Shannon Delany - Thunderstruck

“I will not let them take you,” Jordan assured Caleb.

Rowen’s shoulders slumped but he straightened when a hand dropped onto his shoulder. Jerking around, hand tight on his sword’s handle, he found himself nearly nose-to-nose with the red-headed captain of the ship he’d only recently come to consider a temporary home, the Tempest .

Nose-to-nose with Captain Elizabeth Victoria.

“Evie,” he acknowledged.

She tipped her chin to one side, and eyes fixed on his, he suspected she fought the urge to look at Jordan and her companion. “Come along, Rowen,” she said, her tone tight. “Let us give everyone time to get sorted out as we sort ourselves out. We have all just had quite a battle-filled reunion.”

Rowen nodded, jaw clenched so hard his temples felt they’d pop. Evie was right—vexing as that was. Everyone was only coming to grips with what had just happened.

Weather Witches, Wraiths, and Wardens had dropped from the sky at nearly the same time the Tempest came alongside the Artemesia and—and what exactly had his group done other than shoot grappling hooks at a dinner table? They hadn’t taken the Artemesia captive, nor had they fought for control of the ship. He dragged his feet across the deck following Evie.

It was all a bit less like a battle and more like a team quietly reuniting, their secret plan already underway.

*** Philadelphia

Lady Cynthia Astraea slid from her bed, bare feet touching down on a cool wooden floor that inspired her to move with haste across her chamber and to her armoire. More correctly: to Jordan’s armoire. She had sold her own recently and had Jordan’s brought to her room instead.

It was not as if Jordan needed it where she was.

The coolness of the thought gave her pause. Licking her lips, Lady Astraea leaned over before the nearby vanity, peering at herself. She had sold her vanity, and her armoire …

Why was that again?

She reached into the pocket secreted away in the top of her shift and fished out a tiny blue crystal. It warmed at her touch. Her breathing calmed, her heartbeat steadied—small comforts when she forgot things as easily as she did now. She rolled her shoulders forward, peering into the mirror to find herself more clearly in her features.

How did that even make sense?

Thinking that made it seem there were times she didn’t recognize herself in the features of her own face!

Her thumb rubbed across the stone’s faceted sides, slipping down to one of its two points. It was a Herkimer diamond like any other … and yet, somehow, not like any other.

Not at all.

She pressed one point into the pad of her thumb, trying to untangle the thought that tumbled and turned, sliding toward the darkness at the edges of her mind.

Her youngest daughter had been taken as a Witch. Her family had fallen from grace and she had started selling things—expensive things—to support some cause … ?

The answer dodged out of her reach and her chest tightened. A fog seeped into her mind’s eye, slowly filling her head. “No,” she whispered, digging the tiny blue stone into her thumb so hard blood wept up around it. “No,” she hissed as she saw her eyes shift and change in the mirror, growing catlike. Specks of gold and bronze colored her irises, making her eyes glitter with a foreign and icy glint.

The room—her bedchamber—faded, somehow becoming more distant, the edges of things growing fuzzy and indistinct. She felt further from herself … no, further from her eyes and her nose and her mouth and her fingertips … like she was being dragged down into dark waters without ever leaving her body. Her vision reduced to a single slit as if she peered out between shuttered windows, she thought different thoughts.

She saw different things.

No, she saw things differently .

She tucked the blue stormcell crystal into a drawer in her vanity, far in the back of it and underneath some old letters of Jordan’s. Bothersome little thing, that touchstone. She placed it as far from sight and mind as she could, sucking her thumb until the taste of salt and iron was gone. She lounged a moment before the mirror of the less impressive vanity, then rolled her shoulders back and straightened her spine, raising her chin like a woman of good breeding should.

She rested her hand over the spot by her heart where the Reanimator had inserted her soul stone, letting out a sigh as she rose. A skip in her step, she bounded to the armoire, and flung its doors open.

A fine assortment of clothing awaited her. Metallic embroideries, glittering gemstone beads, pressed velvets and delicate lace. Yes, she had no qualms selling furniture, sets of silver, or an occasional necklace or brooch to funnel money to the rebels, especially when none of the items were her own. She grasped a fine gown with gold and silver birds stitched into its neckline, cuffs, and hem.

Lord Morgan Astraea looked askance at her when she first had it brought to the estate, but she held out her hand and alluded enough about the power of her appreciation that he paid for it himself. She had worn it to dinner with him that same evening and realized then she would need to handle him carefully.

She had been like him. Hopeful. Forgiving. Once. Nearly a hundred years ago. Right up until the time the God-fearing population of her town tied her to a stake for magicking up a flood that washed away their crops. It had been an accident.

Still they lit a fire under her—and not in the inspirational way one might have wished. Slow to catch, its tinder damp and flames smoky, in one last show of rebellion she demonstrated how best to make a fire and burn a Witch. The lightning she’d called burst through the crown of her head, poured from her eyes, mouth, and fingertips.

And laid all the spectators low.

It had certainly stung, but it was over quickly enough. And from what she knew from her short time playing at being Lady Astraea, no one had dared try to burn a Witch since.

Even the Grounded population could learn, ignorant as those without magick were.

Her room was dim, the candles yet unlit. Rain snapped against the shutters, slipped through the spaces between and slid down the rippled glass of her windows. The reflection from one outside lamp pierced the shuttered windows, its glow wavering on the floor, warming the slender space it marked. She focused on the soft light, encouraging it to brighten. She tugged all remaining warmth from the wood floor, packing it tighter and tighter together. Wisps of smoke curled up from it, carrying the faint scent of burning wood. Pressing one bare foot against the spot, she smothered the smoldering boards with her flesh. She grinned.

Fire no longer scared her.

Neither did the threat of death.

There was a knock at her door. Most likely the servant girl, Laura, come to peer in on her for the evening. The servants mostly left her be and seemed not to care when she dozed or woke. Except for Laura. For a servant, the girl was slow to respond and slower to obey. But, if Lady Marsham could train the population of an entire town to never again burn a Witch, surely she could teach one hesitant servant to step lively.

It merely took the right sort of persuasion. She rubbed her fingertips together and smiled as sparks bridged the spaces between them.

It was good to be alive.

Again.

Only the dead have seen the end of war .

—Plato Aboard the Artemesia

A group gathered by the fallen dining table, dishes and glassware shattered nearby and spread across the deck in glittering shards.

Only one chair remained upright from the supposed surprise attack. Rowen froze, seeing how it managed such a feat.