The Ship Beyond Time (The Girl from Everywhere #2)

 

 

Both men looked up—my father and Bruce, his old friend at the Coast Guard. At first I thought it was a trick of the glare on the curve of the windshield, but Bruce’s face was florid, his eyes unfocused. Leaning over the passenger seat, he asked my father a question and reared back in mock surprise at the answer. He spoke with exaggerated care; I could read the words on his lips: “No shit!” Then he slapped the empty seat and rolled down his window. “Hey, kid! You’re all grown up!”

 

“Thanks, Bruce,” I said as Slate stumbled up the gangplank, swaying on his feet.

 

“You look just like your dad!”

 

I spoke through my teeth. “I hope not, Bruce.”

 

“All right, all right. Hey, I’d love to catch up, but I’m gonna be late for work!” His voice was warm, and his words only a little slurred. “Take care of your old man! Don’t be too pissed off!” Then he rolled up the window and drove away.

 

Slate stopped right in front of me, just a hair too close. He was still sweating, but his eyes were very bright; I grimaced. Through his white T-shirt, I could see blood seeping through the bandage over his ribs. Alcohol increased blood flow—I had read that somewhere. My anger was building in a wave. I’d been so hopeful when he’d tossed the box into the sea, but had opium ever been the problem, or only the treatment?

 

My father peered at me. “You’re not going to, right?”

 

“Not going to what?”

 

“Be too pissed off.”

 

I flung out my hands, exasperated. “Where are your shoes?”

 

“Don’t remember.” Slate looked down at his bare feet. The skin atop the right one was raised and red under a new tattoo—a simple design, one of his own, I could tell. The cross of a compass with an anchor’s curve at the bottom. “You like it?” He raised his foot toward my face, then toppled to the left. I caught his arms; he smelled sweet and sharp, like an overripe peach. “I made it myself!”

 

“Did you drink an entire bottle of liquor?”

 

“Not the whole thing.” He wiggled his foot. “I know I used some to sterilize my skin.”

 

“I’ve never even seen you drink half a glass of weak beer!”

 

He shrugged loosely and headed toward his cabin. “You know what they say. When you can’t be with the one you love— What the hell happened here?” Slate had stopped in the doorway.

 

“You did.” I faltered, uncertain now. “Didn’t you?”

 

“Didn’t I what?”

 

“Didn’t you take your map of Honolulu?”

 

“Take it where?” He walked toward his desk and stared at the surface—empty, but for a few coffee cups. “Where is it?”

 

I swallowed and glanced at Kashmir. Thieves, he’d said. Had someone come aboard while we’d been away? A crashing sound drew my attention back to the captain as he swept the shelves clear. “Slate, no!”

 

Scrolls scattered across the floor; he tossed heavy books atop delicate parchment. I leaped over a bronze tablet and barreled into him, shoving him away from the shelves. “It was right there!” he screamed, his eyes wild. “Where did it go?”

 

“You’re not going to find it making a mess!”

 

His chest heaved; he gripped my arms. He looked so incredibly lost. “Nixie . . . Nixie . . .”

 

“It’s okay, Dad. I’ll find it. Just sit!” I pushed him back toward his bunk; his knees bent and he sank down. “Stay there.” I took a deep breath. Both Kashmir and Blake were staring in through the doorway. “Blake, bring some water. Kash, can you . . . ?”

 

Kashmir came to the captain’s side, putting his hand on Slate’s shoulder to keep him in his bunk while I picked up the maps and set the room back in order. By the time Blake returned and put a cup into Slate’s shaking hands, I hadn’t discovered anything else missing—including maps that were far more valuable.

 

Had Slate only mislaid the map and forgotten? I shooed the boys out and knelt next to my father to ask, but he shook his head vehemently. “No. No, Nixie. How could I forget something like that? That map is everything to me.”

 

The reminder stung more than it should have. I clenched my fists. “Everything?”

 

He bridled. “Don’t take that tone. I’m still here, aren’t I?”

 

“Barely. But why did you have the map out of the cupboard, Slate?” I made a face; he didn’t answer, but of course I already knew. “You tried to use it.”

 

“Maybe I thought about it,” he said, pugnacious. Then he grimaced. “But I was . . . afraid.”

 

“Afraid?” I laughed a little, bitter. “Afraid to die?”

 

“No,” he said scornfully, like the very question was a foolish one. “Afraid to lose you.”

 

“Well, I’m not going back with you to 1868, to watch you overdose. I couldn’t, even if I wanted to, but frankly—”

 

“That’s not what I meant!” Slate clenched his jaw, scrubbing his hand through his blond hair. When he spoke again, his voice was soft. “That’s not what I meant. I mean . . . Joss told me something else once.”