Unhooked(12)

“Come on, then.” It’s the second voice again—male, too, and a bit older than the first, but also clearly human. His rough cockney accent is also nothing like the guttural, accented words growled by the monsters. “We best tell the Cap’n it’s waking.”

I listen to their footsteps retreat and, instinctively, I reach for the cold stones around my wrist, breathing a sigh of relief when I find them intact. I’m wearing little else—only my pajamas—but at least I haven’t lost my mom’s bracelet. The fact that I still have it makes me feel better for some reason. Like I’m not so alone.

When I’m sure they’re gone, I sit up and take in my surroundings. I rub at my swollen, tear-crusted eyes, but they are so tender, it hurts too much to clean them. I can almost make out the room, anyway. Not that there’s all that much to see—it’s more of a closet than anything else. The floor is wood, darkened and worn smooth with age, and the only light comes from a narrow slit in the sloping wooden walls.

There is a heavy metal cuff around my ankle, as I’d suspected, and it’s attached by a chain to a ring on the floor. I give it a good tug to see if I can loosen it. I’m not sure when my new captors will be back, and I’d rather not be tied down when they get here. So I make another effort to free myself by pulling hard at the chain, but it doesn’t even budge.

It’s only when I finally stop struggling with the chain that I notice something that makes my stomach drop. The room is moving. I didn’t notice it at first, but now the motion—a constant, gentle rocking—is unmistakable. This is not just any room, I realize. I’m on a boat of some sort. Which means, even if I could get free from the chain, there might not be anywhere to run.

Refusing to believe that, I start jerking the chain around my ankle again, to try and loosen it from its bolt on the floor. I don’t stop, not when my ankle is numb from pain or when my fingers start to ache with the effort. I don’t stop until I hear footsteps just outside the door.

Just before the door opens, spilling light into the dark space, I turn away and curl up into a ball to protect my tender stomach from the poking and prodding I’m sure will follow. Forcing myself to breathe slowly and steadily, forcing myself to ignore the way my pulse thunders in my ears, I wait. At first nothing happens. But then sure, heavy footsteps enter the room, stopping just beyond me.

“Come now,” a new voice says. “I know well enough that you’re awake.” This voice too is male and human, but compared to the others it’s lower, older. It’s also tinged with the hint of an accent I can’t place. Maybe Irish? But it’s an accent that sounds like it’s been softened by years in other lands.

“Get some water, Will,” the new voice says. The command is soft, but it holds such a thread of authority, even I flinch.

After a flurry of movement and scuttling footfalls, rough hands flip me awkwardly onto my back, and before I know what’s happening, water slops over my face. The second it hits my mouth and nose, the terror of the sea floods back to me in a sudden flash. I struggle to gasp for air and to get away from the wet that’s threatening to drown me again, but my muscles are so tired that all I can do is cough and sputter, flailing as uselessly as a fish in the bottom of a boat.

“Christ! You’re going to drown her,” the newest voice snaps.

The water is gone, and unseen hands thump me roughly on my back. Panic laces through me as I struggle to pull away again, but the hands have my arms in a sure and steady grip.

“Make sure that she’s ready, aye?” He gives me another rough pat, and I cough up the last of the water. “I don’t need you drowning her again.”

I try to pull away when I feel the brush of something wet against my swollen eyes, but firm arms hold me fast. Gently, so much more gently than I would have expected from the steel in that voice, someone washes away the crust of seawater and tears until I can open my eyes almost completely.

“There now,” he says. “Come have yerself a drink.” The voice has gentled, but its words are still a command. Whomever the voice belongs to is clearly accustomed to giving orders. And having them obeyed.

I look up to refuse—the last thing I want is any more water—but the rejection dies in my throat.

They’re just boys.

I’m not sure what I was expecting, but the youngest can’t be much older than ten or eleven—there’s a worn-looking Batman T-shirt peaking out from under his too-large coat. The other of the two boys is older—more my own age. His reddish-brown hair is short and unevenly chopped, and he’s wearing jeans that are ripped on both knees and a dark long-sleeve shirt that’s pushed up to his elbows. Down one shoulder is a row of what look like rusted safety pins, and his left wrist is wrapped in a thick stack of bracelets made from strips of leather or twine. He’s scowling down at me as he holds the bucket of water, like I’m the one who’s done something wrong.

I assume the third is their leader. He’s not as tall as the one with the reddish hair holding the bucket, but he seems older—maybe a year or two older than I am—and the way he holds himself makes him seem even more mature, even more commanding.

He has a long lean face with a straight nose, and his sharp chin is tipped with the barest shadow of a beard. His hair—a black so dark and shiny, it’s almost blue—is longer on top and brushed straight back from his face in an old-fashioned style. It looks like it might fall lazily over his forehead if he ever let it. Somehow, he doesn’t look like the type who ever would.