Valek blocked the next jab with his left hand, grabbed the teen’s wrist, stepped back and as he yanked the Storm Thief toward him, Valek kneed him in the groin. The poor boy collapsed to the deck. Not very sporting, but time was critical.
When he neared the bow, another Storm Thief landed in front of him. Valek didn’t bother engaging him. He simply bowled the teen over, jabbed a dart into his neck and continued.
The magician faced him. A heavy stickiness engulfed him. The waves pelting the dock disappeared. Good. He guessed she couldn’t multitask. Valek waded through the magic, approaching her. Balls of water flew at him, but instead of slamming into him, they veered wide, missing him. She sucked in a breath of surprise. Fear soon followed. The young lady backed up and grabbed the railing.
Valek had a second to wonder what she planned before the ship lurched violently under his feet. The bubble of calm popped and the storm surged in. Yells and cries of alarm emanated from the fight on deck. He swayed for a moment, teetering off balance, but years of training kicked in and he adjusted to the motion. Smart move, sweetheart.
The magician clung to the wood rail as if her life depended on it. She stared at him with intense blue eyes. When he closed in, her magic disappeared,
She sank to her knees and said, “Please, don’t kill me.”
In that moment, with her wet hair pressed to her head, she looked twelve years old—someone’s beautiful daughter. A vision of Yelena holding a baby girl flashed in his mind. He dismissed the distraction. Valek had no intention of killing her, but what to do with her?
“Stop the storm, and I’ll think about it,” he said.
“I can’t. I only control the water.”
“Then restore the calm.”
The waves around the boat smoothed and the rain ceased. The ship settled.
“Is someone controlling the storm?” he asked.
She bit her lip and gazed past him. Valek glanced at the battle. All his people had reached the deck, and they had the upper hand. No surprise, considering the ages of their opponents. Experience trumped youth in most cases.
“It’s over,” he said. “Cooperation is the best way for you to stay alive.”
Sitting back on her heels in defeat, she said, “My brother can call the storms, but he’s not on board.”
“Where is he?”
“On the island.”
Valek kept his stern expression, despite the thrill of having guessed right. “You will take us to the island.”
Now panic filled her expression. “I...can’t.”
He waited.
“I... They will kill him.”
Not what he expected. “They?”
She swept her arms wide, indicating the boat. “The people who hijacked our ship and forced us to help them.”
21
LEIF
A searing pain in his head roused Leif to consciousness. Harsh sunlight waited on the other side of his eyelids, so he kept his eyes closed. He cataloged his woes. The dried-out piece of leather that had been his tongue meant he hadn’t drunk any water for a while. The headache meant no food, either. Plus, he suspected a hangover from the sleeping juice. Leif guessed he’d been knocked out for a few days or more. Vague memories rose of being awake for short, blurry snatches to eat stale bread and gulp tepid water.
When the sharp pulses in his temples dulled to a loud throb, Leif opened his eyes. Bright side—not a cell. He lay on a bed in a small, neat room. One window, one night table, no decorations on the white walls and one door currently shut. Dark side—his arms had been pulled up over his head and his wrists were secured. Probably to the headboard, which would match his feet, since his ankles were tied to the footboard. Also a null shield surrounded him, blocking his magic.
A steady hum of unease vibrated through him. Not outright fear. At least, not yet. He still wore his own clothes. The lock picks hidden inside might come in handy. His captors would have to let him up at some point. Right?
As the hours dragged by—each one slower than the previous—Leif worried they’d forgotten him. Or they planned to let him die of thirst. No. If they’d wished him dead, they could have ensured he’d never wake up. This was all part of their scheme to drive the point home that they were in control. Leif kept his thoughts positive. His main objective—stay alive until an opportunity to escape arose or rescued arrived. No doubt Yelena would search for him.
The scrape of metal jolted Leif from a light doze. The knob turned and the door swung inward, admitting a tall man in his late forties. Two bruisers entered behind him. One carried a chair, the other a tray of food. Swords and daggers hung from their belts. The wonderful aroma of beef caused Leif’s head to spin. An effective way to torture him would be to withhold food.
The man studied him while Leif assessed his captor. Short black hair combed back with streaks of gray at the temples, and sharp features that would be considered appealing by the ladies. His posture oozed confidence, and, if the jewels in his rings and the monster ruby hanging from his neck didn’t tip a person off, then the expensive silk clothes tailored to enhance his muscular build indicated the man had money—lots and lots of money.
Leif waited for the man to speak.
“Aren’t you curious about what’s going on?” the man asked.
“I am.” The words croaked from his dry lips. “But I figured I really wasn’t in a position to demand answers.”
The man laughed. “Refreshing. You’re the first to realize that so soon. The others hollered and blustered, thinking their status as magicians had any influence over their situation.” He gestured.