Chapter 2
Lyssa
Magic hums through my veins as I race across the planks.
The main mast of the Alastor stands huge and proud ahead of me, shimmering silver sails billowing as the ship flies through the sky, brightly colored clouds racing past on either side.
I throw my hands out in front of me when I reach the wide wooden pole, skidding to a stop and pressing my palms flat to the cool wood.
A smile spreads across my face as I feel the pent-up energy buzzing through me soar when I connect with my ship.
I tip my head back and concentrate as hard as I can on the Rage flowing through me.
Everything that has just happened replays on high speed in my head, and I focus on every detail that makes me angry. It’s not hard. By the time I remember what Lady Lamia said about Epizon, a torrent of power is surging and straining to be free of my control.
With glee, I let go.
I hear the sound of the sails snapping taut and am vaguely aware of the blazing red color rippling across their surface.
The ship lurches forward, and I grip the mast hard as we speed up, soaring through the clouds faster and faster as the sails draw my magic from me.
Power flows from every part of my body into the ship, and I let out a roar of delight.
Channeling my Rage magic into the ship makes me feel so much more powerful than when I use it to fight.
I’m using my power to tear through the skies and outrun my enemies. I’m using it to fuel my beloved ship and make my crew safer and stronger.
Right now, I am invincible.
The clouds get brighter and deeper in color as they shoot past, which means we’re moving higher as well as faster. My red hair whips around me, stinging my cheeks. A wild grin splits my face as I picture Lady Lamia’s ship languishing behind us, and her fury at her prey escaping.
I’ve won.
I will always win. While I have my ship, while I have my strength, I will always—
“Captain!” Epizon yells, jolting my attention back to reality. “Enough!”
Reluctantly, I ease my hands from the mast, the ship immediately starting to slow as I sever the flow of power.
Spasms rock through my muscles as the energy whirls, looking for an outlet.
I screw up my face as I let go completely, flexing my hands into fists as I try to work the Rage out of my body.
I take a few long breaths and turn, ready to reprimand Epizon for cutting my connection to the ship short.
I close my mouth when I focus on his face, though. Epizon’s expression is tight, and I blink at him, the pain in my muscles fading.
“Captain, we’re a hundred and fifty leagues away already. Any farther, and we’ll be too high.”
Have we really been moving that fast? Pride creeps through the alarm I feel.
“We don’t know what will happen if we get much higher than this. We should be careful,” he says, emphasizing we. He means I need to be careful.
I look around and see the glittering swirls of dust amongst the deep blue and purple clouds.
The higher you get above Olympus, the bolder the colors, and the more the sky sparkles. The shimmers dance around the ship and reflect off the sails, now returning to their normal silver sheen as the red Rage drains from them.
“Cap, you’re bleeding.” A satyr is trotting across the planks toward us.
Grateful for the interruption—I don’t want to argue with Epizon, and being careful isn’t exactly in my nature—I lean over to inspect the tear in my trousers over my bloody shin.
The satyr reaches me and peers at the wound too. “Want me to kiss it better?”
I aim a cuff at him. He hops out of my reach and trots toward Epizon.
Satyrs are half goat, half human, but usually goat-sized.
Len, however, is small even for his race.
His bottom half is dark brown furry goat hind legs, with a small white tail.
The fur reaches his waist, and then, quite abruptly, his round human torso makes up the rest of his three-foot stature.
He has dark hair around small, pointy horns on an otherwise human-looking, mischievous face.
He can get in and out of almost any space on the ship.
Len was a compromise when putting together my tiny crew. He is an excellent medic and knows more about Olympus than anyone else I know.
Unfortunately, in every other way, he is a typical satyr. He is permanently randy, says exactly what he’s thinking out loud, and has no concept of personal space.
I wouldn’t be without him now, though.
I straighten. “I’m going to get this cleaned up. You two check if that storm ballista did any damage,” I say.
Epizon nods. “Yes, captain.”
I make my way to the back of the ship and step into the hauler—which moves the crew members and our cargo between decks.
Just like the ship itself, it’s controlled by mental connection.
