Sora shook her head. “No, it’s healed.” It wasn’t painful anymore. The scar remained from her battle with Volcrian: a circular crater in the center of her palm, still pink with freshly grown skin. But it seemed to go deeper than the flesh. Since battling the mage, she hadn’t heard a whisper from her Cat’s Eye necklace.
She resisted the urge to touch the small green-tinted stone at her neck. The Cat’s Eye was more than just a simple rock, but a magical artifact with its own form of consciousness, sharing a psychic bond with her mind. It protected her from magic, absorbing supernatural energy like a parasite, but if she removed the necklace, its psychic bond would break. She would fall into a coma or even die. Most likely die, she amended. She had worn it for almost two years now and there was no turning back.
Usually the stone murmured softly to her, nudging her thoughts, responding to the world around them. Yet now when she stretched out her mind and sought its presence, she felt a muddy, dull quagmire at her fingertips. Wake up, she thought, touching upon the internal bond. Where are you?
Silence, like the billowing morning fog.
Her troubled frown deepened. She looked back to Crash on the deck of the ship. He had finished his routine and sat to stretch out his muscles, cooling down.
“Hmm,” Burn grunted deep in his throat. “Is that what’s on your mind? Quite a good view from up here.” He winked at her.
Sora grimaced. “Very funny.” Then she redirected her gaze to the forest.
“You should go speak to him,” Burn suggested.
“Speak to Crash? Why?” she asked, feigning ignorance.
Burn gave her a humorous look. “First, so I can eat dinner with the both of you again. And,” he paused, “so you can put your heart at ease. I know what happened between you two. I saw you on the deck of the ship when we left the Isles,” he admitted.
A tremor of horror ran down Sora’s spine. “You…you what?”
“I saw you two speaking. And I saw….”
The kiss. Oh that terrible, stupid kiss! “It’s not what it looked like,” she cut him off, her cheeks flushing. “There isn’t anything between us. I mean, there wasn’t anything between us. I…uh,” she stuttered. “I don’t know. He’s a hard person to understand. I think he just needs….” What? Needs what?
“Space?” Burn supplied. “A hearty breakfast? Perhaps a knock upside the head?” His eyes twinkled merrily.
Sora scowled at him. “I don’t know and I don’t care,” she huffed. Then she looked back to Crash. I don’t care about him at all, she repeated firmly to herself.
Despite all they had been through together, the dark assassin remained enigmatic and withdrawn. Sora had taken to avoiding him after several failed attempts at small-talk. They seemed to have fallen back to their old ways, when she had been a high-handed noblewoman and he, a menacing assassin. Back when he had discovered her Cat’s Eye necklace and kidnapped her. It had been so easy to hate him then, to blame him for all her troubles. He seemed the very embodiment of evil. But over time, they had fought side-by-side, shared nights by the fire, learned to trust and rely on each other, grown steadily closer…until the kiss.
Now everything remained the same—and yet so horribly different. I can’t, he had said that night on the ship as they sailed away from the Lost Isles. I can’t be that person for you. He was an assassin, after all. Ruthless and deadly, with a past she was just beginning to understand.
Now he kept a steady distance from her, as though she were a bashful young girl infatuated with a charming tutor. The thought made her at once furious and dismayed. She felt she deserved more of an explanation, or at least an attempt at normalcy. She glared at his dark figure on deck. Cold bastard, she thought.
“Have you considered he’s just as bad at this as you are?” Burn asked softly, breaking the silence. He leaned back on the rigging, settling his weight on the ropes.
“Bad at what, exactly?” she hedged.
“Sharing his feelings.”
“Feelings?” she muttered. “The man doesn’t know the meaning of the word. I told you, there’s nothing between us.”
“And I’m a Harpy with no wings!” Burn balked. “You’ve been circling around each other like two cats in a box. It’s hard not to notice. Even the Dracians are talking.”
“The Dracians talk about everything.”
“Right,” Burn agreed, then gave her a searching glance. “But have you heard what they’re saying?”
Sora paused at that. “What do you mean?”
Burn hesitated before explaining. “Tristan thinks Crash hurt you…physically,” he said slowly. “Some sort of wife-abuse, without the wife part.”
Sora’s face drained of color. “He said that?” she asked.
“Yes, about twenty times over the past week.”
Sora clenched her jaw.
Burn reached out and patted her foot. “Don’t take it too hard,” he said sympathetically. “The sailors are getting restless. Not much for them to do but spread stories. Just thought I would warn you, before you hear it from someone else.”
Sora sighed. “It’s my own fault, I suppose,” she muttered. Burn looked at her questioningly, but she shook her head. “It’s not true, of course. But I might have confided a bit too much in Tristan….” Her voice wandered off. After Crash’s rejection, she had sunk into a depressed state. Tristan saw her distress and swooped in, showering her in affection, all too willing to take the assassin’s place. His attention had been difficult to turn down. Tristan was handsome, charming and only a year older than herself. He brought her seashells, played silly games and tried to make her laugh. If she had been any other girl, she might have fallen head-over-heels for him.
