Unhooked (6 page)

Without lowering the knife, he has the other boy offer the water again. This time I don't even consider refusing. I take the ladle with shaking hands and sip carefully. I don't intend to drink that much, but when the liquid hits my tongue, I shut my eyes and let the coolness slide down my throat. I can't believe how parched I am or how sweet the water tastes. It's gone before I'm even close to satisfied.

Frowning, I hand the dipper back to him. He motions for the taller boy to offer me another ladleful. Then another, until the uncomfortable tightness in my stomach makes me force myself to stop.

“Now then,” he says, when I refuse another drink. “Let's start by you tellin' us just who it is that you are and why you came to be here.”

I can't help but stare—his voice has an almost musical quality with the way he rounds some of his vowels but clips the end of
you
so it comes out
ye
. In any other time, in any other place, an accent like that would have had my stomach flipping in anticipation. Still, even through the shock and the fear, my face has gone warm.

With his face just inches from mine, I can smell the warm spiciness of cloves on his breath and the scent of the wind and salt water that hangs about him. This close, I realize his eyes are actually a deep chestnut brown flecked with gold. Until now, though, I'd never realized gold can be just as cold and unyielding as steel.

As if to underscore just how dangerous he is, he presses the sharp tip of his strange knife against the soft underside of my chin and forces me to look up at him. I struggle not to tremble, because I can already feel the bite of it and I'm afraid even the smallest movement on my part will draw blood.

“Not much for conversation, are you, lass?” He lowers the knife, and I collapse back as I take shuddering gulps of much-needed air.

“Please . . .” I hate the breathy whine of my trembling voice, but I can't seem to stop it. My throat is still too raw to do anything more than whisper, and I am so close to giving in to the tears that it hurts. “Please,” I tell him, “just take me back. I'll give you anything you want.”

His brows rise a bit, and genuine surprise—perhaps even amusement—flashes across his face as he cocks his head. “And what is it you think I'd be wanting from you?”

After what I've been through, I can imagine any number of things he might want from me—some more awful than others. The memory of the warm wetness of a tongue tracing the line of my neck rises up in my mind, dark and chilling, and then I'm shaking again.

He scowls at my pathetic quaking before turning to the other two with a flash of violence that shocks me into stillness. “Can no one use the ounce of sense the good Lord gave you? Get the girl something dry to wear before she catches her death.” He glances back at me once more. “I'm not sure I'll be wanting her to die quite yet.”

The boy with the Batman shirt looks completely confused for a moment, and in that moment, he finally looks like the small boy he is. “What should we get it, Captain?”

“
It
is a her, Phin,” he says with some impatience. “Get
her
something more appropriate than the bit of nothing she's wearing now.” The one they called the Captain appraises me once more, his cold eyes calculating. “She looks about the same size as Wren. Take some clothing from him.”

Neither of them moves.

“Go on!” he snaps, his voice still soft but unmistakably threatening.

The younger boy jumps then, but the scowling one sends the Captain a questioning look before going to fetch what's been asked for.

I flinch away when the Captain raises his hand.

“Easy, lass,” he says softly, making his voice almost soothing as he sets his blade on the floor next to him and reaches slowly toward me. I have the oddest sense that he's done this very thing a hundred times before.

I still again and wait, my jaw tense and aching from my attempt not to show just how scared I am. He's still reaching for me, slowly, like he's afraid to spook me. I meet his eyes and tilt up my chin with a courage I don't really feel, but he ignores my pretended bravery and touches me so softly that, at first, I barely feel the smooth leather of his gloved hand on my arm.

He probes one arm, lifting it and maneuvering the joints, like he's checking for injuries or broken bones. Satisfied with what he finds, he moves to my other arm and starts the same process. When he comes to my left shoulder, his hand stills over an old scar I have. He presses gently on its raised surface, but I wince all the same at the pressure. He glances up to meet my eyes once more, a question clear on his face.

