The Midnight Star (The Young Elites #3)(46)

“It is in Maeve’s best interests to see us succeed,” Raffaele replies coolly.

While Magiano shrugs, I stare at the map. Kenettra is a small nation in this view, as are the other Sealand nations. The Sunlands, including Domacca and Tamoura, seem to stretch endlessly. Even more vast than all of them is the sea, the great divide between the living world and the Underworld.

The extent of my own power suddenly feels insignificant. Our journey will fail, and we will pay for it with our lives.



The next dawn, we sail into the dim light of a dark morning. The ocean has taken on an uneasy color of jet. From the porthole of my quarters, I can see clouds piling on top of one another until it looks as if there were never any such thing as the sky and hear a low growl of thunder echoing from somewhere far away. Had Sergio been on board, he could have told us about this oncoming storm—and done something about it. But this is not a storm of our choosing. This is something the gods have created.

My stomach sinks as the ship pitches on the waves. A tingle of fear runs down my spine and the whispers stir. The Underworld is calling you home, Adelina.

By the time I make it up the ladder and onto the top deck, the heavens have turned even darker. I look out onto the horizon to see that lightning streaks along the edge of the sky. Thunder continues to rumble. Magiano is helping two of the crew tie down barrels and secure the cannons. His robes are coarse linens today, a heavy cloak wrapped tightly around a dark tunic, pants, and boots, and his braids are tied up in a high knot. “We are still ahead of the storm,” he says when I approach him. “But its arms extend far. If we’re lucky, we’ll be able to sail around before the worst of it hits us.”

I scan the horizon for any hint of land, but I see nothing except the churning of dark clouds. This tempest is different from the storm we’d faced while battling the Tamourans, where I could conjure images that struck terror into the soldiers we were fighting. But what use are illusions when the enemy we’re facing is nature herself? From the water, I hear another echo of balira wails. There is a pod swimming some distance away from us, heading in the direction opposite the storm.

“Where is Violetta?” I ask. “Have you seen her this morning?”

“She hasn’t come up here.” Magiano nods back toward the ladder. “You should stay belowdecks too. I can take it from here. It may get violent.”

Perhaps she’s dead, the whispers cackle. Good riddance. Now you can finally be free of her torment.

Fat drops of rain have started to fall. I shake my head, trying to push away a blur of uncontrollable illusions, and turn around to head back down the ladder. As the air becomes heavier, the whispers grow louder, escalating until they shout in my ears. The fear of my crew hangs in the wind, feeding my energy until I feel like my chest might burst. In the corner of the ship, my father leans against the wooden railing and stares at me with wild eyes. I swallow and look down. My illusions cannot overwhelm me now, not here.

The early raindrops turn into a torrent. From the crow’s nest, one of our crew cries out, “Tie yourselves down!”

As I stumble toward the ladder leading below, I catch a glimpse of Raffaele’s ship pitching against the waves, nearly lost in the spray. I can barely even stay on the ladder itself. On the lower level, lanterns swing in the narrow corridors and I think I hear shouting coming from the floor beneath me. I pause. The whispers in my head are restless—but this sounded real. Still, I can’t bring myself to be sure about anything. I walk farther down the corridor until I reach my door. Here, everything seems muffled and distant, aside from the howl of the wind outside and the crash of ocean against wood.

I make it to Violetta’s door, knock once, then step inside.

She stirs on her bed, but does not look up at me. One glance is all I need to know that she’s feverish, her eyelids fluttering, her dark hair damp and matted against her head. Her markings stand out prominently along her neck and arms, blue and purple and black. She mutters something under her breath. Even in unconsciousness, she shifts uneasily when thunder rolls outside.

She is getting worse, I realize as I stand over her. Raffaele had thought that perhaps my nearness would slow her deterioration . . . but now she looks even frailer than when I first saw her in Tamoura. I look on for a moment as she turns in bed, her forehead slick with sweat, and then I sit down and brush her hand with my fingers.

What if she can’t even make it to the origin, to help us complete our journey?

You’re wasting your time here, say the whispers.

A loud thud shakes the floorboards. I startle and look back at the door. It sounded like it came not from above deck, but from our corridor. I wait to hear the passing of Inquisition boots, of a group of voices—but instead, the ship falls back into silence again.

I frown. For a moment, I want to ignore it, but then I rise and leave Violetta’s side. I step back into the hall of swinging lanterns.

No one else is in the corridor.

I clutch my head and steady myself against the wall. Everything around me seems to be moving, and despite my attempts to concentrate, the walls blur into the floor and the floor blurs into the air, the lantern lights smearing together into faces and shapes. The whispers turn into screams. I press a hand against one ear, as if that might shut them out, but it only makes it worse, blocking out the sound of the crashing ocean and emphasizing my illusions gone mad.

Think of Magiano. I remember his hand on my wrist in that dark hallway at the palace, the light reflected against his skin in the bathhouse. Then I force my breathing to steady. One, two, three. The hooked claws in my mind still, if only for a moment, and the floor and walls sharpen again. The sound of waves and shouts of men return from above deck.