and she couldn’t see those giving chase.

Her heart beat hard in her chest, pulse thick in her neck and at her temples. Breaths came in shallow bursts as if she’d sprinted a long distance.

This was good enough.

From the dim light that glowed on the instrument panel in front of Zeke, she saw the beginnings of perspiration beading across his forehead. He rubbed his hands along the steering wheel. His eyes danced from the road ahead to his side view to hers to the rearview and back to the road. When he maneuvered the car sharply, his face contorted, as if he could feel the change in course.

She reached over and put her hand on his thigh. “Are we going to make it?”

He shot her a glance. The tension on his face eased long enough for him to offer a comforting smile.

“Of course,” he boasted. “I’m Zeke Watson.”

He didn’t know what she did. That the pursuit was a ruse. That she’d told her handlers within the government’s Tactical Marine Force to let him outrun them.

Li also didn’t tell him she’d revealed the timing, location, and proposed route of the smuggling operation. That was how the clandestine operation was sniffed out at its inception, as Zeke loaded the last case of water into the back of his Superbird.

Zeke didn’t know she was a government spy. He didn’t know their relationship began as a sham.

Zeke slammed on the brakes and swung the wheel to put the car into a wide drift. He swung the wheel in the opposite direction, his magic hands working the car into its new course.

“There are three of them,” he said. His expression was hard again. The smile forgotten.

Li moved her hand from his leg and slid her thumbs under the fabric harness that held her against her worn bucket seat.

The Superbird wasn’t much to look at, despite its telltale spoiler, but its engine ran like a government clock. When Zeke wasn’t smuggling black-market goods, or snuggling with her in their shared apartment, he was working on the car. It was his lifeblood, his bread and butter—the one thing in the world he cared about other than Li.

She thought about that as he sped up hard enough to push her flat against her seat. Guilt washed through her, supplanting the adrenaline.

The strong desire to tell him the truth swelled in her chest. It tingled at the tip of her tongue. This water run was a chance for the government’s military to learn the location of a black-market supplier, to understand the routes bootleggers used to smuggle their goods, and to identify key players who worked for the primary black-market consortium, the Aquatic Purveyors.

But she didn’t tell him. Not then. Not ever.

Behind them, engines revved. The percussive blasts of the Marines’ M27 Automatic Infantry Rifles drummed through the air.

Zeke shot her a look. His eyes were wide. The glow from the dash illuminated the whites surrounding his dilated pupils.

“That’s gunfire!” he yelled. “They’re shooting at us!”

She wanted to tell him the shots were for show. She didn’t.

“Get down, Li,” he said. “Get down.”

“I’m strapped in,” she protested.

He swung the wheel to one side, and the car’s momentum shifted. Inertia pulled her against the door. “Undo it. Get to the floor.”

She did as instructed. With the harness unbuckled, she climbed out of it and slid to the space between her seat and the dash. It was uncomfortable and hot. She felt the road vibrating beneath them, the kicks of rocks and debris against the Superbird’s undercarriage.

Another quick move jostled her, and she banged her elbow against something hard. Her head rattled. Her teeth chattered. Li tried bracing herself with her hands. It didn’t work.

Zeke slammed on the brakes, which shoved her against the underside of the dash. She banged the back of her head and, for an instant, saw specks of white light dancing in her vision.

Another acceleration pushed her forward. The Superbird rattled like it was ready to come apart.

Zeke shook his head. “We can’t go to the original destination,” he said. “Not now. We’ll have to resort to plan B.”

Plan B? She hadn’t known about a plan B. Panic shot through her system like a bolt of lightning. What had she done?

“Hang on,” he said. “I’m going off-road.”

There was another burst of speed, and then, for the shortest of moments, Li’s body felt almost weightless. Beneath her, the wheels spun across the cracked earth.

They were beyond the gates of the city now, in the vast stretch of nothingness called the Badlands.

The air was different out here. Drier, with the distinct scent of desperation and hopelessness. The only people who ever spent a long time in the desert wasteland were the nomadic homeless called Badlanders. Otherwise, it was just bootleggers and the Tactical Marine Force moving from settlement to settlement.

Li squeezed her eyes shut and opened them again. Her vision improved. She leaned forward on the seat and twisted her body to better see Zeke.

“Zeke,” she said, “where are we going? What’s plan B?”

He checked his rearview then glanced down at her. “You know the petrified forest?”

“Yes.”

“There’s a tunnel there,” he said. “It’ll take us back around into the city. We can lose them there.”

The soft glow of the moon lit the side of Zeke’s face as he turned slightly. The grind of sand against the sides of the car grew louder. The suspension bounced with the ruts and grooves worn into the dead earth.

“They stopped shooting?” Li said, almost like a question.

Tension sharpened Zeke’s features. “For now.”

Without asking his approval, she climbed from the well and onto the seat. Using the harness to pull herself up, she peered over the hood of the muscle car.

The headlights illuminated a broad fan of bluish, white light. It made the desert floor look pale. The golden brown, monotone badlands was washed to a bone color. She imagined this might be what it was like driving across the surface of the moon, which now hovered straight in front of them.

Zeke cursed. He punched the accelerator. Her stomach tightened and it brought her attention back to Earth.

She shifted in her seat and looked out Zeke’s window and saw a TMF transport. The black, angular vehicle edged even with them. Sand and dirt kicked from its large tires in a spray that peppered the Superbird. She sensed something behind her and turned to peer through her own window. An identical transport ran alongside them. Its menacing shape bounded across the dry badlands. She stared at the darkened windows on the driver’s side, but saw nothing beyond the tint. It was as if the beast were autonomous.

If this was all a show, as her bosses had assured her, the Marines were first-rate actors. She’d have thought they long ago would have stopped their pursuit.

Zeke’s grip on the wheel tightened. His focus narrowed. He dipped a shoulder as he swung the wheel to the right then back to the left.

They were entering the petrified forest, and Zeke worked hard to avoid the stonelike stumps and arcing branches, which were at first sparse and widely spaced but became more densely packed as they drove deeper into it.

He slalomed the Superbird expertly. They wove around and between obstacles with little trouble. Ahead, she saw the thickening of debris. Li quickly reached up and slid her arms into the harness. She buckled it and braced herself.

Zeke hit a stump.

The jarring sensation of impact radiated down her entire body. She bit her lip. The warm, coppery taste of blood filled her mouth.

The engine whined as they arced meters above the ground before they landed with a bone-rattling thud. The wheels slipped and the tail end of the Superbird fishtailed. But Zeke maintained control and adjusted his course.

“Sorry!” he said. “Won’t happen—”

Li caught a glimpse of the wide trunk of a tree. They headed straight for it.

“Watch out!” she screamed.

Zeke slammed on the brakes and swerved. The car spun. Her stomach lurched. Her body slammed into the door despite the harness. Her vision darkened. There were grinding noises. Awful sounds of metal on metal, then metal on stone.

The symphony of noises was so deafening she tried covering her ears, but couldn’t find them. She was so disoriented that, even in the dream, she’d lost track of where she was.

And then they stood over bodies. Marines. Wide-eyed with frozen expressions of shock and pain. Black uniforms slick with blood. Body parts at odd angles or missing altogether.

Zeke had his arm around her. The sun was warm on the back of her neck. The air smelled like death.

She scanned the carnage, looking for answers. What had happened? How had these men died? Next to her, Zeke was crying.

It was a soft cry, the kind men try to hide. Tears ran down his cheeks, leaving clean streaks amidst the pancake of dust coating his face. He released her and wiped the tears with his knuckle. She’d never seen him like this.

His voice trembled as he spoke. “I did this. I killed them.”

She shook her head, her vision blurred by her own tears. Her voice was softer than his and she tried to comfort him.

“No you didn’t.”

“If I weren’t who I am, these men would be alive. They wouldn’t have been chasing me. I led them here. I killed them.”

“Zeke—”

“They wrecked because of me!” he snapped. “Don’t try to make me feel better about it.”

She saw the pain stretching his features. He’d never killed anyone before. Not intentionally. Not accidentally. In all his years of bootlegging, or working for the Tic, he’d kept his hands clean. Zeke was a driver. He was good at it and it was what he stuck to doing.

Li tried again, more forcefully. “It wasn’t your fault.”

It was hers. She was the one to blame for the surveillance, for the pursuit, for the crash. Li opened her mouth to tell Zeke the truth, but when she did, her tongue wouldn’t work. She couldn’t articulate. Nothing came from her mouth. She was mute.

Zeke regarded her with the strangest expression. A mix of confusion and sadness. The color drained from his face, making him as pale as the sand in the headlights.

He grabbed at his throat as if an invisible noose were choking him. His body convulsed. His eyes bulged. His tongue hung from his open mouth. As he struggled, a blotch of red appeared at his side. It leeched onto the thin fabric of his shirt and spread outward. He twitched and grabbed at his neck. Then his side. His eyes, those bulging bloodshot eyes, met hers. He reached out and pointed at her.

Suddenly, it was night again. They were in the darkness. They were alone. Fires burned around them. Large fires, whose heat came at her in thick waves. Smoke stuck in the back of her throat. There was a low chanting in the distance. The words were inaudible, but she knew what they meant. They were a condemnation, a chastisement, a banishment, a sentence.

All of this was her fault. She’d set these wheels in motion.

There was pressure at her chest, and she looked down. A tendril of smoke drifted from the black hole in her blouse. A hot, burning sensation clawed at her from the inside.

In front of her, Zeke held a gun. He was smiling.

Li shot up in her bed in the cantina on the verge of hyperventilating. Sweat matted her hair to her forehead and neck. She grabbed fistfuls of sheet and pressed her eyes closed, trying to slow her heartbeat.

The dream was the same one Li endured every time she closed her eyes. It was vivid. Exciting. Adrenaline pumping. Surreal. Maddening. As much as she willed herself to find something else on which her subconscious could dwell, it kept coming back to this same moment. The same one she’d experienced in her past life.

Despite no longer being alive, she couldn’t shake the habit of sleep. Pedro had told her she would lack the need for it, but it would take time for her mind to recognize it. He told her that many of her past habits were now like mental addictions. The body didn’t need certain things anymore, but her brain didn’t grasp it. It would. The dream would stop, but not yet.

The unnerving end to a restless sleep was a reminder of why she needed redemption, why she was here in Pedro’s Cantina. There was something about her life that needed tipping. She had to find her balance and set things right.

She drew a deep breath in her nose and a slow exhale through pursed lips. Then another. And another. Her heart rate slowed. The pounding in her chest lessened. The sweat on her brow chilled.

Someone knocked at her door, the raps short and quick.

“Yes?” she asked.

“It’s Barach. May I come in?”

She straightened herself and brushed her damp hair away from her eyes. “Okay?”

It was as much a question as it was an invitation.

The latch clicked and the heavy door swung with a creak. Barach stopped at the threshold and studied the door. He held onto the doorjamb with one hand, rocking it back and forth to recreate the noise from the hinges. It sounded like birds chirping.

His dimples pocked his cheeks as he made a show of examining the door. Li’s heart sped up again. She noticed he’d brushed back his straw-colored hair and parted it to one side. He looked like a living version of a Roman statue she’d seen pictured in one of her books. Or was it Greek? She couldn’t remember. It didn’t matter.

As she admired his long, lean physique, she wondered if he’d lived during either of those epochs. Given how time worked in this place, either was possible.

“Needs some oil,” he said, stirring her from her daydream.

Li offered a weak smile and ran her hands along the rumpled sheets that covered the lower half of her body. She was self-conscious, realizing she appeared as though she’d wrestled with the bed in her sleep.

He must have noticed her discomfort. Crossing the room, he stuffed his hands into his pockets and motioned to the bed. He stopped a meter from her and stood flat-footed in his boots.

“I had nightmares for the first year I was here too,” he said. “Could have been longer. You know, time is relative. But it takes time to…time to…”

Barach searched for the words with his hands, like he’d find them floating in the ether. Something he could collect and hold. It must have worked. He snapped a finger and pointed at her. “Adjust.”

Li pulled the cover from her body and swung her legs off the bed. The thought of a year or more of these nightmares, her subconscious forcing upon her a reminder of her dark side, was too much. She swallowed against a swelling lump in her throat. She blinked at Barach, keeping tears at bay.

“How did you know?” she asked. Her voice was thick with suppressed emotion.

He shifted his weight, but his boots stayed planted. He shrugged and looked at his toes when he answered, “Everybody goes through it.”

Li swallowed again and eased forward on the side of the bed until her heels touched the floor.

“No,” she said. “I mean how did you know I was having a nightmare right now?”

His cheeks flushed. It made her own redden as well.

“I was outside your door,” Barach said. “I wasn’t standing there for long. I didn’t intend to be. I was coming from downstairs. Pedro wanted me to talk to you. I hesitated.”

“You heard me having a nightmare?” she said.

“It was like a whimper, but worse.”

Li studied him. He seemed earnest.

“I thought about coming in to wake you up,” he said. “To stop the nightmare. But I didn’t know how you’d take that. Everybody is different. We all have to work through this place in our own ways, our own time. That’s what Pedro says. I stayed there until I heard you wake up.”

Li rubbed the balls of her feet on the wood. The dust eased the slide of her calloused skin across the worn planks.

“Why?” she said.

“Why what?” he replied.

“Why did Pedro send you here? I’m sure it wasn’t to ask about nightmares.”

“No. It wasn’t.”

“What was it, then?”

“He has a proposition for you. Something that could benefit both of you.”

She chuckled at the phrasing. “That’s sounds inappropriate.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

She knew he didn’t. She wanted to make him as uncomfortable as she’d felt listening to him talk about standing outside her door, listening to her cry in her sleep. If he was on a mission from Pedro, it made sense he’d follow through with the task. It unnerved her. Her eyes studied him again, dancing across the defined muscles in his arms and across his chest. Even his neck appeared muscular. Not in a strongman sort of way. More of a Tactical Marine sort of way. She caught him watching her watch him, and cleared her throat.

“Why doesn’t Pedro ask me himself?” Li said.

“He is. I mean, I’m not asking you,” Barach stammered. “He wanted me to come get you. The bar is busy. He couldn’t get away. He sent me.”

“Does everyone do what Pedro tells them to do?”

The affability in his expression evaporated. He visibly tensed and lifted his chin.

“We have free will,” he said. “But we do what Pedro asks of us because it’s in our best interest, in the interest of balance.”

She thought about Mission Control, the surveillance of every simultaneous operation on every divergent iteration of the planet’s past and future. It reminded her of the autocratic regime that ruled the city from which death had offered release.

Was this place any better?

It was every bit the wasteland, albeit flooded instead of arid. There was a man in charge. An all-seeing eye denied privacy. There was the veil of free will, the idea of balance. It reminded her of the idea in a banished book she’d once read under the covers with the aid of a flashlight.

It was about animals who overtook a farm. Under the guise of self-governance, the pigs wrote on the barn wall that all were equal, but some were more equal than others.

Suddenly, in the hangover of her nightmarish awakening, she found herself skeptical again. Had Zeke been benevolent in bringing her here? Or was it retribution? Was she doomed to relive the sins of her past?

Again, more questions than answers. This was a form of hell, wasn’t it? In the scales of her mind, her decision regarding the reality of this surreality was tipping toward that end. This was not a good place. It was an eternal version of the purgatory in which she’d lived her mortal life.

She stood and crossed the room to the dresser. On it rested a bowl filled with cloth hairbands. She plucked one from the tangled collection and worked it into her hair. She pulled it back and wrapped the length into a short ponytail.

In the mirror atop the dresser, Barach’s reflection watched her. His boots seemed glued to the spot. Much as she was stuck here.

Without turning around, she addressed him, her eyes meeting his in the reflection.

“If I have free will, then I’m not going to Pedro,” she said. “If he’s too busy to proposition me, I’m too busy to acquiesce. Since you’re his messenger, you can be mine too. That’s your choice, of course. But I hope you’ll pass along my message.”

Li spun around and shooed him with her hands, motioning for him to leave through the creaky door. With an elbow, she leaned on the dresser, trying to affect the most nonchalant pose she could muster.

Something akin to hurt or sadness washed across Barach’s face. For a moment, she regretted having sounded so harsh. Then she reminded herself that he’d stood outside her door and listened to her whimper, and the guilt disappeared.

Barach raked his teeth across his lower lip and nodded reluctant understanding. “Okay,” he said, low. “I’ll tell him.”

He turned to leave, but now someone else stood in the doorway.

“So you’re conflicted,” Pedro said. “You’re not sure what to think about our humble establishment and our efforts to keep balance. You’re struggling with guilt, with a need for redemption. You doubt Ezekiel’s motivation. There’s a lot to fish through. A lot of net to untangle.”

Pedro took a step into the room. Barach deferentially backed away.

Then the barkeep moved with purpose across the floor until he reached Li. He stood a comfortable distance from her, but lasered his electric blue eyes onto her, grabbing her attention.

