Chapter 19 #2
Amaya drew the coat tight around her and smiled to herself, doing her utmost to ignore the spiced honey scent clinging to the fabric.
“Thanks.”
“You’ll get used to it,” he said. “The cold. The thin air.”
“I’m sure I will.”
Was it weird that she hoped he was right? That she wanted to get used to this?
“So . . .” Amaya said, edging a little closer to the captain. “Most everyone told me about how they became pirates yesterday, but I only know bits and pieces about you.” She elbowed him. “Spill.”
“Spill?” He looked at her, and Amaya’s grin widened at his disbelief. “That sounds a bit like an order, Sinclair.”
“Oh, come on. Nobody’s ever asked you about yourself?” Amaya jumped a few steps ahead and pivoted on her heel, now walking backward. “Please?”
Lexington bit the inside of his cheek, presumably to hide a smile, and looked away. Amaya needed to sweeten the pot.
“Fine, I’ll even go first. Ask me anything.” She knew she wasn’t nearly as interesting as a Sky Lord, but she hoped the offer tempted him.
“Anything,” he repeated. This time, he let out a soft, rumbling laugh. Amaya immediately resolved to make him laugh again. “Fine. I’ll bite.”
He studied her. Amaya stopped in her tracks and tilted her chin, determined to not be the first to break eye contact.
After a long, charged pause, he decided on a question.
“Your music today. It was sad, when you started. Why?”
As soon as he said, “your music,” Amaya’s invisible walls flew up. Her music was her most truthful way of expressing herself, and the query dredged up uncomfortable vulnerabilities she wasn’t used to sharing.
“Oh.” Her pause was even longer than his as she contemplated an answer. She squirmed like a bug trapped inside a glass. “It’s like I said. I’m classically trained, so—”
“No,” Will cut her off. “I’ve heard plenty of classical music, and that’s not what that was.”
Amaya didn’t know what to tell him. She’d never been asked to articulate why the music that poured out of her was the way it was.
Her mouth opened, then closed again, until she finally found her voice.
“After my mother died . . .” She spoke slowly, discovering the words as she said them. “The house was so quiet. It was unbearable. So I started playing more and more, but the songs were always like that—sad.”
Amaya began walking again, her footsteps a meandering shuffle.
“I got stuck,” she confessed, every syllable a battle to force past her lips.
“No one wanted the sad version of me, or the angry version, or the messy version. My mom was the only person who ever really let me be, and with her gone I . . . just started going through the motions. Started accepting things. I acted out like any spoiled rich girl does, I suppose, but never meaningfully. I always went straight back to normal. And my music stayed sad.”
Admitting that out loud felt like drawing poison from a wound. It hurt, but . . . in a good way.
“What about your friend?” Will asked. “Camden?”
Amaya’s breath caught.
What about Cam? Was she really going to stand here and say her best friend didn’t even let her be herself? That wouldn’t be the truth. But it was complicated.
“Camden . . . Camden was my outlet. And I was his,” she said. “He was the best person in my life. But we could never . . .” She trailed off.
Her father had made it abundantly clear that Camden wasn’t someone she could build a life with. He’d been a bandage—a good one. But he’d never had a chance to be a part of a more permanent cure.
“Was he ever more than a friend?” Will asked. He was gentle, but not letting her off easily.
Amaya hugged her arms around herself, trying to hold together wounds that were still healing. She shook her head.
“No. I mean, he was . . . no. No.”
“You don’t sound sure.”
Amaya chewed on her bottom lip, her fingernails digging into her sleeves.
Camden had kissed her six months ago, during the Blood Moon Feast, on the terrace at Starcrest Peak. They’d both been drunk on orange liqueur cocktails, hungry for a different kind of satisfaction, and comfortable enough to seek it from each other. Because . . . well, what if?
She’d loved him. It hadn’t been a stretch to imagine she could fall in love. And deep down, she’d always known he was already there.
It hadn’t ended with one kiss. Amaya distinctly remembered twisting his tie around her hand and bringing him to her bedroom.
He’d been full of soft kisses and whispered assurances, almost painfully gentle, confirming every step of the way that she was okay, that she was sure.
Amaya had nothing but fond memories of that night.
But it all fell apart in the daylight. They were caught by the maids, having been too hungover to make a proper escape plan. Her father found out, and a week later, she found herself knee-deep in an arrangement with Victor Westbrook.
Camden had rolled over, because what was he supposed to do? And Amaya could have fought back, but she hadn’t. She’d wilted and accepted it, just like she accepted everything else.
Not letting herself want anything made the inevitable disappointment easier to bear.
“Cam and I were never going to happen,” she said. “And even if it was possible, it’s not now.”
When Will didn’t respond or push for more, she glanced up at him, worried she’d said too much. Poured out her unspoken truths to a vicious Sky Lord, of all people.
But he wasn’t vicious now. He sought her eyes, captured her anxiety in his, and almost imperceptibly shook his head.
