Fiery Edge of Steel (A NOON ONYX NOVEL) Read online

  Fara, on the other hand, grew less confident with each passing mile. Her quoting seemed obsessively focused on fear. We heard “Fear is only as deep as the mind allows” and “The fearful are caught as often as the bold” so many times, I lost count. When she was on watch, she would murmur them, or something similar, under her breath, over and over and over again. And she clung to Joshua’s book as if it were a baby’s binky. If I didn’t know her any better (and I really didn’t), I’d have thought she was scared.

  I was too.

  But still, during that first week and a half, it seemed as if Fara’s father’s wish—venti secundi, daemones pauca; fair winds, few demons—was coming true.

  All of that changed twelve days into our trip.

  Chapter 13

  The suggested route of passage for the Shallows is fairly straightforward. Or as straightforward as any trip on the eastern Lethe might be. Though the number of streams, tributaries, and rivulets only increases the farther out from New Babylon one gets, our suggested route required only one turn. That turn would occur at First Branch, where the Lethe divided into four nearly equal parts. Each part had its own name: the Concelare, the Blandjan, the Naefre, and the Finthanan. We were supposed to take Blandjan at First Branch. Then, and this was critical, we had to stay on Blandjan past Second and Third Branch. The sticky wicket—the place we needed to avoid at all costs—was a place called Ebony’s Elbow.

  Legend says Ebony was a water demon who gave her memory of hearth and home to her wandering lover so that he could find his way back to her. But losing this memory doomed Ebony to wander the Lethe for centuries until she found a final resting place in the dark waters of the bend in the Lethe that’s now named after her. They say the elbow is full of rushing white water that runs black as a blank mind, rocks as sharp as a spinning propeller, and dozens of derelict ships . . . but no one really knows. Anyone who’s ever gotten close enough to see it, hasn’t survived it.

  Oh, there were some tall tales and fish stories in the Field Guide I’d brought (stories of how one lone anchor saved an entire ship, pulling it straight out of the treacherously spinning abyss as if it were some ancient Archimedes’ claw) and there was some improbable, counterintuitive advice (“in order to pass unharmed, one had to use their anchor”), but generally, reports, route notes, and the map’s depiction of the place led to a conclusion as inescapable as the place itself: Ebony’s Elbow, a.k.a. Ebony’s End, was a graveyard for river vessels and passengers alike. It was like one of those ancient tar pits or the black void of space. It was an area, up or down, where one was sure to encounter the life-sucking sound of death.

  To aid travelers, and help them avoid areas like Ebony’s Elbow, each Branch was marked with a bonfire frame. Ari, who’d been talking with Delgato, told me all about them on our eleventh night out when he slipped into my cabin a few hours before midnight.

  “Who’s on watch?” I asked.

  “Rafe,” Ari said, quietly latching the door behind him. He stood for a moment, leaning against the door, watching me. I was dressed for bed in black lace bloomers and a blush-colored camisole. The alembic rested lightly against my chest. I wasn’t sure I believed in its ability to determine guilt or innocence, but I wasn’t quite ready to “accidentally” lose it either. With any luck, Vodnik wouldn’t have any knowledge of his barbaric, antediluvian right.

  “Is Delgato out there with him? He can’t sense the demons like we can.”

  Ari gave a snort that clearly said, He can’t do much of anything.

  “He cast a spell he calls Demon Net,” Ari said, rolling his eyes.

  Despite the fact that Rafe had proven he could cast some useful spells, his constant insouciance and lack of seriousness bothered Ari tremendously. And I had to admit, if only to myself, that although I still thought Fara was a fake who hid behind her glamour and the Book, Rafe was even worse. His flippancy, his absurdly titled spells, his whole que sera blah blah blah thing . . . Well, the more it continued, the more I thought it might be a carefully calculated veneer to hide his true feelings for us: disdain.

  I stayed on the other side of the bed, wondering what Ari had come to talk to me about. Or if he had come to talk at all. I swallowed and gave him a lopsided smile. Regardless of our romantic history (we’d actually come close to doing many of the things that were shown in Delgato’s dining room pictures), there were still times when I felt nervous around him. It was crazy. But my reluctance, as Ari sometimes called it, was because no one, no one, in my whole life, had ever made me feel as at risk as Ari did.

