Unhooked(15)

I’m somehow not surprised to see the flash of disappointment in the boy’s expression.

After Sam finishes securing me, he leaves. Will studies me, a scowl on his face, but he doesn’t step into the room. “Come on, then. The Cap’n is waiting,” he says. “And don’t even fink of trying nuffin’, else I’ll be calling back Sam there.”

I don’t want that cold-eyed boy anywhere near me again, so I step carefully through the door and allow Will to herd me down a narrow hallway and up a short flight of steps. My legs are wobbly, and when I stumble on the last step, I barely have time to catch myself with my bound hands before my chin smashes into the deck.

Will hoists me up roughly and sets me to my feet, grumbling all the while. Like I’ve fallen on purpose. I think about telling him I wouldn’t have fallen so easily if he hadn’t tied me up, but as my eyes adjust to what remains of the daylight, all I can do is stand, stunned, all words forgotten.

I knew I was on some sort of boat, but my cell had been so dark and cramped that I didn’t have any sense I was on a ship. It is huge. And it’s beautiful—all gleaming, polished wood, with three soaring masts that tower above me, their arms outspread against the clear blue of the sky. The white sails are tied up so tightly, they don’t even flutter in the gentle breeze, but in the soft evening air, a scarlet flag flutters from the topmost mast.

Then my heart twists with another, more devastating sight—nothing but water surrounds us. No land breaks the level line of the horizon. No other ships are in view. We are securely at sea, far from any means of escape.

How long was I unconscious? I wonder as I take in the endless water. How far have I been taken?

“Come on, then,” Will barks, puffing his chest a bit as he gives me a not-so-gentle shove to get me moving. “Unless you want them to help you along.”

The ship around me is not empty, I realize then. The decks are filled with people who have gone unnaturally still and silent, and every one of them is staring at me, weapons in hand.

Not just people. Boys.

There isn’t a single person in view any older than I am, and most of the boys on the deck look much, much younger. They’re just kids, but the way they’re watching me, the way they’re holding themselves stiff and ready for some unseen threat, makes them seem older. More dangerous.

I follow Will without argument after that.

As we make our way across the main deck, I can practically feel the wary eyes of the boys follow our procession. Most stand very still, but a few of the smaller ones shift uneasily and adjust their holds on their weapons when we come closer.

And all of them have weapons. Some have knives sheathed in leather slings secured to their thighs, while others have primitive-looking slingshots tucked into their pants. A couple of the older boys have long swords hanging from their belts, like Will does.

Each and every one of them is watching me warily, like I’m the most fascinating—and possibly the most dangerous—creature they’ve ever seen. The absurdity of it causes a nervous laugh to bubble up in my chest. I swallow it down, but Will notices.

“Problem?” Will asks, pausing only long enough to regard me with narrowed eyes.

I want to point out to him that I’m not armed and not a threat, but I just shake my head and keep my eyes down as I let him lead me on.

With the entire ship still watching, Will directs me up a short flight of steps to the raised deck at the rear of the ship and knocks briskly on a heavy wooden door. When a muffled voice comes through, he pushes the door open and, without warning, thrusts me through.





As the boy filled in the lines and bequeathed to his mother all the things he’d never had a chance to accumulate, he wondered what his brother had felt doing the same. He wondered if his brother’s hands had shaken as his were shaking. But then he threw off those dark thoughts and laughed with the rest—for they still saw death as an impossible horizon that, certainly, they would never reach. Though, if they did, what a right and fitting end it would be for brave lads such as they. . . .





Chapter 9


I BARELY CATCH MYSELF AS I stumble through the door and into a large, dimly lit cabin. Most of the light comes from a wall of windows that provides a seemingly endless view of the sun setting over the surrounding sea. Beneath the windows is a large bed that looks as severe as the rest of the cabin, with its drab woolen blankets, flat pillows, and tightly tucked sheets. Everything about the space is sparse, organized, and downright tidy. Everything speaks only of usefulness.

In the far corner, a single lamp burns, swaying softly with the motion of the ship. Its glow is just enough to illuminate the dark form of the Captain. His bare back is turned to me, but the bunching and flexing of lean muscle barely registers. I can’t quite see past the roughened skin that covers his entire left shoulder and most of his back.

We all have our scars, he’d told me. I thought I understood what he’d meant when I looked at the icy white line down the side of his face, but his back is more than simply scarred. The skin there is pocked with angry welts that look like he was shot with burning buckshot at close range or sprinkled with acid. And his arm—

“William, I—” he growls as he looks up, red-faced with frustration, but his words fall silent when he realizes I’m not the person he expected.

Grabbing his shirt, he quickly throws it around his shoulders, but he’s not fast enough to hide what he’s been struggling with. Not fast enough to hide the fact that his left arm ends just above his elbow in a gnarled mass of scar tissue. Where his arm should be is a prosthetic unlike any I’ve seen before—an intricate steel skeleton of a hand attached to what’s left of his arm by a leather harness.