I know what he's seeing—a small raised welt about the size of a quarter. The ugly, puckered mass of skin hasn't faded white, like his scar. It's still an angry pink that makes it look new, even though the mark is so old, I don't remember getting it. It's why I rarely wear sleeveless shirts, even when I'm running.

“Vaccination,” I whisper, but his brows bunch in confusion, so I explain. “My mom and I travel a lot.” I try to pull away, but his grip on my arm tightens, and the question in his expression grows more intense. “I had an allergic reaction or something. When I was little.” I can feel my face heating again, and I can't meet his dark stare any longer.

He finally lets go of my arm. “We all have our scars, lass,” he says softly. But then his expression gets dark and I think maybe I only imagined the words.

I try to pull away as his gloved fingers trace the skin around the raw, angry wound on my upper thigh, the one left by the creatures, but the chain holds me in place. He frowns as he examines the torn skin. To my surprise, he dips the rag he used on my eyes into the bucket and gently touches it to my sore leg.

I hiss at the unexpected pain, but he doesn't pay me any attention. He continues rinsing the wound. Then he picks up his blade. I think I see his mouth twitch when I jump, though I can't be sure whether it's from annoyance or amusement.

“Still now,” he murmurs.

But he doesn't use the blade on me. Instead, he untucks the shirt he's wearing and cuts a strip of material from the bottom hem. With movements so deft that I know for sure he's done this before, he ties the strip of white linen around my leg, firmly binding the wound. He surveys his work for a second or two, and then, to my surprise, he unlocks the heavy chain from around my ankle and frees me.

I watch him warily, trying to figure out what he wants from me. Trying to figure out if I might actually be able to make it to the door. But the Captain seems to sense my intent, and without a word, he stands and lazily leans against the doorframe. His eyes meet mine, his brows rising in a silent challenge, and I know I'm stuck.

When the boys come back with the clothes, the Captain thanks them, and I notice the younger boy practically glows under his approval. Then the Captain places the clothes in front of me like a peace offering.

But I don't reach for them right away. As cold as I am, I don't do anything more than eye the pile of fabric warily.

Looming above me, the Captain's face doesn't give away any emotion as he nudges the clothes toward me with the toe of his polished boot. There is no longer any trace of the gentleness he's just shown me in his expression. “Be quick about it, aye?” The volume of his voice hasn't changed, but the steel is back. “I'm thinking that we've much to discuss, and it remains to be seen just how long you'll be with us.”

Soon enough, the day came when the boy's training was at an end. As he stood with his newfound brothers, waiting to board the train that would take them to the battle, he was given a small slip of paper on which was written,
In the event of my death . . .

Thus sharply did he learn the difference between the dream of make-believe and the same dream come true. . . .

T
HE CAPTAIN'S WORDS HANG IN the air long after the door closes behind him.

I'm not sure what he meant by them, but I have a sinking feeling he wasn't talking about taking me back to London. No matter how gentle he might have been when the other boys were gone, the heavy chain, the blade at his side, and the locked door tell me that I'm no guest here.

All at once, the enormity of what has happened crashes down on me. My swollen eyes burn with the tears I've been holding back, but I swipe at them and force myself to stop. Then I pick up the first piece of clothing on the pile and rub the soft fabric between my fingers as I consider my situation. And my options.

I take a couple of deep breaths before I discard the damp tank top I'm wearing and replace it with the soft shirt. It's an old concert T-shirt that must really be vintage—it's worn so thin, it's almost transparent. Thankfully, they've also given me a heavy knit sweater, so I pull that on and button it up to my chin. The pants have an awkward buttoned fly, and they're a little too long—I have to roll the cuffs to keep them from dragging—but they're warm. There are also some thick woolen socks and lace-up boots made from soft leather.

I've barely finished securing the laces of the boots when the door to my prison opens and the boy called Will appears. I scuttle back into the corner of the room before I notice that he's brought another boy with him, a large, rangy boy with a dark tattoo snaking up his neck and cold, emotionless eyes.