  When Ari was around, I had to concentrate extra hard on controlling my magic. It was like I was teetering on the brink with him. Like I was sitting on a powder keg with a lit match. And I thought he secretly enjoyed watching me struggle. How else to explain his casual grazes and meaningful gazes? As much as Ari was always lecturing me about how I needed to learn control, I thought he loved to watch me squirm. And what he really loved was to watch me drop that match every once in a while. And know he caused the resulting explosion.

  Which made me the slightest bit resentful. Oh, sure, I loved Ari. But falling in love happens to you. You don’t happen to it. So there was a part of me still—that part of me that wanted to survive—that warned me not to give myself too completely to him. But was it possible to hold any part of myself back? I didn’t know.

  But I kept trying.

  “Where’s Fara?” I said, ignoring the catch in my throat.

  But Ari heard it. He pushed off the back of the door, grinning. He walked over to me (a very short distance, considering the size of the room), waving his hand to show how inconsequential everything outside was.

  “She’s on deck with Rafe, trying to see if she can turn Demon Net into some sort of fishing spell so she can catch more food for Virtus. I guess Burr was complaining about how much he was eating this morning.”

  “Oh . . .” I said, unable to break eye contact with Ari. I knew the minute I looked away, my cheeks would blush furiously. That would be the sign. The signal Ari would seize upon. Why were flags of surrender white? They really should be red . . .

  Ari’s signature now felt like a net around me. Without his even touching me, I felt him, all hot and tingly, like a bath full of ice and hot coals. I shivered, but never broke eye contact. It was like one of those staring contests that kids play. Except that I blinked first. And Ari kissed me then, just when my eyes closed.

  He wasted no time, taking full advantage of that brief defenseless moment. His mouth captured mine and his tongue swept across my lips. It tickled, on my lips and in my belly. Almost involuntarily, I opened my mouth to him. He pressed me back against the wall of my cabin, eagerly devouring what I offered to him. I knew where this was headed. After that first night, when we’d made the offering to Estes, he’d kept his distance from me, in bed anyway. And then there was the fact that, usually, someone else was sleeping mere feet from where we stood now. Though the thin wall behind me would shield us from sight, it wasn’t soundproof. Perhaps even Ari realized that asking me to control more than just my magic during our rowdy exertions was asking one thing too many.

  So, with everyone safely on deck, Ari almost feverishly tasted what he’d been denied for the last eleven days. One of his favorite spots to linger over was the back of my neck, just behind my ear. Because his touch there gave me goose bumps, everywhere. He brought his hand up to my breast and cupped it firmly, wanting to feel his effect on me. When he felt it, he made a sound in his throat. It was a sound of pleasure and I let it and Ari’s mounting signature pour over and into me. Ari dropped down and, still cupping my breast with his hand, brought his mouth to my nipple and gently bit it through the soft cotton of my camisole top.

  I mewled a protest and grabbed Ari’s head with both hands, clenching my fists in his hair. But instead of pushing him away, I pressed him closer. He pushed my cami up under my arms. My breasts and demon mark were now bare. He paused and met my gaze, holding it. I leaned back against th
e wall, breathing heavily. I kept waiting for him to bring his hand up to touch what he’d wanted with no barriers in between us. But he didn’t. He just kept staring at me, his signature expanding. Mine too.

  And that’s when I felt it.

  “What’s that?”

  “An old bonfire frame,” Ari said. “Long ago, the routes were lined with bonfires. What you’re feeling is the remnants of waning magic fire.”

  I nodded, not really caring what it was that I felt, now that I knew it wasn’t a threat.

  “We’re going to light it,” he said. “Together. Like we did last semester.”

  “Who keeps it stocked with fresh wood?” I said, my confusion pulling me out of the moment. I reached up to pull my shirt down, but Ari caught my hand.

