Nightweaver #1

Chapter Three

I hit the ground in a roll. The impact knocks the air from my lungs, and I lie sprawled on my back, squinting into the pale gray light. The red smoke dissipates, revealing the redheaded Nightweaver standing over me, his iron blade hovering near my throat.

“Ah, there you are,” I say as he yanks me up by my shirt collar. “Just the gentleman I was looking for.”

I search for Captain Shade atop the platform, but he’s already gone. Vanished, just as he did the night he rescued me from the Deathwail .

The Nightweaver drags me toward where my family huddles, clustered together in the mouth of an alleyway. Charlie lies in a pool of blood. A sick feeling seizes me, a cold sweat beading at the nape of my neck. Please be okay. Please don’t be dead. I can’t lose another brother. Not when I haven’t even had a moment to grieve Owen.

“You idiot!” The brassy-haired Nightweaver glares at the redheaded boy. “We could have gotten thirty tenors for that one!”

“They were getting away!” The boy sneers, kicking Charlie in the side. “Have a bonewielder stitch him up. He’ll be good as new.”

Charlie groans, and my stomach flips with sudden relief.

“So much for a packed hearing,” the girl snarls, surveying the somewhat empty town square.

“They’ll come,” the boy says. “If only to see that .”

He jerks his chin at the gallows, where a skeleton dangles from a rope, a crown of bronze atop its skull. Above, four words have been crudely scrawled on the wooden post, the fresh red paint dripping like blood.

DEATH TO THE KING.

The girl starts, “Do you think it could be—”

The boy cuts her off, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Don’t even say it. We don’t want a repeat of what happened in Thorn. If these humans thought for a second Captain Shade had joined forces with those rebels—”

“Duncan!” the girl spits, smacking him on the back of the head.

“What?” the boy grumbles, giving me a shake. “They don’t matter, Wren. After we’ve delivered them to the matrons, they won’t be our problem anymore.”

The brassy-haired girl rolls her eyes before barking orders at my family to get back in line. Duncan doesn’t relinquish his grip on my collar as he corrals Margaret, Mother, Elsie, and me across the town square, separating us from Father and the boys.

“Charlie’s survived worse.” Margaret’s voice trembles, but I nod. She would know—as the Lightbringer ’s surgeon, she’s always been the one to stitch him back together.

As Duncan shoves me into a makeshift stall near the gallows, I want nothing more than to cut the smug look from his face. But I take my cue from Mother, who keeps her breath steady and her shoulders back, dignified even as the women—matrons, Duncan called them—strip us of our clothes. If brave little Elsie refuses to shed a tear, then so will I.

The matrons work quickly, scrubbing crusted blood and a lifetime of salty grime from our skin. An ache forms at the base of my skull as an austere woman removes our chains one at a time and we’re clothed in simple black linen dresses with white aprons. I watch through a mirror as the matron glares at the tattoo of a moth, inked into the center of my spine by Lewis when I turned thirteen. I’m almost inclined to scratch out her beady eyes, but my hands are limp and useless. If she weren’t human like us, I’d think she could read minds, because when she refastens my bonds, they’re twice as tight as they were before, and I have to bite my lip to stifle a wail.

Margaret spits in the face of the matron who removes her and Elsie’s bracelets, but she doesn’t fight back. Pain splinters my chest, knocking the air from my lungs.

I will not let them take me.

I will not let them take me.

I will not let them take me.

A matron rips through the knots in my hair and pulls it into a single, tight braid while another pries off my boots and crams my feet into a stiff pair of flats. She tosses the boots into a heap of discarded shoes, and my heart sinks. I was robbed of all my weapons while I was unconscious aboard the ship, but a part of me clung to the hope that they somehow missed the knives I keep hidden at my ankles. Now, anything that was once mine has been taken away—the Lightbringer , a small armory, a patchwork tunic, a pair of gold earrings, a leather bracelet, a brother. All gone.

At least Captain Shade took back his medallion—my most prized loot—before the matrons could confiscate that, too. And then he disappeared— again —with my stolen treasure, taking with him my only chance of being rescued from whatever fate awaits me.

Come with me.

Whether or not they knew I was with them, my family did try to escape. If they had succeeded, they would have left me behind. But… can I blame them? I was seconds away from taking Captain Shade’s hand—seconds away from making the choice to leave without the rest of them. Safe.

But I made a different choice. I chose to stay with my family. Now, whatever comes next, one thing is certain: I’ll never be safe. No pirate is.

