Chapter 6 #2
The blood flows faster in thick currents of red.
Outside, it’s as if the sea has turned to blood too.
The stomach-dropping thought that we’re sinking makes my throat tight, and I can’t speak.
The instinctual urge to race to a higher deck makes my muscles tense.
A low rumble shakes the ground beneath my feet, but someone seizes my arm before I can bolt.
Ivander wrenches me inside a wood-paneled room with a back wall covered in multicolored glowing jars. Once he closes the door behind us, the lightheaded disorientation abates, and I gulp fresh air again. “What was that?” I ask, thankful the sinking feeling is gone.
Ivander shakes his head. “Don’t ask. You want to sleep tonight.”
“I don’t scare easy.”
“Good.” A low voice from behind startles me, and it takes everything I have not to jump out of my skin. Bad time to act brave.
I turn around to face the man who spoke.
He towers over me. As he runs a tanned hand over slick black hair, he takes a step toward me.
The skin of his face stretches thin over the sharp bones of his skull, making him look more skeleton than man.
I catch the metallic scent of blood like I did in the hallway and notice bloody slits in his lips.
Dark, half-moon circles under his eyes make him look older than he probably is.
The man wears a heavy, dark gray coat over his shoulders, obscuring all but his hands from view.
His fingertips are bloody and raw, more exposed bone than flesh.
I can only assume these physical effects are from being in such close quarters to raw Morphia and handling it for extended periods of time.
Father told Eliza and me that many of the bosses were Morphicbound, desperate for access to raw Morphia after losing their own.
While Mother warned me to fear everyone aboard the ship when we stayed, I only saw Father nervous when he talked about the bosses.
He warned Eliza and me that the position attracts some of the coldest men and women in Tamarynth.
Father helps oversee the recruiting process, and he says they’re often former prison guards who are unafraid to carry out harsh punishments if needed and don’t mind being at sea for the two-year contract.
But they’re always ex-Morphics. Bosses also receive a significant sum of gems, but Father says it’s the raw Morphia that keeps them returning to the position.
I swallow hard, waiting for someone to speak. “This is Boss Stellan,” Ivander says. “He’ll be taking some of your Morphia this evening.”
I’ve been so distracted by the wall of glowing jars I didn’t notice the metal reclining chairs at the left side of the room. Beside each chair, there’s a tray with a gray potion and an empty jar beside it. My mouth dries, and I step backward.
“I thought it must be a rumor when I heard a Damarcus was coming to serve aboard.” Stellan’s dark eyes survey my face.
“Yet here you are.” Stellan holds up his hand and motions for me to sit in the chair.
Every part of me screams not to move, but Ivander hops into the chair next to mine without hesitation.
He takes a tiny sip from the gray liquid and holds the empty bottle beneath his eyes.
Silvery tears fall into the open jar. He bites his lower lip, but his face relaxes when the tears stop.
Now Ivander’s jar glows with light.
Without looking at me, Stellan hands me the potion.
It’s my turn. I sit in the metal chair, careful of Stellan, and press the odorless potion bottle to my lips.
The Damarcus family invented this potion.
A potion to extract Morphia. I can’t look afraid of the potion my ancestor created.
A tiny voice in my head reminds me this same potion drains Morphic abilities too.
As if sensing my hesitation, Ivander says, “It’s impossible to give more tears than the small donation jar allows. The process to extract Morphia takes … much more.”
I take a small sip and icy liquid tickles my tongue. The sensation grows stronger until it feels like tiny pinpricks piercing the inside of my mouth. It has an acidic, sour taste that puckers my lips. When I swallow, the icy stabbing subsides, but my throat burns instead.
Stellan scribbles my name into a journal. “Roe Damarcus,” he says as my skin begins to tingle. Then it burns like my throat. My eyes throb, and stinging tears stream from my eyes. I raise my hands to wipe them away but stop myself. My cheeks are white-hot and wet.
