“Of course.” She nodded. They had planned their escape well: Jack had driven the yacht’s anchor impossibly deep into the rocky ocean bottom, while Schuyler had emptied the yacht’s fuel supply. The night before they had sabotaged the boat’s sails and the radio.
They ran across the beach toward the pirate boat, where their new friend Ghedi was waiting for them. Schuyler had befriended him during one of their supervised trips to the Saint-Tropez market, where the former member of the self-styled “Somali Marines” was helping unload a pallet of fresh fish upon the dock. Ghedi missed his days of adventure and jumped at the chance to help the two trapped Americans.
“All yours, bossing.” Ghedi smiled, showing a row of gleaming white teeth. He was lithe and quick, with a merry, handsome face and skin the color of burnished cocoa. He jumped off the starboard. He would catch a ride back to the market on the ferry.
“Thanks, man,” Jack said, taking the wheel. “Check your accounts tomorrow.”
The Somali grinned more widely, and Schuyler knew the fun of stealing the boat was almost payment enough.
The massive engine roared to life as they sped away from the shore. Schuyler glanced to where the two Venators were floating lifelessly in the water. She comforted herself with the knowledge that both would survive. They were ancient creatures and no cliff-side fall could truly harm them; only their egos would be bruised. Still, they wouldn’t be able to recover for a while, and by then she and Jack would be well on their way.
She exhaled. Finally. On to Florence, to begin the search for the keepers and secure the gate before the Silver Bloods found it. They were back on track.
“All right?” Jack asked, guiding the ship with expert ease through the stormy waves. He reached for her hand and squeezed it tightly.
She held it against her cheek, loving the feel of his rough calluses against her skin. They had done it. They were together. Safe. Free. Then she froze. “Jack, behind us.”
“I know. I hear the engines,” he said, without even bothering to look over his shoulder.
Schuyler stared at the horizon, where three dark shapes had appeared. More Venators, on Jet Skis with a black-and-silver cross insignia emblazoned on the windshields. Their forms grew larger and larger as they drew closer. Apparently Iggy and Drago hadn’t been their only jailers.
Escape was going to be harder than they thought.
THREE
Into the Deep
The first drops of rain fell like gentle kisses on her cheek, and Schuyler hoped it would be nothing but a mild shower. But a glance at the ever-darkening sky told her otherwise. The calm blue horizon was now a palette of gray, red, and black; the clouds swirled together to form a heavy, solid mass. The rain, which had begun like a quiet afterthought, suddenly drummed against the deck in a rising staccato. The thunder cracked, a deep rumbling boom that made her jump.
Of course it had to rain. Just to make everything more complicated. Schuyler reached behind Jack and holstered a short bow they had asked Ghedi to procure and stow in the smuggler’s locker, a hidden compartment located in the bilge.
During their month at sea they had passed the time by preparing for this escape. After hours, Jack had schooled Schuyler in the fine points of Venator craft (subterfuge, ammunition), and with Iggy’s and Drago’s approval, had taught Schuyler a rudimentary course in archery. With her steady hand and eye, she had proven an even better shot than Jack. She removed several ironwood arrows from her pack, more handmade weapons fashioned during their captivity. Schuyler holstered one against the bow and took position.
Their pursuers were still a long way behind for now. She could see them clearly even through the wind and fog. She bent her knees slightly and willed herself to be a statue in the moving sea, raising the bow and drawing the arrow as far back as she could. When she was sure she had her mark, she let it fly. But the Jet Ski expertly dodged away.
Unperturbed, she reloaded the bow. This time when she drew the arrow, it lodged in a Venator’s knee. The Jet Ski swerved uncontrollably in the water, and Schuyler felt triumphant until the Venator righted again, unfazed by his gaping wound.
Meanwhile, Jack kept his eyes straight ahead, a steady hand on the throttle. He was giving the engine everything it had, and it was burning up too fast and too hot—throwing off a shower of sparks and making a horrid sputtering noise.
Schuyler looked behind them again. Their pirate boat was doing the best it could, but it wouldn’t be long before they were overtaken. The Venators were much closer now, no more than fifty feet away. It rained even harder, and she and Jack were both soaked to the bone as the wind whipped up the waves and the boat rose and fell in a treacherous, roller-coaster fashion.