I try to summon some of Mother’s dignity as an austere woman leads us out of the stall and instructs us to wait in front of the gallows, but I’m too numb to be proud. Is this what will become of the Oberon clan? Divvied up among the hungry host of Nightweavers in their polished waistcoats to be cooked and eaten? I try to remember the breathing techniques Mother taught us, but the damp heat of the town square suffocates, and I struggle to sip air.

Duncan was right about the crowd—the people of this township turned out in droves for what Wren called a hearing . Judging by the finery of their clothes and the manner in which they examine us humans as if we had fins instead of feet, they’re all Nightweavers—I’m certain of it.

I lose myself somewhere beneath the stink of sweat and the clamor of the pressing throng as they weave among us, their faces a blur. My eyes dart to and fro, searching for Father among the prisoners. I scan the prisoners’ faces, their heads hanging as their charges are read by an officer atop the gallows, but my father and brothers are not among them.

A Nightweaver in an orange waistcoat snaps his hand in front of my face, forcing my attention away from the other prisoners. He cocks his head, a silk top hat tipping low over his shiny forehead. Bloodshot eyes rove from my collarbone to my waist. He scowls, scratching his copper sideburns.

“Too old,” he mutters, his breath reeking of scotch. Too old for what? I turned seventeen one month ago, and he can’t be but a few years older than me.

Understanding churns my stomach as he kneels beside me, taking Elsie by the hand.

I don’t think. I throw my body in front of Elsie, breaking his grip on her, and with all my might behind it, my skull crashes into his face. The force of it sends him stumbling backward a few steps, his eyes wide with shock as blood pours from his nose. Surprise quickly turns to outrage—but his indignation is no match for mine.

“If you touch her again, you’ll die choking on your own blood,” I snarl, my pulse hammering. I worried I’d be the one to collapse into tears, but if this is how it ends, I would rather die than watch Elsie wrenched from our family by the hands of a monster and do nothing at all.

“Ungrateful rat ,” he spits, adjusting his top hat. Flanking him, his friends draw their pistols, aiming them at me. “I should have you burned for that!”

“Careful, Percy,” says a deep voice emanating from the center of the town square. Silence blankets the crowd as they part to reveal a Nightweaver in a black cloak, his hood drawn, concealing his face in shadow. “If you lay another hand on those girls, I’ll light the pyre beneath you myself.”

Percy’s lip curls into a snarl, but his face blanches, and a weak grunt is his only protest. The Nightweaver approaches the gallows, methodically making his way through the crowd. The onlookers scramble backward, out of his path, and even Percy appears to be fighting the urge to retreat. With one gloved hand, the Nightweaver holds out a roll of parchment, and with the other, he waves away Percy and his friends, looking somewhat bored. He doesn’t spare a look back at them as they scurry from the town square, grumbling among themselves.

He withdraws his hood, and my stomach drops.

The boy from the ship runs a leather-clad hand through his black curls before handing the parchment to one of the officers stationed among the prisoners. His dark green eyes seek mine, flickering with amusement. It’s as if the entire crowd cranes to hear what he’s going to say next. I can’t tell if they hold their breath from anticipation or fear, but I reason it’s both.

He inclines his head, cutting his eyes at Elsie. “You’d die for her.” Not a question, but an observation.

“I’ll kill for her.” I muster some of Mother’s dignity, my gaze level. “Take another step, and I’ll rip out your throat with my teeth.”

A woman in the crowd gasps, and whispers echo through the square. Possessed. Underling. Doom us all.

The boy’s lips quirk slightly, the faintest hint of a smirk. “Tempting.”

“Lord Castor, I—” the officer babbles, but the boy extends his gloved hand, silencing him. The officer unfolds the parchment, and his brows knit. “Very well, my lord.” He clears his throat. “All charges have been dropped in lieu of a contract of service to House Castor.”

Panic grips me. Elsie presses closer, tiny sobs racking her body.

“Please,” I beg. I hate the way that word sounds coming out of my mouth, but desperation overrides any pride I felt a moment ago. “You have to take us all.”

His eyes narrow, but that flicker of amusement remains. It sets my teeth on edge.

“I don’t have to do anything,” he says smoothly, his voice low. Tension hangs in the air, a taut wire waiting to snap. Then he dips his head once, never breaking my stare. The officer fumbles with his key ring, easing toward me as if I were a wild animal. A moment later, the fetters around my wrists are removed. Then my ankles.

The boy frowns at the raw, bloody skin circling my wrists. He seizes my arm, and that same ripple of calm overtakes me… only this time, it urges me to be still. With his teeth, he pries the black leather glove from his free hand. He towers over me, but he looks up from beneath thick lashes as if asking permission.

Words fail me, and I blink.

