28
—The Prophet’s Modern Translation of the Holy Book
We clamber down the precarious cliff face and wait among the brush, watching the small metal barge glide across the water.
“I’ll take care of this,” Slade murmurs. Everything about him is distinctly predatory, from his coiled crouch to the dilation of his pupils. “You stay put.”
“What?” I curse as a thorny branch scrapes my ankle. My short boots are no match for the undergrowth. “What was all that talk about getting me to help you kill the crew?”
Slade doesn’t look at me. He’s sickeningly handsome against the dawn, the first weak beams of sunlight gilding his dark hair red. “It was just talk,” he says. “We can’t have you losing your mind to the Bloodrot yet. Save your violence, little liar.”
Then he launches himself into the water, disappearing beneath the dark surface only to emerge a moment later as he hauls himself over the side of the small boat.
It’s difficult to see what happens from there, but I can tell Slade is fast. Apparently this holds true whether he’s on land or in the water.
I hear a couple of gunshots go off, which has me stiffening, but the next moment there’s a loud slap of water as a man is hurled overboard, a crate of some sort tied to his leg.
Another body follows a moment later, and both sink rapidly beneath the waves.
I scramble out of the undergrowth and onto the rocky shore.
I wait there, arms crossed against the cold, as the boat approaches.
It’s a sleek, metallic vessel, the Regiment’s insignia emblazoned on the side.
That it’s meant to carry cargo is obvious—there’s not much in the way of a deck.
I recognize Slade’s silhouette at the stern and am perplexed to see he’s not alone.
He’s in a sort of glassed-in cabin, a gray-clad man at his side.
Slade sticks his head out the cabin window, beckoning impatiently with one hand.
I realize with horror that he intends for me to join him, although the boat is a good fifty meters away from where I stand.
It makes sense that it can’t come closer without the risk of hitting a rock or running ashore, but the reality of the situation hadn’t occurred to me until now.
“I cannot swim!” I yell at Slade, not sure whether he can hear me. What does it matter? He already knows as much.
He motions with a slash for me to keep my voice down, then mouths what can only be Figure. It. Out.
I’m pretty sure I’ve had this exact nightmare.
Cursing him under my breath, I peel my jacket off and step out of my boots.
I don’t like water, and I don’t have much experience with it.
The forest where I lived with the Apostles was landlocked, as is much of Valestadt.
My childhood visits to the coast involved wading up to my knees.
I’ve heard of people submerging newborn babies to see if they’ll swim, so maybe it’s more of an inherent skill than I think. Heart pounding, I flip Slade a rude gesture, then leap from the rocks into the river.
It’s immediately apparent that I’ve made a huge mistake.
It’s deep enough that I can’t touch the bottom, and the waves are wild, threatening to crash over my head.
I kick my legs rapidly, more out of panic than because it seems like the right thing to do, but my body still wants to sink.
I think I’m facing the direction of the boat, but water keeps blinding me, and I’m not making any progress at all.
It’s colder than I anticipated. My teeth chatter as I flail my arms, desperate to keep my head above the surface.
This is how I die, I think. My world has been little more than a revolving door of danger, and I’m going to leave it because I don’t know how to fucking swim.
The thought is as infuriating as it is miserable, and with it comes a new surge of determination.
I can do this. I can figure it out. I can do this.
But I lose track of my mantra as I swallow an inadvertent mouthful of water, choking and spluttering.
My eyes tear up. My chest, my muscles, burn.
I don’t understand how I’m expending so much energy.
I should be terrified, and I am, but mostly I’m furious.
I refuse to die before Gabriel does, before I’ve gotten my freedom, before—
All at once I’m jerked to the side, and none too gently.
Something tightens around my neck, cutting off my airway.
I’m pretty sure I’m already low on oxygen, and my hands fly to my throat, scrabbling at what I quickly realize is my own shirt collar.
Another wave careens into me, and I blink the water away, trying to fight my unseen attacker.
“Would you stop—struggling?” a voice scratches.
I recognize it immediately as Slade’s. I suck in a desperate breath as he relinquishes my collar to grip me under the shoulders instead.
It’s impossible to tell what’s happening, but I focus on keeping my face above water, and moments later I find myself being dropped unceremoniously on a hard wooden surface.
