An Embroidery of Souls, page 15
“All right,” he says as he unlocks my cell door. “Here you go, now can you please—”
I swing my arm up, splattering hot tea all over him. The guard howls, and I use his distraction to my advantage, ripping the keys from his grip and tossing them into Lukas’s cell. I reach for the gun next, but the guard recovers quicker than I expected, his hands clenching my throat.
“You little—”
I shudder as my back hits the wall, unable to scream against the guard’s fingers at my neck. I knee his crotch once, twice, and he grunts but doesn’t let go. No no no no no no. I try to reach for the pistol, but he shifts, too big and strong and—
Stars flutter in front of my eyes as the guard’s grip loosens, then falls away. In the seconds it takes me to regain my composure, Lukas tackles him, scrabbling for his weapon, but it’s too close. The guard thrashes, hand inching closer to his hip, and if he gets his pistol—No.
I leap into the fray, rip the gun from its holster, and hiss, “Stop or I’ll shoot!”
Which is a lie. Our plan hinges on remaining silent until we can’t any longer, but the guard doesn’t know that, and I’m relieved when he buys the bluff and stills.
Thank the gods.
I don’t lower the pistol as Lukas positions himself behind the guard and wraps him in a chokehold. The guard struggles, face purpling, and I have to look away until an unceremonious thud tells me he’s out. Unconscious, but not dead, not when we still need him.
“Jade.” Lukas is there suddenly, his eyes heavy on me, his fingers whisper soft against my reddening neck. “I’m so sorry. The key was jammed, and—God. I’m sorry. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” The words scrape my raw throat, boiling with my lie. I’m anything but fine.
Lukas knows it too, because when I meet his eyes, he mouths four simple words. I believe in you.
His message sets little fires across my skin, burning away the insecurities. Not everything, not even much, but enough to remind me I have to do this. I have to try.
Thank you, I mouth back.
Then we set about the unpleasant task of dragging the guard’s unconscious body to one of the lifeboats, where, if we’re lucky, we’ll be joining him soon. It’s tense, difficult work, and I flinch at every creak of the ship, certain someone’s going to catch us. Eventually we make it to a narrow walkway outside, the peeling, eggshell paint of the ship’s wall to our left and the gray-black ocean to our right. A slight breeze rolls through, chilling the sweat at my nape, and I shiver.
I never thought we’d get this far.
Lukas grunts as we heave the guard into the nearest lifeboat, a small vessel but one with a sail. I know, because on our fifth day in captivity, I requested some fresh air with the goal of surveilling the space. Like most steamboats, this one is built like a layer cake, with each level growing smaller the higher up you go. Perched atop it all is the pilot’s deck, where one of the pirates keeps watch and directs our progress, though fortunately, it faces the other direction.
I glance at it, a beacon of warm light in this cool darkness, then face Lukas with a heavy swallow.
“Right,” he whispers. “You ready?”
No. Not at all, because this is where we separate.
“Ready enough.” I eye the gun, now tucked into his belt, then add, “Lukas…be careful.”
He looks at me a long moment, too long perhaps, but even so, I don’t break his gaze.
“You too.” His words tingle over my skin before the spell breaks and he turns to go. I do the same, my thread tattoo heating as I activate it, ensuring my steps are petal soft. Soon I’m standing inside the tracker’s room.
It’s different at night, cradled in silver moonlight, shadows creeping over the floorboards. The ocean breathes, a rhythmic slap of water, and the steam engine hums the only sounds.
The space is still. Serene even, an odd discordance from all my earlier trips here, because this time is different. I have the power now, and I’m reminded of that when I tuck back a scarlet curtain, revealing a nook in the wall for a slim bed and the sleeping tracker.
He won’t wake for days, maybe even a week. I couldn’t smuggle enough thread to do any real damage, but earlier, in my cell, I unspooled about a month of his life. That kind of thing takes a toll, evident in the tracker’s slack form, shallow breath, and utter stillness. If I were to lower my head to his chest, no doubt his heartbeat would be sickly slow.
