15 AURORA
The throbbing of the jet boat’s engines vibrate straight through the fiberglass hull and into the soles of my water shoes.
Out here in the open channel, the rolling gray fog is a dense curtain, walling us off from the burning island behind us.
I look over my shoulder at the little timber dinghy, it’s attached by a rope and bobbing over our wake like a faithful duckling.
Gods.
We actually made it off that horrible rock alive.
But that victory feels entirely microscopic compared to the battle we’re about to head into.
One thing at a time, Aurora.
First—Basil
“Hold still,” I murmur, keeping my voice soft as I kneel on the deck.
Basil lets out a sharp, defensive hiss, his fingers clawing into the upholstery of the passenger bench. His bare feet are covered in cuts and bruises from going barefoot on the rocks, and his left ankle is already the size of a baseball, turning a deep, bruised plum color.
“I told you, I’m fine, lady,” he spits, though his high voice cracks on the last syllable. He tries to pull his foot away, but I keep a firm, gentle grip on his calf.
“I know you’re tough, Basil,” I say, unrolling a fresh length of elastic compression bandage. “But wrapping it will help. Unless you want to be carried everywhere?” I raise an eyebrow and he scowls, his dark eyes flashing with so much anger.
I know it’s not aimed at me exactly. It’s aimed at the whole world.
He looks out over the dark water instead of answering. His slight frame shivers in the biting sea wind. The thin shirt he wears doesn’t hide a fresh red line of tattooed numbers on his pale chest.
Francois and London are in the front seats, so I call over to Tally. “Can you pass me that life jacket?”
He hands the vest over, and I pass it to the boy, who instantly growls again. “I can fucking swim, you know.”
“It’s just for warmth, honey.”
His scowl deepens further at my endearment, but after a beat he reluctantly threads his arms through the armholes. Then I pass him the bag of stale trail mix and an extra-strength ibuprofen from the med kit. “You’ll have to dry swallow. There’s no water left.”
Unfortunately. I’m parched.
Basil stares at the nuts and raisins like they’re a hallucination. For a second, the hard-ass street kid completely vanishes, replaced by a starving boy who hasn’t seen a decent meal in who knows how long.
“Thanks,” he mutters, so low I can barely hear it over the rumble of the exhaust.
“Are you feeling better, young Fuckwad?” London yells from the steering wheel. “Kitten’s got a proper mother-hen vibe when she gets going, hasn't she? Very comforting. Like the best hot-water bottle on a rainy Tuesday.”
“Where are we going, anyway?” Basil grumbles, licking the salty residue off his fingers.
Before I can answer, Francois is climbing over the seats towards us. Without a word, he grabs one of the empty plastic water bottles, then leans over the low gunwale of the boat, filling the small container brimful with the murky sea water.
I watch him, my brow furrowing. “Francois? We can’t drink that. The salt will just make the dehydration worse.”
“Have some faith, chérie,” Francois replies, settling onto the bench next to me.
He closes his eyes, and whispers an incantation.
The bottle glows green, and before my eyes, the water inside the bottle begins to separate. The heavy brine and microscopic grains of salt crystalize instantly, drawn outward by his magic.
With an elegant flick of his wrist, Francois tips the container sideways. The frozen block of pure salt slips out, splashing back into the ocean and leaving the remaining liquid completely crystal clear.
I need that magic.
But, shit, maybe that’s innate Basilisk magic and not an arcane spell that I can learn.
He turns slightly in his seat, extending the bottle toward Basil first. The kid stares at it, his eyes wide, looking at Francois’s display with a mix of awe and jealousy. “Thanks,” he mutters.
“Can you fill another for me?” I ask, cursing the fact my own magic is limited to spells I was taught by my tutors. Things like air-spells to dry my hair, and equally useless casts.
“Of course. I should have done so earlier,” Francois nods. “My apologies.”
“Where are we going, anyway?” Basil grumbles after he’s finished his water.
“A fine question,” I reply, looking at Taliesin. His golden wolf-eyes are fixed entirely on the horizon, his nostrils flaring as he tries to catch scents among the salt-spray. “Hopefully, to rescue our friend Sky. She’s probably on the party-yacht.”
Basil stiffens. “You’re going after them?”
I nod.
He looks out to sea for a moment, then back to me. “I dropped my piping. What weapon do you have for me?”
Hmm. “I guess you’re too young to shift?” I ask.
He looks mulish. “Yeah, I can’t do that yet. Fucking stupid. I heard the bad men have stopped taking older kids now. It’s cos it’s too hard to cage ‘em when they change into mice, or whatever.”