  “The Boatmen,” he answered quietly, pushing my hand back down. He returned to the spot behind my ear.

  “Won’t it be dangerous? It will tell the rogares exactly where we are.”

  Ari laughed, a deep, rumbling, warning sound. “They already know.”

  He lowered his hands to my hips and pressed his thumbs lightly into my stomach. “And, besides,” he said, pulling me tight against him with one hard yank, “aren’t the fearful caught as often as the brave?”

  “The bold,” I corrected breathlessly.

  “And which are you, Nouiomo?” Ari whispered, lowering his mouth until it was almost touching mine. “Are you brave or are you bold?”

  Neither, I wanted to say, but Ari’s mouth on mine prevented it. When he finally released me, I felt boneless and my knees were buckling. Just once, I thought, I’d like to make him feel this way because of something I do. He laughed and I knew a whiff of what I’d been thinking had reached him through our magic.

  “Did you forget?” he said, leading me over to a corner of my room where there was a ladder-back chair. “Half of what you feel is your effect on me.”

  He made me sit down. I was relieved at first, and glad I no longer had to worry about keeping upright while Ari kissed me. But then I realized this positioning might be far, far worse.

  Slowly, Ari raised my arms and placed my hands on the top posts of the chair.

  “Don’t let go.” He grinned playfully. “No matter what I do to you.”

  I was so torn. And Ari knew it. Part of me wanted to stand up, pull my shirt down, and race to the bathroom for a cold shower. We couldn’t do this here, now, like this. A ladder-back chair? Luck, this was gonna be uncomfortable. But the other part of me (I’m ashamed to say, the greater part) was mesmerized. I gripped the back of the chair and my hands suddenly felt glued in place. I looked away.

  “Want to close your eyes?” Ari teased.

  “No,” I whispered, shaking my head.

  He arched a brow, clearly disbelieving, but kept quiet.

  He grabbed my hips and pulled them forward so that I was on the edge of my seat, literally. Then he started at the top and worked his way down, taking his time, as if he was going to take an hour for every day that he’d lost. His kisses didn’t quite feel like when he kissed my mark, but they came so damn close, I knew he’d laced his breath with fire.

  He breathed a fiery line down my throat . . . across my collarbone . . . between my breasts . . . By the time he trailed smoke and fire across my abdomen, I was white- knuckled and glistening with sweat. Ari tucked his fingertips into the waistline of my bloomers. He winked at me and tugged. When they were fully off, he knelt before me and squeezed my thighs with his hands.

  I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. I knew where his mouth was going next. Just so there was no misunderstanding, Ari blew a smoke ring into the air.

  “Sure you want to watch?”

  I couldn’t answer, couldn’t even shut my eyes.

  “Brave and bold. That’s what I love about you, Noon.” Then I did shut my eyes—squeezed them shut, hard.

  “And still a little reluctant.”

  I braced myself for Ari’s kiss, but instead he stood up.

  “You can let go,” he said softly in my ear.

  A second later, he scooped me up and tossed me onto the bed. In the time it took me to shriek my surprise, he’d shucked his clothing and was on top of me, grinning wolfishly, his teeth all sparkling and white. There was no trace of fire or smoke. The only evidence of my insane flirtation with the deadly stuff was my racing heartbeat.

  Ari nudged my legs apart with his knee. Just before I really let go, he whispered, “The Boatmen’s bonfire.”

  We lit it together. And it was magical.

  * * *

  The next day, our twelfth day out, I took a break from studying in the lounge and went up to the sundeck. Rafe was up there, blowing smoke rings. On the table in front of him was a plate of pickles and artichoke hearts.

  I kid you not.

  I stared at them, and him. He was lounging on the rail bench with one leg bent at the knee, his foot and one dirty shoe placed comfortably on the seat cushion. When I saw him (and what he was doing and eating), I stopped abruptly. How could he have known? His blowing smoke rings had to be a coincidence. But the pickles and artichokes . . . He had to have requested them because they were the closest thing the galley had to pickled hearts.

  Suddenly, I was furious.