“This is a confusing time for you, Adaliah,” he said. “Perhaps I’ve thrown too much at you too fast. I’ve always been a firm believer, however, that I only offer what someone can handle. Never more than that. Am I giving you more than you can handle?”

Li stared, the magnetism in his glare keeping her there. His eyes were mesmerizing. She pulled her gaze free of it and glanced at Barach. The man gave nothing away. He was every bit the statue he appeared.

Li knew what was going on. She’d dealt with enough men like this. Pedro was playing her. He was admitting her doubts were valid in order to invalidate them. Classic manipulation. She’d learned this as a spy. It was basic stuff. Address all the mark’s fears up front. Get them out in the open. Make the mark question her beliefs. Rather than doubting the spy, she doubts herself.

Then again, Pedro knew that Li had these skills. He seemed somewhat omniscient even when he pretended not to be.

She decided she could play along for now. At least time, as relative as it was in this place, was on her side.

“No, I can handle it,” she said. “That doesn’t mean I trust it.”

A broad smile stretched across Pedro’s face. He chuckled and ran his hands along the front of his vest, resting one of them on his large belt buckle.

“Fair enough, Adaliah Bancroft,” he said through the echoes of laughter. “Fair enough.”

After that, the three of them stood quietly, measuring one another. That was how it felt to Li. A standoff where the first to speak or move lost. Pedro finally broke the silence when it appeared to be on the verge of intolerability.

“So,” he said with importance, “how would you like your own mission?”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The detritus of dead fronds and rotting fruit was soft under Anaxi’s feet. It was chillier here. Not cold per se, but cooler and damp. The humidity that heated the air on the black sand beach had the opposite effect in the jungle. Thin shafts of dim light stabbed through the angular and irregular openings in the canopy.

They marched quietly, the sounds of whacking machetes and the grunts of the associated effort their only sounds. Le Grand carried his unlit torch, using it as a club to swat away the fronds and branches that blocked his path. Occasionally he’d jab at the pyramid-shaped, waist-high ant mounds dotting the landscape.

His retributive movements mixed with the soft cacophony of insects and hidden birds. The symphony of sounds was as unnerving as it was melodious. That was, however, only because Anaxi knew something dangerous awaited them deep within the dense thickets of palms, rubber trees, and kapok trees.

The kapoks were frightening in appearance, covered with conical thorns. In the shadows of the dimmest parts, Anaxi sometimes thought they were ready to pounce, to grab an unsuspecting pirate and hug him against the spines, exsanguinating him in front of his traveling party.

Though Anaxi knew the threat was near, that from her father’s stories they would reach it before they began their ascent up the volcanic peak, she didn’t know what it was.

This made it worse. Like knowing a punishment was coming at the end of the day instead of getting it right away. Like knowing the day, but not how she would die. Or knowing how, but not when.

Her father often repeated a pre-melt idiom he said his father had passed on to him, and his father before that.

“Ignorance,” he explained, “is bliss.”

She never understood the meaning until now. How could knowledge ever be bad? How could ignorance ever be good?

As she trounced through the jungle, swiping at broad-leafed underbrush and swatting at invisible insects, she got it. It would be better not to know that something wicked lurked on the unseen horizon.

Despite the chill, a sheen of sweat coated her body. Her shirt stuck to her lower back and to her collar. Her feet were raw in her boots. Her eyes stung from the salt. Tiny, sticky strings of white spittle formed at the corners of her mouth. The sweat only proved to exacerbate the chill.

As if reading her mind, Branch stopped in a small clearing piled with dead foliage. He held up his hand and called to the group, “Take a break. We’ve been hauling good for a few kilometers. Get yourselves a drink. Something to eat. Rest.”

He didn’t need to tell them twice. The men huddled into groups of three and four and sank to the ground. Some of them took off their boots to air their feet. They passed skin canteens of water and rum. They shared moldy bread.

“The mold is good for them,” Branch told her. “It acts like a medicine from before the melt.”

Anaxi doubted it. She skipped the bread and drank more than her share of water.

Her back was against a tall palm. Its trunk was broad and smooth, almost comfortable enough for her to relax.

She started to unlace her boots but stopped, remembering that feet swell during hikes. She feared if she removed them, she might not be able to wear them.

Hunger clawed at her stomach. The breakfast gruel, despite the protein, didn’t provide long-lasting satiation. Her nerves dulled her desire to eat. Watching the men struggle to chew the moldy bread didn’t hurt either.

One of the men talked through wide-mouthed chews, the bread stuck to the fronts of his teeth. “How much more, Captain?” he asked Branch.

Branch was busy eating. He had a mouthful of bread squirreled into his cheeks.

Le Grand answered for him. “At least another hour in the jungle. Then we start the climb.”

The men groaned and mumbled collectively. Some rubbed their necks with their hands. Others stretched their arms by pulling them across their bodies, hands leveraging elbows.

Branch pushed himself to his feet. His dour gaze swept across the men, all looking to him. He drew his sword; the rasp of the steel slipping against the scabbard drew a hush from the men.

“Any one of you who has a complaint about the work ahead of us can go back to the beach,” Branch said. “Better than that. Get in the skiff. Row yourself to the Saladin. Then tie a stone around your leg and throw yourself overboard.”

Nobody spoke. Nobody moved. The men in mid-stretch held their awkward positions.

Branch stepped toward the man who’d asked the question. He pointed the sword at his throat. The man feigned a smile, bread in his teeth.

“How about you’re the first?” Branch said.

The wide-eyed crew member blinked in rapid succession and opened his mouth to speak. As he did, a soft buzzing sound surrounded the camp. It grew louder, as if approaching from the depths of the dark jungle.

Anaxi shifted on the ground, her palms wet from the moist, sandy soil. She pivoted and searched for the source of the noise. Her heart quickened. This was it. Whatever it was, it was coming for them. She scooted on her behind away from the group, behind the tree on which she leaned.

All of the others did the same, their heads swiveling back and forth with confusion. Branch stepped back from his target and tightened his grip on the sword. He lifted it vertically and looked up toward the canopy, then spun in an even circle, trying to define the source of the amplifying buzz.

The strange noise droned to an almost deafening level by the time Anaxi saw what was coming for them. At first, it looked like smoke. Drifting and undulant, it poured from the trees beneath the canopy.

As it grew closer, Anaxi saw the truth. An incalculable number of insects swarmed. The bugs were individually tiny, but together formed a massive black monolith.

“What is it?” asked one man.

“Bugs?” said another. “Is that bugs?”

The swarm provided the answers. The entirety of it dropped onto a trio of men at the edge of the camp with incredible speed. They swatted at the insects. Then they screamed. The bugs blanketed them, making the men themselves invisible aside from the silhouettes of their writhing figures.

The others stood awestruck. Anaxi didn’t. She lay flat on the ground and began piling the detritus atop her body, burying herself in the foul, rotting leaves and deflated fruits.

She closed her eyes beneath the mound covering her body and listened to the screams. They registered above the droning buzz of the insects, like the refrain of a song sung around the fire of her home village. It repeated itself again and again. The buzz. The panic. The screams. The pleas. The moans. The silence.

She thought about the fire at home. The soft glow of the warm light on the faces of the people she knew and loved. She’d see none of them again. Even if she survived this, her gut told her that her home was someplace she’d never feel welcome again.

The fire.

Fire!

Anaxi brushed the gritty decay from her face and called out, “Fire! Fire will stop them. Light the torch. Light it!”

From behind her, she heard the scratchy drag of a match and the sizzle of a torch lighting.

Le Grand’s heavy steps bounded past her into the clearing. He roared as he charged, a man using every bit of will to force himself into battle.

Anaxi sat up, scooting back farther from the clearing. She brushed the debris from her face and focused on the chaos in front of her.

She couldn’t differentiate between the smoke and the swarm. They blended, shades of gray and black. But the smoke drifted without purpose, billowing outward and then up. The swarm slithered and writhed with aim. It probed at the smoke, testing its defenses.

Two other crew men found broad fronds and Le Grand lit them. The three of them formed a circle, back to back to back.

They jabbed at the swarm. It retreated. Regrouped. Tried again.

In wide, exhaustive sweeps, as if painting the air around him in broad strokes, Le Grand cut through the middle of the swarm. The two others swiped at the air.

It worked. Much of the swarm dropped from the sky, falling from formation. They dusted the ground at the trio’s feet. The rest of the insects regrouped in the air above and then disappeared into the canopy.

Le Grand cursed, shouting after the retreating army. He shook the torch at them, holding it in one hand above his head. The smoke swam back and forth in the dim light. The others, their chests heaving from exhaustion and leaking adrenaline, dropped their smoldering fronds and staggered toward the injured.

Anaxi searched the canopy for a second swarm. Nothing came. The buzzing was gone. Left behind were the groans of survivors and the returning chirps of nonthreatening wildlife.

Content she was safe, she stood and moved to the clearing. Nearest her was a dead man. Though if she didn’t know he was a man, she wouldn’t have been able to tell. His face was swollen and red. His fixed eyes were slits. His cheeks puffed as if filled with more moldy bread. His nostrils were shut, the anaphylactic reaction to the bugs closing off the airways.

Welts covered his exposed skin. Countless red lesions gave his arms, neck, and face the appearance of a reptile. His pursed lips were purple and looked more like leeches than lips.

She found four others who appeared almost identical. That made five dead.

All the survivors nursed varying degrees of wounds. Anaxi was the only one unscathed. Even Le Grand’s hands were dotted with bites and stings.

At the far edge of the clearing, his back leaning against a thin trunk, Desmond Branch sat in obvious pain. There were several wounds to his face and neck. One eye was swollen shut.

Anaxi crouched at the center of the clearing, where Le Grand and the frond-wielding firefighters had made their stand. On the ground were thousands of dead insects. She recognized them now, motionless and individual. They were mosquitoes. She’d seen the bloodsuckers before. They came with the rainy season in her home village. Puddles of water bred them, and they would create havoc at dusk.

But never had they swarmed like this. Never had she seen them seem to have a collective mind. This was otherworldly.

She tore a palm blade from one of the burned fronds and picked at the bugs on the ground. They looked ordinary, like the mosquitoes from her village. She spent minutes looking them over and studying their large bent legs, their wings. So small and so deadly.

“You saved us again,” Le Grand said. He hovered over her, the torch in his hand like a club.

Anaxi glanced up at him, squinting to focus on his face, which was shaded by a shaft of light leaking through a hole in the canopy above him.

“You did the work,” she said.

He offered his free hand to pull her to her feet. She took it.

“I’ve never seen anything like that,” he said.

Anaxi wiped her hands together, freeing the dirt. “Nobody has. I don’t think.”

Le Grand glanced over his shoulder at Branch, then motioned at him with a jerk of his head. “Was it part of his quest?”

“The mosquitoes?” Anaxi asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “Was that swarm somehow related to the legend?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

His eyebrows squeezed together. “You knew it was coming?”

Anaxi shook her head and frowned. What could she say? She cleared her throat.

“I didn’t know there would be a giant swarm of supersmart flying parasites,” she said. “I thought there might be something. In the jungle.”

Le Grand wiped his face from the bottom of his nose to his chin with a swipe of his free hand. His face stretched and he sniffed the air and nodded. There was understanding mixed with skepticism etched on his expression. This was the first time she’d seen Le Grand look that way.

“Is there more?” he asked.

Now it was her turn to offer a confused look, even if she understood the question’s meaning. “More what?” she said.

“Obstacles that could kill us. We’re down five men. Most of the rest are hurt. I’m not sure we can survive another ambush. You’ve got to tell me if you know anything.”

She didn’t have to tell him anything about anything. She owed him nothing. She owed his boss, Desmond Branch, absolutely nothing.

The truth was, she didn’t know if there would be any more challenges before they reached the volcanic crater. Was it worth telling him that? Did she lose anything by sharing a lack of information?

“Not that I know of,” she said. “But I’ve never done this before. Who knows?”

Le Grand pursed his lips. He nervously bounced the extinguished torch in his hand and looked toward the part of the jungle they’d not yet traversed. There was a long way to the peak. They all knew it. And it’d be longer now that so many of their men, including Branch, suffered wounds.

Anaxi shot a look at Branch. The pirate stood and leaned against the tree trunk now. He gingerly touched the bites on his face and winced each time he made contact. He was pitiful, but she felt no pity. A smile crept across her face as she watched him struggle with the pain.

Le Grand interrupted her moment. “Better not let him see you smile,” he said. “He’ll run you through.”

The smile on her face broadened into a grin. “Let him.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The Saladin was a ship made of wood, with patches of fabric haphazardly stitched together to form its sails.

The ship’s name was painted in scrawling cursive at the bow with a bright white that was yellowed and chipped from salt and sun. The ship itself was worse for wear. One of the foresails flapped impotently on a stripped beam. The hull at the waterline was decorated with barnacles. The arthropods looked like scabs on the ship’s grayish hull. Their nasty hard shells added to the vessel’s decrepit and sinister appearance. Had it not been for the diverse crew roaming its decks, Zeke might have thought the Saladin abandoned and sailing the endless sea unmanned.

He saw all of this as they neared the vessel, drawing the suspicious glares from men along its side. Far from a greeting party, they appeared ready for battle. Rabid animals straining for a fight.

Standing at the stern of their own boat, spring-loaded and ready to leap, Lucius Mander slid his weapon over his fingers and above the middle joints. He flexed his hands, testing the feel of the heavy brass. Despite his initial trepidation, something renewed his purpose. Maybe it was seeing the bastards who helped kill him. Maybe it was the smoke rising from the jungle beyond the rocky entrance to the shore.

In that smoke, Zeke knew he saw hope. In that smoke was evidence his daughter was alive and leading the mission toward the crater atop the volcanic peak. She was responsible for the smoke. Zeke felt it in his gut.

He stood behind Lucius, shoulder to shoulder with Uriel and Phil. All of them were ready to attack if needed. Considering the motley crew of pirates waiting aboard the Saladin, it would be needed.

Uriel had her hands at her sides, balled into fists. Phil had his flail in one hand, spinning the spiked ball at the end of its chain. Zeke’s pistol was at his hip, in its holster.

For minutes, they exchanged expectant stares with the pirates lined up along the railing of the gnarled Saladin. Two of the pirates manned a clumsily constructed catapult. Another was at a cannon.

Uriel sighed. Apparently weary of the stalemate. “I’ve had enough of this.”

Next to Zeke, her body tensed. An electricity hummed. A faint glow intensified into a bright blue, and she exploded from the back of the yacht into the air.

In a single leap, she reached the deck of the Saladin. She promptly engaged in hand-to-hand combat.

Zeke exchanged a knowing glance with Phil. Phil stepped forward and took Lucius under the arm with his free hand. With the other he swung the flail faster and faster. The spiked ball blurred, emitting an electric blue pulse.

Phil gripped his hand tighter around Lucius’s upper arm, bent to one knee, and launched himself in a single leap toward the Saladin. Now all three of his compatriots were engaged.

Zeke closed his eyes and tightened his fists. He controlled his breathing and willed the energy to flow through his body. The electricity tingled in the tips of his fingers first. It spread to his hands and up his arms. It pulsed in his chest, stronger and with more purpose than any single heartbeat.

His legs lightened. His muscles thrummed. He was ready.

In a single fluid motion, he bent a knee and pushed upward. He opened his eyes as the power shot through his core. Before he knew it, he was above the yacht and over the water. His body rose as if propelled by his Superbird’s engine, strong and smooth. Then he was high above the Saladin, looking down at the skirmish. Blue pulsing light marked the work of Uriel, Phil, and Lucius.

But Zeke wasn’t descending into the fray. He was too high. Too much energy propelled him, an accelerator without a floor underneath it.

He found himself pedaling his legs and waving his arms to slow his momentum. He willed gravity to drop him onto the deck and into the middle of a skirmish. It didn’t work.

He sailed over the Saladin and splashed into the water. Its chill hit him hard, sucking away his breath and sending a spike of adrenaline through his body.

The salty water shot up his nose and into his throat. He blew hard from his nostrils and worked his extremities to stop his body from sinking too far below the surface. He kicked his boot-laden legs and reached up with both hands. He cupped his hands and pulled down at his sides, propelling himself up.

He surfaced at the side of the Saladin. Above the chop of the water, he heard the unmistakable sounds of fighting. With his fingers, he tried gripping the side of the boat, but a barnacle caught the side of his palm and sliced it open. The pain was sharp and instantaneous. It spiked up his arm and he recoiled, drawing saltwater into his mouth.

He might have been dead, but that didn’t stop blood from draining from the wound. Zeke cursed and shook his hand.

Backing away from the ship, he searched for a way on board. Seeing none, he resisted the instinct to panic and calmed himself. If he could launch himself from the yacht, he could do it from the ocean.

