Deathmarked (The Fatemarked Epic Book 4) Read online

  But they didn’t have time or tools. And they were still under attack by a creature more powerful than anything Grey had ever fathomed in his wildest nightmares.

  There was only one choice.

  “Give him something to bite down on,” he said.

  Shae looked at him, her eyes empty, devoid of understanding.

  “And hold him steady. Hurry!”

  Something flashed across her eyes. Realization. “Grey, no,” she said.

  He reached out and gripped her hand. “Do you trust me?” he asked.

  Everything he’d been fighting for over the last few months seemed to fuse together into that single question, like the tip of a knife.

  She nodded, gritting her teeth. She ripped the bottom of her dress, rapidly rolling it into a thick wad of cloth which she shoved into Erric’s mouth. He wasn’t screaming anymore, his chest rolling like the waves. Something in his expression said What are you doing? but there wasn’t time to explain. Shae seemed to understand that, too, as she made a shushing sound with her lips and pressed the weight of her body down on his arms, immobilizing him.

  Grey ripped off his belt and tied it as tight as he could around Erric’s leg, above the knee.

  He took a deep breath, blocking out the turmoil around him, trying to balance himself against the side of the mast as the ship swayed and heaved. He pressed his knife against the side of the pirate’s leg, just above the knee but beneath the makeshift tourniquet. The rest of Erric’s leg was hidden beneath the fallen mast. His trousers were shredded, exposing the skin.

  In that instant, Grey recalled waking up without a hand, how it felt: the horror, the revulsion, the anger.

  And then he began to cut.

  He blocked out Erric’s scream as he sawed, focusing on the back and forth motion, ignoring the blood and the bile threatening to erupt from his throat and the splintering timber and an inhuman shriek that could only be the monster.

  He just cut and cut and cut until his knife was slippery, his hand coated in gore, until he broke through to the other side and Erric’s body jerked free of the mast.

  The pirate was no longer screaming, no longer fighting against Shae’s hold, his body as still as a corpse.

  “We need fire,” Grey said. “Immediately.”

  That’s when the greatest ship in the pirate fleet began to sink.

  They needed fire in a world of water. Degree by degree, the deck was tilting, the ship shattered in the center.

  The best Grey could do to further stem the flow of blood was to remove his own trousers and use them to stuff the wound. Despite his efforts, the blood began to soak through immediately. The pirate was looking paler by the minute.

  The only solace they could take was that the monster had moved on the moment the ship started sinking. Already they could hear the screams from whatever ship it had decided to attack next. Please don’t be the one Kyla is on.

  “Grey,” Shae said. “We have to go.”

  Grey nodded. “I’ll grab him under one arm. You get his leg. He’ll be…lighter…now.” She grimaced, but grasped his leg beneath the knee. Together, they scooped him up and awkwardly carried him toward the railing, which felt like an eternity away because of all the debris they had to wind their way around. The deck became steeper with each step, until they kept slipping and sliding, sometimes backwards, losing ground.

  “We’re not going to make it!” Shae cried.

  Grey didn’t know how to fail, not when it involved his sister. They could leave Erric behind—he was probably dead anyway—but Grey knew that to Shae that would be the same as her dying. Perhaps he could never fully understand her connection to the pirate king, but he would try. “We will,” he growled, his arm trembling under the weight, his muscles burning. “To the side.”

  There were more shattered barrels and waterlogged heaps of canvas sails this way, but it was better than fighting gravity. They staggered, clambering over the flotsam, taking a calculated risk when they hurriedly ducked under a portion of the broken mast that was precariously propped aloft between the top deck and the railing.

  And then the partially shattered railing stood before them, the slant so severe now that it was more vertical than horizontal.

  Grey muscled Erric to the side and peered over, where the water roiled angrily, disturbed by the sinking ship. “We have to jump,” he called back. In the back of his mind, he remembered a similar leap of faith they’d taken together, back on the cliffs of the Dead Isles. So much had transpired since then. Then again, the last time they didn’t have the added responsibility of a pirate captain with an amputated leg.

