Page 35

brITT

“Bloody stars,” Lars whispered. “I’m not going out there.”

The ocean crashed, swirling up the beach in pockets of white foam. Moonlight tipped iridescent light on the world, shimmering in the tufts of the waves. Darkness and starshine widened over an island far more sprawling than she first imagined.

Britt waved a giant frond back and forth, screaming until her voice hurt. Overhead, Drake flew, his shadow cutting across the glittering white sand in an ominous, moonlit shade. Burning Beard’s beacon turned, heading their way.

Britt almost collapsed with relief.

“He saw us!” she cried. “Pedr is on the way.”

“Pedr?” Lars sputtered when she whipped around, accidentally smacking his face with the giant, clover-shaped frond. The fibrous material reminded her of leather. He punched it away, glowering.

“My brother! I told you.”

“Burning Beard?”

“Yes!” she snapped, heading for the forest. “His name is Pedr.”

Lars paled further.

“You weren’t kidding? He’s really your . . . your . . .”

“Make your choice, Lars. Do you want to face Burning Beard or nine soldats in the jungle?”

“The soldats!”

“Stop it!” she snapped. “Do you really think Pedr is going to harm you when you’re here working beside me? So help me, Lars, if you don’t pull it together and do what I say, I’ll tell Pedr that you captured me and brought me here. Keep waving that frond!”

Gulping, Lars raised an arm and frantically waved. “Fine! I’ll draw his attention. But if I die because of Burning Beard, I’ll spend the entirety of my afterlife making you miserable.”

“Agreed.”

“Sets fire to everything,” Lars muttered darkly, arms waving. “Burns ships, people, animals!”

“He does not,” she muttered, then added, “well, the animals anyway. Keep waving, all right? I’ll be back.”

“How are we supposed to know if he sees us?” he shouted after her.

“You’ll know!”

She scrambled through the underbrush, seeking a specific leaf. The sprawling, giant leaves from earlier couldn’t be found here, but she didn’t dare venture farther inside. Yet. She’d escaped the haunting jungle and had no desire to, as Lars put it, tempt fate.

She would.

Didn’t want to.

A cry escaped her as she found the desired leaf, large enough to wrap her waist like a skirt. At the same moment, fire illuminated the horizon. The billowing sails that announced Burning Beard sprang to greater life, torching with instant and encompassing flames. It appeared the entire thing would go up in smoke. Arcane, all of it. Mostly an illusion, though he’d lost many sails in the past when he hadn’t paid attention.

Lars shrieked as she hurried back to his side.

“That’s it!” he screeched. “We’re doomed! He’ll scuttle his ship right into the island and set the whole thing ablaze—just because he likes it! They say he feeds on destruction and the screams of the dying. Without it, Burning Beard turns to smoke!”

Britt rolled her eyes so hard it almost hurt, but a vine grabbed her ankle, distracting her scathing report.

She fell with a thud.

Her chest hitting the ground sprayed sand, shoving granules into her nose with a painful push. She struggled for air, her ribs paralyzed, as Denerfen squealed. The vine wrapped her ankle and yanked.

She skidded across the sand, the prickling granules raking her stomach as she gasped. A brilliant, lime green ikon blazed on the vine around her ankle. Hasty attempts to see it brought recognition. The leaves that spiraled from it were the same she’d just taken.

Blessed mermaids, but she’d inadvertently activated one.

Desperate, she dug her fingers into the passing sand grains, seeking purchase. Grasping for anything, Britt whipped around, but it was no use. Sand flew by, filling her skirts, her sleeves, thickening the air in her lungs. It collected in her open wounds like fire. She coughed, wheezing, as the darkening forest approached yet again.

A firm thud sounded as something slammed into the ground ahead of her and cerulean sparks sprayed. They shattered in a spritz, arresting her momentum. She stopped. Britt blinked once, twice, unable to see through cloying sapphire and gray smoke. The sizzling vine retracted with a hiss, the burned end withdrawing and curling and coiling as it slithered into the jungle. The rest lay limp around her ankle, cut off.

“Blessed mermaids,” she whispered.

When another vine snaked toward her, a second explosion sounded from the sea. A moment after the explosion, fuchsia sparks slammed to the ground in a spray in front of her. They ignited in a fountain that formed the face of a charging dragon, sculpted out of moving, mauve flames, and consumed the approaching vine. It retreated with a hiss.

“Pedr,” she whispered.

Britt whipped around, knees in the sand. Other spiraling dragons shot out of the ship, racing to the island, consuming vines that whipped free. The screeches and shrieks of the foliage as they retracted and wheeled away, chased by the consuming monsters, rang in her ears.