If Len or Epizon concentrate on the Alastor they can move the haulers, and change her direction and position in the sky, and it’s the same when we talk to each other.
As far as I’m concerned, the ships of Olympus are the most precious gift the gods have ever bestowed on the citizens of Olympus. Me especially.
I get out on the middle deck and stride down the corridor, past the living quarters and through the galley.
The Alastor is a Crosswind-class ship, the smallest class. The galley is the only room below decks that spans the full width of the narrow hull, and it is right in the middle, under the main mast. The rest of the rooms are either side of a central corridor.
I stop when I get to a cramped infirmary, and bend to start opening cupboards at random.
This is Len’s domain, so all the battered old storage cupboards are mounted low to the floor.
Above the cupboards there are portholes over a foot wide, ringed in dull brass, showing the swirling purple clouds colliding with the glittering dust outside.
I find some gauze and tape together in a drawer and shove them in my pocket, then make my way back to the top deck.
I look around at the scattered Cyclops bodies and sigh heavily. The tank takes up a large space in the center of the deck and the creature hovers in the middle, staring out of the small gap in the planks.
“What are you?” I ask as I reach the tank and stare.
The startling eyes flick to mine, and it moves through the liquid toward the glass slowly, barely causing a ripple.
There is an undeniably feminine quality to the enormous green eyes.
It has a tiny mouth with deep blue lips that have not opened once, and no ears, just long slits I assume act as gills.
A perfect violet braid of hair floats behind its head.
I put one hand up to the glass. The creature’s eyes flick to my hand, then back to my face.
I wait a moment more, and when the creature doesn’t move, I shrug, turn around and slide down the crate until I’m sitting.
I start to roll my trouser leg up but give up quickly, working instead through the gaping hole ripped in them.
The wound isn’t deep, or even very painful, but it’s seeping blood into my boots.
I find the sight of my own blood reassuring. I like to see that it’s red human blood, with no visible trace of god blood.
I’ve never actually seen god blood, obviously, but rumor has it that it’s liquid silver. They don’t even call it blood. They call it ichor.
I’m only the granddaughter of a god, so any silver in mine is diluted, I suppose, as I tape the dressing onto my skin.
I wonder if any of the closer descendants of the gods have silver blood.
There are lots of them, since the gods aren’t fussy about sharing mortals’ beds, and most of them have powers.
Some have incredible strength or speed or wit, and others are gifted in things like music or art or beauty.
Feeling a surge of gratitude for my Rage power, I lean my head back against the glass and close my eyes.
Fuck being good at the lyre, when I can smash anyone who threatens me or my own to pieces. Or run away really fast.
Delaying dealing with the mess around me, I speak to the creature again. “Where are you from?”
I don’t expect a reply, and I don’t get one.
With a sigh, I open my eyes and push myself to my feet, but falter as I turn to the tank.
The creature is directly behind me, as close as it can get through the glass.
Its wide eyes are fixed on mine, and I find I can’t look away.
The flecks in its irises seem to glitter and swirl, like the skies beyond that I love so much. Happiness begins to seep into me.
“There’s a fair-sized breach in the forward hull, captain. We’ll have it patched in the next half-hour. Do you need help with the Cyclopes?” Epizon’s voice sounds in my head, breaking the spell.
I step backward, slightly dazed. The happiness vanishes and I shake my head a little. “No,” I say to Epizon, and back farther away from the tank. “You fix the hull.”
“I’ll let you know when we’re finished.”
Doing my best not to put my back to the tank, I start to drag the dead Cyclopes to the railings. Tipping bodies overboard isn’t a pleasant job, but it doesn’t bother me as much as it used to.
It takes little time to dispatch them all over the side. One could do worse than a burial in the skies, I tell myself as the last body drops like a stone over the railings. Eventually, they’ll hit water, but we’re far too high to see or hear it.
There’s a coughing sound behind me.
My instincts kick in immediately, since I’m the only person who is supposed to be on the deck.
I spin, pulling my slingshot from my belt and dipping into the pouch full of lead shot at my hip in one smooth, practiced move.
“Don’t shoot! Please!” The figure in the hood is standing on the deck, his arms raised above his head.