He treaded water, his hands working back and forth under the surface, and he focused his energy on his core. Breathing slowly, controlling his heart rate, he tightened his body. In his chest, a swell of energy blossomed. It spread to his limbs. An opposite effect from the time before, but equally empowering. The water at his chest pulsed with light, and he knew the energy was coming from him. He concentrated, willing himself upward.

And as if some invisible force pulled him skyward, he rocketed up and onto the deck of the Saladin. He landed on both feet, water pooling around his boots, and he stood straight, hands in front of him and ready to fight.

He hadn’t commanded his body to do this. It wasn’t something he thought consciously to do. He just did it. The seamless connection between the briefest of thought and the instantaneous response of his muscles was remarkable.

His body felt outside himself. Like a machine at his control. Like his Superbird.

There was no time to relish the moment, however. A pair of pirates who’d avoided his friends charged at him. One lunged with a knife while the other came at him with a spear.

Zeke anticipated their movements, played out a thousand variables, and reacted.

As the man with the knife drove at his right side, Zeke sidestepped and used the man’s forward momentum against him. He grabbed the wrist of his knife hand and pulled. It drew the man past him and off-balance. Zeke then drove the palm of his other hand into the man’s kidney.

It sent the man toward the ground, the knife flying from his grasp. Before the knife-wielder hit the deck, Zeke was already on the other man. He spun around and leaped into the air, over the spear. He grabbed it as he cartwheeled past its carrier and wrenched it behind him. The spear’s tip drove up and into the pirate, impaling him, before Zeke landed both feet on the deck again.

Both men were down. One was dead no doubt. The other was incapacitated.

Zeke spun in time to see Uriel on a pirate’s shoulders, her legs wrapped around his neck. She threw herself back, snapping his spine as she dropped him onto his back.

Phil swung the flail in a figure eight and struck the jaw of one man before lodging it in the belly of another.

Lucius stood above two pirates, admiring his handiwork and taking stock of the glowing blue brass weapon wrapped around his knuckles. A smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. It was the first time Zeke had seen the man do so.

Zeke spun around, surveying the deck. No pirates remained on their feet.

Uriel twisted her neck from side to side, cracking it, and flexed her fingers. She moved across the deck to Zeke. Her eyes fell to the puddle of water forming where he stood.

“Wet yourself?” she joked.

Zeke frowned. “Funny.”

The power drained. He felt it. It was like air leaking from a punctured tire.

She play-punched him in the shoulder. “Overshot the ship, huh?”

“Yeah. Don’t know my own strength.”

Uriel laughed. “Now you’re the one who’s funny.”

Lucius pointed at Zeke with his brass knuckles as he and Phil approached. “You’re bleeding.”

Zeke lifted his injured hand and gauged the wound. It was deep, but the blood was mixed with seawater. That made it appear worse than it was.

“I’m fine,” Zeke said. “It won’t kill me.”

Uriel shook her head. “You’re on a roll.”

Phil sighed. “Okay, enough banter. We need to make sure we’ve not missed anybody. There could be more of these jokers hiding below deck.”

“What’s the plan?” asked Lucius. “What will we do with the ship once we have control of it?”

Phil and Uriel looked at Zeke. Taking their lead, Lucius joined them.

Zeke flushed at the attention. “Why is it my call?”

“It’s your mission,” said Phil. “You get to make the executive decisions.”

“Let’s worry about that once we’ve cleared the ship.”

Uriel shot him a disapproving look. Phil nodded. Lucius studied the others for how to react, but did nothing.

Saying nothing else, Zeke motioned the team to a hatch that led below deck. He moved first, forcing the others to follow. If he was in charge, it was best if he led the descent into the musty hold below deck at least.

Unsure how quickly he could summon his newly understood powers, he drew his pistol.

His eyes adjusted to the low light and he swept his surroundings. Nothing.

“It’s clear!” he called for the others. “Let’s split into pairs. Uriel and I will head to the stern. Phil, you and Lucius to the front.”

They agreed and paired off. Uriel stayed close to Zeke, and even in the dank odor of the hold, he smelled whiffs of her citrus scent. It calmed him.

She tapped him on the shoulder as they searched the ship from space to space, carefully stepping through doors and checking corners. He didn’t react until she squeezed his arm.

He stopped and lowered his pistol. “What? Been too long since you made fun?”

“You were amazing up there,” she said. “I mean, ridiculous.” His tone had been jovial. Hers wasn’t. She was stone-cold serious. The compliment took him aback. He couldn’t muster the words to thank her.

“I mean it,” she said. “It took me years to understand that I hold the power. The external weapon is merely a manifestation, a totem, of what you can do. Years. It took Phil longer than me, and he’s not always good with it. Inconsistent. Some old Watchers can’t do what you just did.”

“I overshot the ship.”

She let out a chuckle. “So? That was your first try. And you put too much power into it. That’s an anomaly in and of itself. Most Watchers, when they figure it out, they don’t pull enough from the core. They can’t find the strength. What you did is…is…unreal.”

“Thanks. I just—”

“You just nothing. You’re meant to be doing this, Zeke. You’ve got skills.”

He blushed and looked away from her. This genuinely kind Uriel was not something to which he was accustomed. He half expected her to say she was kidding. She didn’t. But she didn’t disappoint either and punched his arm extra hard.

“Tell anyone I said this, and I’ll deny it. Then I’ll kill you.”

He grinned through the pain. “I’m already dead.”

“I’ll kill you worse.”

Zeke lifted his head. He pulled back his shoulders. Her words alone were enough to center him again, to generate tingles of energy in his fingertips. He suppressed them. No need to flex here. Not with her. Instead, he offered his hand.

“Deal.”

They shook, and then he noticed that the wound on his hand had healed. The blood was dried. The gash closed.

Uriel noticed him checking the injury. “Added benefit of understanding your body,” she said. “Nonfatal wounds heal faster. A lot faster.”

Heavy bootsteps plodded from mid-ship toward them. Phil called ahead. His voice reached them before they could see him in the dim light.

“All clear in the bow. Nobody here.”

Phil appeared an instant later, Lucius behind him. They maneuvered the cramped, low-ceiling space to Zeke and Uriel.

The flail hung at Phil’s side. “What now?”

Zeke understood the question was for him. He didn’t hesitate. “Leave it anchored.”

Lucius peeked from behind Phil. “What do you mean?”

“Leave it here. We may need it.”

“Why not scuttle it?” asked Phil. “Let it sink right where she sits.”

Zeke shook his head. Again, no deliberation. “That’ll take too much time. We need to get to that island, dispatch the threats, rescue Anaxi, and take the sword.”

“If that’s where it is,” said Uriel.

“It’s here,” Lucius said, offering no room for doubt.

“Let’s stop talking and get moving,” said Zeke.

Uriel punched him in the arm again. “I’m liking this new Ezekiel Watson. No talk. All action. It’s sexy.” She dragged her fingernail along the bottom of his chin, then sauntered away, hips swaying. All he could do was stare.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Anaxi’s legs trembled with exhaustion when she climbed from the last of the straggling palms rooted into the low rise of the volcano. The rich, damp soil again gave way to the black solid rocks she’d traversed near the beach. The rocks slipped under her feet, forcing her to use her hands.

She was near the front of the party, climbing behind Le Grand and beside Desmond Branch. The sun fell behind the mountaintop, the irregular peak casting odd shadows onto their path.

Branch could see through one eye. The other was closed from the bites he’d endured in the jungle. He limped from swelling at his hip. But in his face, he bore the grit of a man close. Jaw set tight and eyes narrow.

He huffed as he spoke. “What will we find in the hole?”

His eyes drifted from Anaxi’s to the black mouth of the crater two hundred or so meters above them. It was a steep climb, every step more taxing than the last.

The air was thinner here. Not much, but enough to make a difference. To quicken the pulse, strain the muscles.

Anaxi leaned into her climb, pushing with her palms to elevate her position on the rocks. Branch stayed to her right. She didn’t look at him when she spoke, afraid that turning to face him might force her to lose her balance.

“Another challenge,” she said. “One more difficult than the ones you’ve faced so far.”

He was ahead of her now and looked back. She saw the surprise in his expression from the edge of her vision. “More difficult?” he asked, incredulous. “I doubt that. We nearly died three times already.”

Anaxi pushed with her thigh and lifted her leg. She climbed at a fifty-degree angle. Her other thigh copied the work of the first. She was even with him now, but she looked at him when she spoke.

“But you didn’t,” she said. “You survived.”

“I doubt whatever awaits us in the cave is worse than what we faced on the endless sea or what those bugs did to me down below,” he grumbled.

Rocks slipped underneath his feet, but he maintained his balance. With the back of a hand, he wiped a sheen of sweat from above his swollen eye.

There wasn’t anything Anaxi could tell him that would change his mind. She knew that. Trying to convince him otherwise was a waste of her energy. So she didn’t.

“I hope you’re right,” she said. “It would make everything so much easier.”

She braced herself. The toes of her boots dug into the mountainside. Her hands gripped a steady purchase. Over her shoulder, she counted the pitiful number of survivors behind her.

All the half-dozen men struggled. Le Grand was the only one relatively unscathed, and even he scratched the constellations of bites on his forearms.

Anaxi turned back toward the summit. Despite their slow progress, they were getting closer. An hour more. Two at most.

She sucked in a deep breath of cool, high-altitude air and held it, letting it fill her tired lungs. Slowly she exhaled. It rejuvenated her and she pulled herself higher up toward the peak.

The cavernous crater eating at one side of the mountain loomed above. From her path she saw the jagged rim, which cut its way along three-quarters of the apex. The same bird she’d seen from the beach circled above.

She wondered if it was welcoming them or expecting their deaths. Either way, the bird was a harbinger. A sign to Anaxi that this journey was coming to its end one way or another.

Desmond Branch pulled ahead of her. He climbed speedily, perhaps reinvigorated by the proximity of the crater.

They didn’t stop again until they reached the lip of the crater. At the edge of the gaping hole, Branch stood with his hands on his hips and surveyed the black chasm, which ran down the center of the amorphous bowl. It led into a hole, which appeared to descend deep into the heart of the mountain.

The entire crater’s floor sparkled like the night sky. It was obsidian, a sea of hardened lava. Flecks of sunlight danced off the sharp angles of the glass rock.

Anaxi found it breathtaking.

Branch pivoted away from the crater and faced his remaining crew. A renewed sense of purpose lit his features. A smile squeezed his wounded eye, purpling the swell that stretched from the top of the bridge of his nose to his temple.

His voice was energetic, almost buoyant. “We made it. We’re here. The final part of this journey begins. Let’s go.”

In dramatic fashion, he unsheathed his sword and raised it. Then he unleashed a rousing shout. A primal call. The men followed his lead. The bird circling above banked to one side and flapped it wings to disappear behind the peak.

With Branch and the others so focused on what lay ahead, none of them took the time to see where they’d come from. None of them but Anaxi.

She looked out over the island. From this vantage point, a gentle wind whipping her hair across her face, it seemed the whole world was visible.

She’d never been this high above the endless ocean. Never had the horizon appeared so far away, so unreachable. The water looked like a flat blue plain devoid of movement or life.

Her knees almost buckled at the sight of it, both magnificent and overwhelming, but she held her composure while her eyes danced along the horizon’s gently arcing edge. Her stomach clenched when the drift of her vision caught something foreign in the water aside the Saladin.

At first, she thought her eyes were playing tricks. The black boat, smaller than the pirate ship, was almost invisible from this vantage point. Was it a boat? It had to be. Despite its alien appearance, with sharp angles and no visible means of propulsion, it looked seaworthy.

She’d seen vessels without sails before—the tanker Texas the largest example—but never had they looked so clean, sleek, and new.

What is it doing here? she wondered.

Her stomach tightened again. Her heart raced.

Had someone come to help her? Or was it another band of pirates worse than the ones who held her now?

Who had a boat like that? Had they commandeered the Saladin?

A mix of emotions flooded her body and weakened her knees again. Clenching her fists, doing her best to show no reaction to the events unfolding hundreds of meters below, Anaxi spun back to Branch and his men. None of them seemed to notice what she’d seen. All remained so focused on the crater and the crevice and the hole and the Kalevanmiekka they were oblivious. She took another deep breath and willed herself not to check back again.

There was nothing she could do right now about the mystery black boat or the people aboard. There was nothing she could do about the Saladin. No point in spending any energy on it. She had to focus on what she could control, and that was the final part of this journey.

Done with the raucous show, Branch slid his sword into his scabbard and began the descent into the crater. He ordered Anaxi to keep pace with him. Le Grand stayed on her heels.

The gentle slope into the crater led them straight to the high-walled crevice slicing toward the hole in the crater’s far wall. The path it formed was the only way.

As they moved, Branch put his hand on Anaxi’s shoulder. “Any more poems?”

She nodded reflexively. There was one more. She’d held out hope he wouldn’t ask, but should have known better.

He slid his hand from her shoulder and patted her back between her shoulder blades. Saying nothing, they marched deeper into the crevice, the black walls stretching higher and higher.

The floor of the crevice was soft. A fine powder, sinking with each step like the black sand beach at the water’s edge so many meters below them. Anaxi thought about her toes sinking into that sand as she pushed forward. It seemed to her as if it had been weeks since she’d stood on the beach.

She imagined herself being back there, the water washing over her bare feet. With each gentle surge, she relished the sensation of her heels sinking more deeply into the sand.

But as she played out this daydream, it wasn’t the Saladin anchored off the comforting sandy shore of the volcanic island. It was the foreign black vessel. The boat absorbed the light around it, almost blending into the undulating sea on which it bobbed.

On the boat, a handful of shadowy figures passed back and forth along its aft deck. One of the figures, thin and awkward, waved at her. There was something so familiar in the gentle movement.

She lifted her planted feet from the sand and moved deeper into the surf. Walking toward the boat, floating almost in the water, she squinted and tried to focus on the waving figure. The features began to take shape as she drew near. Swimming now, her arms churned. Her legs kicked. She was almost there, could almost make out the face. Then it evaporated and she was back in the volcano’s crevice.

Branch had her by both shoulders, shaking her and staring straight into her eyes.

“Are you here?” he asked. “Anaxi? I need you here.”

She blinked him into focus but said nothing. Her heart thrummed in her chest.

Branch motioned with his head toward the hole. “I need that poem now. We’re about to go inside.”

Anaxi took two steps back, pulling away from the pirate’s hold. She bumped into Le Grand and accidentally drove her heel onto the top of his boot. He grunted but caught her and stopped her from falling.

The hole was larger than it appeared from the rim, or even from the path along the crevice floor. The echoes of their voices, the shift of the boots in the sand, bounced off the solid walls.

Branch stepped to her, virtually pinning her between himself and Le Grand. He glowered down at her, the blacks of his eyes matching the darkness of the chasm.

They absorbed light. They were cold. They were desolate.

“The poem. Now,” he growled.

Anaxi swallowed back her dry throat. The words formed in her mind. And she recited the last of the prescient verses.

Across the sea, through sun and shower

There is a sword of heavenly power

Its blade honed sharp, its grip is true,
in the hand of the righteous, its strength glows blue

Many shall seek, one shall find

This gift and curse, this fruit and rind.

Hunt with a warning, all who dare

The course is rough, the challenge unfair.

Within the earth, the loamy soil,

Where darkness reigns and light recoils,

One stone contains that which ye seek,

A gift for the strong but not the meek.

A final feat remains below,

Where pain and fear shall seed and grow.

If worthy ye are, the gift shall wrest,

If not, prepare for Harbingers of Death.

When she finished, the men were silent. For an uncomfortable period of time, nobody spoke. Then, as if from nowhere, Desmond Branch laughed.

It was loud. It was hearty. It echoed and bounced back at them from the walls of the crevice and the gaping hole in front of them.

Anaxi thought it affected and false bravado. The pirate wasn’t the confident marauder he pretended to be. Not really. She’d seen him at his weakest, and it tipped the scales more deeply than the times during which she’d seen him at his strongest.

As he laughed, the other men joined nervously at first until they too were leaning back, somehow finding humor either in the poem or comfort in their leader’s nonchalance.

Branch waved them off when he was finished. “Really?” he scoffed. “The Harbingers of Death? That’s a thing? What does that even mean? C’mon now.”

Anaxi wasn’t sure what he meant. Was he questioning the veracity of the rhyme? Hadn’t he already seen that what the poems contained were real warnings. There was nothing false about them. Nonetheless, he persisted.

“I’m not buying what you’re selling on this one,” he said.

His body language betrayed his uncertainty. It didn’t matter what he said. He was frightened. Acting brave only for the sake of impressing his men.

“Let’s go,” he said and moved toward the hole. He paused. “You go first.”

Anaxi pointed at herself. “Me?”

“Yes. You.”