With a laugh, she shoved out of the sand, ducked a slow vine, and returned to Lars. A rowboat lowered from the side of the fiery ship closest to them. Pained tears clotted her eyes. Seeing it, Lars gripped tufts of hair in his hands, nearly pulling it out.

“Shite!” Lars cried, “He’s coming!”

She dropped to her knees, spread the leaf, and bent it on two sides. The fibrous material snapped, breaking into thirds. She left it creased, spun it, and did the same until it formed a rudimentary box.

Archaic, but enough.

The empty boat that launched from the ship skipped forward, sliding over the waves with giant oars and no oarsmen.

“Oh sea gods!” he cried, glimpsing the boat skipping toward them over the top of the water. “We’re doomed!”

“Pull it together!” she hissed.

She yanked Lars off the sand and pointed to the leaf.

“I’m putting my two draguls on this leaf. They will not stray off because they’ll obey my command to stay. The moment that rowboat lands on the beach, you take the draguls to Pedr’s ship. Tell him that I put them in your care before returning for Malcolm and Henrik. Do not drop my draguls . Do you hear me?”

Lars' fear peaked.

“Going back?”

“You think I’m staying here?” she cried. “You’re mad.”

With gentle haste, she extracted Tesserdress from her pocket. The poor dragul was worse for wear, pressured by the strain of withdrawal on an already weakened body and the trauma of getting dragged through the sand. The boon of Malcolm’s presence rendered only a little energy, but the hasty separation wrought a terrible toll. Tesserdress’s wings drooped. She offered no protest. Without Malcolm, she’d die before dawn.

Britt wrestled tears. “Hang in there, Tess.”

The approaching skiff closed in with every second, bridging the distance with unerring speed. Arcane born, as was everything Pedr did. A dark breeze swept by, carrying the scent of bog and peat and wet leaves on the wind. Her eyes watered at the fetid smell. Britt yanked the knife from Lars’s belt.

“I’ll take that.”

“Hey! You can’t leave me here with . . . with him . . . unarmed!”

“If you’re watching over my draguls, then you’ve never been safer.”

“A bloody lie! No one is safe with Burning Beard.”

Was it true?

Mostly.

Pedr certainly wouldn’t hurt the draguls. He’d wait until Britt returned to take any drastic action against a man that she left with the draguls. She hoped.

With Pedr, one never knew.

“Lars, I promise you a bigger reward than my first offer if you return those draguls safely to Pedr, all right?”

He mollified only slightly, wrenching his focus off the approaching boat only to check on Tesserdress. He recognized his lifeline, at least. Britt pried Denerfen off her shoulders. He stood on her palm, wings wide, head cocked. His adorable, glittering eyes regarded her with steep suspicion.

“Load it up, Denerfen. All the venom you can manage.”

Denerfen blew steam. A torrent of confusion appeared in his wide, beautiful eyes, brilliant as the moon.

“All of it, if you can.”

He whimpered, wings lowering.

She pressed him against her cheek.

“Trust me?”

His reluctance was a darling trait, the sweet dragul who loved her so deeply. Of course, the moment she needed him to bite her, he acted as if he wouldn’t. But he would. She trusted him. Denerfen huffed, breath billowing in and out of his nostrils, wings spread, as she set him on her neck and braced herself. After a hesitation, the telltale brush of teeth scraped her neck.

Denerfen squeaked.

He bit.

The loaded venom sliced into her skin like an ice dagger. It drove deep, twirling. She shuddered as his teeth withdrew. Carefully, she lifted him off, settled the weakened dragul next to Tesserdress, and said, “You are in charge of Tess, Denerfen. Don’t leave this box until you find Pedr. You can take comfort in him. If you leave her side . . .”

The reluctant dragul curled up around Tesserdress, imparting heat, with a surly, weary glare aimed at Britt. A stern finger and a command to stay put brought a resentful bellow of sooty air her way. Denerfen put his head over the top of Tesserdress’s body and closed his eyes. Imparting that much venom, combined with this hellacious night, exhausted them both.

She asked too much.

Lars cried out.

“Shite, girl! You’re disappearing.”

The dragul venom spiraled through her blood, whizzing with a strength and purpose she’d never felt before. She waited until Lars and the draguls were safely on board. When the rowboat burst through the breaking waves, Britt raced into the jungle.

* * *

She charged through trees.

The ikons’ fervent green light radiated in an overwhelming array. She didn’t have time to waste with sheer awe at their glittering forms because the invisibility would buy her twenty minutes, if luck was on her side. She needed every moment.

