Chapter Seventeen
Nick woke with a heightened feeling of wrongness. There was another person breathing in the room, the rhythm not Kit’s. A reedy, woody aroma permeated the air.
Intruder.
It wasn’t another night terror. An ominous black shape in the corner of the room, slowly advancing and growing in size with each step. Nick could move.
He sat up, turning. The stove’s dying embers cast a soft glow on a lean and short kit planted in the centre of the room, dressed all in black. A single glimpse of his face brought no recognition.
Nick’s sheets fell away from his chest, and a burst of trapped ochre and musk wafted up. The strange kit scrunched his nose and rocked back on his heels. “I guess that answers my question,” he murmured under his breath.
“This is the captain’s room. Invite only,” Nick said.
Indecision flashed across the kit’s face. Then, “I’m here to rescue you.”
Nick slid to the edge of the bed, planting his feet onto the polished wooden floor.
“Oh yeah? Lead the way,” he said. He was aware of his thin shirt, the loose trousers on his bottom half, the vulnerability of having just been jarred from a drugged sleep and having no idea how long this man had been in the room with him while he was unaware.
When had Kit left? Seconds ago? Minutes? Hours?
The kit sprang forwards. Nick swept his hand to the bedside table, catching the bowl of salve.
It hurled towards the kit’s face, who broke his lunge to duck.
In the time it took the kit to rebound, Nick had opened the door and slammed it shut behind him.
He raced down the hall, cursing under his breath to find himself unfamiliar with the layout of this new ship.
He lucked upon the stairs and darted up them. He heard his pursuer flying down the hall after him.
Nick skidded outside. No lookout. No man at the helm. The rigging was empty—no kits on the sails.
Bar one.
A tail brushed the back of Nick’s head. He jumped around to see Mini sitting cross-legged on the roof of the cabin leading below deck. “Go with them,” Mini said.
There wasn’t time to ask for details. Those steps were moments away from the door. Nick could call out. He could raise the alarm. He couldn’t, he knew, overpower the kit even though he looked physically smaller. “Is Kit?”
Mini nodded.
“Are you?”
The small kit sprang out of the doorway, and Mini slid away without being seen.
Nick raised both hands. “I surrender,” he said.
The kit regarded him with a narrow-eyed, suspicious look.
“You startled me,” Nick continued. “But I’ve calmed down now. I’ll come willingly.”
A length of rope was produced. The kit jutted his chin at Nick’s hands.
A wave of doubt washed through him. But if he considered all the kits he’d met, he found that they had all turned out to be straightforward and genuine.
Did he trust Mini? Despite how quick the little devil was to suggest violence, Nick believed with his whole heart that he had Kit’s best interests in mind.
Nick offered his wrists to be tied. The intruder smelled of herbs; the bowl of salve had splattered into his hair, and a small scrape marred his temple.
He tugged Nick by his bound hands to the side of the ship.
In the river below, three rowboats waited.
The oars that had propelled them upriver were stashed for the night, the men exhausted from pulling them all day no doubt passed out below deck.
Black-cloaked kits filled the rowboats. One of them had tied hands and was being physically restrained by half a dozen others.
A panicked feeling jolted through Nick when he saw Kit’s state, eyes covered, mouth blocked.
He told himself Mini would have raised the alarm if Kit were in worse danger from these men than from Desre.
“Climb down,” the kit ordered.
It was doable with his hands tied to his front, though Nick’s bruised back had him shaking by the time he reached the boat. He slid into the nearest seat and tried not to move an inch. The small kit joined him, and all three rowboats set out, deathly silent, away from the ship.
Kit was on the next boat over. His tail alone was being held down by three. His body was an arc of tension, and as oars sank into the dark river water, he began to thrash. One of the kits had Kit by the throat, and he hissed something that made the thrashing stop.
On his own boat, the small kit pulled on a black cloak.
“Do you have an extra one?” Nick asked, not taking his eyes off Kit. There was a real risk, with him being bound, of drowning. “I’m cold.”
The small one draped a cloak over Nick and even pulled the hood up. He wasn’t overly rough, and his eyes slid over Nick’s face as he did it.
Twelve, Nick counted. All in black, and none that he recognised. The only kit from the ship on the rowboats was Kit himself, and he was clearly an unwilling tag-along. Nick didn’t like that he was leaving the kids behind.
A kit from each boat hopped out and guided the rowboats into a reedy shoreline.
Disturbed mud dirtied the water, and a startled duck squawked at them as it burst from the undergrowth.
All the kits froze. Nick looked over his shoulder to the ship; it floated mid-river, the anchor at its bow keeping it in place.
No light poured out from any windows. No lanterns were lit. No alarm raised.