I could kill him if I wanted.
I flinch at the thought, not because it frightens me but because it doesn’t, and it should. I don’t know why either. What’s happening to me?
Maybe I’m losing my sanity. I think something might be wrong with me, creating this bubble of…of…euphoria that’s pumping through my veins, scorching my fear in its wake. Is this what everyone else feels like? Is this what it’s like to be normal?
Those swirling thoughts force a realization. It’s not that I want to hurt the tracker. But staring at him, vulnerable by my hand, from my plans, I can’t deny the thick curl of satisfaction unfurling inside me. I think…I think it might be pride. That and relief.
Because all my life I’ve relied on external sources for protection. My mother. My cabin. Lukas.
But this is all me. I was able to do this for myself.
Of course I don’t kill the tracker. I don’t want to, not really. I merely enjoy the fact that, for once, I can create my own sense of safety. I do remove the key from the chain at his throat, and the locked compartment of his desk clicks as it pops open, revealing Lukas’s gun and my thread kit tucked inside.
Thank the gods. Lukas and I are depending on this kit, and I clutch it to my chest, then slide the gun from its holster and check it for bullets.
Loaded. Perfect.
Pleased with my progress, I move to close the drawer when I pause.
Something isn’t quite right, and when I inspect the drawer more closely, I realize what it is. The desk is deeper than the drawer is long, almost as if there’s hidden space.
I shouldn’t waste time prying. Lukas is in the engine room, waiting to wreak havoc once I finish my work here. The second he releases chaos, though, all bets are off.
But what if this is important? What if there’s something inside that helps solve these murders?
Someone else must’ve slipped into my skin when I wasn’t looking, because taking a risk like this isn’t me. Nevertheless, I fumble around the drawer in the dark, heart skipping when I discover a lip in the wood’s base, and when I pull it—yes. A plank comes out, revealing a false back, a sheaf of documents, and a familiar lock of hair. Old, dark, and bound in cerise ribbon, it belongs to the tracker’s mystery woman. This must be where he keeps it when I’m not around.
I set it aside, then inspect the papers. Most appear to be love letters, written in a woman’s loopy script, yellowed and frayed, the parchment soft with age.
My dearest Alejandro, they all begin, and they all contain the same signature too. No name, just a strange marking, a crescent halved by two squiggly lines. Something about the symbol prickles with familiarity, and I flip through the pages, hoping they contain some clue as to why. Nothing stands out, though, and the messages are lovesick more than helpful. I wish we could be together. I hate this discretion. I miss when we were kids and things were easy. When we’d sneak away from my maid—Corazón, I think her name was?—and spend our afternoons stealing cookies from the kitchen.
Clearly, the tracker—Alejandro—was engaged in some kind of forbidden affair with this woman, most likely the hair’s owner. Sordid, and perhaps interesting, but not what I need, and I’m about to return the papers when I notice one of them, paler than the rest, and sturdier too.
Newer.
This one I read in full.
Dear A,
It’s difficult for me to pen these words, especially with the way we left things, but I find myself in need of your assistance. There’s a girl, Jade Aguilar, who I require brought to me alive and unharmed. She’s Sallenda’s upcoming thread speaker, and for obvious reasons this must be handled with discretion. Of course I’ll pay the required fee.
Fondly,
CR
CR? My head spins. Just minutes ago I was certain Johann Schäfer employed the tracker, but this letter suggests otherwise. How can that possibly be? I know Johann created the sievech—his soul matched—but even so…
A lump forms in my throat. I went searching for answers, but all I found was more questions. I can’t even tell if CR is the tracker’s lover. The handwriting looks feminine, and there are certain similarities—like the way they both dot their i’s with more of a slash—but there are differences too. The lover’s penmanship is large, loopy, whereas CR’s is much more cramped.
I don’t have time for this.