He grabbed her arm and shoved her ahead of him. Then without arguing or hesitating, Anaxi did as he told her. She took the lead and climbed into the dark. It was time…

Chapter Thirty

Zeke stood on the rocks, looking back at the smoldering remains of the camp. Plumes of smoke twirled into thin wisps before dissipating. A collection of the men from the Saladin who’d surrendered sat cross-legged in clusters. None of them spoke. Some of them shot angry or frightened glances at the quartet who’d threatened them with certain death if they resisted.

Uriel was at Zeke’s side. Hands on her hips, she sighed and motioned toward the peaks with her chin. “That’s our destination?”

Zeke faced the mountains. They cut against the sky like they were wide black rips in an otherwise orange and pink canvas. Clouds formed above the peaks, reflecting the light and casting soft hues of red into the darkening sky.

“That’s what Lucius says,” Zeke said. “The Kalevanmiekka is up there inside the crater. Inside the mountain, actually.”

Uriel shifted her weight. The rocks underneath her scratched against one another, emitting a squeaking sound. Zeke turned his back to the mountains and looked out at the beach stretching before him.

Lucius stood at the water’s edge. He watched the Saladin anchored off the shore.

To the far right, Phil bound the last of the hostage pirates. He’d used a clever combination of rope and anchor chain to cuff them to their spots. They couldn’t leave the men unattended, and Zeke was sure he’d need all four of them atop the volcano. This seemed the best option.

The others offered help. Phil declined. He appeared to relish the task.

The wash of the surf sloshed onto the sand behind them. Along with the breeze it brought, the air vibrated with a constant hum. The sound was unlike anything Zeke had ever heard.

He closed his eyes to focus on it. The volume of the surf rose and fell. He could smell it, the mix of brine and decay. A beautiful mixture of life and death.

Zeke took a few steps from the rocks and onto the sand. His boots sank into the forgiving texture of it. He’d spent his previous life in a sand-whipped desert wasteland where it was always hot and crusted. Never before had he seen its source so plentiful, so active, so violent. The ocean before him was what had carved and honed the rocks behind him into the fine granules of sand beneath his feet. Without the sea, and wind, and time, sand wouldn’t exist.

He considered those things, about how the sea was the machine, the wind the power, and time the fusion of them both. Without one, the others couldn’t do their job. None was more important than the other.

But the sea, he thought, is the most tangible of those elements. Time was relative. It was a construct that had no true existence. The wind was invisible. It grew and shrank on its own whim. Only the sea was a constant. An omnipresent player in an eternal mission.

He glanced at Lucius. The man crouched in the surf, letting the tidal surge wash onto him.

Then at Phil. He worked knots into weak links.

Finally, he twisted to look at Uriel. She had her back to him. She held her heel in her hand, stretching one leg and then the other.

He thought of Li and her confused misery. And of Pedro. The wise old man tending bar, issuing weapons, assigning missions, offering aphorisms.

Who among them was the sea? Who was time? Who was sand?

Zeke balled his right hand into a fist and lifted it. A dim throb of pale blue pulsed in his fingers, accentuating the parallel lines on his knuckles. He considered the options and decided all of them were the sea, time, and sand. All of them were responsible for their own path, their grinding journeys from one side of existence to the other.

He inhaled the salty air, relishing its thickness, and understood that in his past life the sea was missing both physically and metaphysically. A breeze brushed his face, and he opened his eyes to the wind. The ocean was inky now, the horizon purple where it met the endless stretch of water.

Behind him, Phil shouted, “All good here! We can get underway.”

Lucius used his fingertips to push himself to his feet. He dripped with seawater but appeared unfazed. He took heavy, long strides up the shore.

Zeke took in the expanse of water a moment longer, then pivoted. He marched up the sand to the rocks and joined the others. Ahead of them rose a dense jungle that manifested as thick as a fortress wall. The foreboding place stretched across the rocks from the encampment on their left to a curving peninsula on their right. There was no way around it. The only way to the mountaintop was through. In the dark.

Lucius took an audible breath. He exhaled from puffed cheeks. It was exaggerated for attention. Zeke obliged.

“What?” he asked.

“Something awaits us in there,” said Lucius. “I don’t know what it is, but legend foretells of a last resistance before the peaks. It’s in the jungle. Among the trees. Hidden somewhere in the darkness.”

Zeke nodded. “Okay. Good to know. I’ll take the lead. Whatever it is will have to go through me before it gets to you, Lucius. I want Phil up front with me. Lucius, you’re behind us. Uriel, you bring up the rear.”

Lucius’s eyes widened. “Why can’t we just jump over it? I mean, like we did from the boat to the ship?”

“It doesn’t work like that,” said Phil. “It’s too far and the canopy is to thick. We’d kill ourselves trying to do that.”

“Kill ourselves?” asked Lucius. “We’re already dead.”

Phil rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean.”

Zeke ended the back-and-forth. He pointed toward the peak, its irregular shape outlined with the last rays of the setting sun behind it. “We don’t have time for this,” he said. “They’re probably already in the crater. Who knows how close they are to finding the sword?”

“We’ll know the second anyone touches it,” said Phil.

“All right,” said Zeke. “You’ve got the plan. Me and Phil. Lucius. Uriel. In that order.”

Uriel scowled at him. Her annoyance was clear even in the dim light of a rising moon. “The rear?” she said. “Why can’t I take point?”

Zeke deadpanned, “You can, but you won’t. I’m not letting you go first. I need someone watching our six. That’s you.”

Uriel glared. “There are so many things wrong with that sentence I don’t know where to begin.”

“Pick one. Start there.”

Uriel flinched at the curt response. Studying him, she took a step back as if to see the bigger picture.

A new confidence swelled within Zeke. It consumed him. Made him feel almost invincible. It projected in his posture, in his decision-making, in his tone of voice. It wasn’t arrogance or misplaced bravado. Zeke understood, maybe for the first time in his lives, what he could do, who he was capable of being.

Uriel huffed. “First, you’re not letting me do anything.”

“Not for nothing, this is his mission, Uriel,” Phil remarked. “He is letting you.”

She held up her hand, signaling for Phil to stop. “And second, ‘watch our six’? Who talks like that? Since when are you in the military?”

Zeke smirked. “I don’t know why I said that. It sounded cool. And you said ‘take point’. I was going with it. But you’re last in line. I trust you there. I need you there, Uriel. It’s not a slight. If anything, Phil should be offended because I didn’t ask him to go last. That’s how important a job it is.”

Phil grunted. “I’m not offended.”

The tension in Uriel’s shoulders eased. Her expression relaxed. She regarded the rocks under their feet and kicked at one with the toe of her boot. Finally, she nodded. “Okay. Fine. This is your mission. You’re right. I’ll kick ass no matter where you put me. Whatever.”

Zeke extended his arm and offered her his hand.

She stared at it and shook her head. “Not yet. Let’s see how this plays.”

Dropping his hand with a resigned chuckle, he winked at her. “Sure thing.”

With that, he took a first lunging step toward the jungle.

As they delved in, Zeke was suddenly aware of the chirping cacophony of nocturnal things alive in the jungle. It drowned the comforting sounds of the surf and wind, droning with a constancy that was almost deafening.

He pushed past a pair of heart-shaped leaves the size of elephant’s ears and was enveloped by darkness. Sweat formed under his arms, and a trail of perspiration ran down the center of his back. It was almost cold in the ripe darkness of the tropical forest. It wasn’t the temperature that produced the sweat. It was his gut. A sensation that what lurked within the walls of the jungle wasn’t the worst of what they had yet to face.

Chapter Thirty-One

Desmond Branch didn’t need both eyes. He could see plenty fine with one.

He had all four of his limbs. Two feet. Two hands. That was enough. His guile and wit had served him more than his vision during the sordid chapters of his life. They would serve him well here in the hole that wound down into the heart of a volcano.

The tunnel twisted back and forth, leading them in one direction and then the other. The only constant was the downward trajectory of their path. The temperature warmed with every turn. The sweat on his forehead, which began as a thin sheen, now streamed down the sides of his face and neck. His feet slipped uncomfortably inside his boots.

In parts, he stood erect as he walked, stretching his spine and moving as easily as one might in a dark tunnel lit only by a single burning torch. In other spots, the uneven walls narrowed and the floor rose as if to meet the ceiling. In those places, he bent over at his waist and used his hands to navigate his course. More than once, the back of his head scraped the rough, porous surface above him.

The tunnel seemed blasted a chunk at a time rather than carved or drilled with purpose. Branch said nothing as he moved, the tall shadows of his party absorbed into the black rock.

His discomfort extended to his thoughts. He’d been wrong to discount Anaxi’s warning. He sensed this. He should have engaged her, not blown her off. Sometimes, his insecurity undercut his guile and wit.

Anaxi Mander walked in front of him. She was small enough that she didn’t concern herself with the often-cramped conditions. She moved easily, if not methodically, along the drop.

More than once he considered saying something to her. He had questions. But he thought better of asking, having chastised his man at sword point for doing the same in the jungle. A good leader set a good example.

Flickering light drew his attention from Anaxi as it danced along the ragged curve of the walls. It looked to him like the reflection of water or snakes writhing in clusters.

Behind him, the shuffle of his men’s feet scuffed along the rock. Altogether, it gave him the feeling of a funeral procession and not of a victory march. That sensation stuck in his gut. He couldn’t hold his tongue any longer.

He touched Anaxi’s shoulder. She didn’t react. Unsure if she’d felt his touch, he spoke aloud.

“What is it?” he said to her, voice echoing. “What’s the final challenge?”

The unknown clawed at his cramped psyche as much as anything. He needed to know. He had to prepare himself. Not knowing what he and his men would face, what final obstacle they must overcome, was grinding on him.

Anaxi kept moving, dragging her left hand along the ragged wall. Only the side of her face was visible as she partially turned to answer him. “I don’t know.”

Branch took two elongated steps to pull even with her on her right. She kept moving, unfazed by his approach. It was as if he wasn’t there. She didn’t skip a stride or blanch at his approach.

Hunched at his waist, with an eye toward the sloping ceiling ahead, he seized her shoulder to slow her. His fingers gripped the joint and squeezed like dulled talons. “You don’t know, or you won’t tell me,” he growled.

She shrugged, rolling her shoulder to try to free herself from his grip. It didn’t work. She faced him and scowled. “Both,” she bristled.

He let go and wagged a finger at her. “You’re lying. You know what danger awaits us.”

She stopped cold. He did too. The men behind them piled into one another, but kept their feet.

It was Anaxi who poked her finger now. Standing up straight, she had an advantage over the hunched and off-balance Branch. He stumbled back a step when she connected, and hit his head on a sharp curve of rock.

“What I know is that you’re not worthy of the Kalevanmiekka,” she said. “It won’t matter what you do. The energy around it won’t let you take it.”

Adrenaline flushed through his body. His muscles tensed. His instinct was to take her tiny finger in his hand and twist it until it cracked like a clamshell underfoot.

He contained himself, instead sucking in a deep and patient breath.

With one hand, he reached back and blindly grabbed Le Grand’s collar. Branch yanked his torchbearer closer and took the flaming club from his hand. He dipped the flame toward Anaxi, and it brightened her face in a warm glow. Everything around her darkened to onyx black. The heat from the torch licked at his face, and he was certain it did the same to hers.

“If I weren’t worthy, little girl, I’d be dead.” He elongated his words for effect. The baritone vibrated in his throat and melted into the crackle of the flame between them. “Quit the nonsense. Get me to where I need to be. And if there are any surprises, you’ll be the first one I sacrifice to the gods or devils running this carnival. You understand?”

The flame flickered in her eyes, reflected in the shrunken dark pupils struggling to repel the bright orange and yellow tongues of heat. He thought he saw fear there too. For a second. Not even that long. Then it was gone and resolve returned. Her upper lip curled into a sneer.

She looked away from him and said, “Keep up, then. I’m getting tired of waiting for you.”

It took another two hours before they reached the end of the winding tunnel. Desmond Branch’s legs were heavy with exhaustion. His mouth was dry. His head pounded at the temples.

Torchlight revealed a round wooden door in front of them. Or was it a wall? It had no hinges. There was no handle. Only a single iron ring and, below that, burned into the aged, cracked wood, were four icons.

The first image was a simple diamond shape. The second image was a rectangle.

The third was a simple cross. The horizontal was much shorter than the vertical and it extended along the bottom half, below the horizontal line’s center.

The fourth image was the most ornate, though that was relative. It was a circle with eight straight lines extending from it. It reminded Branch of a cartoonish eyeball with false lashes.

Anaxi stood with her back to the door. She aimed a thumb over her shoulder. “This is it. The sword’s on the other side of that door.”

Despite his exhaustion, Branch was again renewed. He wiped the crust from his good eye.

“What are those?” he asked.

“What are what?”

“The symbols. The carvings. Whatever they are. What do they represent?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

Frustration swelled. There she went again with the half-truths. “How is that?” he said. “How is it you know some things and not others?”

Again, Anaxi shook her head. “I’m not—”

Branch could feel the blood warming his face. He snarled through clenched teeth, cutting her off, “You memorized cute little rhymes but didn’t know what they meant. You find the one island on the entire planet where the sword is kept, a place nobody has found since long before the melt, but you couldn’t tell me that biting insects would kill my men.”

He jabbed at the air with a pointed finger blanched white from a clenched fist. He spat as he barked. Some of it hit the girl in the eyes and she flinched.

“Now you know the sword is behind that door but can’t tell me what these markings mean! How is that?” he roared. “How is that!”

His voice reverberated off the walls. In its fading tenor, those walls shook. So did the floor. He thought it might be some odd effect only he felt. The vibration started in his boots and worked up his legs into his gut.

But it wasn’t only him. Anaxi swayed and balanced herself against the door in front of him. To his right, Le Grand lifted his free hand to the low ceiling and planted his fingers there, as if anchoring himself to the rough volcanic rock. Behind him, his men stumbled and used one another to keep themselves mostly upright. Black dust rained on them from the low ceiling. It ran down the walls like rivulets of black rain.

When the quake stopped, its echo ran through his bones, like a string humming long after the pluck.

One of his men pronounced the cause. “Earthquake.”

Others mumbled in agreement. Their chorus of anxiety rose in volume until Branch halted it.

He turned to his minions and snapped, “We don’t know that!”

Branch hoped it wasn’t an earthquake. This far underground, inside a volcano, he worried about what a fracture in the earth might do. Would it open a gaping endless hole beneath their feet? Would it close off their exit and trap them alive in a black tomb? Or would they melt in an endless flow of magma?

None of those options were appealing. As much as Desmond Branch relished opportunities to inflict pain, he wasn’t much for being on the receiving end.

Anaxi placed her palms flat against the door. “You’re right,” she said. “It’s not an earthquake.”

He watched her press the side of her face against the wood as if listening for a heartbeat. She closed her eyes. Then opened them wide. Fear stretched her features.

“What is it?” he asked.

The men behind him fell silent. A low vibration shook from the other side of the door. The iron ring on the door rattled against its strike plate.

“Whatever it is,” she said, barely above a whisper, “it’s enormous.”

She stepped away from the door. The quartet of burned images were at eye level for her, and she traced her fingers across the thick lines, pausing at the circle with the lashes extending from it.

Without turning around, she said, “Are you ready?”

Branch swallowed against the dryness in his throat. He checked his men over his shoulder, scanning their faces and gauging their expressions.

For all his adult life, Desmond Branch had led men into battle. On the endless sea or on the spots of land drizzled across the roiling globe, he’d fought for what was his even if it wasn’t. In every case his soldiers were hardened. The grit set in their jaws, the anticipatory glisten in their eyes had always told Branch they were ready. They’d foam at the mouth like rabid dogs for the fray in front of them. They fed on it. Sustained themselves on the blood and treasure of others.

As he studied their expressions now, he didn’t see that resolve. He didn’t recognize their unflinching willingness to risk their limbs and lives for the cause.

In their expressions, he saw hesitation. Fear.

It didn’t matter.

They’d not come this far to stop now. He faced Anaxi and nodded.

“Always,” he said.

She lifted a hand to the iron ring and then knocked it against the strike plate three times. The sound of metal tapping on metal echoed against the silence.

She quickly retreated behind Le Grand. Then she regarded the rest of the men and warned them, “Prepare yourselves. Most of you will die.”

The sound of metal sliding emanated from behind the door. There was a click and a thunk. Then the door creaked open on hinges in need of oil. Firelight flickered brightly from the inside, a shaft of yellow widening on the tunnel floor as the door swung inward.

Branch drew his sword and gripped it with both sweaty hands. His pulse was rapid in his chest and loud in his ears.

When the door opened completely, Branch leaned forward on his toes.

The room was awash in both light and shadow. Along the walls were a row of mounted torches. Where the flames reached, Branch could see. Where they didn’t, it was as dark as a moonless night on the endless sea.

At the far end of the room, Branch spotted three black pedestals rising from the floor as if molded into the igneous rock. If it weren’t for the objects set atop them, the pedestals would blend into the curved obsidian walls behind them.

In the warm light, the objects appeared to sparkle. The shapes distinct.

