A Swift and Savage Tide (A Captain Kit Brightling Novel Book 2)

Kit positioned the Diana between the Isles ships and whatever was happening beyond.

It started with a single light, so far away that it flashed in and out of view with the haze, the motion of the waves, or the swaying of its lantern. Each time it disappeared it seemed an illusion: perhaps only a fishing boat trolling in the darkness, a mail packet, a trick of the mind. But then it would appear again, strong and true—and denial became harder. And harder yet when another appeared, and then another, until dozens of lights were visible, and all were drawing closer to attack. There was no other reason so many ships would move through darkness together.

With each new light, Kit grew calmer. They no longer stood on the edge of war, but at the forefront of it. At the vanguard. There’d be no turning back now.

“How many?” Grant asked.

“At least a dozen,” she said. “Perhaps more. They could, as Sunderland thought, be sending troops to Saint-Denis. But I don’t think so.”

That declaration fell heavily across the deck.

“The ships are Frisian in design,” Jin said, lowering his glass, offering it to Kit. “You can just see one in silhouette,” he added, and pointed. “The wide planks on the hull, the quarterdeck waist.”

“The damned Guild,” Grant said.

“The damned Guild,” Kit agreed, having confirmed Jin’s assessment with her own. “We knew they were building ships for Gerard.”

“Yes,” Grant said. “But having ships built for your war effort and engaging the Isles—and its vastly superior navy—in battle at sea are two very different things. After Barbata, that would be insane.”

“And yet,” Kit said, watching the lights grow closer, “the War Council will have to revise its strategies.”

“You told them,” Grant said quietly. “You told them he might try the sea.”

Kit nodded grimly. “His ground war failed the last time. He didn’t have the naval strength, so he never made a concerted effort to reach the Isles. Perez was right—he wants to try something different this time. He’ll try to take the Isles.”

“The Isles will have to rearm the cantonments,” Jin said, referring to the string of defensive structures built along the southern Islish coast during the first year of the Continental War. They’d been largely abandoned because Gerard hadn’t made more than a superficial naval push toward the Isles.

But that was before.

“Among other defensive strategies,” Kit agreed. She crossed to the opposite gunwale and looked back toward the fleet. They’d seen the Diana’s signal and were scrambling to move offshore and into deeper water, where they could sail straight and fast if necessary.

“Captain?” Jin asked.

They needed guidance, and she would give it. “The gunships will protect the troop ships,” she said. “We don’t have enough cannons for that.”

But they were swift and nimble. Fleet of foot and canny of mind.

She walked forward, sailors nodding and stepping out of her way as she passed. They were friendly with their captain but knew when she needed space and quiet. Jin and Grant followed quietly behind, with Watson and Simon managing the helm.

She surveyed the line of ships, looked back toward the crescent of land, considered the distance. Then she closed her eyes and reached down, deep, to the current, which seemed colder now that darkness had fallen, and could still feel the shadow in the distance—but not quite so distant this time. If this was Doucette, what was he doing? And was a man Aligned to the land really on board a ship?

She wanted a look. But that was secondary. First was to make more trouble.

“We’ll sail around the crescent,” Kit said. “We’ll hug the shore as close as we dare until we’ve crept past the outermost ship in the line. And then we’ll turn and do what damage we can to the ships on the perimeter.”

Grant looked at her, brows lifted. “We’re going to outflank them.”

Her eyes were hard as ice. “We’re going to try our damnedest.”

Kit heard the first echo of cannons behind them and considered the possibility that it would appear the Diana was sailing away from trouble. But they were no cowards; they simply had to play to their strengths.

She felt a bit like a child playing a hiding game, creeping around in darkness, hoping no one would see. But no one did see, or at least no one made a move to stop them, and they rounded the crescent safely again. The shutter telegraph remained dark, but there was a light in the watchhouse now.

