“Go with honor,” I say, using the traditionalfarewell between officers.

“And you with the comfort of the sea maids,”he returns, using an old favorite joke. I smile, but I can’t holdit, because Cain’s been the older brother I never had, and I canalready see it’s time for him to go, and I’m not ready—I’m not—butI know lingering isn’t an option.

Not wanting to look childish, I extend ahand.

He looks at it, and I swear he’s got seawaterin his eyes and on his face from our splashing in the boat earlier,but then I do too, because he takes my hand and pulls me to him,hugging me in a brother-worthy embrace. “Take care of yourself,Huck,” he says.

Fighting off a sob, I say, “That’s LieutenantJones to you,” in my best Admiral Jones impersonation.

He laughs and I do too, and he slaps me onthe back because we both need something solid and strong to feel.Sticking out his jaw, he nods, winks, and turns, leaving me todecide when to board the Mayhem.

Chapter Eight

Sadie

I run.

The smart thing to do would be to run backthe way I came, all the way to the camp to alert my mother, whowould tell Gard. And then the Riders would ride forth to meet theSoaker’s in the first battle in a long time.

And that’s what I start to do, but then Istop, look back at the shadows on the horizon. Consider my options.What will I tell my mother? I saw ships. What were theydoing? she'll ask. And I won’t know anything. Just that they’rethere, anchored.

I have to get closer. A Rider would try toget closer.

So I do run, but in the other direction,toward the ships. I cut an angled path up the beach, stumblingslightly when the sand rises up onto the grass, which rolls awayfrom me in mounds broken only by the occasional tree or bush.

On the grass I could run much faster, but Iremain cautious, vigilant, pushing myself down each hill with speedand then slowing on the rises, creeping over the crests, lookingfor Soakers.

If they spot me I’m dead.

Rise and fall, over a hill and down a valley.Again and again and aga—

I drop flat on my stomach when I peek overthe next hill, cursing silently, because I didn’t expect to reachthem so soon. Distance can play tricks on you sometimes, especiallynear the ocean; the ships were much closer than I thought.

My heart pounding in my chest, I edge myhead—just my scalp and eyes—over the hill, half-wondering whether Iwas seeing things, if maybe I’d imagined it.

No. Because sitting on the top of one of thegrassy mounds, just a hill over, is a Soaker. Not a big one, but aboy, with dirty-blond hair pulled into a ponytail and a forlorn andthoughtful expression. He’s half-turned toward me, as if he wantsto look at the land but can’t seem to pry one eye off of the ocean.They say the ocean constantly calls to the Soakers, which is whythey never stay on land for long. Seeing this Soaker boy makes mebelieve them.

A dozen ships are anchored in the sea, butit’s like the boy refuses to look at them, preferring to take inthe vast blue ocean beyond.

I look past him, to the sand, where men andboys scramble around small boats—landing vessels my mother callsthem—manhandling them into the water, the waves crashing at theirknees, and then they clamor onboard, using thick sticks with broad,flat ends to push forward. Back to the ships.

Leaving this boy here alone.

Except for me, who he’s not even awareof.

But then I notice: not everyone left. Thereare a few men down the beach. And one closer. One Soaker, a man,stares up the rise at the boy. From this distance, I can’t make outhis expression, but something about his posture makes me shudder.He’s lean and wiry, but stands with a slight hunch. I can almostimagine him slinking in the shadows, sneaking from behind, hisfingers curled around a dripping knife.

Soakers.

They killed my brother. They’ve killed manyof my people. Countless souls sent back to Mother Earth beforetheir time, buried on the plains of storm country.

We’ve killed them by the hundreds, too, butwe were provoked. We didn’t start the fight so many years ago, butwe will finish it. When I become a full-fledged Rider, I swear I’llfinish it.

Starting now.

This boy is only one, alone andunthreatening, but one day he’ll be a man, he’ll bear children.Children who will kill my people.

Paw’s face flashes in my mind, the way I wantto remember him. The bravest four-year-old in the camp, mymother still says when she talks about him. And I’d follow himanywhere.

I don’t have a weapon, but I don’t need one.This is a mere boy and I’m a Rider.

On my hands and knees, I veer right, start tocircle the inland side of the mound so I can come up behind him.Sweat pools under my arms and in the small of my back. Somethingwinged flutters in my stomach. Anticipation of my first kill.

I gasp when someone grabs me from behind,covering my mouth with a dark hand.

~~~

I struggle against my captor, try to scream,but he’s strong and has the element of surprise on his side.

“Shhh,” he hisses sharply in my ear, hisexhalation a hot burst. “It’s me. Remy.”

I freeze, both because I couldn’t be moreshocked if a bolt of lightning struck me in the head, and becauseit’s Remy, and he’s…touching me. Well, not really touching, butlocking me up from behind, holding me back.

But still…he feels warm and strong and Icould so easily relax and just melt away…

“Mmmhhh,” I murmur through his hand, tryingto speak, my body remaining as rigid and stiff as a long-deadcorpse.

“You’ll be quiet?” he asks, his lips so closeto my ear that it tickles.

I nod against his grip, and he relaxes hisarms, pulls his hand away from my mouth, rolls over next to me,staying low. Our heads are side by side—there’s no stall wall toseparate us now.

I glare at him. “What the hell do youthink you’re doing?” I whisper.

He raises an eyebrow. “Saving your skin,” hesays, peeking over the mound. I do the same, watching as the boystands, turns so his back is completely toward us. That’s when Inotice what he’s wearing: a clean blue uniform, slightly wrinkled,but other than that, unmarked. An officer’s uniform.

“I didn’t need saving,” I whisper, wanting tohit him for wasting my opportunity. This boy—an officer?

“They’d have killed you,” Remy says.

“Not if I killed them first,” I mutter undermy breath.

“Hurry your bloody ass up!” a gruff voicebellows from somewhere below the mounds.

Remy and I duck our heads even lower,pressing our cheeks to the grass, stare at each other with wideeyes.

“Cain said I could take as long as I wanted,”a voice returns. The officer boy.

“It’s Lieutenant Cain to you, and he ain’tbloody well around now, is he? Now move it before I have to makeyou.” A challenge. Will the boy answer?

There’s a deep sigh of resignation. “I wasready to go anyway,” the boy says.

“Aye, sure you were,” the gruff voice says,laughing. Footsteps fade away and silence ensues.

I realize I’m still staring at Remy, althoughI haven’t been seeing him. Heat floods my cheeks and I look away,crane my neck over the mound’s crest, watch as the officer boy andthe gruff-voiced man stride through the sand, back toward thewater.

Remy’s head bobs up next to me. “What are youdoing her—” he starts to say.

“Shhh!” I hiss, as the two Soakers changecourse before they get to the water. They move down the beach, awayfrom us. One small boat remains, manned by a dozen oarsmen. Atallish man wearing a black cap and a blue officer’s uniform standswaiting.

“Is that a…” My voice fades away asGruff-voice hands something to the tall man. A thin tube.