Then she confided in him, complaining about Crash’s coldness. A petty thing to do, but there it was. Tristan had been all too sympathetic, furious that the assassin would scorn her. You don’t need him, the pirate had said. Not when you have a hot-blooded Dracian at your side.
And then he tried to kiss her. Twice.
Sora winced at the memory. The very touch of Tristan’s lips against her cheek had brought a startling revelation—she didn’t love him, and she never could. “He’s probably jealous,” Sora said, realizing she had been quiet for some time.
Burn raised an eyebrow. “Of course,” he replied. “And perhaps a bit angry at you. Dracians are passionate creatures. The rest of the crew half-believe Tristan’s story….”
Sora glared stubbornly. “It’s just gossip and drunken speculation! Tristan should lay off his cups. The Dracians can think what they like—I don’t care.”
Burn nodded. “Fair, but your mother hasn’t known Crash for very long, and the Sixth Race carries a reputation. Don’t be surprised if she asks you about what happened. Word will reach her eventually. It’s a large boat—but not that large.”
Sora bit her lip and looked back down at the assassin on deck. Crash seemed to be taking longer this morning than usual, drawing out his stretches. She had the sudden, horrible feeling that he could overhear them. He wasn’t human, after all. Not entirely. Only a few weeks ago, she had learned the truth about his race, that Crash was one of the Unnamed, a child of the Dark God. He contained a demonic power she couldn’t begin to understand. Did he know about the rumors? She felt a twinge of embarrassment. What a mess….
“How do we stop this from getting out of hand?” she asked, suddenly concerned. A few more weeks of travel still separated them from the City of Crowns. What if the Dracians became so worked up, they tried to throw the assassin overboard? Goddess help them, she thought.
“Go to the source, I suppose,” Burn said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “I tried to speak to Tristan…but he took offense, said I’d insulted his honor by calling him a liar.” He let out a short bark of a laugh. “Dracians! Full of pride and passion, and not a lick of sense! I think you’ll have to speak to him.”
Sora nodded. She didn’t relish the thought. Confronting Tristan about the assassin, perhaps i
n front of the whole ship, sounded excruciating.
Burn swung easily up next to her, landing on the crow’s nest. The wooden boards shuddered beneath his weight. “Go down and get some breakfast. My turn to play lookout,” he said, and tousled her hair fondly.
Sora nodded, suddenly reluctant to go. At least up here she felt above it all, the Dracians’ gossip nothing more than petty speculation. On deck, she would have to walk around knowing what they all thought. How long had these rumors been flying around? She thought back over the past week and began to remember a few conspicuous moments: a flurry of murmurs every time she passed Tristan’s table in the mess room; strange looks from crewmen; a few nosy questions from her friend Joan. Her cheeks flushed suddenly. Joan had asked pointedly about her experience with men. The honest truth? She didn’t have any. Only that one night with Crash on the Lost Isles, learning the fire of a kiss, the addictive nature of a touch. She had no experience with love—and making love, at least the thought of it, still left her tongue-tied.
She bit her lip in distress. Perhaps the rumors weren’t as well-hidden as she thought.
She sighed and climbed down the rigging, wincing as her sore muscles flexed. The wind shifted abruptly, blowing in her face, and she wrinkled her nose as an afterthought.
“Do you smell something?” she asked. A pungent stench floated on the wind, like rotten vegetation.
Burn nodded. Wolfy senses were far more heightened than humans. “Been smelling it for days. Seems to be coming from the forest.”
Her eyes traveled to the line of trees. The fog was slowly burning off as the sun rose in the sky. It would be a cold, clear day, heralding the winter months to come. Large pine trees and cypress crowded the bank, thick with untamed foliage, arching countless meters above the river and branching into tall canopies overhead. Bright green willows leaned over the Little Rain, trailing their branches in the murky water. Birdsong filled her ears: the shrieks of meadowlarks and hollow thump of woodpeckers, even the coo of an owl somewhere in the dark branches.
She couldn’t see the source of the smell and wrinkled her nose again, sniffing the air, reminded of her venture through Fennbog swamp two years ago, where the ground had reeked of sulfur and mold. We’re not far from Fennbog now, are we? she wondered.
No, she didn’t think they were anywhere near Fennbog, and it didn’t explain the rancid smell of rotting plants.
Burn waved farewell as she continued down the rigging.
About the Author
T. L. Shreffler is a noblewoman living in the sunny acres of San Fernando Valley, California, a mere block from Warner Bros. Studios. She enjoys frolicking through meadows, sipping iced tea, exploring the unknown reaches of her homeland and unearthing rare artifacts in thrift stores. She holds a Bachelors in Eloquence (English) and writes Epic Fantasy, Paranormal Romance and poetry. She has previously been published in Eclipse: A Literary Anthology and The Northridge Review.
Feel free to connect online! She loves hearing from readers, reviewers, orcs, elves, assassins, villains, figments of her imagination and extraterrestrials looking to make contact. Her online accounts are as follows:
Email:
[email protected] Website: www.tlshreffler.com
Facebook: www.facebook.com/tlshreffler
Twitter: @poetsforpeanuts
T. L. Shreffler, Caprion's Wings
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