With a glance to her left, she slapped the closest ikon and sprinted faster.

The race to Henrik and Malcolm felt like she stepped into a tunnel of leaves, bushes and brambles. Instead of heeding a trail, avoiding the glowing runes, she touched everything she could. Her fingers razed leaves. Her shoulders hurtled through branches, rustling each individual leaf and branch. Her feet trod on gleaming roots. She smacked trunks, branches, flowers, whatever she found.

When the vittra ikon loomed ahead, she slammed her palm on it, and sped by. The soldats wanted to fight?

She’d bring the fight to them.

Roars chased her. Trees collapsed. Branches seized. Seams appeared in the ground. The island turned to instant upheaval as the arcane came to life all at once. She darted through the growth, unseen, thus avoiding most dangers.

Monsters hurled their bodies out of hidden crevices as she darted past, but they couldn’t find her. A glimpse over her shoulder revealed smoky wraiths, gathering from the ground, dissipating in confusion. Pearlescent teeth snapped from flowers. Vines sought their prey, ready to strangle. Giant boulders elevated from the ground, but found no head to smash. Puffs of rancid air hissed from the tree trunks, but she held her breath and hurried by.

Denerfen’s venom continued falling down her back, not yet fully integrated. It would return her to Henrik and Malcolm, but not to the beach. At some point, she’d emerge from the venom in the jungle. A terrible plan, but better than surrender or abandonment.

Selma left Henrik, but Britt would not.

She’d fight.

Britt skidded to a stop at a swirling gray miasma of fog, exactly where the soldats should have been. She stopped, reaching for it. The clouds were so thick they floated in her palm, dissipating only when she made a fist. Liquid squelched from the sides, leaking silver between her fingers.

When she attempted to push through, it repelled her. Thrusting her shoulder against it, she bounced off, collapsing to her back. She shouted, paralyzed with the pain.

Blessed mermaids!

Such agony.

The throb washed through her in waves, prickling and awful. Blood leaked freely again, oozing along her sides. Several seconds passed while she gritted her teeth, screaming into the night.

Slowly, the misery retreated. She shoved to her feet, dizzy. What little moonlight had guided her disappeared. The vague sensation of something closing in swept the island, and the building wind didn’t help.

“Oh, no you don’t,” she growled. “I’m getting in there.”

Behind her, the ground quaked. Trees dropped, searching for the fool that pressed upon them. Giant, club-like appendages swung low, finding nothing to hit. No one to blame. Rampant destruction, awaiting.

She ran the circle of fog, thumping every ikon within her sight, studying the broiling gray mass, until a hint of breakage along the bottom caught her gaze. At the last second, she dodged a falling limb from overhead and skittered through the seam and into the cloud. The open wounds along her back bled in earnest, but Denerfen’s coursing venom numbed the worst of the pain.

Hope curtailed the rest.

Dirt turned to sludge beneath her feet, bubbling like a cauldron. Stench drifted from the top of the wretched stuff. Steam issued between burps of hot ground. She splashed into an ankle-deep puddle, and then shin-deep. As she waded through, seeking a path through the murk, a shrieking sound swept above. Incandescent wings shimmered, like something foul loosed from hell.

Another break in the cloud.

Britt let out a cry.

An opening out of the fog! She threw herself into it before it disappeared in the spreading smoke. A shrieking singsong whistled in her ears as she emerged to the other side.

Chaos reigned.

The soldats had separated into two groups. Malcolm and Einar stood together, back-to-back, spinning between four soldats. Two other soldats, and Captain Oliver, cut Henrik off from their help. Her jaw dropped.

Einar?

Upright?

But . . . he’d been . . . half dead.

An act, then. He’d feigned weakness while he still had strength. Watching him whirl, twirl, and dodge blows gave new meaning to the word berserk .

It was real.

Einar proved it.

The return of a painfully high-pitched scream grated Britt’s ears. Tar water bubbled from the interior of the circle with broiling steam that turned the air to a sickly sauna. The gray fog created a barrier. Helpful, as the island fell apart outside of it. The monsters that chased her out there hadn’t crossed the fog.

A small wind funnel whipped in a frenzy, skipping from soldat to soldat, as if it couldn’t decide where to land. Horrific caterwauling accompanied the whirlpool’s movements. The storm-like surge hopped, jumped, stirred, distracted. A terrifying face appeared now and then. An old hag with oily skin, black hair like jungle vines, bleached, soulless eyes and a gaping maw. The number of soldats seemed to confuse her.

Ah.

The vittra.