Cook came on deck, found her at the helm. He wore a pristine apron over his slops, and a few days of facial hair. “Why so much noise?” he asked. “Are we finally fighting to overthrow our monarchical overlords? Be time for that, wouldn’t it?”

Kit’s smile was thin. “Not as far as I’m aware. You could certainly write to the queen and inquire.”

Cook snorted. “I wouldn’t get an honest answer, now, would I?”

Of course that would be his objection—not that it would be dangerous to inquire with the queen about plans for her dethroning, but because he didn’t trust her to answer truthfully.

“Here,” Cook said, and put a tray with a steaming cup on the steering cabinet.

It smelled, she thought, like dirty goat.

She sighed. “What is this?”

“Bit of this and that,” Cook said. “It’s heartening.”

“It smells of dirty stockings.”

“That’s the nutrition.”

Kit narrowed her eyes at him. “Did Mrs. Eaves contact you?”

He put his hands on his hips, looked genuinely surprised by the question. “Your housekeeper? No. Why?” He lowered his head a bit. “Is she in need of educating the uncaring upper class about the harms of service work? Of the bonds of the workingman and -woman and their need to rise up against their oppressors?”

“No,” Kit said blandly. “I was thinking more about discussions of spice and flavor.”

He made a sound of utter dismissal. “I don’t need the fool whims of others to understand flavor, do I?”

In response, Kit merely gestured at the cup.

“It won’t taste very good,” he admitted. “But it’s hearty, and you’ve a long day ahead. Giving him a damned island kingdom. What did they think would happen?”

“It is a question for the ages.”

He humphed. “Be a good captain and drink your dirty stockings. And if you do, the queen offered me a bit of incentive for the early sailing.” He picked up a small bit of oilcloth from the tray that had been folded into a kind of packet.

Kit looked at it suspiciously. “What is it?”

“A reward,” he said, handing it to her.

She opened it, found a few butter biscuits inside. “Thank you,” she said, then closed it again, slipped it into her coat pocket.

“Stay below,” she said kindly. “Stay safe.”

He snorted. “If they come aboard, they’ll find the sharp end of my cleaver.”

“No objection,” Kit said. “And gods save the queen.”

She said it to irritate him, as she knew he much preferred irritation to worry and concern. And when he’d gone below again, she turned back to the line of enemy ships. The Diana was close enough now to confirm the mix of Frisian and Gallic vessels, but they gave no indication of having seen the Diana, which was perfectly fine by Kit.

She picked a two-masted vessel with the deep quarterdeck of a Frisian ship. “There,” she said, gesturing to her quarry. “We move quickly, we take out its masts, and we retreat again. I want space between us and anything with cannons. And watch our stern, as we don’t want to be flanked.”

“As we’ve done to them,” Grant said.

Kit nodded. “Let’s be better than they are.”

It was smooth as a Gallic ballet. The darkness and growing smoke helped obscure the Diana, and they had the weather gauge, which put them close enough to the Frisian ship to fire a shot before the ship could maneuver away. Fahri and Sampson hit the mainmast on their first and only shot, sending it onto the deck like the felled oak it had been carved from.

“Well done,” Kit told her cannoneers, as the Diana rushed away again. Fleet of foot. Canny of mind.

Fahri held out her hand, eyes glinting.

Kit just lifted her brows but appreciated the moxie of the request.

“Sir,” Fahri said, and pulled her hand back again. “I’ll just . . . consider my perfect aim its own reward.”

“That would be best,” Kit said.

They circled back again, ready to take aim at another vessel, but the smoke was growing heavier with each volley of cannons, which would make it harder to select their targets and get safely away. It also created an eerie light in the darkness as moonlight reflected through the wisps of gray, creating a strange and discomfiting fog.

“Thick as soup,” Jin said, squinting into it, as if that ever helped a sailor find a direction.

She was about to say that aloud, when she felt the thrum of the hull, as if the Diana was a string to be plucked. Magic.

