Unhooked(14)

“Vaccination,” I whisper, but his brows bunch in confusion, so I explain. “My mom and I travel a lot.” I try to pull away, but his grip on my arm tightens, and the question in his expression grows more intense. “I had an allergic reaction or something. When I was little.” I can feel my face heating again, and I can’t meet his dark stare any longer.

He finally lets go of my arm. “We all have our scars, lass,” he says softly. But then his expression gets dark and I think maybe I only imagined the words.

I try to pull away as his gloved fingers trace the skin around the raw, angry wound on my upper thigh, the one left by the creatures, but the chain holds me in place. He frowns as he examines the torn skin. To my surprise, he dips the rag he used on my eyes into the bucket and gently touches it to my sore leg.

I hiss at the unexpected pain, but he doesn’t pay me any attention. He continues rinsing the wound. Then he picks up his blade. I think I see his mouth twitch when I jump, though I can’t be sure whether it’s from annoyance or amusement.

“Still now,” he murmurs.

But he doesn’t use the blade on me. Instead, he untucks the shirt he’s wearing and cuts a strip of material from the bottom hem. With movements so deft that I know for sure he’s done this before, he ties the strip of white linen around my leg, firmly binding the wound. He surveys his work for a second or two, and then, to my surprise, he unlocks the heavy chain from around my ankle and frees me.

I watch him warily, trying to figure out what he wants from me. Trying to figure out if I might actually be able to make it to the door. But the Captain seems to sense my intent, and without a word, he stands and lazily leans against the doorframe. His eyes meet mine, his brows rising in a silent challenge, and I know I’m stuck.

When the boys come back with the clothes, the Captain thanks them, and I notice the younger boy practically glows under his approval. Then the Captain places the clothes in front of me like a peace offering.

But I don’t reach for them right away. As cold as I am, I don’t do anything more than eye the pile of fabric warily.

Looming above me, the Captain’s face doesn’t give away any emotion as he nudges the clothes toward me with the toe of his polished boot. There is no longer any trace of the gentleness he’s just shown me in his expression. “Be quick about it, aye?” The volume of his voice hasn’t changed, but the steel is back. “I’m thinking that we’ve much to discuss, and it remains to be seen just how long you’ll be with us.”





Soon enough, the day came when the boy’s training was at an end. As he stood with his newfound brothers, waiting to board the train that would take them to the battle, he was given a small slip of paper on which was written, In the event of my death . . .

Thus sharply did he learn the difference between the dream of make-believe and the same dream come true. . . .





Chapter 8


THE CAPTAIN’S WORDS HANG IN the air long after the door closes behind him.

I’m not sure what he meant by them, but I have a sinking feeling he wasn’t talking about taking me back to London. No matter how gentle he might have been when the other boys were gone, the heavy chain, the blade at his side, and the locked door tell me that I’m no guest here.

All at once, the enormity of what has happened crashes down on me. My swollen eyes burn with the tears I’ve been holding back, but I swipe at them and force myself to stop. Then I pick up the first piece of clothing on the pile and rub the soft fabric between my fingers as I consider my situation. And my options.

I take a couple of deep breaths before I discard the damp tank top I’m wearing and replace it with the soft shirt. It’s an old concert T-shirt that must really be vintage—it’s worn so thin, it’s almost transparent. Thankfully, they’ve also given me a heavy knit sweater, so I pull that on and button it up to my chin. The pants have an awkward buttoned fly, and they’re a little too long—I have to roll the cuffs to keep them from dragging—but they’re warm. There are also some thick woolen socks and lace-up boots made from soft leather.

I’ve barely finished securing the laces of the boots when the door to my prison opens and the boy called Will appears. I scuttle back into the corner of the room before I notice that he’s brought another boy with him, a large, rangy boy with a dark tattoo snaking up his neck and cold, emotionless eyes.

“Hold out yer arms,” he says, motioning with his knife. “Cross them in front of you, like.”

When I don’t move immediately, he demonstrates crossing his wrists. I know what he wants, but I don’t want to be trussed up again, helpless.

“Go on now,” Will says, clearly growing impatient. “Or Sam here’ll have to help you.”

I glance up at the other boy. His eyes narrow as he cocks his head, waiting to see what I will do.

If I let them tie me up, I’ll be helpless again. I don’t want to be in that position, but as I’m about to refuse, Sam takes the rope from Will and stalks forward into the room, his cold eyes glittering with anticipation.

All the air seems to go out of the small space. He wants me to resist. I have the strangest sense the boy wants me to struggle so he’ll have an excuse to force me—to kill me? Suddenly, the prospect of being tied up again suddenly doesn’t seem quite so bad. I take a breath and hold my arms out, trying not to let them shake.