One was a large multifaceted diamond that reflected the firelight in prisms of vibrant colors. Its shape echoed the rhombus on the door.

On the middle platform was a large full-length mirror. Its glass reflected the flame of a torch opposite it, and its gilded frame almost glowed against its black surroundings. This, Branch understood, was the rectangle.

The podium on the left held the prize. The Kalevanmiekka stood tall. Its pommel and grip were closest to the ceiling. Its guard stretched outward and separated the hilt from the shining blade. That blade stretched downward to the podium, its point disappearing into the top of the black stone column from the start of the central ridge. This was the cross.

Branch processed all of it in two blinks of his healthy eye. If there was one thing he knew, it was treasure. Before the third blink, however, he witnessed the true-life representation of the circle-with-lashes symbol. His breath caught in his chest as if the air was sucked from the chamber.

Emerging from the shadows, visible in flashes, was a beast unlike anything Branch had seen or even dreamed of. It was a monster, true and simple. And now it moved between him and the Kalevanmiekka, its large shifting shape blocking the view.

The monster’s body was coiled. It was thick, and as its length writhed along the floor, a rhythm of pulses across the black, its dappled skin appeared slick. At first, in that instant, Branch thought it was a tail. It wasn’t. It was a serpent’s body larger than anything he’d ever seen. The size of a small whale, the serpent slithered toward the open door.

Branch’s eyes lifted from the body to see it split into a collection of tapered necks, which ended in diamond-shaped heads. Atop the heads were catlike eyes with narrow vertical pupils. Flared nostrils decorated reptilian snouts. Forked tongues flicked between razor-sharp rows of white fangs.

Quickly, Branch counted in his mind. One. Two. Three. And then he knew it. Eight. There were eight heads, like the eight lashes atop the circle on the door.

Without thinking any more about it or waiting for the beast to move, Branch drove forward into the room. He lunged at a shadow. One of the serpent heads recoiled and struck.

Its fetid breath engulfed the air around Branch, but he was quick. Even injured, the pirate moved with a twitch that couldn’t be taught. It was an innate skill, the ability to move and shift, to dance and strike.

Branch countered the serpent head with an upward stab of his blade. He missed the meat of it, but grazed its long neck with the side of his sword. Warm blood sprayed from the wound.

He unleashed a guttural war cry and lunged again. This time he waited for the beast to strike, sidestepping its clumsy move and swinging downward. The blade connected at the back of the diamond-shaped head at its widest part.

Branch felt the edge chop into the thick outer layer of its leathery skin before it hit bone. He jerked back, slicing deeper as he withdrew the blade.

The beast hissed and snapped, but it was wounded. Blood drained from the injury and the neck’s whipping motion slowed. Lazily, it tried again to strike. Branch deflected the attack and drove the blade into one of the monster’s eyes. Its mouth gaped open and flexed as if biting at air. Then it flailed and flopped to the ground, pulling with it the closest of the seven other heads.

That head jumped from a shadow and wound toward Branch, but was too far away to strike. The beast’s body was focused on the heart of the battle, turned away from Branch.

So focused on his own efforts, Branch didn’t notice what was happening right next to him. His men engaged the other sextet of viper-heads striking at them.

One of his men, he couldn’t tell which, was in the jaws of one of the snakes. His lower body hung from the clenched jaws of the beast as it whipped its neck back and forth. The man’s legs twisted at odd angles before the beast tilted back its head, unhinged its jaw, and swallowed the man whole.

Distracted as Branch was by the sight, the seventh serpent caught him. Its snap clacked inches from his hip. He jerked away in response and swiped his sword across the side of the beast’s long neck. It split its flesh like a fruit peel and exposed the layers of skin and muscle underneath. The beast recoiled into the shadow.

The aches and pains that had slowed Branch’s approach to this final stage of the quest were absent memories now. Adrenaline and sheer force of will flooded his body. Seizing an opportunity, he used the slain head of the beast to launch himself toward the seventh head.

Still in the shadow, Branch didn’t see the lithe neck swerve away and cut underneath him. When he landed, the snake struck. Jaws wide, it lunged with uncanny speed at his chest.

Just enough torchlight reflected off the venomous web of spittle stretched between the fangs, allowing Branch to parry the strike and manage a quick chop that sliced off the forked end of the snake’s tongue.

The beast threw back its head and flailed. When it whipped its head downward, Branch met it with the tip of the sword and drove it through the underside of its jaw. Skewered, the beast thrashed twice before the lifeless appendage hit the ground with a sickening thud.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Anaxi stood frozen in the sweltering round chamber. The man who’d fought next to her was gone. Devoured. She watched as one of the beast’s snakelike heads unhinged its jaw and gulped. The flesh along its neck flexed in a wave as the muscles worked to slide the whole man deeper into its body.

To her left, Branch battled a second head. And then a third.

On both sides of her, more men fought. Le Grand and two others worked the farthest head to the right. To her left, another two men bobbed and swayed, using light and shadow to avoid the beast’s quick strikes. None of them went on the offensive the way Branch did. He was the only one, it seemed, not content merely to survive. Anaxi took her cue from him and not from the others. Offense was the best defense.

She shook herself from the momentary stupor and spotted a long spear on the ground, which had belonged to the man now dissolving in the juices of the snake’s digestive system.

She bent and plucked it from the ground. Her knuckles scraped across the rough stone, tearing skin away in flaky patches. Ignoring the sting, she hefted the spear’s shaft into her right hand and lifted it to her shoulder. She balanced the polearm, tilting the point upward in her sweaty palm. Hair stuck to her face, obstructing her vision as she worked her plan.

The snake head above her relished its meal and hadn’t returned to the fray. This was her chance. She studied the entire underside of its long neck and diamond-shaped jawline.

An oblong swell stretched the base of its neck. The swell moved lower and lower with each muscular undulation. Anaxi ignored what this meant for the man whose weapon she now held.

The snake flicked its tongue in the air. Testing it. Smelling it. Its body shifted and its chest heaved. The throbbing pulse of its heart seemed to ripple against the scaly construct of its skin. There was almost a glimmer where the source of all its life thundered beneath the surface.

This was her chance.

Anaxi charged forward. A pair of long strides and a push landed her at the base of the third snake’s neck. This was the widest part of the entire beast, the spot from which all eight necks and heads appeared to root and spring. Without stopping, she took another long stride. She pulled back the spear, her hand moving behind her ear. Her body twisted, coiling. Her right shoulder pulled back, and the muscles along her chest strained. She lifted her elbow with one final leap, planted her front foot, and drove the spear forward.

Her bleeding knuckles brushed the side of her face as she grunted. The air left her lungs. Her stomach clenched. Her back leg kicked into the air behind her. The thigh of her planted leg tightened, cementing her in place as she uncoiled.

Anaxi put everything she had into this movement. Her grunt became a roar that tore at her throat.

The spear landed dead center in that wide part of the beast’s broad, imposing chest. The iron spike drove deep beneath the flesh. At once, the beast and its remaining heads bucked backward and hissed. The sound was like a waterfall crashing into rocks a thousand meters below. The room shook. Black dust clouded the air. The torchlight appeared to dim. The world quaked underneath Anaxi’s feet.

But she held the spear in place, the wood blistering the soft skin of her palm and fingers. She kept it long enough to grab it with her other hand and pull. Using downward leverage, the spear ripped something fatal inside the beast.

It thrashed. The hissing crescendoed. Its tail whipped forward and caught a man to her right. He vanished into shadow as if evaporated. The sound of cracking bone hitting solid rock followed.

Anaxi gave the spear a final tug. It lodged the barbed spike into the creature’s chest before its movement forced her raw hands to let go. She ducked out of the way as the pole swung back and forth from the beast’s writhing.

One by one the heads drooped, the tongues wagged, and the necks weakened. The beast was dying. Anaxi reached for the spear again, hoping a final tug or push might end the beast’s fight, but as she did, something hard knocked her from her left side. She crashed to the hard floor on her shoulder. A bolt of pain shot through her arm and along her side.

She clenched her eyelids and gritted her teeth. The room spun around her. A deafening thud shook the ground underneath her, and black pumice ash sprinkled her sweating face and neck.

The room fell silent as the air leaked from the beast. She opened her eyes and saw Branch lying on the ground next to her. His good eye stared straight into hers.

As she focused, sweat fogging her sight, Anaxi wasn’t sure if he was alive or dead. And for reasons she couldn’t quite understand, she wasn’t sure which of those things she’d rather be the truth.

Chapter Thirty-Three

An icy breeze slapped Li in the face as she pushed through the cantina doors and onto the porch. The cold stung her eyes, bit at her nostrils, and burned her ears.

The wind carried with it a thick fog of snow, which, at first, disguised what lay beyond the plank boards of Pedro’s wraparound. Crystals crunched under her feet as she turned sideways and tried to slice her way through the chill toward the railing at the front of the porch.

Pedro was already there, his shirt collar pulled above the shoulders of his vest. His hands were buried deep into his pockets. From behind, she could see puffs of his breath stream to one side before lifting into an invisible vapor.

“I was never much for the cold,” he said. “Dries out my sinuses. Makes my skin itch. You?”

Li eased beside him, the surprising warmth of his body an invitation to stand close. She did. She folded her arms across her chest and tucked her balled fists underneath her arms. A shiver ran through her body.

“I’ve never seen snow,” she said. “I’ve read about it. This is snow, right?”

Pedro chuckled in the same way a grandfather might laugh at a silly, but plausible, question from a precious child.

“Yes, Adaliah,” he said. “This is snow. It’s magnificent for a day. Maybe two. Then it gets old.”

She scanned the vast stretch of land beyond the cantina. Where there was water the last time she’d looked outside, there was now a white desert. She wondered if the ocean lay underneath.

“Why the snow?” she asked.

Pedro motioned to the left, to the same place from which she’d raced against the Horde. Off in the distance, a dark spot moved along the snowy plain. The descending sun cast a shadow on the object, which made it easier to spot.

Not far behind it was a much larger patch of dark movement. It spread across the white plain like wine across a tablecloth, leeching farther and farther.

“That’s the new arrival I told you about,” he said. “Not sure he’ll make it. Rough life. A revenge seeker.”

The wind shifted and swirled around her, chilling Li’s neck. She tightened her fists and adjusted them under her arms. Her toes were cold even in her boots. She wiggled them to make sure she could.

Behind them, swinging bar doors rocked on their hinges. Heavy steps trod across the boards. Barach sidled up next to Li, sandwiching her between the two larger men. She didn’t mind it. They blocked the wind for the most part. Barach leaned onto the railing with his forearms, clasped his hands together, and tilted his head toward the coming Horde and their chase.

“That him?” he asked.

Pedro sighed. “Yep. I would have thought he’d have a bigger lead on the Horde. I was telling Li, I’m not sure he’ll make it.”

Li watched the chase. She imagined the panic coursing through the man’s confused mind. She empathized. That was her not that long ago. The sensation of being dropped into the middle of a dream without having fallen asleep.

There was the rush of excitement. The pain of injury. The mind-numbing fear.

Who are these nasty people giving chase? What do they want? What would they do if they caught me?

These thoughts, along with the instinctual urge to run, were poured into a boiling pot about to spill over. It was the most-life affirming combination of sensations Li had ever felt. The irony wasn’t lost on her as she recalled experiencing those thoughts without the context of the truth.

She nudged Pedro with her shoulder and asked, “How did he die?”

“Avalanche,” he said.

Li raised an eyebrow. “Avalanche?”

“It’s when a sheet of snow comes loose and barrels down a mountainside. Quite something to witness. Nature is a powerful thing.”

“Not more powerful than you.”

He snorted a laugh. A visible puff of air curled from his nostrils. “Who says we aren’t one and the same?”

She considered this and followed his gaze back toward the new arrival. The speck was a distinctive blob now. The shadows helped her trace his progress along the sea of snow and ice. Sunlight bounced off the white, making it glow almost blindingly.

The three of them watched silently, letting the wind fill the spaces between them. Snow was falling harder now. It came in curtains of thick white flakes that dropped and drifted in silence toward the ground.

The approaching drama drew closer. Li could make out individuals amongst the Horde and the turn of the new arrival’s head as he frantically checked over his shoulder at the relentless pursuit.

The single line of the Horde’s pursuit cleaved in two. They were trying to flank him, force the direction of his movement. The man ran a straight line toward them. Or rather, dogs ran, Li realized. He rode behind them on some sort of wooden apparatus. The Horde also drove packs of dogs in front of them.

“What’s he doing?” she asked. “With the dogs?”

Barach answered this time. “He’s on a sled. It’s a form of transportation in icy, desolate climates.”

“Dog…sleds?”

“Exactly,” said Barach. “The teams of dogs can move much easier over the snow. The driver works them like teams of horses.”

She’d read about that in some of the Regency period novels on her shelves. Banned books about aristocracy and individual freedom were delicious. None of them, however, featured teams of dogs other than those set loose to hunt. They weren’t strapped to sleds.

As they drew closer, the snaps of whips cracked across the air like thunder. The dogs’ tongues flopped from their maws. Their bright eyes, electric blue like Pedro’s, collectively focused on the destination.

“His name is Matthew,” Pedro said. “Or Matthias. Or Mateo. Matej. Matvei. I can’t remember which. They’re all the same, yet not. He’s desperate to get here even if he doesn’t know why.”

The familiar sensation washed through Li’s body as she watched Matthew work the dogs behind the curtain of snow. He urged them forward with a rhythmic push of his hips and shoulders. The dogs trudged through deepening terrain, the snow up to their chests as they plowed forward.

Li silently cheered him on to the finish. She didn’t know Matthew, but her heart pounded in her chest. Short breaths caught in her throat. She desperately wanted him to make it.

To Matthew’s right, the flanking line of Horde sledders advanced. They mushed their dogs past him to choke his approach and force him off course.

“He might not make it,” said Barach.

They angled their path, driving Matthew to the left and closer to the Horde pursuing from that side. A spear launched at him and barely missed, vanishing into the endless white.

Li bit her lower lip. Her tongue ran across the cracked surface of it. Her heart raced.

“What happens if he doesn’t make it?” she asked, breathless.

Matthew’s dogs slowed; their progress impeded now by the Horde cutting across their path. They blocked him from the cantina. There was seemingly no way around.

“He’s not going to make it,” Barach said, a hint of disappointment in his tone.

Li repeated her question. “What happens?”

“Just watch,” Pedro said.

Matthew’s dogs almost stopped completely in their tracks. The snow was heavy enough that Li could no longer see their eyes. Their coats, covered in snow, blended into the landscape.

Li held her breath. Her back stiffened. A wind blew across her face, making her eyes water. She refused to blink.

The Horde surrounded Matthew on three sides now. But at the last instant, Matthew cracked his whip. The snap raced across the thin crust of ice atop the snow, its sound a spark that ignited his team. The dogs jumped to the left, behind the section of the Horde that had blocked him. It was the only open spot through which to escape.

Before the Horde could react, he was through the narrow opening and racing around the back side of the enemy ranks. He cracked his whip against the icy air again and again, each snap like a turn of the ignition. The dogs leaped, almost flying, across the ground toward the cantina.

There was an open path now, but the Horde gave chase. Turning and regrouping, they surged. A volley of projectiles arced through the air, barely visible through the falling snow.

Matthew turned. The dogs headed straight for the porch now. He was closing in on them. He would make it.

Li exhaled. Not realizing she’d been holding her breath, she sucked in deep lungfuls of cold air. It stung and she exhaled again.

The projectiles aimed at the porch now as well, a mix of spears and arrows and hatchets. Li backed away, but Barach held her steady. Three projectiles overshot the target and hit an invisible wall at the steps to the porch, dropping flatly to the earth as if a giant hand swatted them away.

Matthew was meters away from reaching the porch. The dogs slowed. He leaped from the sled and sank into the snow up to his hips. Using his hands, he climbed onto his belly and tried sliding himself along the ground.

He looked up at Pedro. His eyes caught Li’s for an instant, pleading for help. He struggled onto his elbows and knees, reaching for the porch. He stretched to touch the bottom step when an arrow drove squarely into his back.

Li suppressed a shocked cry. Barach winced. Pedro was unfazed.

Matthew’s back arched. His shoulders drove back and together. His eyes fluttered. Li saw the bruising on his cheeks and across his jaw. It was dark purple, with yellow-green around the edges. She imagined these were the wounds from the avalanche.

Behind him, a tall skeleton of a man stepped from his sled. His boots sank into the snow, but he marched forward without trouble. A nasty smile spread across his narrow face, revealing angular teeth that ended in fine points. A gray tongue snaked across them.

In one hand he wielded a large curved blade. He held it at his side, the blade rubbing against his leg as he moved. He was only a meter from Matthew when he raised the blade and opened his mouth wide to speak. But as he did, Matthew’s strength gave out. His head dropped. He flopped onto the ice face-first, and his right hand slapped against the step.

