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

 

 

A rippling crack sounded behind us, and I ducked instinctively; white puffs of smoke popped above the steam ship. Rotgut shrieked and drew his legs up—just below him, the sails were peppered with holes. Kashmir had flattened himself on the deck as a round ripped through the sheet he was trying to shorten. In the cabin, Billie started howling: “Roooooo! Rooooooo!”

 

But off the prow, the fog thickened, and I kept the wheel steady as we raced for the cover the mist would afford. Then I frowned. What was that dark patch in the water ahead? “Rotgut!” I called up to the crow’s nest. “What do you see?”

 

“I see the entire Hawaiian navy taking aim at my—”

 

“Ready!”

 

“I know! I meant—” I startled at a loud sound. A single round?

 

No. Slate had thrown his door open so hard it banged against the wall. Billie raced out with a howl; the captain followed, stumbling onto the deck and shading his bloodshot eyes. “Nixie? What are you doing?”

 

The officer’s call came, loud and clear. “Aim!”

 

“I’m trying to get us out of here!”

 

Slate swore. “What if you get shot? Give me the wheel!”

 

“What if you get shot?”

 

He hauled himself up the stairs. “I’ll be fine!” he shouted. Then he stopped to heave over the rail. “I’ll be fine,” he said again, wiping his mouth. “I don’t die here, remember?”

 

“What?” The ship began to rock as the waves swelled, but I stared at my father. “What are you talking about?”

 

“My fate! My fortune.” He staggered toward me as the deck rolled, a manic light in his eyes. “I die in Honolulu, in 1868. Joss saw it happen!”

 

“But Dad—”

 

“Fire!”

 

Another rifle volley came, lower this time. Bullets sang in my ears. But Slate shouldered me aside, gripping the handles with white knuckles. “Give me the wheel and get down on the deck. I won’t die without seeing your mother again.”

 

A mighty gust of wind whipped my hair across my cheeks as I hesitated on the quarterdeck. I didn’t want to leave him, but I didn’t want to wrestle him for the wheel, either. Besides, he was still the captain; it was my duty to obey. And we were nearly safe in the Margins—or were we?

 

The fog ahead had darkened, and lightning flickered in the lowering clouds. A wave burst over the port side in a white plume of foam. Tahiti shouldn’t have been difficult, not like this. Over the crash of the water, I heard the officer’s shout. “Ready!”

 

Slate only laughed. “Do your worst!” he shouted into the wind. “I dare you!”

 

“Aim!”

 

The fog curdled, darker still, and thunder grumbled a warning. What was worse, the storm ahead or the ship behind?

 

But then Billie scrambled toward starboard side, barking furiously. There, in the bank of fog, turbid tendrils of mist were twisting up from the surface like fingers—like tentacles. The water seemed to boil as something dark and heavy bodied rose from the deep.

 

A cry went up from the crew of the steamer, and I risked a glance back. Order broke down as men aimed at the shadows, firing at will. They were close enough that I could see the wide white panic in their eyes.

 

Bullets zipped in the air like bees; I crouched at my father’s feet as the mist of the Margins swallowed us whole. Then Slate cried out—I blinked up at him in the sudden darkness. His face was pale in the gloom; he clutched his left side.

 

Blood was leaking through his fingers.

 

“Dad!” I sprang to my feet, reaching for him . . . as something fell to the quarterdeck beside me, thick and heavy as the mast.

 

But it glistened—and moved.

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER TWO

 

 

Black flesh like wet leather—and underneath, rows of suckers the size of saucers. The tentacle writhed and coiled over the boards. Then it lashed around my ankle like a whip, and I screamed.

 

Billie raced across the deck to sink her teeth into the creature’s flesh, but the tentacle only tightened; a dozen suckers ripped at my skin. I scrabbled at the stem of the wheel, but the creature dragged me across the deck.

 

“Amira!” Kashmir ran after me, his long knife shining in the gloam. With one slash, he severed the tip of the tentacle. In its dying throes, it curled around my leg, but I scooted backward, kicking, and it fell away. Billie dragged it off with a growl as the rest of it flopped and twisted, slithering back into the roiling sea.

 

Breathing hard, Kashmir reached for me. I let him pull me to my feet, his hand so warm in mine. “Are you all right?” He murmured the words into my hair; I could smell the clove on his breath.

 

“Fine,” I said, dizzy with fear and relief and the closeness of him. “But Slate—Slate’s hurt.”