The kits released a collective breath and continued.
The small one came to Nick, a gag and a sack in hand.
“Thought I was being rescued?” Nick involuntarily tensed as he raised the gag. The kit hesitated, eyes finding the red marks that the last gag had left behind.
“Just pry open his jaw,” a different kit suggested.
“He’s injured,” the small one whispered back. “You must be silent,” he said to Nick. He put aside the gag and lifted the sack. Nick reeled back, but his neck was caught, and the sack was pulled down. It was burlap. Scratchy. Unpleasant. It turned breathing into a humid, suffocating experience.
Nick was led through knee-deep reeds, onto grass, over dirt. He smelled horse. He was guided into an enclosed space and given a seat on what felt like a bench, where he leaned forwards to keep his back from touching a wall behind him. There was a creak. They began to move.
By the count of ten, Nick was carsick.
◆◆◆
Nick realised belatedly that leaving the water was stupid.
Now he was on land where the mermen had no chance of finding him.
His back ached as they jolted their way across uneven ground, and he realised, too, that he’d made that decision while still under the influence of strong painkillers, which had now worn off.
The kits didn’t speak. There was tension among them, a sense of waiting.
For sounds of pursuit, Nick guessed. The wagon wasn’t going very fast. But the night transformed to day, and they continued undisturbed.
A wheel fell into a dip, and Nick lost his balance, back striking a jutting-out beam of wood.
He bowed forward, hurting.
It was becoming overwhelming. The humid air.
The nausea. A growing panic as he realised that his best chance of being found had been in that ship that an entire dock full of people had just watched him being loaded into a day prior.
Why had he done this? Kit had been resisting.
He hadn’t wanted these kits to take him.
Why had he trusted Mini’s words over his own eyes?
Thrashing began further into the wagon. There were subdued cries. Grunts of pain. Kit? Had Kit made that noise?
The burlap sack was ripped from Nick’s head, exposing him to dazzling light. The blissful gasp of clean air revived him. He immediately looked towards the disturbance just as it settled. Kit’s face, blindfolded and gagged, pointed at Nick. His nostrils flared.
“He’s fine. We are not hurting him,” a kit said to Kit.
Kit was laid out on the floor; the other kits crowded the wagon, subduing him by body weight alone. His tail was constrained by many, but the feathered end twitched wildly. Kit’s breaths moved in and out quickly; he was panicking, but as he always did, hiding it.
Nick’s hands were bound. He was injured. There were many, many of them, and only one of him.
A teacher once told Nick he would be a carbon copy of his dad, if not for that temper.
It flared, bright and consuming. Nick was on his feet. Shoving. Grabbing. Cursing. He heard a shocked gasp when cunts flew past his lips, so he trusted it had been translated into something sufficiently vulgar.
Nick knew it was a losing fight. He knew these kits, this race, were physically stronger than a plain old human like himself.
But he caused enough trouble that Kit gained enough leeway to sit up.
The small kit lunged to rectify that. Nick made sure his heel impacted first, so he wouldn’t break his toes against skull.
A tall kit tackled Nick to the ground. One got on his legs. Another got one arm. “Stop this before you get –”
Nick jammed up, cracking his head into his face.
It earned a pained yelp, and crunching cartilage.
“Stop fucking pinning him down like that,” Nick demanded even as two more kits leapt in to physically restrain him.
The tall one sat back on his heels, weight hovering over Nick’s stomach as he cupped his bleeding nose.
“What is going on in here?” The canvas draped across the entrance to the wagon pulled back. “It’s shaking like you’re all screwing and…why are you bleeding?”
“Seche! He head-butted him,” the small kit now holding down Nick’s left arm explained.
“Ios,” Seche acknowledged the small kit. “Why are you bleeding?”
“He kicked me,” Ios admitted with a whimper. “I think he broke my nose.”
“He definitely broke mine!” the tall one barked out. Specs of blood were landing on Nick’s neck. He screwed his mouth shut.
There was a strangled laugh. Kit.
Nick twisted towards the entrance. The kit there, Seche, wore leather armour with a brilliant blue cloak clasped at one shoulder.
His dark hair was neatly trimmed. His skin was a shining, clear nut brown.
His eyes slid across the rest of those in the wagon.
“Don’t tell me you spent the entire trip here getting beaten up. ”
“He got upset,” Ios said. “And Kit smelled it, which upset him. So I took the sack off him, but then he saw Kit pinned down, and he went from upset to very, very angry.”
Seche stared at Ios, perhaps as unimpressed by his scattered report as Nick was. “I see. So you have spent the last thirty seconds trying to restrain one man with half your strength.”
There was a beat of silence.
“He’s actually very strong,” Ios denied.