His fingers trail over the wounds. I wince, expecting pain. But his touch is gentle and cool, a soothing balm. I watch in disbelief as he withdraws his hand and the flesh grows anew before my eyes, like a piece of fabric woven together, fiber by fiber. Murmurs of disapproval rise from the crowd as he repeats the healing motion on my other wrist. But the boy dips his head again, and in a few hasty breaths, the officer dismisses the assembly.

“What of the men?” someone shouts from the back of the square.

“Contracted to service as well.” The officer hands the parchment back to the boy, wiping sweat from his forehead. He mutters under his breath, casting wary glances at me as he scrambles to remove the fetters from Mother, Margaret, and Elsie, then hastens to convene with the officer atop the gallows.

The moment her hands and feet are free, I anticipate a signal from Mother, but she gives none. I suppose I was foolish to begin with to think it was only the chains that hindered us. Even if we managed to fistfight our way out of the town square, we’d have to find Father and the others, and Charlie would be in no shape to flee.

Charlie is okay , I tell myself. He has to be.

The boy releases me from his grip, and the calm departs, leaving my heart pounding and my breath coming in ragged gasps. I jerk away my arm, a delayed reaction, and fight the rush of heat that floods my face. He wants to eat you, stupid.

I rub my wrists where the fetters were. Not even a scar remains. If he plans to eat me, then why heal me? I push away the thought, flexing my fingers as sensation returns, warm and tingling.

At his signal, two Nightweavers in black cloaks approach from behind, flanking Mother and Margaret. It’s as if I can feel the Nightweavers’ frenzied heartbeats pulsing in the air.

“Are you the two responsible for claiming a bounty on this family?” the Nightweaver boy asks, his teeth clenching on the words.

“We’re sorry!” Duncan drops to his knees, his hood falling back to reveal his bright red hair. “It was Wren’s idea—”

“We were going to cut you in on the profits, my lord!” The brassy-haired girl throws back her hood, her face pale. “Please—”

The boy merely raises his gloved hand, his expression neutral. “I should have made my intentions clear.”

Duncan lets out a quiet sob, and Wren’s shoulders sag with relief.

“Thank you!” they blubber in unison. “Thank you, my—”

The boy makes a fist, and they fall silent.

“If you ever make the mistake of acting on my behalf again,” he says with lethal quiet, “I will not show such favor. Understood?”

“Understood, my lord!”

He waves his hand, and the two Nightweavers scramble away, their black cloaks billowing behind them. Alone with the four of us, the boy extends the parchment to me. “Can you read?”

I snatch it from his grasp, my hands shaking as I scan the ink. Momentary relief swells in my chest. We are not free, but we are going to be together—all eight of us. He had this contract of service all along. Why let me think otherwise? Just to be cruel?

“I have no intention of separating your family.” The boy holds out his hand, and I extend the parchment, but I don’t release it. This sheet of paper may not bind my wrists and ankles, but it is still a chain, nonetheless.

“You intend to enslave us.”

“I intend to give you what a life of piracy could not.”

I scowl, sizing him up. “Until you get hungry and decide we’d make a tasty snack?”

He barks out a laugh, and his reaction startles me so much that I let go.

He tucks the parchment into the folds of his cloak, lifting a brow. “You were the one who threatened to take a bite out of my neck.”

“I still might.”

He smiles crookedly. “Perhaps you will.”

Behind me, Mother lets out a shaky breath. I follow her gaze to where Father walks beside Charlie’s stretcher, which is carried by two cloaked figures. Albert limps alongside Lewis, their wrists and ankles free of chains. Just beyond their small party, a gilded train sputters pillars of thick black smoke into the dull gray sky.

The strange transport screeches to a halt, and I wince, wrinkling my nose at the stench of burnt eggs as the dense cloud of smoke fills the square.

Owen showed me a picture of a train once. He tried to explain how they worked—how the Nightweavers used them to traverse the land, almost like a ship. Only, it doesn’t look anything like a ship. It looks more like a serpent, its gold body bloated from its last kill.

The boy watches me, his smile gone, his expression unreadable.

I clench my fist, longing for the cold steel of a dagger in my palm. “If you’re expecting a—”

“Thank you,” Mother rasps, her hand light on my shoulder, an unspoken command to stand down. “You have shown us great kindness.”

The boy bows slightly, black curls tumbling into his eyes. “Let us be on our way,” he says, sweeping his arm in the direction of the train.

I wonder how many miles its hulking, golden body will take me from the shore, from the ocean, from the only home I’ve ever known. I wonder if, when we get there, I will regret taking Mother’s advice.

Survive , her eyes say as she takes me by the arm and leads me off the platform. But this doesn’t feel like survival.

It feels like surrender.