His two little friends ran home and told their parents what happened, but when we were questioned about the day’s activities, I swore to our parents that I’d been there, and that Mordan hadn’t hurt the other children at all. I protected him, and he kept my secret.
Over and over throughout the rest of our childhood, we made the same bargain. “Fair is fair,” Mordan would tell me, if I hesitated to lie for him yet again.
Fair is fair.
Except I kept a hundred of his dark secrets, and he kept only one of mine.
25
The memory of my brother darkens the day—at least, that’s how it seems, until I realize that above the forest canopy, clouds are scudding across the sun. When I step out of the forest onto the beach, the sand looks pearly gray, not white, as the sky quickly grows overcast.
The other crew members and islanders emerge from the forest a few minutes later.
“We’re in for a hard rain,” shouts the first mate, urging the others to the boats.
By the time we reach the main island, rain is spattering the beach, soaking the sand. There’s a flurry of activity as everyone heads for the town. There’s an inn and tavern there, where Captain Neelan and his first-tier crewmen have been staying. The tavern will be the setting for tonight’s activities.
I linger behind the others to help Cook cover some of our crates and supplies with tarps. By then I’m soaking wet, my coarse shirt sodden and clinging to my form. It’s dark out here on the beach, and I don’t think Cook notices my chest—but I’m worried that if I go to the tavern in wet clothes, someone will take a closer look.
“I’m staying in the tent,” I call to Cook. “Not feeling well.”
He nods and trudges off up the beach after the others.
The camp is abandoned. Two sailors always keep watch aboard the ship, but it’s a misty ghost in the distance, veiled by sheets of rain, and I doubt they can see our camp at all.
I’m not sure where Locke is. Probably with the others at the tavern.
I duck into the tent I share with Cook and Dez. It’s pitch black, and the rain drums loudly against the canvas, but it’s dry enough inside. And I’m alone. I have complete privacy for at least a couple of hours, with no one to disturb me.
A blissful calm seeps through my body. I fumble around and manage to get a candle lit, then a lantern. There’s a pile of extra blankets in one corner, so I peel off my wet clothes, wrap myself in a blanket, and place my family ring on my finger. The red stone at its center glimmers like blood.
I wonder if my brother would recognize me without it. We’re five years apart, and it’s been years since he left us. I know I’ve changed. But my skin is the same, just as speckled as always. He’d know me by that alone. So why am I so reluctant to part with this trinket?
It’s not as if I have any particular pride in belonging to my family. Our lineage is tarnished with murder and mayhem of all kinds, mostly due to the strange magical abilities that keep popping up randomly in various people. There’s no rhyme or reason to the appearance of the powers, and no predicting what they will be. As far I can see, the magic in our blood has been the source of nothing good. It only brings destruction and death.
Maybe Locke is right. Maybe magic always corrupts, inciting its bearers to pursue more and more power over others.
I twist the ring, admiring the craftsmanship of its braided golden band. Sighing, I settle onto my pallet.
As much as I like this privacy, I would prefer a real bed in a nice dry room with walls. The rain sounds as if it’s going to beat through the tent any second.
Wind catches the tent flap and whirls it aside—no, not the wind—a hand. A dark figure shoulders its way into the tent, dripping onto the smooth sand.
Frantic, I clutch the blanket around my body. But it’s only Locke, his clear-cut profile and scruffy jaw slick with rain. The sight of him sends a flare of heat through my belly.
“Are you all right?” He sweeps moisture from his face with one broad hand. “Cook said you were ill.”
“I wanted to be alone.”
“Oh.” He hesitates, hunched over under the low tent canopy. His shirt clings to his chest, wetly transparent. “So—I’ll go then.”
“Or you could stay.” I let the blanket slip off one shoulder and give him a small smile.
Locke stares at me for a second.
Heat thrums between us, coiling and tightening. My heartstrings are thrumming, taut and hot. As my lips part a single whispered word falls out. “Please.”
Something in Locke’s gazesnaps,and he launches into motion.