I lie there for a few moments, my lungs heaving, my muscles exhausted.
The sky above me is the mottled blue and pink of dawn.
Finally I roll onto my side, spitting out the salty taste of the river, and find myself looking directly at Slade.
He’s crouched low, his elbows resting on his knees as he studies me.
I can’t even imagine what I must look like.
He, of course, looks impeccable. His wet hair is slicked back in a way that might have been intentional, and his waterlogged clothes only give me a better view of his taut body.
I spit a final mouthful of salt onto his boots.
Slade doesn’t even recoil. His expression is deadpan. “You really don’t know how to show appreciation when someone saves your life, do you?”
I wring out my hair, scowling. “Appreciation? You’re the one who told me to figure it out.
Clearly there are instances in which that doesn’t work.
” I pat myself down, ensuring I still have all my weapons.
“But if you insist: Thank you for saving me from the consequences of your terrible fucking advice.”
Slade doesn’t answer. Fluidly he rises, eyes slitted as he studies the boat’s cabin. “I knew it,” he mutters. He’s moving before I can ask what he’s talking about, the promise of violence in his swift movements.
I hear a bang from inside the cabin. I leap to my feet, ignoring the protests from my battered body. The cabin is lined with windows, but I can’t see much through the glass, which reflects the early-morning light. I barge through the partially open door, yanking my gun out in the process.
Slade has the Regiment sailor up against the wall; the man’s feet aren’t even touching the ground. The entire cabin shakes as Slade slams him into the wall again and again, sending what I assume is navigation equipment clattering to the floor.
“Slade,” I say loudly. “What are you doing?”
He answers without turning to look at me. “Our friend here made a radio transmission while I was saving your sorry ass from the sea.”
“What was the transmission?”
“Don’t know.” Slade’s hand tightens around the sailor’s throat. The man’s face is turning a terrible shade of purple. “That’s what I’m trying to find out.”
I step to Slade’s side. “Let him go.”
“No, I think I’ll kill him. Would you like that, Talin? Watching him die?”
I wouldn’t particularly care one way or the other.
Slade is goading me, believing my request borne of pity, but that couldn’t be further from the truth.
The Warden is quick to execute without giving a second chance, but I’m different.
My work for Gabriel has made me patient.
And because I’m not indestructible the way Slade is, I know exactly how to hurt. “I said let him go. I’ve got this.”
Slade must hear the shift in my voice, because he complies, cutting me an expectant glance as he relinquishes the man. I come to stand in front of the sailor as he crumples to the ground, gulping in breaths.
“I don’t care what you said over the radio,” I tell the man calmly. “I only care that you undo it. Now, I want you to get up and walk back over to the transmitter.”
He glowers at me. “I’m not going to—”
I don’t let him finish. I fire a bullet into the fleshy part of his upper arm, causing him to cry out in pain and horror. “Don’t make me ask again.”
Gripping the injured part of his arm, he clambers to his feet, seeming to realize that I’m not fucking around. I come to stand behind him, prodding him in the back with the barrel of my gun. “Go.”
He does, crossing to where the radio sits beside the steering wheel. Slade prowls along behind him.
“Very good,” I say. “Now pick it up and cancel whatever code you transmitted the first time. For every second you hesitate, I put a bullet in your leg. If you try to pull one over on us, and I catch even a glimpse of another Regiment boat approaching, I’ll put a bullet in your brain. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes,” the sailor says, resentment saturating his voice. The sleeve of his uniform is soaked through with blood.
I lift the gun again. “Your time has started.”
I don’t sound it, but I’m stressed. Gabriel may have assured me we’d be allowed to cross the bridge, but that doesn’t mean any other agents we encounter won’t capture or kill us.
The sailor lifts the mouthpiece, pressing a button. Static sounds as he clears his throat and says, “This is Alpha two six four. Disregard previous transmission. False alarm.” He slams it down, glaring at me with burning hatred. “Happy?”
“Thrilled.” I peer out the window; unless I’m mistaken, we’re close enough to the other side of the river. I raise a hand to point at nothing in particular. “Would you look at that?”
The moment he does, I shoot him. It’s quick, efficient. A single shot to the head. He hits the floor, crimson rapidly pooling around him.