* * *
THE WEEK WORE ON, and on the sixth day, Genya woke me early. As I gathered my wits, I realized it was barely dawn. Fear sliced through me. Maybe the Darkling had decided to cut short my reprieve and make good on this threats.
But Genya was beaming.
“He found something!” she crowed, bouncing on the soles of her feet, practically dancing as she helped me from the bunk. “The tracker says we’re close!”
“His name is Mal,” I muttered, pulling away from her. I ignored her stricken look.
Can it be true? I wondered as Genya led me above. Or did Mal simply hope to buy me more time?
We emerged into the dim gray light of early morning. The deck was crowded with Grisha gazing out at the water while the Squallers worked the winds, and Sturmhond’s crew managed the sails above.
The mist was heavier than the day before. It clung thick against the water and crawled in damp tendrils over the ship’s hull. The silence was broken only by Mal’s directions and the orders Sturmhond called.
When we entered a wide, open stretch of sea, Mal turned to the Darkling and said, “I think we’re close.”
“You think?”
Mal gave a single nod.
The Darkling considered. If Mal was stalling, his efforts were doomed to be short-lived, and the price would be high.
After what felt like an eternity, the Darkling nodded to Sturmhond.
“Trim the sails,” commanded the privateer, and the topmen moved to obey.
Ivan tapped the Darkling’s shoulder and gestured to the southern horizon. “A ship, moi soverenyi.”
I squinted at the tiny smudge.
“Are they flying colors?” the Darkling asked Sturmhond.
“Probably fishermen,” Sturmhond said. “But we’ll keep an eye on her just in case.” He signaled to one of his crewmen, who went scurrying up the main royal with a long glass in hand.
The longboats were prepared and, in minutes, they were being lowered over the starboard side, loaded with Sturmhond’s men and bristling with harpoons. The Darkling’s Grisha crowded by the rail to view the boats’ progress. The mist seemed to magnify the steady slap of the oars against the waves.
I took a step toward Mal. Everyone’s attention was focused on the men in the water. Only Genya was watching me. She hesitated, then deliberately turned and joined the others at the railing.
Mal and I faced forward, but we were close enough that our shoulders touched.
“Tell me you’re all right,” he murmured, his voice raw.
I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat. “I’m fine,” I said softly. “Is it out there?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. There were times when I was tracking the stag that I thought we were close and … Alina, if I’m wrong—”
I turned then, not caring who saw us or what punishment I might receive. The mist was rising off the water now, creeping along the deck. I looked up at him, taking in every detail of his face: the bright blue of his irises, the curve of his lip, the scar that ran the length of his jaw. Behind him, I glimpsed Tamar scampering up the rigging, a lantern in her hands.
“None of this is your fault, Mal. None of it.”
He lowered his head, setting his forehead against mine. “I won’t let him hurt you.”
We both knew he was powerless to stop it, but the truth of that was too painful, so I just said, “I know.”
“You’re humoring me,” he said with the hint of a grin.
“You require a lot of coddling.”
He pressed his lips to the top of my head. “We’ll find a way out of this, Alina. We always do.”
I rested my ironbound hands against his chest and closed my eyes. We were alone on an icy sea, prisoners of a man who could literally make monsters, and yet somehow I believed. I leaned into him, and for the first time in days, I let myself hope.
A cry rang out: “Two points off the starboard bow!”
As one, our heads turned, and I stilled. Something was moving in the mist, a shimmering, undulating white shape.
“Saints,” Mal breathed.
At that moment, the creature’s back breached the waves, its body cutting through the water in a sinuous arch, rainbows sparking off the iridescent scales on its back.
Rusalye.
Chapter
4
RUSALYE WAS A folk story, a fairy tale, a creature of dreams that lived on the edges of maps. But there could be no doubt. The ice dragon was real, and Mal had found it, just as he had found the stag. It felt wrong, like everything was happening too quickly, as if we were rushing toward something we didn’t understand.
A shout from the longboats drew my attention. A man on the boat nearest the sea whip stood up, a harpoon in his hand, taking aim. But the dragon’s white tail lashed through the sea, split the waves, and came down with a slap, sending a rolling wall of water up against the boat’s hull. The man with the harpoon sat down hard as the longboat tipped precariously, then righted itself at the last moment.