  Shae jutted out her jaw and nodded. Propping Erric’s leg up on the railing, she swung her legs over and counted down from three.

  Then they jumped.

  The slap of the water was less powerful than Grey expected, the tension broken by the sinking ship. On the other hand, the undertow was a force of its own, dragging at his ankles. He kicked hard, clinging to Erric, finally breaking the surface and managing to position the pirate captain’s head on his shoulder.

  Shae was treading water across from him, but he could see the current threatening to suck her under.

  “Swim!” he shouted. Every inch felt like a mile as they fought their way out of the current’s reach, turning back only to watch as the ship groaned, tipping fully vertical, and then plunged beneath the surface, vanishing, leaving behind only barrels, debris, and corpses as evidence that it had ever existed.

  And a small boat, half-submerged but still afloat. Shae saw it, too, and together they kicked for it. Getting Erric over the side was a challenge, but finally Shae climbed aboard and pulled while Grey pushed from beneath. When they were all aboard, the boat rested even lower in the water. Shae began to scoop water out with her hands while Grey scanned the ocean.

  Another ship was sinking, and he felt awful at the relief he felt when he determined it wasn’t The Jewel II. Good men and women were dying and he felt relieved. That was the world he lived in—that was all he had left.

  Screams arose from another ship and he turned his head to find the monster wrapped around it, its pale barnacle-crusted body emerging from the water. Two of its tentacles had gotten hold of pirates, twisting them toward its beaked maw, which crunched down on them, severing their screams.

  Hatred for this monster rose inside him. What right did it have to attack them like this? What right did the gods have for being so unmerciful?

  Like he’d been shocked, he remembered something Shae had said, back before all hell had broken loose. Something about Rhea having lost control of something. And then that single word: Wrathos.

  This is her doing. Somehow. Some way. Rhea had come back to haunt him again, sending a monster to find him. To punish him for leaving her. Twice.

  And yet his anger faded, giving way to melancholy. It was what he deserved, the fate he’d earned. If only he hadn’t brought such an end to people he cared about, people he loved—Shae and Kyla and Captain Smithers, and, grudgingly, Erric Clawborn.

  The third ship was sinking, the monster, Wrathos, disappearing beneath the waves once more. Maybe that’s the end of it. Maybe its bloodlust and Rhea’s desire for revenge has been sated. Maybe—

  It burst from the water, tentacles flying, clamping around a fourth ship.

  No, Grey thought, his heart sinking into his gut.

  The Jewel II.

  “Grab the other oar!” he screamed. Shae snatched it and, together, they began to paddle toward the monster.

  Fifty-Two

  The Southern Empire, the Burning Sea

  Grey Arris

  “Stay with him,” Grey said when they were close enough to the monster that he could count the individual barnacles crusted on its skin.

  “Grey,” Shae said, and he turned toward her, ready for another argument. Instead, all she said was, “Be careful.”

  He nodded grimly and then dove into the water.

  He swam as hard as he could with onl
y one arm, thrusting the water behind him and kicking nonstop. Before him, the ship was splintering. A body splashed nearby. A member of Smithers’ original crew. A man Grey knew. His dead eyes stared at him before disappearing beneath the dark water.

  Grey was close now, and he started for the ladder, but then thought better of it. What was he going to do on deck against a monster? Maybe he would find Kyla and her father. Maybe he could help them get off the ship, to their small boat. Maybe the monster would finally leave them in peace. Maybe maybe maybe...

  No, Grey thought. Like when he’d been forced to amputate Erric’s leg, there was only one true option, even if it was madness.

  Saltwater on his lips, he altered his course, the pale rubbery flesh forming a wall before him. Here goes nothing, he thought. He stabbed his knife into the flesh and began to climb.

