Chapter 20 #2
Sorcha shot me a worried glance. I grabbed her hand under the table and squeezed.
“We’ll talk more,” Ansel assured Merrick. “Later. In private.”
Andrew just nodded. We turned back to our food and attempted to make polite, casual conversation. Sorcha tugged on my sleeve the second she’d stopped eating. I glanced in her direction and nudged her cup of tea closer to her hand.
“You alright, Mrs. MacCairn?” Andrew asked, eyeing us. “Does the river not agree with you?”
“Most things don’t agree with her at this point,” Ansel said bluntly. “Neal. Sorcha. Why don’t you go get some rest? Andrew and I will settle up here and take a walk around the ship. Find somewhere a little quieter to discuss things further.”
Sorcha was barely on her feet by the time we reached our cabin. Ansel had come through, as promised, and it was a lovely set of two connected rooms on the bottom deck of first class. Milkweed, clearly displeased at being left behind, launched himself at Sorcha the second I opened the door.
“I missed you,” he repeated over and over in an unfamiliar person’s voice.
“Must be something he picked up before we got him,” I said absently as I sat Sorcha on the bunk and started unbuttoning her boots and taking off her stockings. She didn’t respond, clearly fighting sleep.
“How are you feeling?” I asked as I pulled off her dress then discarded my own coat. “Food sitting alright?”
Sorcha nodded. “Nauseous. But I don’t think I’m gonna vomit any time soon.”
“Alright.” I nodded, sitting down next to her on the bunk and letting her curl up against my shoulder. “So we know that toast with farmer’s cheese and orange slices will stay down. And that tea does still help take the edge off.”
“For now,” Sorcha mumbled into my shirt.
I sighed, pulling her closer. I kissed her head and set to rubbing slow deliberate circles on her back, hoping it would lull her to sleep in spite of the nausea.
“Maybe fresh air would help,” Sorcha mumbled, adjusting to try and get comfortable.
“We’re in the Texas bayou,” I replied, “there is no fresh air.”
“No fresh air,” Milkweed repeated. “No fresh air.”
“Neal?” Sorcha looked up at me, eyes rimmed with tears. “Don’t leave? Promise? Even when I fall asleep.”
“What’s wrong?”
“After last night—” She paused. “Neal, I’m scared.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” I murmured. “We’re safe here. You’re safe here.”
“Safe here,” Milkweed repeated.
“And you did so well today,” I whispered into her hair.
“You got him to talk. If you hadn’t stepped in, Ansel or I would’ve killed him before he even told us who’d sent him.
We know more because of you. We can make plans appropriately because of you.
I know you doubted if you could really take this on, but you’re doing so well, Sorcha. I’m continually impressed by you.”
Sorcha nodded, smiling up at me, and finally closed her eyes. Sure she was scared now, and I couldn’t blame her. I was bloody terrified. But she hadn’t hesitated when it mattered. She’d negotiated expertly for our safety. She’d kept the cops out of it. Even sick, even exhausted, she'd stepped up.
After a few minutes gently rubbing her back, I felt Sorcha’s head get heavy on my chest and knew she was asleep.
I fought back the thoughts racing through my own mind and tried to convince myself to rest as well.
But the panic from last night’s break-in hadn’t subsided.
The supernatural threats I kept constantly in mind.
Those I had anticipated, trained for. Elves grew up hearing stories of magical and otherworldly creatures and the dangers they could pose.
The portals were an extension of that same threat I’d contemplated for more than a century now—even if the cults surrounding them were an unexpected and disturbing addition.
But Iksura’s behavior was another matter entirely—the viciousness, the escalation, the willingness to abandon all reason and not just civility, but humanity, in pursuit of her goal—and the thought made me shudder.
I felt Sorcha stir in my arms, gripping on to my shirt subconsciously in her sleep.
I repeated my mental inventory like a litany of saints: the door was locked, the porthole leading out to the promenade too, my own guns were within easy arm’s reach, and both our hunting knives were stashed under the pillow.