“Did you feel that?” she asked to no one in particular, her heart beginning to pound.

“Feel what?” Jin asked. “What did you feel?”

Something that the un-Aligned did not, Kit thought. “Silence the ship,” she said, and the order was passed quietly as she strode to the mast. Tamlin was nearly to the deck now, and her eyes seemed huge.

“Yes” was all she said.

Kit nodded, fear and fury and anticipation rising in equal parts. “Be careful,” she told Tamlin, who climbed back above.

“Doucette,” she whispered, when she returned to the helm. “Be ready,” she said, and felt Grant move closer, as if his nearness might protect her.

But could anything protect her, or anyone else on board? That was the part she feared: that no matter the ship’s speed or her skills as a sailor, she wouldn’t be able to stand against Doucette. That she simply wasn’t strong enough.

As if sensing her concern, Grant moved closer still. “Fury,” he whispered to her. “Not fear. Fear is for later.”

She nodded, grateful beyond measure that he understood.

“Can you use the current to search for him?”

She should have thought of it herself, and reached down. It was there, the pounding of the current, and she followed its course through the sea, listening—feeling—for any change in the tempo, in the strength.

“To the west,” she whispered. “And moving closer.”

“Kit,” Grant said, and she heard the alarm in his tone, opened her eyes.

The smoke had gone to blue and green, swirls of color that she’d seen before.

“Incoming!” she screamed, and reached for the current again, preparing to move the ship from harm’s way by whatever means necessary.

The air tingled, and Kit felt that same instinctive sense of disgust that she had in Auevilla. Fire is your opposite, she remembered, and felt the truth of it to her bones.

And then the crack of sound. The sky turned to fire, blue and green forks of energy searing the world above them and setting alight everything in their wake. The sails on the foremast caught first, blue and green transmuting to orange flames. Sailors screamed as they were scorched by fire and Doucette somehow—contrary to all she knew about Alignment—worked his land-Aligned magic on the sea.

The lightning crackled and dissipated again, leaving behind its wake of destruction.

“Fire!” she screamed, and the sailors who weren’t injured began hauling buckets of seawater to douse the flames. “And get March on deck for the injured!”

She rushed to the stern, waiting for the smoke to clear enough that she could see the man who’d done this. She saw him, finally, standing near the bow of a low, wide ship, its two masts pushed back toward the stern. It streamed away from them and toward its next victim.

And she’d done nothing.

Guilt clawed at her but was a luxury she could not afford. She turned back, looked at Jin, whose eyes had gone wide with shock.

“Keep us moving,” she said. “Put as much distance as you can between us and that ship.”

He blinked. “We’re running?”

“No,” she said, harder than she ought have. “But we’ve got to tend to the damage and care for the injured before we go in again.”

And gods help her figure how to do that.

She had Sampson and Wells assist March with the injured—six sailors, by her count, who’d suffered burns in the attack. They’d doused the sails on the foremast, were pulling away tattered remnants of canvas and tamping out the remaining embers.

“The masts will hold, Captain,” said Mr. Oglejack, forehead shining from the salve March had already applied to his scorched skin.

“You’re sure?”

“Oh, aye. A bit of char on the forward side, but they’re still solid. We’ll need new rigging and sails, of course, but Mr. Smythe is already on that.”

“Good. And thank you.” She pointed to her forehead in the spot where he’d been injured. “You’ll keep an eye on that, too.”

“Of course,” he said, then turned back to his work.

Grant found her then, looked her over. “You’re all right?” he asked, and she nodded.

“You?”

He nodded as well. “How did he do this at sea?”

Kit just shook her head. She had no idea; it simply shouldn’t have been possible. But while he’d done more than enough damage—scorching men and ship, dangerous though it was—it wasn’t the same as killing a man with the power of current alone. Little comfort given the howls of pain from her crew—and the similar howls they could hear echoing through the smoke around them.