Not too much.
“So, which version of you is this?” Will vaguely gestured to all of her, and Amaya cracked a smile in spite of herself.
“All the unacceptable ones, I think.”
In Sorrento, she’d had to suppress herself, or at least attempt to, to feel like she could survive. Opportunities to be herself without masking were the exception.
But up here, survival looked quite different; suppression was no longer an option. Her true self, jagged edges and all, served her better.
“Hm.” Lexington shoved his hands into his pockets. “Well, you did steal from me. I have to agree that was pretty unacceptable.”
“For crying out loud, I did not steal. You’ve got to let this go.” Amaya crossed her arms. “I was helping.”
“Right. Helping. By undermining me in front of my crew and doing exactly what I asked you not to do.”
“I was! Besides, I wanted the photo, and I didn’t want your clumsy fingers tearing it.”
“Clumsy?” Will snorted a laugh. “I assure you, Sinclair, my fingers are anything but clumsy.”
Maker above.
Amaya felt her lips part, her mouth going dry. Clearing her throat, she pushed away the intrusive urge to find out exactly what he meant by that and changed the subject.
“Right. My turn.”
She tried to decide which of her many questions she wanted to ask him. What happened between him and Emelie Hawk? Was he worried about those black veins on his arm—the Aetheric Decay? Why was he always so grumpy?
Finally she asked, “What happened with you and Graven?”
At first, Amaya didn’t think he would answer. His head tilted down, making his face unreadable.
“You go straight for the jugular, hm?” he said, running a hand through his hair.
Amaya shrugged. “You did. It’s only fair.”
He grunted something unintelligible, staring at the ground before their feet as they walked.
“How much did Serena tell you?”
“She said your father was a relic smuggler who got his hands on a Class Four. So Graven destroyed Percival and abducted you, and you grew up on the Baroness.” Amaya paused. “She also said you don’t talk about it.”
“It’s not pleasant dinner conversation. But yes, that’s the gist of it.
My father was a smuggler who stole relics from Vaelstead, actually.
I never knew how he tracked down Stormfist, but Graven targeted us and tore the town apart looking for it.
He found it, used it to kill my parents, then took me. ”
“Why? What could he possibly want with a kid?”
“He found it entertaining, molding a smuggler’s son to be just like him instead.” Will’s lips twisted into a wry smile. “I don’t think he intended to be quite so successful.”
“How did you get away?”
“I met Sebastian and Serena at the Aereasead port when I was thirteen. Started running off with them every time our paths crossed.” Will shoved his hands into his pockets, his eyes unfocused.
“They became the closest thing to family I had. They taught me why we do what we do. It’s not about power or violence, it’s about justice through violence when nothing else works.
“But Sebastian never wanted to be a Sky Lord, and Serena was locked into engineering, so when their parents died, they offered me Hellsgate. Passing the Trial of the Seven and becoming a Sky Lord was my way out.”
“Why didn’t you leave sooner? Just run away to the Maelstrom?”
Will sucked his teeth, grimacing. “I was Graven’s protégé—the best killer he had. He’d have hunted me down.”
Amaya blinked, the illustration from Edmund’s book flashing in her mind. “Oh.”
“He couldn’t drag me back to his crew if I became a Sky Lord—it’s against the codex, and he does actually follow that most of the time. So when I finally got Hellsgate, I swore the next time I saw Alastor Graven, we’d be equals.”
“And now you are.”
“Now we are. And the smugglers fear me almost as much as they do him.”
Amaya turned to look at Will, hearing the melancholy undertone in his voice. And she understood.
In the name of self-preservation, Will had allowed Graven to mold him into the very thing that had once ruined his life. But it was Sebastian and Serena—his chosen family—who kept him grounded when Graven would have rather stripped away all his humanity.
Because William Lexington wasn’t a monster. He was tragically, agonizingly human.
“Hey,” she said, placing a hand on his arm. “Graven may have taught you everything you know, but you’re not the same. You did what you needed to do to survive, just like me.”
He looked incredulous. “We’re not the same, Sinclair.”
“Of course not. You’re an asshole, and I’m delightful.”
Will rolled his eyes, and his jaw ticked as he tried not to smile. Amaya wished he wouldn’t try so hard; she wanted him to smile at her so badly.
“But really, you took what could have been a sad story about a nameless kid and turned it into a legend. That’s pretty amazing.”
Something in Will’s green eyes shifted, but it was gone before she could name it.
“Come on,” he said, holding out his hand. “We should let everyone else get back to their evenings.” Amaya placed her hand in his, surprised it was still warm without his coat, save for where his gold ring made contact with her skin.
She studied the black scars peeking out from beneath his sleeve on the way back to the elevator, the question on the tip of her tongue . . . but she’d asked enough of him tonight.
“For what it’s worth,” he said as they entered the lift. “I like this version of you.”