I had two smaller blades in easy reach as well—one in the breast pocket of my waistcoat and another in my boot on the floor beside us.
My mind wandered as I drifted to sleep, then jerked suddenly into alertness as the ship jolted and lightning struck outside.
I tucked Sorcha closer up against me. It was clear Milkweed shared her vehement dislike of storms, as the jackalope scrambled out of his sleeping place in Sorcha’s boot and up to tuck himself into bed with us, softly repeating, “Find a safe place.”
Ansel and Merrick returned moments after the rain blew in, barging in damp and irritated, without knocking, talking at full volume. It was dark outside now and my watch read seven thirty.
“Why didn’t you knock?” I asked Ansel blearily as they closed the door behind them.
“Didn’t want to wake her,” Ansel nodded to Sorcha.
“So you thought barging in like an intoxicated draft horse was more subtle?” I muttered.
“Bloody strange to have a storm on the Gulf at this time of year,” Ansel said, tossing his soaked coat through the connecting door and into his own cabin.
“Is she alright?” Andrew asked, gesturing at Sorcha as he leaned against the far wall, clearly trying not to intrude.
“Seasick,” I replied noncommittally.
“She’s pregnant,” Ansel said bluntly.
“Ansel!” I barked. “You don’t just go around telling people personal information about my wife and, need I remind you, our sovereign!”
“If it makes it any better, I’m really not planning to do anything with this information,” Andrew offered by way of an apology.
Sorcha stilled as he spoke, and I recognized that telltale hitch in her breath that meant she was getting nauseous again.
The roll of the ship—intensified now by the storm—couldn’t possibly be helping.
“Now some space, please,” I snapped at Ansel and Andrew.
“Pleasure invading your privacy,” Andrew called over his shoulder as they ducked out back onto the deck.
“At least one of us enjoyed it,” I muttered before tucking Sorcha closer and laying down to sleep.
The storm didn’t break for days. Our progress stalled and Sorcha’s body rebelled.
Any hope of the steamship providing reprieve dissipated as I spent every waking moment caught up either trying to coax her to even attempt fluids or wiping bile off her face when things inevitably came back up.
I barely saw Ansel and Andrew. We didn’t leave the cabin.
Milkweed had stopped mimicking entirely, instead nuzzling at Sorcha’s cheeks, her neck, chirping in distress.
“She’ll be okay,” I said—not sure if the reassurance was meant for the jackalope or for me.
It was dusk on day three—still storming, still dismally behind schedule, Sorcha still barely keeping down water—when Ansel woke us early, with news.
“I think the storms are unnatural,” he declared, shaking Sorcha awake.
“What? Why?” Sorcha asked, rubbing her eyes and pushing herself to sit up.
“Because there shouldn’t be storms like this in the Gulf at this time of year,” Ansel said.
“Weather phenomena can be erratic,” Sorcha muttered, gesturing at me for the basin and vomiting again before Ansel had a chance to reply.
“She’s not wrong,” I added. “You need more evidence than climatological oddity before you can turn this into a monster hunt, Ansel.”
“We’re being watched,” Ansel said.
“Evidence exactly like that,” Sorcha replied.
Moments later lightning struck again, close this time, and the ship jolted as a wave battered the hull. Sorcha yelped, curling closer. Milkweed did likewise.
“There’s a man I’ve seen every time I’ve left my cabin,” Ansel explained. “Red hair, well-cut suits, dark eyes. He’s at the next table over every time Andrew or I go to the salon. He’s outside our cabins even when I check out the window at midnight. He’s tailing us.”
“And do you have any explanation as to how he could be summoning storms?” Sorcha pressed.
“Elementals,” Ansel said.
“What, like spirits?” Sorcha asked. “You think he’s summoning spirits. To cause the storms? Delay us? Kill us? Why?”
“He’s outside right now,” Ansel said. “Shall we find out?”
“Go ahead,” Sorcha conceded.