“Hold out yer arms,” he says, motioning with his knife. “Cross them in front of you, like.”

When I don't move immediately, he demonstrates crossing his wrists. I know what he wants, but I don't want to be trussed up again, helpless.

“Go on now,” Will says, clearly growing impatient. “Or Sam here'll have to help you.”

I glance up at the other boy. His eyes narrow as he cocks his head, waiting to see what I will do.

If I let them tie me up, I'll be helpless again. I don't want to be in that position, but as I'm about to refuse, Sam takes the rope from Will and stalks forward into the room, his cold eyes glittering with anticipation.

All the air seems to go out of the small space.
He wants me to resist.
I have the strangest sense the boy wants me to struggle so he'll have an excuse to force me—to kill me? Suddenly, the prospect of being tied up again suddenly doesn't seem quite so bad. I take a breath and hold my arms out, trying not to let them shake.

I'm somehow not surprised to see the flash of disappointment in the boy's expression.

After Sam finishes securing me, he leaves. Will studies me, a scowl on his face, but he doesn't step into the room. “Come on, then. The Cap'n is waiting,” he says. “And don't even fink of trying nuffin', else I'll be calling back Sam there.”

I don't want that cold-eyed boy anywhere near me again, so I step carefully through the door and allow Will to herd me down a narrow hallway and up a short flight of steps. My legs are wobbly, and when I stumble on the last step, I barely have time to catch myself with my bound hands before my chin smashes into the deck.

Will hoists me up roughly and sets me to my feet, grumbling all the while. Like I've fallen on purpose. I think about telling him I wouldn't have fallen so easily if he hadn't tied me up, but as my eyes adjust to what remains of the daylight, all I can do is stand, stunned, all words forgotten.

I knew I was on some sort of boat, but my cell had been so dark and cramped that I didn't have any sense I was on a
ship
. It is huge. And it's
beautiful
—all gleaming, polished wood, with three soaring masts that tower above me, their arms outspread against the clear blue of the sky. The white sails are tied up so tightly, they don't even flutter in the gentle breeze, but in the soft evening air, a scarlet flag flutters from the topmost mast.

Then my heart twists with another, more devastating sight—nothing but water surrounds us. No land breaks the level line of the horizon. No other ships are in view. We are securely at sea, far from any means of escape.

How long was I unconscious?
I wonder as I take in the endless water. How far have I been taken?

“Come on, then,” Will barks, puffing his chest a bit as he gives me a not-so-gentle shove to get me moving. “Unless you want them to help you along.”

The ship around me is not empty, I realize then. The decks are filled with people who have gone unnaturally still and silent, and every one of them is staring at me, weapons in hand.

Not just people.
Boys.

There isn't a single person in view any older than I am, and most of the boys on the deck look much,
much
younger. They're just kids, but the way they're watching me, the way they're holding themselves stiff and ready for some unseen threat, makes them seem older. More dangerous.

I follow Will without argument after that.

As we make our way across the main deck, I can practically feel the wary eyes of the boys follow our procession. Most stand very still, but a few of the smaller ones shift uneasily and adjust their holds on their weapons when we come closer.

And
all
of them have weapons. Some have knives sheathed in leather slings secured to their thighs, while others have primitive-looking slingshots tucked into their pants. A couple of the older boys have long swords hanging from their belts, like Will does.

Each and every one of them is watching me warily, like I'm the most fascinating—and possibly the most dangerous—creature they've ever seen. The absurdity of it causes a nervous laugh to bubble up in my chest. I swallow it down, but Will notices.

“Problem?” Will asks, pausing only long enough to regard me with narrowed eyes.

I want to point out to him that I'm not armed and not a threat, but I just shake my head and keep my eyes down as I let him lead me on.

With the entire ship still watching, Will directs me up a short flight of steps to the raised deck at the rear of the ship and knocks briskly on a heavy wooden door. When a muffled voice comes through, he pushes the door open and, without warning, thrusts me through.