That’s interesting.
Shit. I wonder if Sky has been able to shift yet? Maybe she’s too young as well. After all, one's internal magic spark doesn’t come alive until a while after puberty.
Though that doesn’t explain why I haven’t shifted yet.
After all, I started my stupid periods at eleven.
I’d been tentatively growing my magic abilities before being thrown into Quo Reformare. But the second those heavy prison gates slammed shut behind me, the Null-Wards snuffed it all out.
My spark is beginning to work again, but, Gods, I would be so much more use if I could just fucking shift. Seriously, if I were a dragon, everything would be a walk in the park. But no. I’ve not a drop of fire in me.
“You can use the harpoon gun as a weapon,” London calls back, breaking into my downward spiral.
I don’t know if handing over that kind of fire-power to this angry kid is the best idea, but the way his face brightens is hard to resist. Basil shoves another handful of raisins into his mouth and nods. “Yeah. That’ll do.”
I sidle along the bench seat as the boat slams over a heavy chop. “Tally, I know you all seem pretty confident, but this bay is huge, the fog is intense. How do we actually find this yacht, The Carnivàle?”
Taliesin has his head held high. “We don't need eyes, Rory. I have the wind.” He takes a deep, chest-expanding breath, his nostrils flaring as he filters the air. “A boat that size carries a heavy footprint. High-grade diesel fuel, catering kitchens, the scent of fucking rich-dick cigars. The wind is blowing it straight off the deep channel. I know we’re headed in the right direction.”
“Yes, we’re all very impressed with your doggy-sense,” Francois drawls, “But we also have the radar.” He points to the small, glowing green screen embedded in the dash. “There’s only a couple of vessels that could be The Carnivàle, and they’re both in the same direction. Look here.”
Moving forward, I lean over his shoulder, my heart skipping as I remember our kiss. The tugging threads that emanate from my core make more sense now. One leads to Taliesin, one to London, and a third I was trying to ignore—to the beautiful, arrogant, hard-to-understand Frenchman.
“See there?” Francois asks, pointing at the radar. “I imagine it’s our target. At anchor and waiting for their clients’ tenders.” The solid, unmoving green blip is sitting right on the edge of the screen’s outer ring.
“Right,” I say, my stomach doing a violent flip.
“Let’s talk logistics. Getting Basil out of a locked room was one thing.
This yacht is going to be a completely different beast. The guards will be armed to the teeth, and we don’t know if The Carnivàle has been warned yet.
Half of me thinks it might be better to wait until nightfall. ”
Tally grunts, his jaw tightening. “No, it happens now. The men at the mansion will be too busy playing fireman. I guess they’ll leave reporting the problems as long as possible to cover their own asses.”
There is that.
“Besides, if we wait until nightfall, Kitten,” London runs a hand through his wild hair.
“The big ship will have sailed away down the alley, alley, oh.” He gives me a smile.
“But we do need a plan. Pretty sure they’ll have a bloke with a very large gun checking invitations.
And much as I think we look marvelous, I don’t know if Rex gave us clothes that fall under the style-guide of ‘Conclave billionaire.’”
That is not an understatement.
“The last time I was on a mega-yacht it had two entry ways,” Francois chimes in. “The main aft deck where the Elites board from their own vessels, and the lower utility port on the starboard side—the scullery and storage hatch. It sits barely three feet above the waterline.”
“And the swimming deck,” London adds. “Don’t forget that.”
“That bottom door is locked solid,” Basil snaps, crossing his arms. “It’s got those massive electronic magnets. I got a good look at it once. If you try to smash it open, a buzzer goes off upstairs, then they’ll slide big metal walls down to trap you like a rat in a bucket.”
Tally turns his head slowly, his golden eyes locking onto the kid. “You know a way around the locks, kid?”
“I saw the delivery dudes fixing it when they brought me in,” Basil says, his chin lifting with a bit of a smirk.
“There’s a little box on the outside of the boat.
You have to clip one of the wires to kill the magnets so the door goes dead.
It gives you a little over a minute before the backup power turns them back on. ”
Francois lets out a low, appreciative hum, a chilling smile touching the corner of his lips. “Thank you, young man. That is pertinent.”
“Fuck off, grandad,” Basil mumbles.
I hide a laugh. I don’t think Francois knows how to talk to kids. Not really a surprise, but I might have to tell him to cut back on the condescension later.
“I know exactly which wire, too,” Basil mutters, leaning back. “The blue one with the yellow stripe. Cut that one, and the door pops right open. Touch the red one, and the whole ship goes mental.”