Britt forced herself to ignore that force of nature for a presently bigger problem. Malcolm and Einar were still upright, but appeared to be weakening as they battled the four soldats. It wasn’t going well. Britt sprinted across the muddy space, never so grateful to be invisible. The vittra moved unexpectedly into her path, forcing Britt to dodge right through the tornado or run into a soldat. She chose the vittra.

A terrible whirling sensation whipped through her, sliding like needles across her rebroken skin. The agony revitalized. For three eternal, horrific seconds, her soul seemed too slippery for her body. The vittra’s storm might wipe away all known memories, or take her mind.

She felt the rending all the way to heart flesh.

It stopped.

Britt’s momentum carried her through the arresting funnel and out the other side. The vittra’s howls increased as she whipped around, empty eyes searching, searching, but unable to see Britt. As Britt swirled to a stop, she halted before a burly soldat. He towered above Malcolm, sword in both hands, ready to chop her brother in half.

She slammed her foot against his knee, kicking it inward. A sickening crack split the air. The soldat toppled and fell into the brackish, surging waters.

As that soldat fell, another closest to her spun in a different direction. Taking advantage of his lapse in focus, Britt rammed an elbow into his kidney, uppercut her hand to his chin, and jumped on his back as he slumped into the water. He went down, smacking his head on something hard. The waters splashed.

Einar blinked.

“What the?—”

Malcolm roared. “Britt, no!”

Behind Einar, a third soldat advanced with a fist headed for Einar’s face. Einar, barely dodging the blow, attempted to grab the soldat and pull him over his shoulder. In the strange waters, his balance failed. The soldat knocked Einar into the heated swamp rising past their knees and grabbed Einar by the throat. Malcolm contended with the fourth soldat, shouting commands for Britt to leave.

The whirling wind scuttled over, greedily slurping up the unconscious soldat. The wheeling, brazen song turned into a cackle. The smell of copper filled the air as the soldat, obliterated to smithereens, was consumed up by the vicious wind. The roving whirlpool became a twirling bloodbath of bones, flesh, and body parts.

Britt vomited to the side.

“Where are you?” Malcolm demanded. “Britt?”

She wiped her mouth with the back of her wrist and ignored him.

Grabbing a knife that floated to the surface of the tarry water, Britt spun, slammed the weapon into Einar’s attacker right below the ribs, angled into his lungs. The soldat screamed, then gurgled. He fell to his knees as she wrenched the blade out, shoved him onto his side, and stabbed him through the heart.

Blood bubbled into the briny water. The vittra, gleeful, swept closer. Britt dodged away at the last second, turning her back to the spray of gore that resulted.

“Shite, Britt!” Malcolm shouted. “What are you thinking? Get out of here! The vittra will take you next.”

Einar struggled to his feet. “What is going on?”

“My sister!”

The fever coursing through Britt began to slow. The lowering effects removed the full heat of the swamp as her cooling blood began to swirl. A sign she’d reached the halfway mark already. Only ten minutes of venom left.

Warmth swirled around her legs. The brackish water was getting hotter, thicker. No longer did it resemble heated seawater with black spots, but . . .

. . . thickening tar.

Malcolm shoved an elbow into the face of the fourth soldat, while Einar supported him from behind. That brought the attention of one of the soldats clashing with Henrik. Leaving Malcolm to finish that soldat, Einar lunged for the other, peeling his focus away from Henrik. Einar and Malcolm cleared the way for Henrik and Oliver to square off without the other soldats in the wings.

Silver light glowed from outside the broiling clouds, enclosing them inside. The building power of her heating blood deepened. Never had she felt such fire. Like her inner core liquified. As if every particle of her body cried out for more venom, then trembled when she couldn’t provide.

Oh, no.

This wouldn’t be good.

Einar abandoned the last injured soldat to the vittra, and turned his attention to Henrik. Oliver and Henrik stood against each other, weaponless, snarling with equal parts loathing. They shouted, circling.

Malcolm surged forward. One of his sleeves had been utterly ripped off. He panted, blood spilling from a wound on his shoulder, and another under his arm. Einar held out his hand, preventing Malcolm from advancing toward Henrik.

“No,” he whispered. “This is Henrik’s fight.”

Malcolm, watching for only a moment, whirled around. Hoarse, he called, “Britt?”

Hand trembling, she touched his arm.

“Malcolm. Something is . . . wrong. The venom should last . . . longer.”

He spun. Her teeth rattled. The vanishing venom swept her power away. Her legs locked, trembling. Shudders wracked her body from heel to shoulder. Bubbles broiled from the middle of the mud pool, exactly like her blood.

Malcolm scrambled to catch her invisible form as she collapsed.