Chapter Eight
MILA
Mila clutched the seat, swallowing the fluttering terror that rose from her stomach.
What.
Just.
Happened?
Terror lurked beneath her calm surface, lingering near the awareness that she may have traded one monster for another. She didn’t think so. This man was a far cry from the horrible pirates that surrounded her—but she still didn’t know.
Branstead’s men crowded the dock, shouting and throwing projectiles. One of them fell into the water, and laughter rippled out.
She and her strange companion quickly departed from shore. She may not understand sailing, but she knew they moved too quickly for any other explanation except for the arcane.
Only the sense of arcane at work comforted her enough to pry her fingers off the board and study her savior.
In smell alone, he was Branstead’s utter opposite.
No suspicion or violence in his scent. He had a pleasant enough expression, when he wasn’t frowning.
Yet everything about him bespoke simmering aggression awaiting release.
She recalled his grating threat with a shiver. Or you can be a good bastid and take your filthy hands off of her before I help you swallow your teeth.
“What’s your name?”
Her question sounded small against the splashing sea. He’d abandoned the pretense of rowing. The wetted oars clattered to the rowboat bottom and yet their pace never lessened. He leaned a bent elbow on the end of his knee.
“Pedr. Yours?”
“Mila.”
He tested the syllables, elongating the vowels. “Mee-lah.” She nodded confirmation, noted the smooth roll of his voice. Deep, and pleasant.
“Lubba isn’t real, is he?”
If he noticed a hint of fear in the question, he hid it. “No. Well, yes. Lubba once existed. He does not anymore.”
“Was he your . . . employer? Is that the right term?”
“Yes.”
She waited for more explanation, but he left it there. Mila’s eyes returned to the dock, but it had disappeared. Where was he taking her?
“Who is Branstead?” she asked, proud of her unwavering tone. In that moment, she’d been reactive, together, and calm. In this moment, the truth of it caught up to her and required all of her considerable focus not to shake.
“He is . . . Branstead.”
Deadpan, she asked, “And what does that mean?”
“You haven’t heard of him?”
She shook her head, ringlets bouncing.
“Interesting.”
Her voice had a sharper question than she meant it to have when she asked, “What is interesting about that?”
“Most islanders have heard of him.” He studied her. Undoubtedly, he didn’t recognize her accent, though hers wasn’t that different from his. “Branstead is a well known pirate.”
“He steals things?”
“For a living, yes.”
“That’s rather rude.”
He couldn’t withhold a smile. “Rather,” he agreed, and she gifted him a smile in response.
Yes, this man was very different, and what a relief.
Her smile soon melted, leaving her in a puddle of realizations.
She sat in an arcane rowboat, with a stranger, no vessel to call her own, and still had no food, water, or resources for her next leg of the voyage.
His intentions were as clear as her fate.
Legs pressed together, Mila set her elbow on her kneecap and her chin on her palm. “Branstead and his lot were rather unpleasant,” she said crisply, clearing her throat. He wrestled a twitch of his lips, which she took for a good sign. She tried not to be charmed by his attempt.
“I agree.”
“Are . . . are many islanders like that?”
“They can be.”
“Oh.”
“Why do you ask?”
“No reason.” Her lofty tone clearly didn’t fool him, but he didn’t ask more questions, either. Mila gazed out, head twisting to stare at the vanishing island. Considering she’d nearly been swept into Branstead’s hidden lair for all manner of unholy abuse, she never wanted to return.
Pedr cleared his throat.
“Now that we’re clear of Erevast, I can take you to your vessel, if you like.” He twisted at the torso, surveying an empty ocean. “Which one is yours?”
“It’s at the dock.”
“Back there?”
She nodded. Pedr chewed on his bottom lip, and she tried not to appreciate his angled cheekbones, full lips. His expressions fascinated her.
“Did Branstead know it was your vessel?”
Another nod.
“Shite.”
“That’s bad?”
He shrugged. “Depends. Did you have valuables on board?”
“No.”
“Then it’s probably not bad. They’ll ransack it,” he added. “Burn it, probably, as a warning, but you’ll only lose the ship. Not your life . . . or valuables.”
She sighed. “That makes sense.”
Though, in some regards, it didn’t. The most disappointing fact of the whole day was admitting that Stinna and Stulla had been right. She had walked into a bad situation and couldn’t get herself out of it. If Pedr hadn’t come, what then?
Ultimately, she would have landed in worse.
Mila drew in another breath—a human thing to do, and she had to remember to act human—but used it to scent the air. No change in his smell. The rank, anticipatory stench from Branstead wasn’t recreated here. No deception was present, either.
Salt.
Open skies.
She smelled . . . ease.
“I . . . I’m not sure what to do now,” she admitted. “Sailing is not a strong talent of mine, and the boat was leaky. Very loud, too. The tiller was breaking, and it didn’t stand up well in harsh weather. The sails were a bit damaged.”