Kit wanted to talk to him. Understand his process, what he heard and felt of the magic. Was it different from her? Did it speak differently to him? Or did he simply ignore the sense of violation? But while those questions burned in her heart, they were not her mission now.

The ship jerked, nearly sending her to the deck. But she maintained her balance. “What was that?”

“Sea dragon,” Grant said from the gunwale, looking over the side. “Crimson.”

“Sea dragon swarm!” Fahri called out, and Kit looked toward the starboard side. The sun was just beginning to rise, and the sea was awash in jewellike colors—crimson, cerulean, turquoise. Not from the breaking dawn, but from the sea dragons that thrashed beneath the surface.

Kit had seen a sea dragon swarm only once before, and she’d nearly lost the dory she’d been rowing in at the time. She’d also heard they could be attracted by magic. There was more than enough of that here.

They rarely attacked humans or boats when swimming alone, which was how most sailors saw them. But in a swarm, they became ferocious. Snapping great ivory teeth at one another as they rolled and spun, so that blood began to spatter the water. A single sea dragon could damage a ship, if inadvertently. A pod like this could destroy it.

“Not always so lucky,” she murmured to herself. It was the purpose of war to go into a battle even at the risk that you might not win. She had to figure a way around it. A way to match Doucette’s magic with hers. Or at least counter it . . .

Mathilda had said fire was her opposite Alignment. Kit had already proven she could touch the current long enough to cross the Narrow Sea, although it weakened her considerably. Instead of maintaining that connection for a longer distance, could she make the connection itself larger? Large enough to bring the Diana within its bubble of protection and repel “opposite” magic? Perhaps? She was still hesitant to push herself where the current was concerned, but wasn’t this essentially an extension of the same technique she’d been using for years?

When the Diana rocked hard, as if struck by an aftershock of the prior magical blow, and she heard damage reports being relayed from spots around the ship, she knew she had to try.

“Take us around again,” Kit said. “He doesn’t get another ship or soldier on our watch.” She would damned well see to it.

“But, Captain—” Watson said.

“We’re going around again,” she repeated, in a tone that allowed no debate. She understood the value of input from her officers, but this wasn’t the time for that. “I think I can shield the ship.”

“Shield it?” Grant asked. “How?”

“There was a woman in Portsea with knowledge of magic; she sold amulets. She said Alignments have their ‘opposites.’ She said fire was the opposite of my Alignment, and I—I can feel that in a way. I think perhaps my Alignment to the current will repel his, if I can hold the current long enough.”

“You can,” Grant said, without hesitation.

“So we can get close enough to get off a good shot,” Watson said, and Kit nodded.

“I don’t have to do anything differently—it’s still a touch to the current, albeit one that I’ll hold a bit longer, as with the trip to Portsea.” She looked at Simon, Watson, Jin. “Are you willing to try this? I’ll not send you into that without your agreement.”

They looked at one another, and then their captain.

“Sir,” Jin said with a determined nod. “Tell us where to go.”

After Kit tossed a coin into the sea, they gave themselves room for a pass on the starboard side, had the powder, shot, and wadding ready. They had to be careful when making the turn—the seas were crowded now with ships, debris, and dragons—but made their way around so Doucette’s ship was a point off their port bow.

The wind picked up as the sky lightened, so the Diana streamed forward, canvas taut with wind, toward Doucette’s ketch.

As they approached, she could see him clearly now. Full uniform, legs braced against the sea. Someone stood nearby—a figure in a long blue cloak, only boots visible below it, the hood raised. Female, Kit thought, with pale skin. And dramatic, given the cloak.

“Stone,” Watson said. “I think he’s standing on a platform of some kind.” She offered Kit the spyglass.

Watson was right—he stood on a slab of umber-colored stone, perhaps two inches thick.

“He’s carrying his Alignment with him?” Grant asked.

“Perhaps,” Kit said, offering the glass again.

“So we just need to carry you about the Continent in a bathing tub,” Grant said.