The tall man stopped mid stride. Mechanically he tilted his head to one side, as if studying something he’d never seen before. A curious child or confused dog.

Pedro moved from the railing. “All right then. That’s enough.”

Without reacting, the tall man took a step back and pivoted. He motioned to the other members of the Horde, and together they turned their sleds around. In a group, they drove their hounds away from the cantina.

Pedro stood on the bottom step. His left boot was next to Matthew’s hand. He looked down at him and reached over to touch the arrow. He ran his thick fingers along the feathers along its fletching. Then he glanced back at Li.

“C’mon then,” he said. “I’ll be needing your help. If there’s a mission here, it’s yours.”

Chapter Thirty-Four

“It’s not just a sword, you know,” said Uriel. “There’s more to it than that.”

Zeke stepped over a decaying, felled tree. It snapped under his weight as he pushed off it. He scanned his surroundings for any threats. Shafts of lights cut through the thick canopy, playing tricks. The light danced off webs and disappeared shadows. Tiny bugs, almost too small to see, zipped in and out of it. The distant din of insects was the soundtrack that faded into the background.

It wasn’t a distraction to Zeke. Uriel was. She kept talking from the rear of the group.

“The sword is only part of the legend,” she continued. “It’s only one of the things Josephine left behind.”

Zeke called over his shoulder, indulging her, as he stepped underneath a low-hanging frond. With his hands, he motioned for Lucius to watch his head.

“How do you know this?” he asked. “And why are we just now learning about it?”

“I know a lot more than I let on,” she said. “I’m not one of those people who has to tell people everything I know.”

Zeke pushed past a thicket of low brush. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means what it means.”

Lucius stepped alongside Zeke as they moved into a small clearing. A wide beam of light shone down onto the detritus covering the ground. Zeke glanced up at the hole in the canopy and relished the sunlight. He squinted against it and shielded his eyes with a salute. The warmth felt good on his face despite the perspiration that drenched his hair and coated his forehead, neck, and behind his ears.

“I knew about the other items,” said Lucius. “They’re part of the legend.”

Zeke hopped over a stump. “That’s what Uriel said.”

Lucius walked around the stump and kept pace. His shorter legs worked faster to stay even with Zeke as they moved from the clearing and back into the dense foliage.

“They are part of what the legend calls the Regalia,” he said. “The three items together represent virtues. The sword is valor. The other two are for wisdom and benevolence.”

Valor, wisdom, and benevolence. These three together tipped the balance of good and evil in one direction. Why wouldn’t it then be a good thing for something so favored toward good be in the hands of someone with bad intentions? Wouldn’t that strike the equilibrium?

Zeke held up his hand and stopped. They were under a cluster of thorny trees, which twisted skyward, searching for the light.

He pivoted to face the others. “Hold on. How is it that two out of three of you knew there was more than a sword and neither of you told me?”

Phil raised his hand. “I knew too.”

Zeke huffed. “All of you knew?”

“You didn’t ask,” Uriel said.

Zeke’s face flushed with the heat of frustration. He flexed his hands and stepped back into something soft that gave way under his boot.

He ignored the prick of a sting on his calf. “I didn’t ask? Really? Would it have mattered? I ask questions all the time that go unanswered. I have questions about questions from other questions. And you’re telling me—”

The attack was instantaneous. No warning. No time to mount a defense. In a split second, red ants were everywhere. On the trees. On the ground. They seemed to fill the dank cool air of the jungle as if hovering like flies. Zeke couldn’t figure out what to do about it.

Each stinging bite amplified the one before it. He couldn’t think straight. Not with the bolts of pain zapping through his body one after the other.

While he swiped at a swarm on his right arm, he caught Uriel out of the corner of his eye. She glowed blue and appeared to be ant free. Instead of focusing on herself, she was helping Lucius. He, like Zeke, was covered in ants.

“Get them off! Get them off!” he screamed.

Zeke didn’t see Phil.

Taking a cue from Uriel, Zeke stiffened his posture and tightened his hands into fists. Despite the stinging bites, which made him want to twitch and recoil, he focused on his core. His muscles tensed. The blood rushed into his head and he strained until the warm sensation of energy pulsed in his chest. The heat spread through his body and he opened his hands, then his eyes.

The pain was gone. Around him, on the floor of the jungle, lay a circle of dead ants. They’d fallen from his body. And now with the pulse of energy flowing through him, he bounded toward Lucius.

Whatever Uriel was trying to do to help Lucius wasn’t working. He squirmed on the ground in pain. Ants covered every inch of him. Zeke couldn’t even make out his features. They even coated his wagging tongue.

Zeke shoved Uriel out of the way and dove atop Lucius. He hugged the man with his arms and legs. He pressed his cheek to Lucius’s and squeezed.

Then he rolled around on the ground like he was putting out flames. As he did, he felt the ants release and drop to the ground.

He only stopped when Lucius stopped crying out in pain. The scream became a whimper and then it was nothing. He was quiet. Zeke rolled away and then kneeled beside him; the electricity coursed through his body. The blue light strobed on Lucius’s swollen, injured body.

Zeke realized Lucius wasn’t moving. He wasn’t breathing. Bright red welts peppered his exposed skin. In some spots the wounds blended into one larger swelling.

Lucius’s eyes were slits. His ears and nose looked like lumps of malformed clay. His fat tongue wouldn’t fit inside his mouth. His fingers twitched twice and stopped.

He squeaked. A sound like air escaping a racing tire leaked from him.

Zeke kneeled over him, unsure what to do, where to touch. Lucius was dying.

Only minutes before, they’d trekked through the dense jungle talking about their plans. How they would reunite him with his daughter. How they would save her and retrieve the sword. How there was more than a sword awaiting them. Now Lucius was motionless.

How was it the afterlife carried with it as much agony as life itself? This was a question to which Zeke decided he needed an answer. He couldn’t look the other way on this. And as soon as they were done with this quest, he’d make a note of it. He’d tell Uriel to remind him. He’d insist Phil bring up the subject in front of Pedro. The afterlife sucked.

Looking up at Uriel, Zeke swallowed past the knot in his throat. He opened his mouth to say something but was speechless. What was there to say?

Uriel and Phil stood side by side. The left side of Phil’s face was swollen at his cheek. Red bumps dotted his jawline. He scratched them, but said nothing.

Zeke looked away from the expressionless Watchers and down at his charge, Lucius Mander.

Lucius had landed at the cantina for a reason. There was a wrong in his life he needed to right. He sought to balance what he’d tipped too far to one side. Zeke looked at his face, frozen with the pained expression of a man dead from agony and poison and regret.

He regretted not learning more about Lucius. All he knew was that Lucius was a father who’d died at the hands of a pirate because of secrets he refused to divulge. His daughter knew those secrets, and she was a captive of the same pirate.

Father. Daughter. Pirate. Sword. That was the gist of it.

He’d seen the longing on Lucius’s face, the determination he held to redeem himself. Or was it something else? Was it not about redemption for Lucius, but rather about rescue? Was it both?

He reached out to touch Lucius’s chest, to apologize to him for failing him. It was too late. When he lowered his palm, it went through the spot where the chest had been an instant earlier. Lucius Mander evaporated into the ether, as Gabe had done on board the yacht.

“It’s okay, Zeke. We’ll see him at the bar again,” Uriel said, as if reading his mind.

“It doesn’t matter!” Zeke punched the ground. He cursed aloud, the foul language drawing silence from the jungle as it echoed through the trees and vines. “He’ll never see his daughter again…”

Nobody answered. He drew a few more ragged breaths, then pushed himself to his feet and faced the Watchers. He exhaled and took his Stetson from his head. Running his fingers through his sweaty hair, he used the hat to point toward the summit.

“We’re running out of time,” he said. “We have a mission. It hasn’t changed whether Lucius is with us or not. Let’s go get his daughter, grab the sword and whatever else there is up there, and deliver that pirate to the true Harbingers of Death.”

Chapter Thirty-Five

Anaxi Mander stood before the dead beast, completely out of breath. She grimaced. “This thing stinks. Like rotten eggs left in the sun too long.”

Desmond Branch moved next to her, stepping around the thick tail of the snake’s body. He surveyed the length of it and shook his head in what looked like disbelief.

“You have a way with words,” he said. “And a way with spears,” he added. “That was brilliant.”

Her instinct was to thank him for the compliment. She didn’t. Instead, she moved away from him and toward Le Grand. There was one other surviving crewmate after the battle besides him. That was it. The rest were dead.

Le Grand no longer held the torch. Bent over, his hands were on his knees. His head hung low. The other crewmate gripped a sword, the weapon quivering in his hands. His eyes were wide, the firelight flickering in them and pronouncing the fear that racked the survivor’s body.

Beyond the body of the eight-headed snake, Anaxi saw the three pedestals undisturbed. Each held its prize.

Desmond Branch brushed past her and climbed over a dead snake head toward the pedestals. The others in shock, Anaxi was the only one to follow him. She checked behind her and found that the round wooden door was closed. She didn’t remember anybody shutting it.

She slid down the side of the snake’s head and landed on her feet in front of the center pedestal. Up close, this one was wider than the other two. And before it were three steps, which weren’t visible from where she’d been during the fight.

Branch hurriedly climbed the steps and stood at the pedestal. He took in a deep breath, his chest expanding. He spread his arms like wings.

“I am here to take what is mine,” he said. “All the sacrifice. The blood. The treasure. All of it for this moment.” His voice echoed loudly off the walls, carrying in the smoke from the torches. With one eye, he scanned the space as if delivering a proclamation to an entire village. Anaxi expected nothing less from the psychopathic narcissist.

He laughed wickedly as he reached down to take the sword with both hands. His fingers closed around the grip, thumbs up, and he pulled.

The muscles in his arms flexed. The veins in his neck strained. His jaw clenched.

The sword didn’t budge. He looked at the others, but said nothing.

Branch laughed again. This one far less menacing. He tried again and grunted all the way through a prolonged pull. Still nothing.

His eyes widened with anger. He tried again. And again. Each pull was shorter than the last. Finally, Branch let go and tilted his head back. He screamed with frustration, the deafening roar forcing Anaxi to cover her ears. Then she stepped toward him and locked eyes with him. The shadows danced across his face as he stood atop the pedestal, panting.

He wiped spit from his chin. His hands trembled. His face was tight with confusion.

Anaxi’s tone was flat as she explained, “You’re not worthy. You can’t possess the sword.”

Enraged, Branch growled and tried the sword again. It didn’t budge. Then he pointed at Anaxi and screamed at her, “You get up here! You try.”

Anaxi suppressed a smile. “Okay.”

She moved toward the pedestals. Branch backed down the steps and mockingly motioned for her to climb.

She ascended the three steps, and Branch climbed again right behind her, his warm breath on her neck.

From the dais, she saw the entire space. The high ceilings, the carved walls, the length of the dead snake, an exhausted Le Grand, a frightened crewmate. The dead bodies of men who’d given their lives in the service of their vile captain.

Her eyes returned to the sword. Firelight bounced off the jewel-encrusted handle and hilt. The exposed steel blade was honed with a razor’s edges. It looked too substantial for her to lift. But after she did, and she believed she was worthy, she would spin and use the weapon against the man who craved it.

Her finger traced the intricate filigree that decorated the handle. Despite the sweltering heat in the room, the metal was cool. Almost cold to the touch.

Branch shoved her in the back. “Hurry up.”

Anaxi deliberately put both hands around the grip. Her fingers extended all the way around the thick grip. She closed her eyes, tensed her muscles, and pulled.

Nothing.

Her eyes opened; brow furrowed. She tried again. No movement. The sword was unmoved.

Branch shoved her aside, almost knocking her from the pedestal. “Are you even trying?” he questioned. “Did you try to pull it free?”

Anaxi heard panic in his voice. She stayed calm.

“Yes. It wouldn’t move,” she said.

“You’re not worthy either? Is anybody worthy?”

He pointed to Le Grand. “Pierre, get up here. Try the sword.”

The first mate lifted his head, leaning on his knees. He nodded wearily and stood up straight. He winced as he arched his back.

Anaxi knew Le Grand wasn’t the one. It was a waste of time. Maybe all of this was a waste.

Branch put a hand on her shoulder and pulled her away. “Get down from there. Let him try.”

She did as he instructed.

“If we can’t put this sword in my hands, you’re useless to me,” he threatened as she reached the bottom step. “I’ll end you here. You’ll be buried in the volcano with the snake. Where you deserve to be.”

He wasn’t bluffing. She knew it. He’d kill her and leave her here. The truth was, even if he did get the sword, he’d have no need for her. Unless she took control, there was no way she’d ever leave this place. It would become her eternal tomb.

Le Grand moved past her to climb the steps. As he did, she made her way to the pedestal with the diamond atop it.

Unnoticed, Anaxi reached the pedestal and grasped the stone. She plucked it from its perch and held it in her palm. It was the size of a small reptile egg, not much bigger than her fingertip, but it sparkled magnificently. It seemed to both absorb and reflect the firelight.

She clutched the stone in her fist and waited. As expected, Le Grand couldn’t free the sword. Neither could the lone surviving crewmate.

And when he couldn’t pull it free, Branch drew his own sword and drove it through the crewmate’s back, skewering him without warning. He pushed the dead man from the top step, his only crime being absolute loyalty to a madman.

“What are you doing, Desmond!” Le Grand protested.

Branch smacked him across the face with the back of his hand, and Le Grand fell back onto his rump. His cheek was split by one of Branch’s rings, and he rubbed the wound, face contorted in disbelief.

“Stop it,” said Anaxi. “He’s done everything you’ve asked of him.”

“Not everything,” Branch snarled. “The sword isn’t free of the stone.”

Le Grand wiped the blood from his cheek with his palm. He staggered to his feet. “I’ll do it. Give me another—”

“No!” Anaxi blurted. “Let me try again. I have an idea.”

She exchanged knowing looks with Le Grand. For an instant she thought a smile flickered on his wounded face. Saying nothing more, she crossed to the center pedestal and stood at the bottom of the steps. Branch stood atop the dais and scowled down at her. He waved her up with his sword.

Anaxi climbed the steps and edged past Branch. She didn’t look at him as she did. She knew that if she failed this time, he was likely to end her, as he had the poor crewmate.

She reached the sword and again traced the handle until she felt the small gap in the grip. A gap the size of the diamond.

Inconspicuously working the diamond from her palm to her thumb and forefinger, Anaxi slid the stone into the gap. It fit perfectly. She ran a thumb across it, making sure it was in its place.

Then she slowly wrapped her hands around the sword’s grip. As soon as she did, a pulse of electricity shot from the handle into her hands and up her arms.

It was so sudden, so powerful, that it almost took her breath away. But she maintained her composure and pulled upward. The sword easily slid from the rock with an echoing rasp.

She lifted the sword high above her head until the entire blade was free from the rock. It pulsed electric blue, unlike anything she’d ever seen. The color reminded her of a distant strobe of lightning reflected in the endless sea.

Overtaken by the beauty of it, Anaxi forgot her plan should she possess the sword. Instead of turning around and cleaving Branch’s head from his shoulders, she held it too long.

Branch’s hands were upon hers before she could react. He squeezed next to her and pried the sword from her hands. Then he elbowed her in the ribs to knock her from the pedestal. She lost her balance and fell, landing hard on the stone and banging her head.

Branch stood tall atop the pedestal, hoisting the Kalevanmiekka above his head with one hand. His sinister laughter seemed more resonant, deeper, and possessing more power than it ever had before.

Dazed and hurting, Anaxi’s head fell back and she couldn’t see what came next. But she did hear it. Branch proclaiming victory. And then another voice, one she didn’t recognize. And a third. A woman’s voice.

The room suddenly filled with more blue light.

Chapter Thirty-Six

The instant someone touched the sword, Zeke knew where to be. They were already close. The sensation was bizarre. One second he was focused on the dark tunnel leading deep into the mountain, the next he was certain of the sword’s exact location. Uriel and Phil must have had the same epiphany, as they exchanged knowing looks, and raced toward the end of the long winding tunnel, which dropped into the center of a dormant volcano.

Zeke kicked through a round door leading into a vast chamber. A wall of heat and the odor of death hit him like a gut punch when he crossed the threshold. In front of him lay the remains of a giant multi-headed monster and the bodies of dead men. Atop a pedestal across the space, a man lifted what could only be Kalevanmiekka above his head. He laughed and shouted something unintelligible.

Zeke didn’t care what the man was saying. All he knew was that he possessed the Kalevanmiekka, Josephine’s weapon, and it wasn’t his to hold.

There was no girl in sight. Not that Zeke could see. His focus was on the pirate. Zeke clenched his fists, summoning a surge of energy, and bounded forward toward the pedestal.

Before he reached the man, he leaped from his perch and brandished the sword with remarkable skill. “Whoever you are, you made a mistake following me here,” the man said, with gleeful energy.

Zeke stood his ground, ready to fight. “Desmond Branch?”

