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  “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. . . .

  Chapter 8

  THE 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.

  As the boy filled in the lines and bequeathed to his mother all the things he’d never had a chance to accumulate, he wondered what his brother had felt doing the same. He wondered if his brother’s hands had shaken as his were shaking. But then he threw off those dark thoughts and laughed with the rest—for they still saw death as an impossible horizon that, certainly, they would never reach. Though, if they did, what a right and fitting end it would be for brave lads such as they. . . .

  Chapter 9

  I BARELY CATCH MYSELF AS I stumble through the door and into a large, dimly lit cabin. Most of the light comes from a wall of windows that provides a seemingly endless view of the sun setting over the surrounding sea. Beneath the windows is a large bed that looks as severe as the rest of the cabin, with its drab woolen blankets, flat pillows, and tightly tucked sheets. Everything about the space is sparse, organized, and downright tidy. Everything speaks only of usefulness.

  In the far corner, a single lamp burns, swaying softly with the motion of the ship. Its glow is just enough to illuminate the dark form of the Captain. His bare back is turned to me, but the bunching and flexing of lean muscle barely registers. I can’t quite see past the roughened skin that covers his entire left shoulder and most of his back.

  We all have our scars, he’d told me. I thought I understood what he’d meant when I looked at the icy white line down the side of his face, but his back is more than simply scarred. The skin there is pocked with angry welts that look like he was shot with burning buckshot at close range or sprinkled with acid. And his arm—

  “William, I—” he growls as he looks up, red-faced with frustration, but his words fall silent when he realizes I’m not the person he expected.

  Grabbing his shirt, he quickly throws it around his shoulders, but he’s not fast enough to hide what he’s been struggling with. Not fast enough to hide the fact that his left arm ends just above his elbow in a gnarled mass of scar tissue. Where his arm should be is a prosthetic unlike any I’ve seen before—an intricate steel skeleton of a hand attached to what’s left of his arm by a leather harness.

  And his face . . .

  In the dim glow of the lamplight, it is more than anger I see in his expression. For less than the length of a heartbeat, I see something vulnerable there as well. Something like embarrassment or guilt, but thicker than either of those things and more severe. Something, maybe, like shame.

  “I’m sorry, I . . . ,” But an apology doesn’t seem to be enough of an offering for the emotion I’ve just witnessed. “They brought me . . . ,” I start again, trying to shift the blame, but this is the wrong thing to say as well. When his expression goes thunderous, I stutter another half-formed apology and turn to flee.

  The Captain is faster. In two or three long strides, he’s across the room, his false arm reaching beyond me to slam the door shut before I can escape, sealing me in. The cuff of his shirt is still unbuttoned, and the sleeve falls back to reveal the steel rods that form his wrist and hand. They’re so close to my cheek, I can smell the faint odor of metal and motors. The steel fist whirs and clicks like the gears of a clock as the Captain adjusts his stance and leans in. I understand implicitly in that moment that the arm is not a weakness. It is solid and strong, and somehow it has become a part of him. I’m pinned in place by steel and boy, and I’m not sure which is more dangerous.

  “Leaving so soon, lass?” he croons into my right ear, all confidence and rough masculine charm. The warmth of his breath brushes across my neck, and the scent of him surrounds me as completely as his arms. I have the uneasy feeling that he knows exactly what his proximity is doing to me. That he’s completely aware of the way my traitorous heart has kicked into a gallop and my skin has gone hot and cold all at once.

  I’m too nervous and taken off guard by my reaction to him to resist when he turns me gently, until my back is to the door and his face is mere inches above mine.

  He is just a boy, I tell myself. He’s not a monster.

  But he seems set to prove me wrong.

  “Why, you’ve only just arrived, lass,” he says softly, his lips inches from mine. “And you’ve gone to such pains to interrupt my solitude.”

  When I try to speak, the only thing that comes out is a sputtering sound.

  His mouth betrays the tiniest curve of a smile at my inability to put together a coherent thought, and I know at once that my discomfort is nothing more than a joke to him. He does know exactly what effect he’s having on me. He’s using my reaction to him against me, and he’s finding it amusing.