“I’d be an impressive and intimidating figure, to be sure.” She looked at her commander. “Jin, when Fahri and Sampson are ready, call the shot.”

“Aye, Captain.”

She looked at him, then Grant, nodded at them both, and let her gaze linger on Grant for just a moment.

Kit closed her eyes, blew out a breath, and reached out. The current felt wild as a sea dragon now, as if reacting badly to Doucette’s manipulations. She couldn’t entirely blame it, and tried to make herself feel as calm and nonthreatening as possible. She touched it, felt it flinch and settle, as if assured she was no threat.

She opened herself to it, let it envelop her, and then the ship. There would be no arrow to loose this time. Only the blanket of current, which she hoped would give them some protection.

She didn’t risk opening her eyes but heard the crew murmuring about whatever they saw of her magic. And still kept sailing.

“Ready the cannons,” she heard Jin say, as she also felt the rise of Doucette’s magic.

“He is preparing,” Kit said quietly, to warn whoever might hear her. The magic was, she thought, muffled by her own current, but it was no less repellant.

She felt it strike the ship—her own magic—and would have fallen from the force of it but for the arms that held her upright.

“Fury,” Grant said quietly again, just for her. “No fear.”

She didn’t have the strength to acknowledge him, but poured all she had into maintaining that aether that surrounded the ship. Doucette’s magic frizzled along the edges, biting like ants across her skin, but she kept the current flowing.

“It’s working,” Grant said. “Stay with it, Kit.”

“Fire!” Jin called out.

Not a warning this time but an order. Then the boom of the explosion, the answering crash of timber against timber.

She heard the cheers and applause, felt the blow against his magic as their shot was true.

“Direct hit!” Jin called. But she didn’t dare open her eyes.

Enraged, Doucette gave a final push, sending power sparking across hers. But water and fire did not mix, and he made no headway.

“I think we’re clear of it,” Grant said quietly after a moment.

Kit let go of the magic, felt it flow back from ship to current, and opened her eyes. Dizziness had the deck spinning around her, but Grant offered a hand, gave her a moment to settle. Then she looked back at Doucette’s ship.

The mainmast was gone. She squeezed Grant’s arm.

She found Doucette at the bow, staring at her with those empty eyes, the cloaked person still at his side. She’d won this round, but she knew it would not be their last.

It took a moment for her to gather herself again, to shake off the cast of magic. Instinctively she looked down at her hands again, found no new scars that she could see, and had no idea why that was so . . . and no time to consider it.

A scream drew her attention upward again, then to the gunwale, where the others pointed. Her heart stuttered, immediately thinking of the sniper who’d injured Jin. But there was no human this time.

The mast from Doucette’s ketch was in the water, still attached to the vessel by a tangle of lines, and a sea dragon—its scales turquoise and gleaming—had become entangled in the knot. It thrashed, trying to free itself. And each time it pulled, the ketch heeled farther into the sea. Water poured over the gunwales before the crew managed to cut the creature free.

It dove immediately and took the entire mass with it. Either it would figure a way to free itself . . .

Something thumped hard against the Diana’s hull, sending sailors to their knees.

 . . . or it wouldn’t, Kit finished ruefully.

“It’s beneath the boat!” someone shouted.

“Not beneath!” Fahri shouted from the stern. “I think the rope’s caught in our rudder.”

Kit’s stomach went to lead. If the rudder was gone, they’d no longer be able to steer the ship with the wheel. They’d be at the mercy of the wind. And the enemy.

She ran toward the stern, looked over at the pitiful creature, eyes wild and wheeling, struggling against the detritus of someone else’s fight. It jerked, and the ketch’s mast struck the Diana’s hull like a hammer. “We have to cut it free.”

“Aye,” Sampson said as the ship jerked again. “And it’s bad luck for a dragon to die near your ship.”

It’s bad luck for a ship full of sailors to die because their craft was disabled midbattle, Kit thought dryly.