The man lifted an eyebrow. “My reputation precedes me? I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Soon enough everyone across the endless sea will know me. They’ll fear me.”

Branch’s eyes flitted past Zeke. Then focused on him again.

“Three of you?” he asked. “Three against one? Brilliant. This should be fun.”

Uriel stepped even with Zeke on his left. Phil moved to his right.

“It’s not going to be as easy as you think,” Phil whispered. “These ancient weapons have immense power.”

“We can’t let him escape,” said Uriel. “If he does, we’re screwed.”

Zeke didn’t respond. Instead, he counted aloud and hoped the others were with him.

“One. Two. Three.”

All three of them moved toward the threat as a single, cohesive unit. Zeke launched himself toward Branch, jumping into a spinning kick. At the same time Uriel ran straight at the pirate, her shoulder lowered as if to ram him. Phil stalked him more deliberately, ready to be the third wave of assault.

Zeke reached him first. Leg extended, he was certain his heel would connect with the side of the pirate’s face, right below his swollen eye. At the last second, Branch dodged him and jabbed the heel of the sword’s grip into his side. It sent Zeke off course and tumbling to the ground.

He rolled to his feet and spun around to see the pirate deflect Uriel’s charge. He swung with the sword in a downward motion that just missed her legs. She sidestepped the swipe and tried to hit him from the side. He dodged her and stepped back to fend off Phil.

Phil spun his flail over his head before side-arming it toward Branch. The spiked ball clanged against the Kalevanmiekka. Blue sparks flashed at the connection. Phil swung again, but the pirate wrapped the chain around his sword. He yanked and disarmed Phil in one smooth motion.

Weaponless, Phil cursed and retreated. Uriel charged again. Zeke joined her. They met in the air above Branch. One of them tried to attack him from above; the other dropped to the hard ground and struck low.

Quick, lightning-fast parries repelled both of them, and Branch spun into the air. He landed again on the pedestal, free of the attacks and chortling as if this were all a game to him.

He pointed at them with the sword. The energy pulsed through his body. “Is that all you’ve got? Whoever you are, you’re wasting your time.”

Zeke and Uriel exchanged glances. Then Phil moved between them and nodded.

Phil charged first. Weaponless, he climbed onto the dead snake and jumped at Branch. At the same time, Uriel charged him. Zeke reached for his holster.

The two Watchers reached him at the same time. Branch fought off Phil’s attack and shifted quickly to defend himself against Uriel. While they engaged, Zeke leveled his pistol, put his finger on the trigger, and pulled.

The weapon fired. A whoomp throbbed in the chamber as concentric rings of blue pulse energy raced toward Branch. It hit him dead center and knocked him from the pedestal, sending him soaring across the cavern into the far wall.

The blast also tossed Uriel and Phil. They crumpled to the ground alongside Branch, but scrambled away from him as Zeke marched toward the pirate with the gun aimed at him.

Stunned, Branch shook his head. He wielded the mythic sword, but as he struggled to his feet, Zeke fired again. Another percussive blast dropped Branch to his knees. Somehow, he held onto the sword, wielding its power.

As Zeke readied another shot, from nowhere, Le Grand lunged for Branch. He leapt into the air, his clawed hands reaching for the sword. But Branch deflected him with an elbow. Le Grand landed hard, his head cracking against the ground.

Branch glared at Zeke with electric blue eyes.

“That’s it,” Branch growled. “Enough of this. I’m done playing.”

The pirate stood as Zeke pulled the trigger a third time, sending his final round toward its target. This time, Branch raised the sword and blocked the pulse of energy with the blade.

Zeke didn’t have time to react as the pulse deflected back and hit him with enough force to send him flying. He slapped into the side of the dead snake-beast and slumped to the ground.

Next to him, curled into a ball and trying to hide, he noticed a small girl.

“Anaxi?” he asked.

Her eyes met his and he saw the slightest nod. It was her. She was alive. She was here. He could save her.

Zeke holstered his gun and slid across the floor, staying low in the shadows cast by the dead snake’s form. He moved close to the girl but didn’t touch her.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Don’t worry about me. Get the mirror.”

Zeke wasn’t sure he’d heard her correctly. Beyond his line of sight, he could hear Uriel and Phil giving the pirate their best. Blue light strobed above them.

“The mirror?”

Anaxi nodded and inched toward him. “There’s a mirror on the pedestal. Show it to him. Show him his reflection.”

Zeke didn’t understand the point of it, but he didn’t argue. He rose to a squat and searched for the mirror. He saw it to his right, though it was larger than expected. A full-length mirror.

He quickly crept to the pedestal, staying low. As he reached toward the mirror, a hand shot from the shadows and grabbed his arm. Zeke spun to see a frightened man cowering in the dark.

“This is not what I wanted,” he pled. “Help me stop him.”

Zeke didn’t know who the man was. It didn’t matter. He ripped the man’s hand from his arm and instructed him, “Take that side. I’ll get this side. We need to show it to Branch. Okay?”

The man nodded his understanding and stood to help with the mirror. Together, they lifted it from the pedestal and moved toward the sound of the fight.

Phil was on the ground, clutching his chest. Uriel had her hands raised above her head in surrender. Branch had her at the end of his sword. He appeared ready to strike. But as he pulled back the blade before driving it forward, Zeke called to him, “Desmond Branch! Look here.”

The pirate paused and turned. Over his shoulder, he spotted the mirror. His expression shifted from brutal determination to something else, something akin to naïve confusion. He twisted his body to face the reflection and lowered his sword. He stepped toward it now, spellbound. His lips moved, whispering something Zeke couldn’t hear.

His head tilted to one side as he walked toward the glass. He extended his free hand as if to touch his reflection. The world appeared to dissolve around him as he stepped closer and closer. Then he stood, motionless, in front of the glass. Tears welled in his eyes and streamed down his cheeks. He said nothing as his chin quivered.

The sword fell from his grasp. It clattered to the stone floor as the girl, Anaxi, appeared from the shadows. In one fluid motion, she picked up the weapon and drove its sharp end upward into Desmond Branch. The blade sliced through his gut and out his back. She’d put so much force into the blow, she fell to her own knees, unable to maintain her grip.

Branch staggered backward, tears cleaning his soiled face in streaks. Like a fish out of water, he tried for air but found none. He sank to the ground and dropped forward onto the sword, further impaling himself.

Zeke released the mirror and dashed to the pirate. He kicked him over and used his boot for leverage as he pulled the sword from his stomach. The pirate didn’t move. He was dead.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

They stood at the mouth of the cave. Sunlight bore down on them. The heat of the day was more oppressive than when they’d descended into the dark.

Anaxi looked smaller here. Like a girl. She hadn’t spoken during the ascent into daylight. Now her voice was shaky. “Who are you people? Why are you here? Did you come for the sword? Are you pirates? Why—”

“We were friends of your father.”

She looked at him dubiously. “My father? How is that possible? I’ve never seen you before. I don’t know you. Prove it.”

For someone so quiet during the ascent, she had endless questions.

Zeke nodded. “His name was Lucius. He was a good man. Loved you. He died trying to protect you from Desmond Branch. Instead, he endangered you.”

Anaxi had nothing to say. Tears streamed down her cheeks. She curled her lips inward, pressing them between her teeth.

“It was our job to protect you if he couldn’t. We tried to stop Branch on your island but got there too late. So we chased you.”

Her expression shifted from sadness to confusion. Anaxi regarded each of them. “You knew how to find me?”

Zeke checked with Uriel then said, “We had guidance.”

The man who’d lunged at Branch and hit his head struggled from the caves. He sank to a knee and put a hand to his head.

Anaxi put a hand on his shoulder. “You okay?”

“I’ve had worse.”

Zeke turned to Anaxi. His expression was oddly peaceful and tortured at the same time.

Zeke watched him for what seemed like eternity, waiting for something else bad to happen. When nothing did, he turned to Anaxi.

“What did the pirate see in the mirror?” he asked.

She shook her head and shrugged. “I don’t know. I just knew he had to see his own reflection. It’s in the poem. Only the worthy can survive their own reflection. He wasn’t worthy.”

Zeke helped the girl to her feet with his free hand. She swiped the hair from her eyes.

“But you were,” Zeke said. “You were worthy. That’s how you knew how to find it.”

She nodded. “The sword belonged to my mother.”

“Your mother?” Zeke said, incredulous.

“She left when I was young. I never knew her. But my father told me stories about her. Made me memorize the poems she’d taught him. She said that one day I would be ready to find it. That when the balance was just so, someone would take me to find it. But she told my father not to let them do it. That he should do everything in his power to keep me from the sword.”

“Who was your mother?”

Anaxi shrugged again. “All I know about her is that her name was Josephine.”

Zeke stepped back from the girl. He bumped into Uriel, who stood behind him now. He wanted to tell the girl about her father. He wanted to explain how much he’d sacrificed to keep her safe, to rescue her from the clutches of Desmond Branch. He couldn’t. He didn’t.

“Josephine,” said Uriel. “That makes sense.”

Anaxi’s face brightened. “You know my mother?” she asked. “Where is she?”

Uriel shook her head. “We don’t know her. We know of her. And we don’t know where she is.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” said Anaxi.

Zeke chuckled at that. “Get used to it. Nobody answers questions where we’re from.”

Anaxi scratched her head. She was processing the information, the lack of it.

Then she spoke. “What now? Where do I go? What do I do?”

Uriel stepped toward the girl. “What do you want to do?”

She considered this, biting her lower lip. Then she motioned toward the cowering man who’d held the mirror. “I want to take Le Grand and sail the endless sea. I want a ship. I want him to pilot it. I want to spend my life exploring, meeting people, helping them, making them happy.”

Zeke checked the man over his shoulder. “Le Grand?”

Anaxi nodded to the man on his knee. “Pierre Le Grand. He tried to be Branch’s conscience. I think he’s a good man deep down. But he’s a follower who needs a good leader.”

Le Grand offered a weak smile. “I’d like that. If she’d have me. I’ve done bad things. I’m not sure I deserve a second chance.”

Zeke reached out and put a hand on Le Grand’s shoulder. “We all deserve a second chance.”

“What about the Saladin?” Anaxi asked. “Can I have it?”

Zeke and Uriel exchanged glances. “Sure,” he said. “Why not?”

He looked around the space, searching for Phil. He didn’t see him. The Watcher was gone. Likely back at the bar. Playing cards. Throwing darts.

Zeke frowned at Uriel. “Phil didn’t make it?”

She shook her head. “A lot of casualties on this one. But you did it, Zeke. You succeeded. Now hand me the sword.”

“Why do you get it?”

“It belongs in the hands of a woman.”

Anaxi smiled for the first time. “Don’t look at me. I don’t want it. Nobody should have this much power.”

Zeke thought her reasoning was why the girl should have the sword. But he knew that was impossible. He handed it to Uriel. She took it and tested its weight.

“Not bad,” she said. “Balanced.”

Zeke smiled. “As it should be.”

Hours later, Uriel tossed a line across and climbed onto the sailing ship to hold the two together. Zeke powered off the yacht and moved toward the aft deck. Le Grand and Anaxi were already there.

She saw Zeke and her face lit up with excitement. “Thank you,” she said. “I don’t know how you did it. But thank you.”

“We owed you this,” said Zeke. “You deserve a happy ending. You’ve been through a lot. And maybe on your journey you’ll find what it is you’re looking for.”

She nodded. “Instead of what someone else is trying to find?”

Zeke put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed. “Exactly.”

Together the three of them climbed aboard the Saladin. Uriel held the rope as they said their goodbyes.

“Hey, Anaxi,” said Zeke. “Are you sure you didn’t see Branch’s reflection in the mirror?”

“I didn’t,” she answered.

“Neither did I,” said Le Grand.

Uriel interjected, “I saw it. I can’t believe nobody thought to ask me.”

Zeke sighed. “Are you going to tell us?”

She wrapped the line around her hand and held it taut. “He saw himself. But not who he was. He saw who he could have been had he taken a different path. The mirror showed him the good he could have been, the good he could have done. I don’t think it sat well with him.”

Zeke muttered, “Valor. Wisdom. Benevolence. The three virtues.”

“What?” asked Anaxi. “What did you say?”

Zeke saw the recognition in her eyes. She’d heard it before. From her father, no doubt. The same person who’d told him in the minutes before he died a second time.

Zeke smiled. He shook his head. “Nothing. I was just thinking about it. That’s all.”

Anaxi stared at him for another moment before giving up. “Okay. I just thought I heard you say something my dad used to tell me.”

“Huh,” said Zeke. “That’s a coincidence.”

Uriel shot him a nasty glare. Zeke bit his lip.

“Now,” he said, turning to Anaxi. “Do good. Be good. Find a balance. Make the world the place you want it to be.”

“I’ll do that,” she said.

Anaxi turned away, leading Le Grand toward the helm. Saying nothing, Zeke and Uriel climbed back into the yacht. She pulled the line. The vessels separated.

Zeke stood on the back deck of the yacht, watching the sun set on the endless sea as the Saladin’s mainsail climbed its center mast and billowed with a gust of wind. Mission complete.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

The ice was slick underneath Zeke’s boots. He slid on it, waving his arms to keep his balance. His hips jerked forward and back. For a split second he thought he was going down, but he recovered and took a confident stride away from the bar.

The ice and snow blanketed the earth in all directions. The bright sun bounced off the reflective surface, which forced Zeke to squint. They’d only just returned from his mission to find this new wasteland made of frozen water surrounding the bar. He much preferred the melted kind.

He hadn’t even had time to unwind, enjoy the warm indoors, and maybe check in on Li before Uriel led him from the bar, insisting there was some sort of mandatory Watcher ceremony they had to attend called an Ascension. All these rules, and the lack of answers to any of his lingering questions, began to drive him mad.

Uriel walked beside him along the bar’s porch, her arm laced in his. “It’s not that complicated. I promise,” she said.

“So explain it to me,” he replied. “In plain English.”

“This is an Ascension. It’s both an end and a beginning. Gabe has earned both. He’s done what Pedro asked of him countless times, and this is his reward.”

“Does this happen for every Watcher?”

She slipped on the ice and caught herself by tightening her hold on Zeke’s arm. He stopped and put a hand on her hip to brace her. They locked eyes for a moment beyond what was comfortable.

“No,” she said. “Not every Watcher earns an Ascension.”

“What happens to those who don’t?”

They started walking again. She held his bicep.

“You mean, do we ever run out of chances to redeem ourselves?”

In the distance, facing the bar, the Horde gathered in bunches along the slope of a broad drift. Black mangy dogs strained against the harnesses that strapped them to sleds. Some barked. Their growling voices carried in the cold dry air, ricocheting off the crusty ground with the sunlight.

The Horde was otherwise silent. Their relentless watch was unfazed by the swirls of bone-chilling winds that swept across the drift, blowing ground cover into the air in swirls. It appeared as though it was snowing around them. The sky above was blue and cloudless.

Uriel nodded. “Yes. Happens all the time.”

Zeke wasn’t sure what to make of that or how to respond. Instead, he faked a smile and focused on their new environment.

This was the homeland of the most recent arrival, whoever that was. And wherever it was, Zeke knew he’d learn soon enough.

Most of the Watchers were in line already. They’d taken their prescribed places and awaited the start of the proceedings. Others walked behind Zeke. They were stragglers who’d not wanted to leave a good hand at the table or miss the final chorus of a good song on the jukebox. All of them had finished their drinks hours earlier. Pedro had stopped serving before Zeke and Uriel got back. He’d even closed a newly constructed indoor swimming pool, which Zeke had been excited to try, considering his newfound love of the sea.

The dais was closest to the bar’s porch. On it, a quintet of marble columns gave the stage its heft. The columns were fluted and rose five meters into the air. They glistened with ice, sparkling almost as if twinkling lights decorated the veined stone.

In front of the columns was a lectern. Or was it an altar? Zeke wasn’t sure. There were no chairs or stools. Those on the dais stood awaiting the start of the ceremony.

Pedro stood with Gabe. Both of them wore long white gowns. The pleated garments blended with the surroundings, giving the appearance that their heads floated separate from their bodies. The robes were tied at the waist with golden cords from which long tassels hung. Both men appeared as serious as Zeke had seen. They held their chins up, their chests out. Both men had their hands at their sides.

In front of the dais, facing it, was the audience, the witnesses. The senior Watchers stood up front. Uriel led Zeke to the second row. Phil was on the first already.

Uriel let go of Zeke’s arm but squeezed his hand affectionately. “Thank you for the escort, handsome. But you’re back there.”

Phil turned around and chuckled. He nudged the Watcher next to him, a tall straw-haired man with a strong jaw named Barach.

Zeke’s face flushed. Uriel flashed a devilish grin, evidently taking pleasure in his adolescent embarrassment. Then she took her spot and Zeke continued on to find his spot in the back alone.