Resolved, I tuck CR’s note and one of the love letters into my thread kit, then, after a pause, grab the lock of hair too. If CR’s the lover, having this record of her soul could be useful, and I carefully fit it among the whorls of thread before grabbing my seam ripper.
The tracker doesn’t stir as I approach him, doesn’t blink or even breathe much as I carefully slide my seam ripper beneath the tattoo on his chest and slice the threads away. He already has some clues as to where we’re headed—like the fact that we bartered passage on a steamship to Kabrück, along with my suspicion of Johann Schäfer—but at least I can steal his preternatural ability to locate us. When that’s finished, I slice off a dark lock of his hair and tuck it into my kit.
An insurance policy.
This is the part where the old me would scurry from the room, assuming she even had the confidence to get this far, which is unlikely. But I can’t. Something glues me to the tracker, a desire to make him experience a fraction of what he did to me. I’m sorry, Lukas, I whisper, just a few more minutes, please.
Something has come over me, something dark and vicious, and I let it fill me as I steal blank parchment and a quill from the tracker’s desk. The note that follows is brief and might as well have been written by a different person.
Dear Alejandro,
I stole your hair, I took my thread kit, and I know your soul. Perhaps you’ll find me again—if you can manage without your tattoo—but hear this: If you do, I’ll be ready.
Sincerely,
Not Your Little Dove
A foolish choice, perhaps, to keep him alive, but it’s not without reason. If Johann Schäfer can’t give us the answers we seek, we’ll need someone who can.
Satisfied, I allow myself a few more seconds with the tracker. A moment to study the cut of his jaw, the now-familiar glint of his pendant, and—in a truly preposterous act—the beat of his heart. As I predicted, it’s sluggish, and I grin, my ear still to his chest.
Because I did that. Protected myself—and Lukas—from this man who would hurt us.
And as I leave, thread kit in one hand, pistol in the other, I wonder…
How can I feel this again?
Chapter Twenty-One
Lukas
I was twelve the first time I stepped on a fishing boat. It was our second year in Sallenda, and the family was struggling. Lukas, my father had said to me the evening before, it’s time to be a man.
He roused me the following dawn, and for the next six years, fishing was my life. I never much liked it, but I did learn from it. Where to lay a net. How to spot a storm. And, most important, the general workings of a steam engine.
It’s why I’m not lost in the maze of pipes that is the engine room. Why I have a vague sense of what’s what, and how to locate the specific pipe responsible for transporting the heated steam, building up pressure, and powering the boat. Of course, once I put a few bullets through it, that function will fail. The crew will be stuck, at least until they patch it. In the meantime Jade and I will get the head start we need.
A perfect plan, minus the fact the waiting’s killing me. But Jade needs time to execute her role—even if the thought of her alone in the tracker’s room makes my skin crawl.
Ten minutes, she said. That’s all I should need. Count slowly to six hundred once you reach the engine room, then bust the pipe.
I’m up to 423 when the door swings open, revealing a disheveled sailor with three-day scruff.
Shit.
He recoils when he notices me, then shakes his head. “Sorry, mate. Were you already reloading the coal?”
I blink a second. “Yes. Yeah.”
I don’t elaborate, terrified of provoking his suspicion. The gun burns at my hip, and I shift slowly, turning my left side away in an effort to hide it.
“Well, all right then. Thanks.”
He turns to go. I exhale, relieved, before he looks at me again. “Hey, wait a second, aren’t you—”
His eyes widen, mouth a perfect O. My stomach drops. So much for counting to six hundred.
“Shit!” the sailor cries, and there’s no time to catch him before he dashes from the room. Not unless I want to shoot him, which I don’t particularly want to do. He’ll raise the alarm or my gunshot will. Either way, the time for sneaking around has ended. I can only hope Jade’s waiting for me in the lifeboat.
Right. Okay. It’s time.
Heart pounding, I aim the pistol at the main pipeline and squeeze off three shots.
