Stormbringer by Delany Shannon

Author:Delany, Shannon [Delany, Shannon]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Juvenile Fiction, Fantasy & Magic
ISBN: 9781466840928
Publisher: St. Martin's Griffin
Published: 2014-01-14T08:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eight

Great is truth. Fire cannot burn, nor water drown it.

—ALEXANDRE DUMAS THE ELDER

Aboard the Artemesia

The middle of the day had come and gone and things were no easier between the Wandering Wallace and Miyakitsu than at the beginning of the day. It was like this sometimes. The questions, the shyness, the doubt. “You know why I do it, do you not?”

She tucked her chin against her chest, ebony hair cascading across her face and obscuring it. She muttered something noncommittal and scooted across his lap.

His heart sped in response and he leaned into her, the tip of his nose tickled by the edge of her satiny hair. “It’s not just for the Witches, you know. It’s not just because of the African slaves. Or the Indian slaves. Or the ones like you—Wildkin. It is because of you. It’s always been because of you. Because of the place and the way I found you.”

She tilted her head back, the black wave of her long hair dividing to show the softly sloping planes of her face and exposing the curve of her narrow neck. “You rescue me.”

“Yes,” he said, the breath catching in his throat. “I rescued you.” He examined her features, the dramatic slanting eyes fringed with lashes as luxurious as her fox pelt’s fur. The low bridge of her nose that only emphasized the dramatic sweep of her black eyebrows, the eyes so dark brown they defied terms like “coffee” or “chocolate” and went straight to making him think in terms of midnight’s starless heart.

She was the most magickal thing he owned.

He blinked, realizing the truth of the statement. He owned her. Like the trunk painted with odd symbols and stars in secret patterns. Like the clothes on both their backs—he owned her. The idea was at once repulsive and invigorating because, by him owning her, no one else had any claim.

“You remember now?” he asked, the question clutching his heart the way it did daily. One day he would fail her. One day they would find themselves at this hour, at this most magical moment in their oddly repetitive daily lives, and she would say, “No.”

It was bound to happen. He fought a daily and losing battle with time—a battle he saw lost in seconds—precious seconds—every single day.

“Yes. I remember. You come to my land. You find me in house with other girls that English love.”

His lips pressed into a thin line remembering the house with its wood-and-paper walls that slid to reveal rooms where beautiful girls—geisha and maiko, they claimed—were kept for the entertainment of men. Then he was named “Hood” because of the sleek fabric mask he wore to do the work only he could easily perform, and he was encouraged to spend time with a girl of his choosing as reward. Uncertain and uninterested, he looked for the one least likely to interact with him.

Quiet, her eyes downcast whenever they did not flit wildly about the room; her demeanor was distant, her body as poised and still as an animal having spotted its hunter.

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