He was on the second-to-last row, and as he walked up, a familiar face awaited him. Li smiled.

“Hey, Zeke,” she said sweetly. Like nothing about this was weird and he was coming home from a day of smuggling to their old apartment.

He said nothing and returned what he imagined was a goofy half smile. He hadn’t been expecting to see her outside her room, and it made his heart skip a beat.

Once he took his position, a full view of the stage blocked by the heads of senior Watchers, Li touched his pinkie with hers. She tickled it up and down, a sign of affection that, again, took him off guard.

He didn’t flinch, but he didn’t reciprocate.

Things were complicated. Even in this afterlife. Or real life. Or one of many versions of a life. Zeke didn’t know what lay ahead. In this moment, it didn’t matter. He was where he needed to be. More importantly, he was where he belonged. That was a truth Ezekiel Watson wasn’t sure he’d ever know.

He searched the front of the assembly for a glimpse of Uriel. What he found was Barach staring back at him. The herculean Watcher flashed a smile at him. Or was it at Li? At that moment, she released his finger.

Zeke faced her and she averted her eyes. It was clear. She pretended not to be looking at Barach, but the hint of a smile remained on her face.

He looked back at Barach, who’d turned back around to face the dais. But now, Uriel faced him. She blew him a kiss. Li took his finger again.

Rescuing him from the awkward discomfort of this confusing new development, a hand touched his shoulder from behind.

“Thank you for what you did,” Lucius Mander said. “I’m grateful. If I can ever repay you—”

Zeke held up a hand. “No repayment needed. At least not to me.”

Lucius bowed his head in respect. He clasped his hands in front of him.

From the corner of Zeke’s vision, he noticed the Horde. The true Harbingers of Death. They were motionless as if offering the same deferential reverence as the Watchers.

A gust of icy wind blew across the endless plain. It blew through Zeke, chilling him to his core. The Watcher in front of him shuddered.

A second volley of wind carried with it the beginning sounds of the ceremony. Pedro’s voice calling the celebration to order.

He lifted his hands above his head and balled them into fists. It was a triumphant gesture that Gabe mimicked.

“This is a banner day,” Pedro said. “It is a day to which all here aspire but few achieve. This path is rigorous. It is full of self-sacrifice, service above all else, and a belief in the redemptive soul of humankind.”

The words echoed. Pedro let them hang there, dusting the cold air.

“It is my privilege to serve you here at my cantina, both with refreshments and with nourishment. It is my duty to fill you when you are empty, to strengthen you when you are weak, to comfort you when you doubt, to listen when you confide, to counsel when you seek advice.”

Zeke understood the metaphor. He also recognized that “providing answers when you ask questions” wasn’t part of the spiel. He suppressed a smile and kept his features expressionless. Any hint of emotion was bad form. Nobody had to tell him.

Pedro opened his fists and stretched his fingers straight. “As Watchers we keep balance. We choose the side without weight. We force an equilibrium. Where there is darkness, we provide light. Where there is cold, we give heat. Where there is evil, we supply good.”

Gabe opened his hands too. He looked out upon the gathered Watchers and their apprentices. He stretched his fingers skyward.

“We also give shade,” said Pedro. “We chill fire. We soften the righteous. Ours is a duty without end, without relief, without rest. We remain vigilant. We remain steadfast in our charge. This is our collective duty and we have not failed. We will not fail.”

Pedro lowered his hands and stepped to the lectern. He placed his hands on its edges and leaned on straight arms.

His voice boomed. “That is not to say there are not those among our ranks who have failed. They have chosen the imbalance of tipped scales. They’ve taken it upon themselves to undo the work of so many. They think their cause, their ideas, their existence, is above all others. In this they are wrong.”

This sermon was deeper than Zeke expected. It felt as much a warning as anything else. Was it directed at him? At the would-be Watchers? Or was it for the veterans, the ones who’d seen so much, who’d won so much but had yet to ascend?

“This is our challenge as Watchers,” said Pedro. “Our true challenge. It is that we remain focused on the greater balance of all things. That we put aside our own redemption in favor of humankind’s.”

Zeke understood this was a warning for all of them. Old and new. Green and weathered. Naïve and cynical.

“As humans, in any level of existence, from any walk of Earth, we are fallible. It is a given. And that is why today is so special an occasion. It is why we celebrate Gabriel. A man of countless missions. A man of countless sacrifices. A man of balance.”

Gabe took this as a cue to step forward. He stood beside Pedro at the lectern. His hands were folded in front of him now, covering the hanging tassels.

Zeke craned his neck to get a better view. Gabe’s eyes were closed. Pedro’s were too.

“And so,” said Pedro, his voice rising in volume and intensity, “today we consecrate this occasion with his Ascension. His Watch is finished. His new chapter begins.”

In unison the entire audience repeated, “His Watch is finished. His new chapter begins.”

Gabriel did not open his eyes. He did not move his hands. He did not speak.

Instead his body, as it had on the yacht’s deck in Lucius Mander’s world, began to dissolve. It pixelated, becoming almost translucent, before it disappeared completely.

In the instant before he vanished, Zeke thought Gabe smiled. It was just a flicker. Maybe it was the light, or the distance between them, but he was almost sure that he’d seen it.

The ceremony over, Pedro opened his eyes and stepped from the lectern. He moved toward the front of the dais and descended its trio of broad steps. Once on the ice-packed snow, the tail of his robe puddled around him, he broke into his own smile. This one was unmistakable.

He waved to the crowd and motioned toward the patio. “Bar’s open. First drink is on the house.”

The gathered crowd broke ranks and started toward the porch. Pedro pushed through the swinging doors and disappeared inside. Zeke stood for a moment, watching the assembled climb the porch.

Li touched him on the arm. “Want to play cards?”

He faced her and put on yet another awkward grin. “Cards? Like poker?”

She beamed. “I’ve been practicing. Texas Hold ’Em. I’ve gotten good at counting cards.”

“Sounds like cheating.”

She batted her eyelashes. “You don’t trust me?”

This was a loaded question. And he wasn’t sure he did. Until now, he’d always felt a rush of guilt when flirting with Uriel. Now he felt that same discomfort with Li.

He was standing with the woman for whom he’d waged his soul, yet he felt little connection to her. At least not the way he felt about Uriel. There was something temporal about his relationship with Li, as if it had an artificial limit, an expiration date. His visceral connection to Uriel, however, was timeless. When he was with her, or anywhere near her orbit, it was as if time stood still.

He glanced toward the building, lifting his eyes above the porch. There was a new marquee above the door. It was a neon sign that boasted the name of the place and its slogan. The letters flickered in a way that Zeke was almost certain he could hear the electric hum associated with the gas-filled tubes.

They spelled out PEDRO’S CANTINA in large pink letters. The slogan was underneath in smaller blue lettering. It was something Zeke hadn’t seen before. He smiled at the slogan. It was perfect. He wondered who’d come up with the idea. Pedro. Or maybe Uriel. It was her sense of humor. His eyes scanned across the words again. He smiled, thinking of her.

“THE BAR IN THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE”

Epilogue

There was a blast of cold air in his face, and for an instant, Desmond Branch was certain he was in a world covered in white. But as soon as it flashed in his eyes, it gave way to a sparkling sea. Sunlight reflected off the surface in golden hues, dancing on the waves, which undulated in the same direction toward the horizon. He was alone in the skiff on a plank seat that stretched between risers on both sides of the small boat. A lone oar was on the floor next to his boots. The boat rocked on the waves, drifting with the current.

A gull swooped low in front of him and arced high into a cloudless sky as it called to him. It seemed to beckon him onward, and he followed its path, shielding his eyes from the sun as it flapped its wings and dove low, riding the air above the endless sea. He tracked the bird’s path, his chin dipping to his chest to see it glide toward an island.

Branch cupped his hands over his eyes and narrowed his gaze, focusing on the island until he realized it wasn’t an island at all. It was a structure. An outpost.

He scanned the endless sea and saw nothing else at first. Just the lone outpost, an oasis in a vast stretch of blue wilderness. It dawned on him in that moment he was alone. No Le Grand. No crew. And the Saladin…where was his ship? What was he doing in this skiff?

And then the pain came. It was a searing heat that stabbed at his gut. It doubled him over and he clutched his midsection. His thin cotton shirt was wet and sticky. He pulled his hands away to see them covered in blood.

His mind swam and his vision blurred as the pain soaked through him. He squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again. The horizon yawed. The lone structure, the oasis, appeared to bob.

He needed to get there. Whatever it was, maybe someone there could help him. He reached down, against the pain, and grabbed the oar. With both hands he gripped the handle and dipped it over the side of the skiff. He dug it beneath the surface and pulled it back.

A sharp bolt of pain tore across his stomach and he cried out. His shriek was inhuman. He didn’t recognize it as his own. But he pulled again, propelling the skiff forward against the current and toward the oasis.

Branch rowed three more strokes before sliding to the other end of the bench. He repeated the painful motion a half dozen times and switched sides again. The progress was uneven. He wasn’t taking a straight line to the oasis, but having only one oar made the task that much more difficult.

A cold sheen of sweat ran from his forehead to his chin. His neck, his back, his thighs were damp with perspiration. The sharp fetid odor of an unwashed body wafted with each new pull of the oar. It mixed with the thick, metallic odor of blood and made Branch retch.

He stopped rowing and grabbed again at his gut. Sweat stung his eyes. His mouth was dry. The once comforting briny scent of the endless sea was nauseating.

Sucking in a staccato breath, he reached again for the oar. As he did, he caught movement at the edge of his vision. He turned on his seat and saw an armada of small vessels three hundred meters behind him. He tried counting them but couldn’t. There were too many. Two dozen. Three dozen. More.

They were coming for him.

Leading them, in the center boat was a tall man. Was he a man? Were any of them men?

He stood at the bow of his boat, an admiral commanding his navy. His bony hands rested on narrow hips. Rags of clothes hung like drapes on his narrow frame.

His long jaw seemed to stretch beyond what was reasonable. And his teeth. His teeth. They were sharpened to fine points, like daggers, and they glistened yellow in the sunlight.

Before he pivoted back to begin moving the boat in earnest, Branch thought he saw the man flick a gray tongue across the front of the teeth, drawing blood as he did.

With renewed purpose, the pirate ignored the pain and the welling fear. He worked the oar, rubbing his fingers raw from the effort. But the Horde drew closer. And closer.

The oasis was closer too. But not enough. He could not outrun them. Not with a single oar and no help.

The panic consumed him. Where was he? How did he get here? Who were these creatures, if not men, who were chasing him?

He kept paddling. One side. The other. Back again. He chopped at the water, dug deeper beneath the surface. He moved as fast as his wounded body would allow.

The muscles in Branch’s back spasmed and he stopped mid stroke. The oasis was close enough he could see it looked like a large dwelling. There was an overhang with a covered area that wrapped around the exterior of the structure. Steps led from the covered area to the water.

Standing at the top of the steps was an old man. A thick white beard covered the lower half of his face and neck. He wore a vest, a shiny buckle on his belt, and large boots.

The man stood motionless. Even when Branch called out to him between rows.

“Help me. Can you help me? I’m hurt. I need help.”

Branch couldn’t remember the last time he’d asked someone for help. When he’d needed any help in the past, he’d demanded it. He didn’t ask. That wasn’t who he was.

That brat, Anaxi Mander. He hadn’t asked her for her help. He’d forced it.

A series of images flashed in his mind. Anaxi. An eight-headed monstrous snake. A mirror. A diamond. None of it made sense to him in the moment. He did wonder what had happened to the girl. And where was the sword he sought? Wasn’t it his?

He searched the floor of the skiff. No sword. Nothing but a slosh of seawater mixed with blood.

“Help me.” This time it wasn’t a question. “Get off the steps and help me.”

He knew the man could hear him. But the bearded mute didn’t move. It was as if he couldn’t hear the cries, the demands.

To his right, a skiff pulled even with him. Aboard it were two gangly men. Their skin was dark. Not brown or olive. Black. The skin was charred as if burned to a flaky delicate texture that a strong wind might blow away. One of them grabbed hold of the side of his boat and kept the two connected. Branch slid away from them on his bench. Behind him he heard the armada. They were upon him now. This was it.

He faced the two in the boat next to his and growled at them, “Give it your best.”

He could see their bones in spots. And their eyes. Their eyes were sunken and devoid of life. There was something evil about them. He felt it in the air.

One of them looked squarely at Branch and lifted a small knife. As quick as a flash, the creature extended his arm and whipped the knife into Branch’s right arm.

The blade sliced into him with searing heat. An explosion of pain sent fire to his fingers and up his shoulder.

But Branch didn’t give up. Instead, thinking he had nothing to lose, he reached across his body with his left hand, grabbed the handle and pulled the knife from his arm. Blood sprayed from the wound.

Branch lifted himself from his seat and launched his body at the two skeletal attackers. He landed on the closest one and drove the knife into the deep socket of its eye. The creature let out a hiss and disintegrated underneath him.

Knife in hand, Branch swiped through the air backhanded, dragging the blade across the other hordesman’s neck. Again, a hiss and ashes.

Now he was in a boat with two oars. He put the knife in between his teeth and bit down. Then he spun around, facing the armada, took both oars in his hands, and began rowing.

His right arm was weaker than his left. He was losing so much blood that his vision blurred. Breathing was difficult. But he managed the effort and rowed away from the armada as the tall man, the admiral, appeared to watch him with admiration before urging his navy to resume its pursuit.

Branch had a chance now. He was getting closer to the oasis.

A faster skiff caught up with him, its bow at his stern. Branch tried to gain separation but couldn’t before one of three creatures aboard leaped forward. It dove through the air to tackle Branch and drive him into the floor of the boat.

The skiff tipped hard to one side, giving Branch enough leverage to pull the knife from his now-bleeding mouth. He rolled onto the beast and drove the knife downward. He’d not finished the plunge before the attacker disintegrated.

Another attacker, who must have snuck onto the boat, grabbed him from behind, its bony arm around his neck. Its claylike fingers grabbed at his face.

But Branch used his boot heel to push himself backward and onto the attacker. He swung an arm out to his side and jabbed the knife into crepe-like flesh. Then he dropped to the floor of the boat on his back. A cloud of ash plumed around him.

He scrambled to his knees and saw the oasis was close enough now to swim. As another attacker tried to reach him, Branch rolled over the gunnel and into the sea.

He sank at first, water filling his boots and pulling him into the depths. The light above grew dimmer as he dropped, as bubbles of air poured from his nose and mouth in what seemed like an endless stream of air.

The saltwater stung his wounds. His gut. His arm. His mouth all burned with the sensation of rum on an open wound.

It didn’t matter. He was free of the Horde.

With his wits about him, he began to swim toward the surface. One stroke after the other he was closer; the light grew brighter. He didn’t swim straight up. Instead he moved at an angle to take him closer to the oasis and farther away from the pursuing Horde and its vicious admiral.

A final pull with what little energy he could muster, Branch surfaced and sucked in a wet breath. Swallowing the salty water, he sputtered and spit. Only a meter in front of him was the oasis and its steps. Above him, looking down, was the bearded man. Expressionless, the man did nothing to help. Branch reached for that step and touched it. His fingers slipped from the soft wood but found purchase.

The bearded man smiled. He looked away from Branch and called out to the Horde.

“That’ll be all, gentlemen,” the man said. “You know the rules. Go back to whatever hellhole you crawled from and leave us be. My friend here has had enough.”

Acknowledgments

ACKOWLEDGMENTS

Thanks to you, the reader, for embracing this story, Zeke, and the idea of the Watchers. I hope you enjoy devouring these adventures as much as I enjoy cooking them up and serving them.

I couldn’t do what I do without my wife and children. Courtney, Sam, and Luke are more supportive than I could ask and more giving than I deserve.

I appreciate the confidence and hard work of the team at Aethon. Rhett Bruno, Steve Beaulieu, and Pauline Nolet, and Filip Dudek have each had a hand in making this book what it is. Rhett and Pauline makes the words sing and Filip and Steve make it so I hope you judge the book by its fantastic cover.

Thanks to Jonathan Davis and the team at Audible Studios for a Hall of Fame performance in the audio version. He’s a master at his craft.

To my author friends, Steve Konkoly and Nicholas Sansbury Smith, both of whom have championed this series of novels. I’m humbled.

Stay tuned, there’s more Zeke on a not so distant horizon…

About the Author

Tom Abrahams is an Emmy and Edward R. Murrow award-winning television journalist and member of International Thriller Writers. He is also a Kindle Unlimited All-Star, an Audible 5 Star Favorite, and author of more than two dozen novels. He writes in several genres including dystopian, sci-fi techno-thriller, post-apocalyptic, and political thrillers. His stories combine the realistic with the fantastic and have sold copies all over the world. The dramatic rights for his "A Dark World" trilogy are optioned for television and film. He's married with two children and lives in Southeast Texas.

http://tomabrahamsbooks.com

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