  This time when my face goes warm, it’s not because of any unwanted attraction I might feel. I square my shoulders and keep my eyes steady and—ignoring the thundering hoofbeats of my heart—I say, as clearly and calmly as I can, “You ordered them to bring me here. It’s not like I had much choice.”

  His grim mouth twitches, and his eyes flash with admiration.

  Or maybe I’m misreading him. Maybe it’s impatience.

  He eases away, so I no longer feel the warmth from his body. But he doesn’t give me room to escape. “That’s true enough, isn’t it?” He backs up a bit more then, so he’s no longer pressing the door shut behind me. “My apologies,” he says, inclining his head in a small bow. Then he looks up at me, and after a moment he speaks. “I’d take it as a great favor if you’d not be mentioning what you’ve seen to anyone, aye?”

  “They don’t know?” It’s so unexpected that the question comes before I think better of asking it.

  He raises a single dark brow in my direction, as if to question my impertinence. “They don’t,” he says simply. “Well, Will does, but I’d trust him with my life.”

  I wonder why he doesn’t trust the others, but I remember the wary look in the boys’ eyes and I think maybe I already know.

  Anyway, I’m not stupid enough to ask. I’ve pushed him enough as it is.

  With an almost elegant sweep of his gleaming steel hand, he gestures toward a pair of barrel-shaped chairs, inviting me to sit down. I hesitate, because I want to keep what little ground I’ve managed to gain in the last minute. Ultimately, I know I’m stuck. There’s nowhere to go but where he’s directed me. Not that I go easily—I make my way as slowly as I can across the cabin.

  Once he’s satisfied I’m seated and stationary, he turns and, in an amazing flurry of motion, buttons his shirt quickly, using the steel hand as dexterously as the other. As a final touch, he pulls on the pair of dark gloves he was wearing earlier, hiding the mechanical fist beneath the supple leather. In a matter of seconds, he’s back to being the boy I first met—the formal buttoned-up Captain.

  Propping himself on the edge of his desk, he picks up a small jeweled knife, examining it as he speaks with a casualness that does not hide the threat. “Now then, I’m thinking it’s time for you to be telling me just who you are and why it is you came to be here.”

  All I can do is watch him twirl the glittering knife effortlessly between the fingers of the mechanical hand. Not even the most sophisticated computers can make anything move as fluidly and naturally as that hand is
moving.

  He clears his throat and gives me a pointed look.

  “Gwen,” I choke out, answering his question in a heated rush of embarrassment. “My name is Gwen.”

  His mouth turns down. “Would that be short for something?”

  “Gwendolyn,” I say, but my voice breaks, so I try again. “Gwendolyn Allister.”

  He repeats my name, dragging out the syllables as he studies me, and I force myself to ignore the fluttering warmth I feel in my stomach as his voice makes my name sound almost musical. Then he gives a dismissive shrug, and all the warmth that had been threatening cools as quickly as if it had been doused with a bucket of ice. “I suppose it suits you well enough, though it doesn’t answer my question. Who are you and why have you come?”

  “I told you, I’m just Gwen. I’m no one. I don’t know what I’m doing here. I don’t even know where here is.”

  But his expression never wavers as he take two menacing steps toward me, the glittering knife still in his hand. “I doubt very much that you are no one, Gwendolyn, else you’d not be here.”

  “Please . . .” My voice breaks at the sight of the knife so close, and I have to start again. “I was taken by . . .” But I can’t make myself say it. Just thinking about the creatures, and I feel like it’s happening all over again.

  The Captain regards me with narrowed eyes. “Well?” he asks expectantly.

  “They were monsters,” I say, hating the way my voice falters.

  His face doesn’t betray any emotion. “Great, dark, creatures with enormous black wings, aye?”

  I nod, refusing to look away from his steady gaze. “You rescued me,” I realize, remembering more clearly now the dark eyes hovering over me as I floated back up toward the light. The firm hands that pressed the life back into me.

  He quirks that annoying eyebrow of his again and gives a small nod in my direction. “In a manner of speaking, though I wouldn’t be getting too far ahead of yourself, lass.”