Nethereal (Soul Cycle Book 1) (38 page)

Elena's eyelids fluttered; then opened to narrow slits. Her rose quartz irises glistened. She favored Deim with the hint of a smile. “I know.”

“Move,” Nakvin said, shouldering Deim aside. She stooped down and tenderly ran her hand through Elena’s soft wavy hair. “Are you all right?”

“They didn't hurt me,” Elena said. “Stochman tried, but Vaun stopped him.”

Nakvin bit her lip at the mention of the necromancer’s name.

Footsteps approached. Jaren stood in the doorway, his hair blending into the red stains on his coat. “Sorry to interrupt the family reunion,” he said, “but we have a delivery to make.”

Nakvin glared at Jaren. “Can’t you put people before business just once?” she asked.

Elena rose from her cot and strode toward Jaren. “He's right.”

“Who unplugged you?” Nakvin asked when she saw the girl’s empty sockets.

“The engineer.”

“I owe you one, Mike,” Jaren said as he turned to leave. “Let's plug her back in.”

Nakvin rose and clenched her hands into fists. Her nails threatened to pierce her palms. “That's insane!” she said. “How can you even suggest that after what she’s been through?”

“Any objections?” Jaren asked Elena.

The girl remained silent.

“Deim,” Nakvin pleaded. “You threatened a baal to free her, for gods' sake!”

Deim’s dark eyes betrayed no emotion. “Her chains aren't physical,” he said.

Elena turned toward Nakvin. “It's true. Tethered or not, he'd find me.”

Nakvin cupped the girl's face in her hands. “
Who
would find you?”

“He's sleeping. Naming him might change that.”

“Elena, we're not Stochman or your father,” Nakvin said. “How can we protect you if we don't know who’s threatening you?”

Cracks appeared in the girl’s calm façade. “I know you want to help me, but you can't.”

Nakvin's hands fell listless to her sides as Deim wrapped a protective arm around Elena and followed Jaren into the hall. “It’s all right,” he said. “I made them promise to free you.”

Elena glanced back at Nakvin. “It’s not up to them.”

In the early light of morning, Ydahl stood atop a rise behind the Freehold and looked west. Many days had passed since the prefect had led the garrison out to storm the Ogre Fang, and Ydahl was starting to worry about her living friends—especially Nakvin.

With a sigh, the dead girl bent to retrieve the branch she'd chosen as a walking stick and glimpsed shadows in the distance. She straightened and focused on the western horizon. There it was—an irregular dark mass roiling in the desert. It was impossible to make out individual figures, but the girl knew that the dust cloud signified a marching column.

At first Ydahl thought that the Freehold garrison had returned, but the approaching company seemed loose and chaotic. A troubling question occurred to her: if the ship was won, why were they on foot?

Ydahl dropped her stick and raced down the path to the Freehold.

After reconnecting Elena to the engine, Jaren called a senior staff meeting. The captain's mess once more served as the venue. The four ranking officers of the
Shibboleth
were present—more or less. Teg wore Sulaiman's face, Nakvin glared in defiance, and Deim brooded silently.

The meeting had a single agenda: preparing the ship for departure.

Nakvin delivered the revised head count in a clipped monotone. “Our crew died in Stochman’s mutiny. We killed or captured all of his. Despenser probably has Teg’s body and Sulaiman’s soul. That leaves the four of us, Elena, and Vaun.”

Jaren tried to keep his manner detached. The argument over Elena had strained his relationship with Nakvin, but they had a long road ahead; and the captain refused to let personal matters interfere with business. “Is it enough to get underway?” he asked.

Nakvin folded her red-cloaked arms. “Most of the vital systems can be run from the Wheel. A couple of hands can manage anything short of ship-to-ship combat.”

“And here I thought we would raid a couple of freighters on the way,” Teg said in Sulaiman’s voice.

Jaren was glad to know that Teg still had his sense of humor. “Sorry,” the captain joked. “Still, I'd feel better with a few more hands on board.”

“What about the Freeholders?” Nakvin asked. “We told Sulaiman we’d take them on.”

Jaren leaned back in his chair. The sweaty musk of Stochman’s desperation still clung to it, but he suppressed his annoyance and considered the angles. His deal with Sulaiman was null and void since the priest's disappearance. Still, he could use a few extra bodies around. If nothing else, the Freeholders would make handy distractions if the ship were boarded again.

“All right,” Jaren said. “We'll swing by the Freehold and hire some help, preferably with prior experience.”

“Stocking up on supplies won’t hurt, either,” said Teg. “Gibeah left us barely enough food for a week.”

Jaren nodded in assent. He rose and issued orders. “Deim, I want you on the Wheel. Nakvin will take over when it's time for the next gate crossing.” He fixed his eyes on the lady Steersman. “Until then, focus on keeping out unwanted visitors.”

Nakvin’s mouth twisted in a half-frown. “I'll try,” she said.

The captain addressed Teg last. “Round up the prisoners and bring them to the hold. We'll be taking on
and
dropping off.”

Monsters swarmed the Freehold’s walls. Men scurried to and fro atop the parapet, shooting arrows and hurling stones into the hideous melee below. With most of their fighting men buried on the Ogre Fang, the Freeholders were hopelessly overwhelmed.

Jaren couldn’t make out every detail, but the view through the bridge window showed enough to infer the rest. He looked up at Deim and said, “Clear out those vagrants.”

Below, the demons pressed their siege, oblivious to the black ship approaching from the west. Their blissful ignorance continued until shafts of blazing light lanced down from the sky. The
Exodus'
projected energy cannons blasted into the demons' ranks, sending up fountains of dirt and seared meat higher than the walls. The fiends turned as one to stare skyward at the dark omen. Their awe turned to panic when ship’s guns vaporized a dozen more of them.