  What a jerk! He’d tricked his way onto the boat, after having being thrown out of his own school, and now he had the gall to make fun of me—the person he was supposed to be working for!

  I walked over to the lunch tray and hurled the food into the river. Then I smacked his foot off the bench.

  “Where did you even get that stuff?” I yelled. “And what are you doing up here? You should be down in the lounge studying or in your room practicing spells.” Angels had to constantly study and practice to keep their spellcasting skills up. The fact that he was doing neither meant he was risking a botched spell—with me as its target.

  But instead of yelling back, or getting angry at my accusation, he laughed. “Such a temper. See? I knew you’d be interesting.” And then he sat up and gave me his full attention, which was more disconcerting than I thought it would be. In the daylight, his taupe-colored eyes looked almost yellow, giving them a preternatural look. He puffed on his cigarette, shaped his mouth into an O, and exhaled. A plume of smoke slowly billowed out. It grew into an enormous ball until Rafe made a series of small hand gestures toward it. It grew in size and morphed into a massively horned, thickly tailed and scaled greenish black demon—Jezebeth, the drakon I’d refused to execute at the beginning of the semester. Rafe’s smoke simulacrum rushed at me, and even though I knew it wasn’t real, my signature pulsed as the thing passed through me.

  Rafe stubbed his cigarette out. He took another one out of his pocket and tapped it on his sleeve. He held his hand out so that the tip of it was pointed toward me and flicked the filter with his thumb. When I stared blankly back at him, he said, “I’m out of fire. Do you mind?”

  “I hate those things,” I snapped.

  “You hate fire?”

  “No . . . yes . . .” I pursed my lips. I just knew Rafe was going to be trouble. I tried to remember why I had let him on the boat in the first place. I think I’d felt sorry for him. Unbelievable! “Never mind,” I said, turning to go.

  “Wait,” he said, sighing. Like he’d given in. Like I was the difficult one. “Light this and it will be the last one I smoke.”

  “Ever?”

  “Ever.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “Is this a trick?”

  “I want to see if you can light this, and only this,” he said, giving me a pointed stare. “I’ve been watching you, Onyx. And I think lighting the tip of one tiny cigarette will actually be harder for you than lighting a big bonfire.”

  Of course he’d seen the bonfire. Everyone on board had. As well as any rogares within ten miles. But that didn’t mean they knew what Ari and I were doing when we lit it. (And besides, even if they did, it was no one’s business but our own, right?)

  “You already know I can do
it. I lit a candlewick for you, right here, the first night we were on board.” The night he’d agreed I was like a jar of pickled hearts.

  “But you would have burned a lot more than just the wick if I hadn’t cast Flame Resistant Blanket over you.”

  I swear, I don’t know how he could keep a serious look on his face while he said the name of that spell.

  “If you can prove you can control your own fire, that’ll give me the freedom to cast other, more useful spells.”

  “More useful?” I said incredulously. “Rafe, I’m betting you know very few useful spells!”

  For a moment, I worried I might have gone too far. His gaze grew sharp and his jaw hardened. But then his face relaxed and, once again, he flicked his filter and waggled the cigarette in my direction. He crossed his legs at the knee, the very picture of patience, the very antithesis of threatening. Fleetingly, I wondered just how powerful a spellcaster Raphael Sinclair really was. Everything about him, even his air of nonchalance, seemed almost overly calculated.

  I stood absolutely still and stared at the cigarette. If I let Rafe intimidate me, nothing good would come of this. I’d never thrown magic so precisely before (except for that frighteningly sharp blast that had killed Serafina, the small demon familiar my father had sent me last semester to practice with). I’d lit several bonfires with Ari and I’d inadvertently burned dozens, perhaps hundreds, of things, and I’d lit that candlewick with Rafe’s help, but I’d never actually managed to light something as small as a cigarette on my own without burning what was next to it.

  Could I do it? Strangely, the first conversation I’d ever had with Rafe came back to me. The one where he asked me if I could, or would, kill Jezebeth in cold blood.

  That’s what you’re telling him, right? That he ought to put his magic where his mouth is. So, what about you? Would you? Could you?