Steam bursts into the air, impossibly hot. I stumble back, arm thrown across my face. The broken pipe whines dangerously, but I don’t stick around to see what happens next, sprinting from the engine room and through the cramped halls of the boat’s lowest deck. Get to Jade, get to Jade, just get to Jade.
It’s all I can focus on. My mantra guides me forward until it’s shattered by the pealing of an alarm bell. “The prisoners have escaped!” the muffled cry comes from above. “Secure the ship—the prisoners have escaped!”
Wooden boards fly beneath my feet as I urge myself faster, faster, faster—but not fast enough. That bell means something to these sailors. They know how to move quickly when they hear it. They’re out of their cabins in seconds, shouts trailing me as I flash by: That’s him! Get him! Find the girl too!
I wonder if this is what it feels like for Jade, all that sickly fear. It screams inside my heart. Fogs my head until I’m dizzy with it. I’m terrified for her, for me, for my family if I don’t make it back.
I can’t die here, but I also don’t know how to escape. Sailors clog the halls, block the exit I wanted to take, and I’m forced to turn, breath heavy as I hurtle up the stairs and onto the deck—
And promptly regret my decision.
Eight more sailors stand at attention, pistols raised and gleaming. I freeze. Horror steals my voice, and the door hinges shriek as several more spurt out behind me. I’m surrounded. Dead. Done.
There’s no way I can outrun this. I can only pray that Jade’s in the lifeboat, escaping, and that she’ll make sure my family’s taken care of.
“Okay,” I say slowly, carefully, so many predatory eyes on me. “Hold on. I’m setting my pistol down.”
“Don’t even think about shooting, boy,” one of them says, an older woman with hair streaked gray.
“I won’t.” I try to keep my words neutral, but heartbreak thunders in.
I’m going to die on this ship. I’ll never make Artur giggle again, never be berated by Emma, never get the chance to bring my mother some peace. And Jade. I’ll never learn what makes her laugh, or get to see any more of those shy smiles. Will never hold her close or run my fingers through that silky hair.
It’s been a long time since I’ve prayed, but the reflex is familiar, brought on by desperation. Please, I beg my triple god, give me some strength. Help me bear this.
My throat squeezes as I set the pistol down, eyes burning. When I stand, it’s to face my death. Maybe not right this moment, but soon.
“All right.” I hold my hands in front of me. “Take me to the—”
A bullet splits the air, and one of the sailors shrieks, collapsing as a dark stain spreads across his leg.
“Lukas, run!” Jade shouts from above. I have just enough time to glance up and see her perched on the upper deck, my father’s gun in her hand.
She doesn’t have to tell me twice.
I rip away from the sailors, sprinting down the hall and toward the back of the steamship, where the lifeboats are tethered. Shouts ring out behind me, but Jade’s voice is louder than them all. “Follow him, and the next bullet goes through someone’s skull!”
I swear, sometimes people surprise you in the best ways.
They must listen. There’s no thud of feet behind me, no agonizing chase. Wind slaps my cheeks, and my surroundings blur until I skid to a halt and launch myself into the lifeboat. Another bullet cracks the night. I need to hurry. I set the mast and raise the sail, stepping over the unconscious guard in the process. I’m ready—all that’s missing is Jade.
As if on cue, she shrieks, a slice right through my bones.
“Lukas!” And then she’s there, on the deck above, her face a pale oval in the darkness. “You need to go. I couldn’t hold them off any longer!”
Sure enough, the faint thunder of pounding feet reaches me. I can’t have more than a minute until they’re here, but I refuse to leave without Jade.
“Jump!” I wave my arms at her. “Come on!”
She bites her lip. I can practically hear the gears of her brain grinding, enough to fuel my voice with desperation. “Jade, please! I’ll catch you! I promise!”
That does the trick. Jade holsters the gun and launches herself over the railing, hair framing her face like a dark halo. She crashes into my arms, and I collapse onto the boat’s floor, my elbow jarring painfully.
God, there are so many things I want to do right now. Sit up, tuck her hair back, meet her eyes, tell her how amazing and inspiring and beautiful she is.