“You’ll come here every night before sundown to donate your Morphia.
If you finish your work after sundown, it is still your responsibility to donate.
Even at nightfall. Fresh donations keep the ship strong as a container and provide the magical experience.
If you or any staff aboard miss a dose, you forfeit retrial and face immediate extraction. ”
Ivander’s eyes narrow, but he stays silent.
I nod with gritted teeth. Stellan continues without regard for my straining muscles and the sheen of sweat on my skin.
“The retrials occur quarterly. You will compete with the other staff members for a chance. Guests and bosses vote on which staff member gets a retrial based on your work performance. That means you’re going to be a good girl, aren’t you? ”
The tears stop abruptly, but the stinging doesn’t fade as fast. My chances at a retrial are based on a freaking popularity contest. Not only that, but I’ll be competing against hundreds of other staff members. I force my lips to move. “How close are we to the next trial?”
Stellan taps a finger to his lips. “A month now. You’ve been assigned a concierge position. You’ll be serving one family for a month-long stay.”
Stellan grabs our jars and walks to the back wall. He fits the jars into empty slots, and the air charges with energetic power. He stays staring at the jars with his back turned to us, transfixed, and says, “You may go.”
I don’t need to be told twice. Without checking to see if Ivander’s following, I leap from the metal chair and run for the door. I throw myself into the hallway, trying to get the extraction potion out of my mind and the sour sting out of my mouth.
When I emerge into the hallway, it’s like someone has dimmed all the lights and shoved a wasp nest against my ear.
An incessant buzzing grows louder, sending sharp stabs of pain through my head.
I stumble forward, unsure of which direction I’m supposed to be going.
The deck groans beneath my feet in a low rumble.
White-hot terror shoots through me as the fear of sinking consumes me again.
I look around for Ivander but can’t see him.
With another heavy groan, the ship tilts and I fall into the wall. My clothes stick to the paint, but it’s not paint. It’s hot, thick rivulets of blood and tufts of cobwebs. A scream lodges in my throat, but I can’t make a sound. The buzzing is too loud. No one will hear me.
I pull myself from the sticky wall and struggle to stand up straight.
If we’re sinking, I’ve got to get to a higher deck.
I lurch forward, trying to get my bearings.
The stench of blood is so strong I can almost taste it.
Nausea creeps up my throat. When I look to the end of the hallway, hoping to see the staircase, my gaze locks on a tall, shadowy, faceless figure.
My body trembles, and I have to force myself to keep breathing.
“Slow down. You don’t want to wander alone at night.”
The sound of Ivander’s voice yanks me out of my stupor and cuts off the buzzing in my head.
When I turn around to face him, the tense set of his jaw is accusing, as if he thinks I chose to wander off alone in a haunted hallway.
I stop and wait for him, dumbfounded by his calm, steady strides.
He points down the hallway. “You’re all the way on the other end. Follow me.”
I look where he’s pointing. The shadowy figure is gone, but the cobwebs and blood remain. The groaning of the ship beneath our feet sets my stomach roiling. What did he say again when I asked about the hallways? You don’t want to know.
As we walk, Ivander talks as if the walls aren’t crusted with dried blood and something that might be flesh.
As a young girl, I might have loved all this, but that was when I controlled the spooky spider spirits that scared everyone.
That was when Father read me creepy stories in the comfort of my four-poster bed, where nothing could touch me.
“You’ve got a good job,” Ivander says, misreading my silent horror for disappointment in my new position.
“Hard. Especially with a month-long family.” He shakes his head.
“But others would beg for your position to stand out for retrial. You could get a bunch of votes by the end.” There’s bitterness in his tone, as if he already believes I don’t deserve it.
“You haven’t told me anything about how voting works, so I’m not exactly feeling confident.” I try to keep the bite out of my voice, but his scowl tells me I haven’t succeeded.
Ivander shoots me a glare but clears his throat.