“I’ll do it,” Grant said, stepping beside her.

She looked back at him, wanted to argue. But her sailors were busy keeping the Diana away from Doucette, and she needed someone who could handle himself—and she knew Grant could.

“There’s a lot of magic,” she said. “And this one’s probably injured. Furious, afraid, and strong.”

He nodded grimly. “I understand.”

“Sampson,” she called out, without shifting her gaze. “Help him over the side. And put a rope around him.”

“I could go,” Sampson said, but Grant shook his head.

“You’re stronger than me, and I’ll need you up here to pull me back.”

“Be careful,” she said. “And be fast. The water will be cold, and they dive deep.”

“I know it,” he said, and looked at her long enough to sear the color of his eyes into her brain. She refused to imagine this was some sort of goodbye, because it wasn’t. It was simply work that needed doing.

Sampson pulled a small saw and a thick rope from a storage compartment near the jolly boat. He gave the saw to Grant, tied the rope snugly to a cleat, then made a loop for Grant’s waist. Grant put a leg over the gunwale, and they all looked over when the ship jerked and shuddered again. Kit could feel wood grinding against the keel, the vibrations echoing up through the ship.

By the time she looked back at Grant, he was over the side, climbing down the stern handholds to the mess below. The sea dragon, tiring now, made sounds that were half scream and half keening cry. But its teeth were no less sharp.

Grant edged down farther, only a foot away from the whirlpool of debris, and the sea dragon stuck in the middle of it. The stern angled in, so he’d have to push away from the ship—and be dangled above the water by the rope alone.

“All right,” Grant said, then looked up at Sampson, tugged the rope. “You’ve got it?”

“She’s secure,” Sampson confirmed. And Grant pushed away, spinning once as he worked the saw.

“Bit more!” he called out, and Sampson gave the rope some slack, so Grant hovered near the sea dragon’s head—and jerked back a foot when it nipped at the air.

“Steady now,” he said to it. “I’m trying to help us both.” Then he shifted down, began sawing the ropes that bound the dragon to the ketch’s mast.

The concussion of a cannon fired somewhere close filled the air; startled, the dragon thrashed, body writhing in and out of the water as it struggled. And in its frantic serpentining managed to wrap the tangle of ropes around Grant.

He held to his own rope, muscles straining as the monster tried to roll, each motion pulling at the keel and stern of the Diana. The mast became a lever, pushing the ship toward port and terrifyingly close to the waterline. Officers yelled warnings as lines became loose and sailors struggled to maintain their balance.

Grant looked up, met Kit’s gaze. “Cut me loose!”

“No!” Kit said, and put a leg over the gunwale. “I can get to you.”

The sea dragon tried to swim to port, and the ship listed so far back to starboard, the mast nearly dipped into the water.

She heard footsteps behind her. “Captain, Mr. Jones says we’re taking on water below.”

“Deal with it!” she demanded, both legs over the gunwale now, her hands on Grant’s rope. He bobbed under the water as the dragon pulled, then came up again, spewing water. “Cut me loose,” he yelled, “or I’ll bring you all down with me! And I’ll damned well not have that on my conscience, Kit Brightling!”

Kit stared at him and made her decision.

“Captain!” Sampson said, horror in his voice as Kit aimed her dagger at the rope that bound him to the ship.

Grant watched her, nodded, and, the moment the bond was broken, disappeared beneath the surface.

She didn’t pause and she didn’t think. She untied her sabre, tossed it onto the deck.

Then tucked the dagger into her belt and dove in after him.

The water was dark and cold and blue—patterned with the morning light shimmering on the surface above her, and just as chaotic. The sea churned with splinters of wood and flashes of color. Fortunately, the sea dragon pod had begun to calm as magic dissipated, but still, a dozen sea dragons did not make for smooth waters.

She searched for turquoise, for the dragon that had dragged Grant down, and it took a solid minute to see a flash of color two dozen feet below her. She dove farther, kicking hard.