  Thrice tentacles had tried to sweep Grey from the monster’s back. The first time he’d dodged to the side, slamming his dagger into the flesh and swinging dangerously before finally digging his boot toes into its skin. The second time was a blind smack, missing him by inches. The third time he jumped.

  The impact slapped the breath from his lungs, but he maintained enough awareness to cling to the tentacle with both feet and his hand, driving his knife into the appendage again and again as it drew him around the monster’s head, where—oh gods—its beak was open, a pit of darkness with no beginning and no end. Above it was that single eye, and he could feel its stare penetrating him to his core.

  But he wasn’t doing this for himself. He was doing it for Kyla. For Shae. For all of them.

  And that made all the difference.

  The beak widened further, preparing to slice him in two, the tentacle curling around him and then releasing, tossing him into that gaping pit. At the last possible moment, Grey pushed off from the slick surface, feeling a thrill when his boots found just enough purchase to propel him through the air.

  He landed hard on the beak, bouncing slightly, his feet hanging over the edge as he scratched for something to hold onto. There was nothing, and he felt himself start to tumble over the edge.

  But then the beak crunched down, missing, leveling out the surface just enough for him to pull himself up and race across its night-dark expanse, throwing himself onto what could only be considered the monster’s face.

  Once more, he climbed.

  This time, the monster’s efforts to dislodge him intensified, tentacles slapping at him from every side. They never got close, however, and Grey had a feeling he knew why. They are avoiding the eye.

  I’m coming for you, bastard. He climbed higher, bridging the gap between the beak and eye, until the glossy shimmering expanse was before him, bulging from the surface like a magical orb filled with moons and starlight.

  Grey slammed his knife-hand into the surface, shocked at how thick it was, how difficult to penetrate. He retracted the blade and swung again. And again. Over and over he struck, until the monster changed its tactic and flung several tentacles at him at once, no longer caring whether they accidentally hit its own eye.

  One grabbed him, but he managed to land another blow, and he could feel the surface begin to give. One more hit…

  He swung, but caught only air as the tentacle drew him away.

  One, final chance. Frantically, he unstrapped the knife from his stump. The distance widened further, and even if it was closer, he didn’t know if he could make the throw. Not with his less dominant hand, the one he’d been forced to rely on for so many months now.

  But it was strong now, capable. Sometimes the weak could be made strong, if only given the opportunity.

  He took a quick breath and then let the knife fly.

  The blade spiraled end over end like a wounded duck, wobbling slightly as it looked to fall short.

  It didn’t.

  The edge of the blade caught the lower part of the eye, near where he’d already stabbed it countless times. With a whoosh! the orb exploded, a gush of black membrane and liquid splattering over Grey’s face and body, coating him in slime.

  The grip of the tentacle slackened and he fell, hearing nothing but his heart pounding in his head and the shriek of the monster.

  He landed with a slap that felt like it snapped his neck, his entire body jerking. The last thing he saw before he sank was the monster, its tentacles scratching at its shattered eye as it sank back into the depths.

  Fifty-Three

  The Southern Empire, Hemptown

  Rhea Loren

  Moments earlier

  Rhea hadn’t slept a wink since she awoke from that nightmare. At first she thought it was nothing, just a trick of her mind. But then the images started coming, winking in and out of existence like rays of light through a chamfered windowpane.

  Slithering tentacles. Grabbing a ship, snapping its masts, ripping its sails into shreds, grabbing seamen and seawomen, tossing them about like ragdolls.

  Oh Wrath. I am seeing what the monster sees. I am looking through its Eye.

  The thought not only scared her, but intrigued her. Can I…control…Wrathos? She concentrated, trying to move one of its tentacles, but the slippery appendage seemed to have a mind of its own, slapping down hard on the deck, shattering wooden planks like they were nothing but dry twigs.

