Shannon Delany - Thunderstruck

Someone new .

Old or new, scarred or flawless, with long hair or short, Witch or Grounded—to Rowen, Jordan was beautiful.

The realization gave him pause.

Jordan Astraea, wearing a lowborn’s dress, her hair chopped short, her face scarred … was beautiful. He had worked so hard to find her—to rescue her—and lost so much to win her. As changed as her physical appearance was, so equally was he changed.

Inside and out.

Perhaps she was changed as much as he. Was she the Stormbringer? The one prophesied to unite them and end the conflict?

Or was she just the girl he flirted with—now battered and worn by being dragged so far from home?

The child at Jordan’s feet shifted. In the crook of one tiny arm she held a flopping stuffed animal with long ears, horn buttons for eyes, and carefully stitched fingers. She looked up at Rowen, the strange power he’d seen in Jordan’s face shimmering beneath her skin as well. “And who are you?” she asked.

He hesitated, unwilling to move away from Jordan as she slumped against him, hiccupping from time to time. But running his hand across her short and spiking hair he broke the spell between them.

She pulled away, meeting his eyes briefly before looking away. Before looking down .

He managed to keep one of his hands on her shoulder.

Rowen cleared his throat, darting a glance at the child. He skimmed his right hand down Jordan’s arm, and sank into a crouch, face-to-face with the little girl, and carefully taking Jordan’s hand in his. His gaze flicked from Jordan—stiff, still, and staring off into some place he wasn’t welcomed—and then to the child.

Her face was bright as starlight.

She released Jordan’s skirt, taking her free hand instead.

A smile twitched across Jordan’s lips before fading and Rowen saw her squeeze the child’s hand.

The girl tilted her head, addressing him again. “I’m Meggie. And just who are you?”

Rowen went the last distance, resting on his knees. Eye level with the diminutive blond angel, he tested his most winning smile. “Hello, Meggie. I am Rowen. It is both an honor and a pleasure to meet you.”

He held his empty hand out to her, and they shook.

Meggie grinned. “Nice to meet you as well.”

Rowen glanced up at Jordan, who, caught watching him, looked away again. “And you are whose darling daughter?”

Meggie opened her mouth, but a man swooped over and whisked her away, saying, “Your pardon, good sir.”

Rowen popped to his feet, his eyebrows tugging together. He stared at the retreating man’s back until he stopped—far from Rowen’s reach. He stopped by a sturdily built woman, swinging Meggie in his arms while watching Rowen, eyes worried. Rowen’s lips pressed together and he wiggled his jaw. “Who … ?”

Jordan slipped her hand free of his and turned to focus on the workings of the ship.

“Jordan?” Rowen asked. “Who are these people?”

She sucked down a deep breath and stared at a large glass cylinder holding a clear liquid, white crystals floating near the top of the glass like finger-sized pieces of frost.

The creak of a board behind him made Rowen swing around, his reflexes sharper than ever.

A dark-haired young man stood there and Rowen stepped back, sucking in a breath at the sight of him. He was all at once perfect and ruined—his face a patchwork quilt, seamed together with thin white scars as if someone had cut him apart just to see how he might eventually heal. Frequently told he was handsome, Rowen knew he could not compare to this young man. Beneath the puckered skin his features were fine, perfectly symmetrical. Sharp cheekbones, dramatic eyes, and bold, arching eyebrows beat back the scars that dared try to overpower his natural beauty.

Jordan studied the intruder’s face with an intensity matching Rowen’s own, as if she, too, had never seen his face, although it seemed she knew him.

“I, too, am filling in some blanks,” the boy whispered, eyes searching Rowen’s face as if he had a question he was not yet ready to ask aloud. “Caleb,” he finally said in introduction before focusing on Jordan. “My dear,” he said, reaching slender (and equally scarred) hands out to her, “might you enlighten us? Perhaps tell me enough that I might not spill the Maker’s guts in front of his adorable daughter? As you thwarted my efforts once before?”

Rowen straightened. “The Maker’s daughter?” His head snapped around to look at the man holding the little girl, the man standing as far as he could get from the rest of them. “He is the Maker—the one who Made you …”

Words failed.

Jordan snorted and asked, “Into this ?” The words hissed with venom.

Frustration built inside him and he took a step toward her, measuring the space between his breaths. Slowing his breathing, he steeled his demeanor. “Is he the one who did this to you?” He reached up to touch her cheek.

She stumbled backwards as if his touch would burn fierce as any fire.

His hand dropped away, fingers flexing at his side. “Please,” he said, forcing his voice to stay as level, as controlled, as he could. It cracked, betraying him and he cleared his throat. “Please,” he repeated. “Tell me, Jordan. Tell me so I can make him pay for what he’s done to you.” His hand moved to the pommel of his sword.

Observing him, Caleb ventured, “I might just come to like you….”

Jordan’s gaze skimmed Caleb to rest on Rowen, and for a heartbeat her eyes snared his. Then they darted away again, flashing like the wings of a bluebird.

“Tell me, so I might make him pay for what he’s done to us, ” Rowen corrected, the words staggering out.

She shook her head. “I want no violence.”

Rowen stepped forward. “Jordan …”

Caleb slid between them, his back to Rowen.

“Caleb,” Jordan said with a welcoming sigh, and hearing that name—no, Rowen realized, not hearing his name—was a knife thrust between his ribs.

A knife aimed at his heart.

Caleb kept his back to Rowen, and whispered, “Oh, darling …” Blocking much of Rowen’s view, he slipped his hand up, resting it on the slope of her bare shoulder.

Jordan stood, motionless, her eyes locked on Caleb’s. She did not resist his touch, did not flinch away as she did when Rowen touched her.

Rowen turned his head, looking at anything else on the raised dais—anything but the tender reunion before him featuring someone he never anticipated.

He expected there would be some change in Jordan. That she was thinner did not surprise him. That her hair was cut short—shocking, but it was not beyond understanding. That she did not wear a shawl, or gloves, or even shoes … Strange, but surely there were logical reasons.

Even the scar on her cheek—even as startling as it was—it was simply physical and meant less than he’d ever believed it could.

Physical changes he grasped. She’d been imprisoned and Made a Witch.

But for her to find someone else while imprisoned (because Caleb was surely not a passenger on this liner if his rough clothing was any way to judge) was beyond comprehension. Beyond what Rowen could bear, being so close to success but suddenly so far away.

A guard pushed between them, reaching for Caleb, a collar and lead in one broad hand.

Jordan spun to face the interloper, shouting, “Don’t you touch him!” Her hand shot up, sparks dancing like living lightning between the tips of her fingers.

“Leave that one be,” the Wandering Wallace agreed.

Wide-eyed, the guard stepped back, checking the deck’s surface one last time for any stragglers. He collared another Weather Worker, instantly crippling its powers, and rejoined his comrades by the elevator. Three groups of guards and their accompanying prisoners stood there, descending in shifts into the ship.