The Girl from Everywhere (The Girl from Everywhere #1)(86)

My breath hissed in my teeth, but Blake had told me himself—he had his uncle’s artistic bent.

“Take the money, Hart,” Slate said. “I don’t care what you do with it. What is wrong with the map?”

“Why, nothing, sir,” Mr. Hart said. “But you would find it little use without your ship.”

“My . . . ship?”

“I’ve told you, sir, I cannot stay. By tomorrow the whole island will know what I’ve done. Besides, this climate is too . . . hot for my wife’s temperament. No, she and I will be leaving aboard the Temptation.”

“Fine, yes.” Slate ground his teeth, and Kashmir’s face had gone pale. “We’ll take you away. We’ll start a new life for you, somewhere else.”

“Alas, sir, it is long past time I take my fate in my own hands. I will be starting my new life elsewhere. You will be staying here.”

“You can’t sail the Temptation.”

“I won’t have to. The girl is the expert, you said it yourself.” He hefted the bag and threw me an appraising glance.

“No,” my father said, his voice low. “No, no, no. Take the ship then, take the money, leave her. Just go. We’ll stay here. Come, Nixie, come here.” Slate opened his arms, but Mr. Hart jerked the gun toward the captain.

“Stay where you are,” he said to me. “He wouldn’t be the first man I’ve killed, and shooting is a lot easier than drowning.”

I swallowed, but my mouth was so dry. Kashmir had the vest, but the revolver was pointed at my father’s face.

Slate did not quail. “Don’t do this,” he said, his face pale with rage. “Don’t take her from me, because I will kill you if you do. I will hunt you down and I will kill you, no matter how long it takes.”

“Captain!” Kashmir said, but Mr. Hart only smiled.

“So you do understand,” he said. “Why a man would kill for love.” Mr. Hart cocked the revolver.

“Wait!” My voice broke, but I’d found it again. “Wait, please.” Mr. Hart half turned his head, though his eyes—and his aim—stayed on Slate. “I’ll take you wherever you want. Just don’t shoot. Whatever you need.” I racked my brain. “Diamonds. In Arabia. And, uh, gold.” The gun dipped a little, and his eyes flicked to me then. “Gold from the Cibola. El Dorado, you know El Dorado?”

“It’s real?”

“I can take you there. Or Carthage. In Carthage they pay gold for salt.” Tears stung my eyes and I knew, then, just what my father felt: I would do whatever it took. “I can take you anywhere. Anything you want. Only let them live. Please.”

Mr. Hart stared at me for a long moment, then he nodded once. “Throw down your weapons.”

“No!”

“Dad!”

Mr. Hart shrugged, as if in regret. He raised his gun again, but I was out of ideas.

Kashmir wasn’t. His hand flew to his knife, and Mr. Hart whirled around—a shot rang like a bell in the cave and I smelled cordite and iron—but it was not Kashmir who stumbled back. It was Mr. Hart.

He clutched his right shoulder with his left hand, but he did not drop the gun as he stared, as we all did, at Blake standing at the mouth of the grotto. The boy stepped forward heavily, into the circle of our torchlight, as though his own feet were made of clay.

“I followed you.” Blake was breathing hard, but his gun was still high in his trembling hand. “I heard it all. Let her go.”

Mr. Hart glared at him while red blood bloomed like a boutonniere on the shoulder of his linen jacket, but then he swung his own hand back up and pointed the gun at Blake. “Put it down, boy.”

“You first.”

Neither moved, and then Mr. Hart smiled again, as bitter as truth. “Just like your father,” he said, and he fired.

Blake fell back into the dark, and I leaped on Mr. Hart’s back, wrapping my arms around his throat. He swung me around as Kashmir came toward him and my legs connected, knocking Kashmir against Slate as I tumbled to the ground.

Mr. Hart pulled up his arm and fired at Kashmir, square in the chest, and I rose, grabbing for Hart’s wounded shoulder and squeezing as hard as I could. He cried out and dropped the gun, but he managed to reach up with his other hand and twist his fingers in my hair until tears stood in my eyes and my own hand opened. Then he grabbed the bag and ran, dragging me along behind him.

We stumbled over Blake’s prone form on the path; he was still moving, reaching out, clutching at Hart’s leg. Mr. Hart yanked out of Blake’s grasp, but I heard the boy’s words, soft and raspy: “Get down.” I tried, but Mr. Hart still had me by the hair. He pushed me into the forest along the narrow path.

“Move!”

Behind us, feet slid through the loam—it must have been Slate—but then came the sound of something ahead: snapping branches and the conch shell and the feet, marching. Our warriors . . . had we brought them this close? But Kashmir had fallen in the cave, so who was sounding the conch? Torchlight shimmered between the trees, blurring in my teary eyes, and I understood what Blake was saying.

“Get down,” I wheezed, sucking in air. “Get down!” Slate heard me, and his footsteps stopped, but Mr. Hart wouldn’t listen.

I closed my eyes and covered them with my hands, blind as he shoved me forward. And then he stopped.