  The scene continued, and she could hear the screams now, the crunch of shattering wood, the crash of waves against the ship’s helm. The images spun, and she saw more ships, scattered across an angry sea. Wrathos dove, dark water rushing around its sides, the underside of another large vessel growing closer, closer, closer…

  The monster shot upward, destroying, killing, and she could smell the fear of the men and women. Could smell copper and seawater.

  Stop! she shouted in her mind. She was no longer intrigued, because this felt too real, and these were not her enemy, not people attacking the shores of Knight’s End as the northerners had done. This was all wrong, just as Wrathos’ murder of her sister, Bea, had been all wrong.

  But Wrathos was not hers to command, if it ever was. It finished with the ship and moved on to a third.

  That’s when something changed. She felt an odd sensation—a prick in her back. Then another. They moved higher, the discomfort growing. She squirmed, thinking maybe she had simply been sitting in the same position for too long. But still the pinpricks rose higher until—

  They disappeared. Her view roved to the left, where a tentacle was swooping in, gripping a young man. Drawing him closer and closer to the beak, which was cresting, opening wide to receive him.

  Rhea jammed her eyes shut, trying to vanquish the image, because she didn’t want to see any more, didn’t want to watch this stranger be crushed.

  Something changed again. The man had escaped! She saw the flash of something silver—a weapon. A dagger. He’s fighting the monster!

  Her breath caught as the edge of her vision through Wrathos’ Eye located him again, scrabbling on hands and knees up the beak. He moved out of sight for a few moments, and Rhea could sense the monster’s anger, mixed with the barest slice of fear. Its tentacles flew past, snapping like whips, trying to dislodge the courageous warrior.

  The man appeared again, so close now it was as if his face was inches from her own.

  Rhea gasped, and then her breath rushed out. It was impossible.

  Impossible.

  The face of Grey Arris stared back at her, tense with determination.

  He was the same—his wavy dark hair and boyish good looks a reminder of all she had lost—and yet different, more rugged, his skin sun-browned and slick with salt.

  He began to hack at her—no, at the monster, she reminded herself.

  He’s stabbing the Eye.

  Hours later, Rhea stared at the wall. Several times it had tried to press in on her, but she’d closed her eyes and willed it to stop. Each time she opened them, the wall was right where she had left it.

  Grey Arris had defeated the monster. Her monster. Blinded it—the images going dark in
an instant—forcing it back into the depths from whence it came.

  She wasn’t sure how to feel about it. After all, it had been Wrathos that had saved her, had saved her people. But it was also Wrathos that had killed her sister. And Wrathos that had spared her own life.

  Grey Arris, she thought. He was somewhere in the south, of that much she was certain. But where? And why?

  She’d replayed the images a thousand times in her head. She remembered the sheen of the blade, where his hand should’ve been. The hand the furia cut off. Because of me.

  A knot settled in her throat, and she had the feeling she might never be able to swallow it down. Longing stretched out within her. To go back, to change the way she’d handled things. With Grey. With his sister. With her cousins. With her kingdom.

  Stop it. There was no changing the past, only the opportunity to alter the untold future. She knew she had to forget about Grey Arris—at least for now. Ennis and Gaia were imprisoned because of her. That was what she needed to fix.

  “I want to speak to Bane,” she said. Then, louder: “Guard! Get me Bane!”

  That tone. It was the Queen Rhea from Knight’s End, the woman who had gone into battle and emerged victorious. The captor, not the captive. Rhea the Conqueror. Rhea the Brave.

  One of the guards, who had been snoozing, snapped to his feet and scurried off.

  Is this who I am? Or am I the woman who stopped Darkspell from releasing his plague on the Four Kingdoms?

  The question nagged at her, even as she half-expected the guard to return alone. To her surprise, however, it was Bane who appeared, a dark hood drawn over his hairless scalp. “You rang,” he said. Although it was still night, the air relatively cool, she could see the shine of sweat on his brow, a few trickles running down his pale cheeks. Something about him looked off. Like he was sick.