Jaren knew that the lack of gunners forced Deim to divide his attention between steadying the ship and firing its weapons. Luckily, precision wasn’t needed. One shot struck the fortress wall, sending chunks of stone exploding in all directions. Though an equal number of human and fiendish corpses lay mangled in the rubble, it didn’t impede the steersman’s work.

The
Exodus’
intervention lasted less than a minute, but the end of that minute saw the remaining invaders fleeing into the desert.

Jaren tapped the intercom. “Meet me in the main hold, and get ready to open a gate,” he sent to Nakvin. “I'm expecting lots of applicants.”

Jaren stared skeptically at where the hold’s aft wall had been. The walls and rafter-girded ceiling disappeared into a red sky, and the ceramic floor ended sharply before a wide gravel grade.

A throng of people stood before the gate, peering over one another’s shoulders and wringing their hands amid a susurrus of low muttering. None of them had yet dared to cross the threshold between town and ship.

Jaren strode to within a few yards of the gate’s edge. Hot sulphurous air brushed his face. Besides him and Nakvin, the vast room held only a few palettes stacked with the ship’s remaining supplies. Teg had bowed out of the recruiting drive to avoid confusion.

At last the captain spoke, startling the Freeholders to silence. “We’re taking on hands for all stations.”

Jaren couldn’t begrudge the townspeople’s wary looks. They were clearly shaken from the demons' raid—not to mention the pirates' inelegant rescue. “Does anyone have experience with ether-runners?” He asked.

After a long pause the crowd parted, allowing two men to step forward—one old and one young. The elder of the two applicants, whose stringy hair showed as much brown as grey, spoke first. “Jastis Ewo,” he named himself. “Gunner's mate on a House Vannon freighter I was. 'Course, that were afore I connived with the first mate to pinch a load of Keth-bound silk.”

Jaren frowned. “You mutinied?”

“Aye,” Jastis said, wringing his hands. “Didn't go as planned, as you can likely tell.”

The captain turned to the younger man standing beside Jastis. The dingy-haired lad couldn't have been much older at death than Ydahl, who watched silently from the front row. The lad started when he saw Jaren eyeing him; then spoke hastily as if making up for lost time. “Trand Shore, sir,” he said. “I left hearth and home in Byport on a liner bound for Vigh.”

Jaren nodded. Fleeing the dismal factories of Ostrith for the enticements of Temil's pleasure capital almost justified the boy’s desertion.

“I was discovered as a stowaway,” Trand continued, “but the captain put me to work. I never went back to Mithgar, but stayed on among the crew.” The youth averted his eyes and licked his lips. “I learned much during my time with them.”

“I see,” Jaren said. “Did you betray your captain?”

Trand shook his head vigorously. “No, sir! Call me aught else you like, but I was no mutineer. There was an ether leak two days out from Cadrys—a mechanic must’ve left a seal loose. The whole ship went up like a torch before we could plug it.”

Jaren looked over the two applicants; then shot a questioning glance at Nakvin, who shrugged. For some reason, she couldn't hear the thoughts of the dead.

“All right,” Jaren said. “Welcome aboard.”

The two men marched through the gate as if to their deaths.

“We're on a tight schedule,” Jaren told the crowd. “If anyone else wants to come with us, this is your last chance.”

Those who answered the boarding call were surprisingly few: a paltry rabble of men and women who shuffled through the gate as though unsure of where they were, but having decided that the
Exodus
was as good a place as any. Jaren led them from the hold.

Nakvin stayed until the Freeholders had either boarded or dispersed. One still lingered on the Fourth Circle side, and she was surprised to see that it was Ydahl. The Steersman approached the girl and knelt, facing her across the invisible boundary.

“Ydahl,” she said gently, “aren't you coming with us?”

The girl stared at her own feet. “That's Prefect Sulaiman's cloak, isn't it, mum?”

Nakvin frowned. She'd spent the night re-tailoring the rough crimson garment into an approximation of her lost robes, but Ydahl had seen through her benign deception.

The dead girl met Nakvin's worried look with one of her own. “Sulaiman’s not coming back, is he?”

“No,” Nakvin said, “he's not. All the more reason you should leave.”

“I think I'll stay, if it's all the same to you.”

Nakvin reached through the gate and brushed Ydahl’s mousy hair from her face. “There's no one to protect you here. Nothing bad will happen if you come with us. I promise.”

“Begging your pardon, but I'm the sort of person that bad things
should
happen to. Perhaps I've been dodging them too long.”

Nakvin’s voice betrayed her indignation. “Ydahl, you need to stop punishing yourself. You've paid for what you did.”

The girl pulled away from Nakvin's touch. Her eyes grew fierce, and she trembled as she spoke. “But I can
never
pay for it, don't you see? I can't give back a single one of the lives I took! You can't undo what I’ve done. No one can.”

A soft voice carried across the hold. “Don’t be so sure.”

Ydahl peered over Nakvin’s shoulder into the cavernous space beyond, cringed, and pulled away.

Nakvin looked back, expecting a demon. Her brow knitted when she saw Elena. “What's wrong, honey?” Nakvin asked Ydahl. “Don't be afraid.”

The dead girl staggered backward. “Sulaiman said even the worst was guiltless babes once,” she muttered to herself, “but the Void begat that one!”

Nakvin reached out to steady her, but Ydahl drew back and screamed, “Let the ground swallow me!” as she ran.

With a heavy heart, Nakvin closed the gate. She turned again and saw Elena watching her with impassive rose-colored eyes. The vast space felt suddenly small.