“Bosses and guests vote on which Morphics deserve retrials at the quarterly voting. The nearest one is at the end of the month. Each adult receives a vote, so don’t waste your time trying to convince a bunch of kids you’re the best staff member.
As a concierge, you can receive fifty additional votes if the adult members of your family choose to vote for you, but the families are pretty particular.
Most concierges don’t earn their family’s vote. ”
I’m beginning to think I should write this down.
He continues without asking if I understand.
“Bosses vote too. That’s why it’s so important not to get on their bad sides.
Their vote counts for ten extra. There’s a mid-cruise vote halfway through the month to entertain guests and allow staff to see their standing.
But the only one that counts for retrial is the one at the end of this month.
” He grimaces. “Guests love gossiping with each other about us. They tend to make a few names popular, and then those few staff members are the only ones getting votes. They will be watching your every move and taking notes on your performance from day one. Each mistake could cost you.”
I try to keep my face impassive, but my fingers fidget at my sides. I haven’t been properly trained for this position, and I’m going to be judged from the minute I start. I take solace in knowing that the guests’ opinions don’t officially count until the final vote.
He stops in front of room 306 and opens the door without knocking. “Be quiet. Your bunkmate’s sleeping.”
We enter a dark room smaller than my bathroom at home. A pair of bunk beds rest against the wall across from the door. There’s a closed door to the shared bathroom beside the bunks and a floor-length mirror hanging on the door when Ivander closes it. In the dark, I can’t make anything else out.
I stand there and wait for him to leave, not wanting to fall apart in front of him. But he doesn’t leave. He stands across from me, a darkened shadow in the tiny room. We’re so close I can feel the warmth from his body. I try to steady the rapid beating of my heart. “What’s wrong?” he whispers.
I don’t know what to say. About my new job. About the bleeding walls. About Boss Stellan. None of it. But everything I’ve held back today—the anger, the fear—compounds into a ball of rage held back by a whisper.
“What do you mean what’s wrong? Everything about this is wrong.
None of this is what I thought it would be.
It’s bad enough having to come here, but now there’s almost no chance of me getting a retrial.
I may as well have stayed home.” The person in the lower bunk rolls over in their sleep, and I lower my voice. “It’s not fair.”
Ivander’s silent for so long, I wonder if he’s left the room.
Finally, he whispers back in a quieter voice than mine, yet somehow more intense.
“No. It’s not fair that you got a good job to start.
With the bosses kissing your ass because of your great-granddaddy, you’ll be out of here in a month.
With your Morphia.” He scoffs. “Don’t tell me it’s not fair. I’ve been here longer than you.”
We stay inches away from each other, chests heaving.
The knot in my stomach is so tight it takes my breath away.
I admire that he had the guts to say it, but that doesn’t mean it hurts any less.
I wish I were as confident I’d be getting out of here with no repercussions.
But I forgot who I was whining to—someone who’s been here longer than me. Much longer.
The girl in the lower bunk lights her lantern and interrupts our private corner of darkness.
Ivander holds my gaze with his brown eyes—the intensity in them like burning coals in the lantern light. “Sorry, Alana,” he whispers. “Go back to sleep.”
The softness of his tone contrasts the dagger-sharp edge he used on me. There’s a gentleness when he says her name that I doubt I’ll ever get to hear again.
We hold each other’s gazes for another long moment.
I’m grateful when he leaves the room without another word to me.
Alana turns back over and pulls a blanket over her head. In the meager light, I climb up to the top bunk and fall onto the thin mattress with a flimsy wool blanket. As I lie there, not thinking about my growling stomach, not undressing, I think about the way he looked when I said it was all unfair.
I’m not sure what I saw in the stern set of his jaw and his tense shoulders. But I know he only saw a spoiled or clueless girl, or both.
I’m less angry than I am afraid he’s right.
I do know he knows way more about this place than I do. And he’s my competition.