Page 42 of The Poisoned King (Impossible Creatures #2)

Ever Onward

The boat—the Ever Onward : the Immortal’s boat—was waiting, its brown wooden sides silver-black in the starlight. Two hours had passed, and the clock was chiming one o’clock in the morning.

Nighthand had told her about the boat; it was dryad wood and went where it was bid, with little need to steer. It was wrong, she knew, to take it—but she needed it.

Anya had, with Gallia’s help, packed a bag with bread and fruit, and filled two large cans with water.

She wore the loquillan around her neck and the knife in her boot.

She set Koo on one of the cans, with a handful of pre-chewed raisins to keep him occupied.

Christopher followed her, moving on quiet feet.

“I still think this plan is madly dangerous,” he said.

“I know,” she said. “You already said that.” It had taken time to persuade him.

A great deal of arguing, up on the roof of the tower, in which she had grown more and more sure as she spoke, anchoring herself in her decision.

“You can change your mind if you want to. I can do it without you. I’d much rather not, though.

” And she smiled at him, a smile that was not one of the twenty-one official smiles: that of radiant friendship.

“Irian and Nighthand would stop you instantly if they knew.”

“Which is why I’m glad that they’re not here,” she said. She had left enough food and water for several days for the creatures, and a note for Irian and Nighthand in the care of Meri, who had been almost hysterical with delight at the chance to assist.

Christopher said, “Your father would stop you.”

“I know.” But it is a human right to do something utterly reckless and irreversible in the service of love.

Jacques sniffed. “Let the child do what she wishes. Her life is her own property, is it not? I do not believe in royalty; I do not believe she should own an island; but the filthy child does own her own hair and face and blood and soul.”

The boat scudded joyfully over the waves, as if it were glad to be at sea.

Anya was bent over her can of water and was drawing cups for herself and Christopher when a green oilcloth, bundled at the prow of the boat, spoke.

“It is unbearably hot under here, and the goat has vile breath.”

Anya screamed. Christopher swore. The oilcloth lifted, and a lion’s head peered out, followed by a goat’s.

“We were listening to you, up on the tower,” said the goat. “The lion has exceptional hearing. We have always wanted to travel.”

—

The boat went fast: faster than any natural sailing vessel. In the high waves of the Lithian Strait, the chimaera’s goat head was seasick; the other two were not, which led to some recriminations across the three.

“They go on about your smell,” said the snake to Anya as they sailed south. “But I cannot smell. I taste, with my tongue. Let me taste you.”

“I wouldn’t let her,” said the goat. “Even we don’t know what she’ll do, and we are her.”

“If you want my help,” said the snake, “you will do it. Let me taste your hand.”

Anya had passed beyond fear. So she reached toward her, palm up.

Instantly the snake reared and struck at her—and then stopped, her fangs bared, a quarter of an inch from Anya’s flesh.

“Only playing!” said the snake.

“Hilarious,” said Anya.

The snake’s tongue licked along her wrist.

Her small eyes narrowed. “Ahh,” she said. “Ah, yes.” She licked again, luxuriantly, relishing. “The girl tastes of chaos ahead. A delight.” And after that, Anya and the snake head were friends, of a sort.

There was a shout from Jacques, and Koo rose in the air, an ink-black puffball against the sun, and peeped in excitement.

“Land!” called Christopher. “Land in sight!”