The current was vibrant, putting frizzled energy into the water that felt like sparks against her skin. Not unpleasant, but a reminder that however connected she was, this wasn’t her domain.

The sea dragon was swimming in circles, still trying to dislodge the weight streaming behind it—which now included Grant. He pulled at the ropes that bound his leg with desperate fingers; she realized he’d lost his saw, probably in the dragon’s thrashing.

Kit didn’t have time to consider the best way to approach a frantic sea dragon, so she didn’t bother. She simply swam as close as she dared. Grant saw her, eyes wide and panic beginning to set in, and held out his hand. She could hold her breath for an unnaturally long time underwater; that seemed an undeniable gift of her Alignment. He couldn’t.

She moved closer, reaching out for him—but the dragon darted away, and she turned to see a cannonball surge through the water only a foot in front of her. She nearly cried out with frustration but pushed forward.

It took precious seconds to reach Grant again. This time, she managed to grip his hand, interlacing her fingers with his and squeezing tight enough to bruise.

She’d be damned if she lost him. But he opened his eyes, struggled, looked around, and apparently saw little hope. He pulled away, tearing his fingers from hers. And he pointed up.

“Go,” he mouthed.

He wanted her to leave him. To abandon him to the deep.

She was instantly, incandescently furious. Hadn’t he sat beside her on the deck? Waited with her in the rain while she’d pushed the ship toward Portsea? Held her hand while they’d both been doused with water and magic? And he thought she’d simply let him go.

“No,” she screamed, but only in her mind. She wouldn’t waste her breath on that.

She grabbed him again, swimming now to keep up with the motions of the sea dragon. She pulled out her dagger with her free hand, began to work at the tangle of rope. She managed to cut one loop when the sea dragon, perhaps sensing its bonds loosening, stretched around to look at her, its eyes enormous and black and fringed by dark lashes.

Much to her surprise, Kit found she wasn’t afraid. Not of the creature, at least. And since it hadn’t attacked, Kit continued to saw at a rope around Grant’s ankle as the dragon watched, huffing bubbles through its nose in a movement that seemed like, Kit thought, injured pride at its present circumstances.

I know, she thought in silence, wishing she could communicate with it. It’s been a bloody hell of a day.

When it huffed again, she wondered if it could hear her. It could plainly sense the magic, so perhaps there was a possibility of connection between them? She felt at home in the water, after all, surrounded by the magic she could only barely access aboard ship, and which was silent on land. She only needed to close her eyes . . .

No, she thought, forcing them open again, and gripping her dagger tighter. She’d forgotten the danger of being seduced by the current; but this wasn’t her home. She lived above. And would continue to do so, thanks all the same.

She finally freed him from the rope—and dragon from the man—and pushed it away. Grant was free, but they still had to swim up through the debris of battle, and the surface was some thirty feet above them now. She was losing her confidence they’d both manage to survive.

And then she looked at him and saw the bleak acceptance on his face.

Oh, bollocks to that, she thought, finding her fight again. Kit pressed her mouth to his, gave him what little breath remained in her lungs. For a moment, they hung there together in the turbulent water together, her hands on his face.

Then a flash of shimmering turquoise, and the dragon circled them, only a single loop of rope still attached to its front leg. It swam so close Kit might have counted its lashes, and it stared at her with its wide, thoughtful eyes.

And a possibility occurred to her. Not an especially reasonable one, but they weren’t in a very reasonable situation. If it worked, it would probably make Grant furious. Which was a bit of a bonus, at least.

Gods save us, she thought. She drew Grant against her body, and when the dragon passed again, she lunged forward, grabbed one of the spines along its back.

They were jerked forward as the dragon dove, and she could feel the pressure squeezing at her lungs, feel the magic warm and buzzing beneath them as the dragon carried them deeper.

She hoped she hadn’t doomed them both.