He cracked his knuckles. “Not as many deaths in recent years. Maybe that’s why Dagon keeps claiming souls. Maybe that’s why the Guardians need us.”
She swirled the drink her cup. “The Guardians. Right. What exactly do they guard?”
“No idea. They’re not keen on transparency.”
“Well, at least today, you kept me from filling Dagon’s quota.”
“Of course I saved you.” He stretched his arms above his head, and she caught a glimpse of the Angelic tattoos scrolled across his torso. “We’re friends.”
Rohan didn’t seem like the kind of person who would have any friends, let alone one he’d only just met. She felt like she’d become part of an exclusive club. “I will return the favor if I can. But, Rohan…”
“Yes?”
“They’re only going to choose one new Guardian. So…”
“At some point, one of us will die or get sent home,” he said, finishing her thought. “Let’s not worry about that now. Anything could happen. Maybe they’ll need more than one.”
She had a sudden desire to know more about him. “What was your boyfriend like in Mount Acidale?”
“Tristan? Rich. Handsome. Argumentative. Obsessed with being seen at the right parties. Actually my fondest memories of him came right after the most vitriolic arguments. He was very good at making up after a fight.”
“He sounds—glamorous.”
“What about you? Boyfriend? Girlfriend?”
“Actually, my last boyfriend…” Was a cannibal with an army of zombie Puritans. “It turned out he was lying to me about a lot of stuff. Like, he was several hundred years older than I thought.”
“I hate guys like that. Just be yourself, you know?” Rohan’s face became uncharacteristically animated. “What was he—a demon of some kind?”
“I guess? He was allied with Druloch. Nearly had me hanged in Maremount.” She took a swig of her drink. “And he ate people.” It felt good to get it off her chest.
“The Gray Champion? He was your lover?” Rohan grimaced. “Well, you know how to pick them. Please don’t tell me I’ll need to pry you away from Berold.”
“I’d rather consume my own flesh than go anywhere near Berold.”
Footsteps sounded on the deck, and two long shadows crept over the warped floorboards. It was Lir and Nod. The Captain cracked his knuckles. “That was an exciting display today. One of the best we’ve had, I daresay.” He stepped in front of Berold, adjusting the lanky man’s shirt collar. “Quite an interesting tactic you employed, slicing through the lady’s fingers.”
Berold’s eyes darted to the deck. “It was just Fiona. She was advancing on me, Captain.”
“Right.” Nod’s green eyes landed on Fiona, and he grinned. “Anyway, she made it through. Nobody died today, which is, itself, cause for celebration. Valac! Play that bloody fiddle of yours!”
As night fell, Lir called up a few foxfire orbs to light the ship and Valac’s music filled the air, playing in time to the waves. Marlowe climbed down from the quarterdeck, singing along to Valac’s tune and flicking his hands in the air.
Rohan bowed to Fiona, extending a hand. She took it, and joined him in a wild reel around the deck. This could be her new life. If only I didn’t have to die.
31
Fiona
Fiona stirred in her bed, jolted from a deep sleep. She rubbed her eyes, trying to get her bearings. The Proserpine. I’m on the Proserpine. The night was hot, and she’d been sleeping in nothing but a bra and panties, dreaming again of Tobias, his arms wrapped around her waist. Humid, salty air filtered in through her open window.
She’d woken with the feeling that something was very, very wrong.
She sat up straight, listening to the sounds of the ship. There was the creaking of the old wood, and the gentle lapping of the waves. She could hear Lir’s deep breathing in the room next door. But even with her bat-like hearing, she strained to hear what was amiss.
It was there, though. Muffled beneath the old ship’s groans was a soft, moaning sound—something human and pained. She jumped out of bed, snatching a pale-blue dress off the floor. She slipped it on and unlatched her door.
The ancient ship seemed especially eerie at night, and when she tiptoed up the stairs, she couldn’t help but feel she was being watched. Her hair stood on end as she creaked up the steps.
By the time she reached the top of the stairwell, the soft moaning had stopped, and she heard footsteps hurry across the planks. She stepped onto the main deck. Thin, silvery moonlight washed over the ship. She had the odd feeling that the thousands of sailors who had died in Gloucester’s waters were all around her, watching mournfully.