I look to Pellegrin for clues—when exactly are we going to make our move toward changing course for the habitat island?—but his face betrays none of our secrets. Which is good for the secrets, not so good for my paranoia.
“Want to sit?” Lonan is beside me, while the others have claimed a pair of couches on the starboard side.
If I sit, I will sleep. If I sit next to Lonan, I may never want to get up again. This could be a problem.
But I am so. Very. Tired.
My answer must be plain on my face, because the next thing I know, he takes my hand and leads me aft, to a long, cushioned bench with nautical-themed throw pillows. The bench overlooks the water, and the island we’ve left behind, both of which would be a far more beautiful sight in daylight.
But darkness isn’t so bad. There is starlight, and salt air, and ocean waves. And Lonan.
He sits first, holds his arm out as a welcome for me to sit close beside him. I sit, lean into him, and rest my head just below his clavicle, where the muscle is the best kind of firm-but-tender. He pulls his arm around me, tight, until we are as close as possible.
It is not close enough.
We are both exhausted—I feel it in the way he holds me, the way we melt into each other. I was right before. I never want to get up again.
The yacht picks up speed, bringing with it a blast of cool breeze. I wish I hadn’t had to leave my cardigan crumpled on the floor of that tunnel. Lonan runs his hand over my arm, scorching the chills away.
“I’m glad to see you again,” I say. There are so many other things I want to say, but this, I figure, is safe. I hope it is safe.
His smile is soft in the moonlight. “I’m glad to see you, too, Eden.” His eyes drift down to my father’s ring, where it hangs on its chain. He lifts it gently and runs his thumb over the smooth, curved metal. “I miss my family, too.”
I go rigid—Lonan already told me about his parents, so why bring this up unless he’s telling me something else? The too at the end confirms it: he knows.
He knows this is my father’s ring. He knows it was my father’s book.
The war would not exist without my father, but it doesn’t mean he caused it—I know this, but I never talk about it, because if there’s anything this war has taught me, it’s that you can’t assume other people see the world in black and white. Some people are intent on seeing red, no matter what. Especially if they’ve been hurt along the way.
Lonan knows, yet he moves closer, not farther away: this is everything to me.
He tips his head to mine, and we kiss. It is slow and careful, soft, not the urgent hunger of fear, or goodbye, or pure relief at surviving a near-death experience—no. We kiss because there is understanding between us, even if it’s just the very start of it. Because our losses are deep, and grave, and complicated.
Because we are finally brave enough to risk loving someone again, knowing full well what it means to have to lose them.
I don’t know how long it lasts.
All I know is that I am kissing him, and then drifting off, and then waking abruptly as my head clunks against the seat’s hard bamboo trim.
Voices.
A commotion.
The sick, swirling feeling of waking from a deep sleep. The sick, swirling feeling of knowing, knowing, that nothing comes for free and that victory won’t come easy.
And my dagger—Lonan’s dagger—is missing.
Lonan is gone, too.
EIGHTY
THIS IS THE last time you can trust me until you find the cure, Lonan said. His parting words, back in the cave.
But there is no cure.
So, what, am I never supposed to trust him again?
EIGHTY-ONE
LONAN’S VOICE CUTS through the all the others. He’s not even on this deck anymore—I am all alone in luxury—and I still hear him clearly. I creep up the spiral staircase that leads to the top deck, a small room composed of tinted windows and bankers’ lamps and navigational equipment. There are too many people inside it.
“You will sail to Zhornov’s private island,” Lonan is saying when I step inside. “Do you, or do you not, understand?”
It is incredible how context can change the way someone sounds. How soft seats and soft light and soft skin can smooth out all the sharp edges. How a knife blade at a yacht captain’s throat can do exactly the opposite.
This is a side of Lonan I haven’t seen. It’s one I knew existed—one he told me existed—but one I’ve been able to pretend away. You can’t expect a diamond not to have a good number of facets, I guess.
Cass has a knife at the throat of the first mate, whose more technical title should be only mate. This leaves Phoenix free to perform any navigational maneuvering that’s out of the captain’s reach. I suspect Pellegrin or my father arranged it this way on purpose, where we are more than double their number.
“I said, do you understand?” Lonan’s face is as hard as it was the first night we met, before he decided he trusted me enough to let his guard down.
“I’m scheduled for an NPI-West run,” the captain says, struggling to get the words out without having his throat sliced by Lonan’s blade.
“Schedule change has been approved,” Lonan says. “We have the authorized paperwork right there, signed by Will Andersen and Zhornov himself.”
“Can’t be—gotta be a forgery!” The yacht captain looks to Pellegrin for help. When he finds none, his eyes grow as wide as the spotlights outside the tinted windows. “They’re going to have your heads for this, you know,” he says. “You more than anyone, Pell.” His biceps are covered in tattoos that remind me of samurai swords, and his voice is pure grit.
Pellegrin is unmoved. “It’s no forgery, Rex, simply a rare exception, and one we’ve been instructed to keep tight lips about. If you want to test this order, be my guest, but you know Zhornov will end you immediately if you’re found noncompliant.” Not the best argument, in my opinion. Especially since Rex obviously thinks our orders would lead him to noncompliance. “If you refuse to help us, I promise to do my best to drag out your death for as long as possible.” Pellegrin cocks his head, gives a little checkmate smile that likely makes Rex want to rip his face apart. “Which would you prefer?”
As risky an argument as it is, Rex is visibly about to crack. But then he says, “I don’t want any part of it. Show me what you’ve got.” He glares at Pellegrin, though it’s still Lonan who holds the knife.
“No!”
Everyone turns to look at me.
My cheeks are flaming. I don’t have a better suggestion—I just can’t bear to watch. I can’t bear to watch Pellegrin or Lonan, or even Cass or Phoenix, intentionally torture someone. I don’t want to believe they have it in themselves to do so.
“Just—look at his pictures,” I say.