“Ahead of us,” Pedr said, “is an old boat I just . . . inherited. I don’t know the ship’s name. Havard was the man who left it to me. He was kooky, but kind. If you would like, you can stay with me until we figure something out.”
Her heartfelt eyes peered at him. “You would do that?”
“Not for everyone.”
He reeked of honesty.
With a wry smile, she quipped, “So not all men are like Branstead?” Amidst the teasing tone was a real inquiry, not to mention trepidation. She’d traded one vulnerable position for another, because her entire situation was fraught with it. He gifted her with a gentle smile.
“Not all of us. If it makes you feel better, you can have this.”
He reached to his side, removed his small dagger and sheath, and handed it over. She stared at it uncomprehendingly for a moment, then accepted.
“Thank you.”
Stinna had trained her on holding and handling a knife.
Mila failed each lesson, repeatedly, until Stinna gave up.
Mila managed basic defense, care, and handling of the weapon just fine, but she lacked the desire to harm.
Stinna brought wayward sailors to fight Mila, but had to dispatch them herself every time.
Fighting was one thing. Sinking the blade into the flesh of a weak human was something else.
Pedr reached for the oars again, somehow completing their conversation, though he didn’t use them. He studied the swirling water beneath the rowboat, loaded with moving arcane that gave her comfort, like a piece of home.
Mila stared at him in quiet question. Did he know the arcane moved them? Instinct told her he didn’t.
Not really.
“We’ll arrive at my ship soon,” he said. “Once we’re sailing away, we’ll make a plan. No reason to slack off and have to face off with Branstead’s idjits again.”
His ship charmed her.
At least ten times bigger than the little thing she had attempted to maneuver because, as always, someone else came to her rescue. Pedr’s ship had an old world charm and a hint of stubbornness. It resembled an old sailor who refused to change and leaned into life on the waves.
The sails, well kept, fluffed with wind. The hull bore them on the sea without leak, hesitation, or groan.
She’d never felt safer.
In the middle of their tour, Pedr stopped walking.
He stood in the middle of the stairs that led to the bow, his forehead ruffled into furrows like waves.
One hand held onto the railing, the other hesitated mid-air.
He canted his head to one side, as if bemused.
Before she could ask if he needed something, the ship slowed almost imperceptibly.
The nose angled, turning into a wave that shuddered against the wood.
He continued up the stairs, as if nothing happened.
“I don’t have a name for her,” he said. “To say that I just inherited her is almost an understatement. I had time for a thorough check earlier today, before coming into Erevast, and she’s sound. A hurricane couldn’t rip her apart.”
“Well,” Mila replied with a smile, “I think the two of us can come up with an appropriate name. If you’d like some help,” she quickly added. Close one. Human sailors, as she knew them, were notoriously fickle and protective. Naming a ship was a loaded thing.
To her greatest surprise, a hint of that wide smile replied.
“I think we should.”
He’d changed into a fresh shirt, the front cut open across his chest. It molded around his wide shoulders, tightened with years of sea work. He had the toned build of someone always fighting for his life. Pedr gestured to the horizon.
“Where do you want to go?”
“You’re asking me?”
Laughing, he said, “Yes. You.”
A breathy response trailed off without forming. His question arrested all her thoughts, stalling them like the fog her aunts commanded when sailors broached the Westlands. If the gorgons didn’t decimate them first, her aunts would.
“Uh . . . “
Mila cast her mind to the maps at home and the list of places she’d written down with eagerness to visit. In the face of his questioning stare, no matter how soft and kind, all the island names eluded her. She couldn’t hasten a single one to the tip of her tongue.
Haltingly, she said, “I don’t have any very firm plans.”
“You sailed alone to Erevast?”
“Yes.”
His brow rose. “Impressive.”
Mila gave a self conscious, hesitant smile. “It really isn’t. I didn’t do all that much work. The Arcanist of the Sky helped me. Do you know who they are? Are they male or female? I . . .”
The question flowed out of her easily at first, then stoppered when the astonished expression on his face gave her reason to pause. What had she said? He looked as if she’d slapped him.
He breathed, “The Arcanist of the Sky?”
Mila said, “Yes,” very slowly, monitoring every twitch of his brow, his lip. “You know the Arcanists, don’t you? I thought humans tried to trick them into sharing the arcane.” Sweeping a hand to the mast, the rig, the deck, she said, “This place is teeming with arcane. I assumed . . .”
Pedr pivoted away, every line in his body implacable. Mila pressed her tongue to the back of her teeth to stop herself from asking if he was okay. Only the slap of shivering ropes, the smashing sea, sounded for several moments.
When he spoke, it came out as a rasp, “Forgive me,” he choked out. “I just . . . I just realized something. If you have nowhere to be, please make yourself at home. There are cabins . . . below. Find whatever one you want. Use whatever you like.”
He stumbled down the stairs, vanished around a corner, and slammed a door. Mila flinched, teeth jarring from the surprise.
Well.
That hadn’t gone at all like she expected.