Water & Storm Country

“Lieutenant Cain—what do you have to say foryourself? I understand you were with Lieutenant Jones when ithappened.”

No.

“I was,” Cain says, his voice firm andsure.

No.

“How did Lieutenant Jones end up unconsciouswith that mark on his forehead?”

Throb, THrob, THROB! The pounding in myskull, which moments ago was dull, albeit it ongoing, beginscracking like a hammer, and a wave of nausea passes through me. Ifeel my lips start to quiver as I strain to choke down chunks ofundigested food while maintaining the ruse of being asleep.

“I don’t know,” Cain says, and my eyes almostflutter open in surprise. Surely he saw.

Surely.

“I was walking ahead of him, and when Ilooked back he was flat on his back, his forehead already startingto swell.” Could it be? No one saw what happened?

“We must conduct a full investigation,”someone growls. Hobbs. “A vicious attack on an officer ca

THROB, THROB!

There’s a scratching sound and I can picturemy father stroking his beard. “And you will conduct thisinvestigation?”

“I will,” Hobbs says.

THROB!

“It will take a well-orchestrated team,” Cainsays. “I would be pleased to assist, if you agree, that is.”

“You’re suggesting my top two lieutenantsremain on the Mayhem indefinitely?” To my surprise, my father’stone—which has all the eve

“Admiral,” Cain says, “you know as well asanyone that The Merman’s Daughter could sail with half as many men.With some effort and a bit of luck, we’ll have the investigationwrapped up in a few days, at which time I can return to mypost.”

“I really don’t think—” Hobbs starts tosay.

“Done,” the admiral says. “Catch the attackerand bring him to me.”

The door slams so loudly I swear it’s rightnext to my ear. My head pounds with the force of a ship carriedonto the rocks by a water country storm.

The world drifts away once more.

Chapter Fourteen

Sadie

Sweat and burningmuscles and sore bones are nothing compared to waiting.

I’d train for a million more hours if itwould mean my mother’s return. Barely a week has passed since theRiders left, but already my mind is past the point of distraction.When I eat, when I speak, when I rest, my every thought is of mymother.

Is she alive? Is she fighting yet? Is shethinking of me?

Although I know these questions are unfit forthe mind of a Rider-in-training, they rise up again and again untilI can’t concentrate on anything else.

My father isn’t helping. He barely speaks,barely eats, barely sleeps. He’s meditating when I lay down tosleep. When I awake, still he sits, eyes closed, hands extended,soft hums and deep breathing rising from his throat. Did he sleep?Has he slept since she left?

When I try speaking to him, his eyes remainclosed, and he waves me away with a hand.

I am alone when I’m with my father.

I don’t spend much time in our tent.

Outside isn’t much better. It’s as if thecamp is in mourning, the hush so loud I want to scream. When anyonedoes speak, it’s in whispers and with barely parted lips, theunidentifiable words deafening in the abject silence.

I don’t spend much time in the camp.

When I throw myself into training, it helps,but only for a day, until even the aches and pains are insufficientto drown out the questions in my mind.

Although gray clouds swarm above, it hasn’trained for two days, as if the sky is gathering up every lastraindrop, hording them for some unknown purpose.

As I walk along the beach, the sand is softand cold and foreboding under my bare feet. I burrow a small hole,well back from the water. Today I fear the chill of the Deep Blueon my skin—which usually feels invigorating and life-giving—couldhave the opposite effect, carrying the Plague in its wet entrails.As if touching the water would make me shrivel and die.

I stare across the fathomless ocean until mygaze meets the deep, red, cloudless horizon. A drop of watersplashes on my cheek, and I look up, sure that the clouds are aboutto open their overflowing gates.

A face smiles over me, tipping a water jugjust enough to spill a drop at a time. Another splash, this time onmy forehead.

“What do you think you’re doing?” I demand,rising to my feet in one swift motion, facing off against Remy,whose smile falters for a moment before springing back intoshape.

“Thought you could use some water,” he says,shrugging, one foot aimed toward me and the other back toward theplains. He holds the jug in my direction. An offering. Anapology?

I shake my head. What does he have toapologize for? After all, he was right. There was never a chance ofme going with the Riders.

I stare at the jug, considering whethertaking it would be the same thing as me apologizing.

My tongue is as dry as the sand, my mouthsticky. In the end, it’s selfish need that makes up my mind.“Thanks,” I say, grabbing the jug and taking a swig, wondering howhe knew I was down by the water. Did he follow me?

Without answering, he sits next to my hole,gazes across the waters, not unlike I was doing. “Did you find whatyou’re looking for?” he asks, his eyes forward.

Chewing on the now-moist inside of my lip, Iease down beside him, trying to determine what he means. I takeanother pull of water to buy time, but when I glance back at Remy,his hand is out and he’s looking at me.

When I hesitate to return the jug to him, hesays, “I hope I didn’t give you the impression the entire jug wasfor you. My mouth is rather dry too.”

Heat warms my cheeks, and it might be anger,but it might not be, which only serves to make me angry. I take athird drink, and the jug is begi

He smiles and accepts it, hurriedly pushingthe vessel to his lips as if the water is slipping out the bottom.For some senseless reason, watching him drink from the same jug,watching his lips touch the same place that my lips just touched,makes me blush again, as if the moment is more intimate than itseems.

It’s only a water jug, I remindmyself.

“Mm. Water tastes so much better when you’rethirsty,” Remy says, licking his lips.

I look away, don’t answer.

“Are you worried about your mother?” he asks,shoving the now-empty jug into the sand.

I glance at him sharply, and say, “Ridersdon’t worry.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Are you always thisdefensive about everything?” And then, before I can respond, hesays, “I know, I know, you weren’t being defensive,” and Ialmost laugh, because he stole the words right out of my mouth,disarming me before I could attack.

“It’s the only way I know,” I say.

“Not everyone is trying to hurt you, youknow,” he says, pushing a pile of sand forward with his foot, whichis clad in a heavy, black boot.

“How would you know?” I say, and an echoricochets off the empty places in my mind. PAW, Paw,Paw. And again, despite my objections tothe contrary, I know I’m being defensive.

“Because I’m not,” he says softly,digging a heel into the sand.

“Do you think they’re alive?” I blurt out,jerking my head sharply away from him as soon as the words are out,trying to hide my shame. And what I really mean is: Do you thinkshe’s alive?

To my surprise, I don’t feel his piercingbrown eyes on me, and when I look back, he’s looking in the otherdirection, as if he’s ashamed to be having this conversationtoo.

“I…” he says.

I want to look away from him, because I don’twant to make him feel uncomfortable, and because I can see theworry lines on the side of his face, and because he’s guilty offeeling weak and helpless and un-Rider-like. Just like me. But Idon’t look away, because seeing him like this makes me feel betterabout myself.