Taken by Lane L.V. (top young adult novels txt) 📕

A vibrant collage of waterfront buildings line the docks opposite the ships in a crooked mix of style: mostly two stories and some three, with flat roofs over warehouses, traders, the harbor master’s office, and bawdy taverns. Weathered signs thrust outward, stating the nature of business. The dock itself is wooden, an undulating surface that rumbles with the passage of horse and cart and barrows filled with wares. Despite the late hour, it’s busy for two of the ships are readying to set sail.

“The far one,” Brook says. My eyes follow his line of sight, and I experience the same pull.

A growl erupts from my chest. My nostrils flare as a faint tendril of Priya’s scent hits the back of my throat.

Close.

We dismount without words, our focus on the ship that outwardly is indistinguishable from the rest. Reins are passed over the bar outside the nearby tavern. A small scruffy lad sits with his legs in the gutter, and I toss him a coin. “If we don’t return by nightfall, you will take the horses to the town watch.” The lad gives me a look that says he might be thinking about mischief. “These are Wittner horses, lad, and we are his guards. The lord will not be happy if either horse or tack disappear.”

He nods.

We don’t have time to worry about horses.

“Caden,” Brook says, voice low and urgent.

I turn to find the gangplank to the ship being drawn in. Bellowed orders follow, a few sacks are tossed from port to waiting hands on deck. The clatter of anchor raising sees the ship start to part from the dock in slow, laborious inches.

“We need to call the harbor master,” Brook says.

“We don’t have time to call the fucking harbor master,” I say. “We need to be on that ship. She is there. Right now. I do not care what happens. I need to be there now.”

Priya

We enter Darkmouth in the early hours of the morning. Slipping into the walled town via the south gate, following in with a convoy of carts bringing produce for the market. Money exchanges hands more than once as we are taken to a warehouse on the dock front. We spend the day here, before we are collected with urgency and thrust onto the deck of a tall masted, sea-faring ship.

It has been a strange day. Raglan is unusually subdued and has barely uttered a word. For a man who seems to thrive on getting a rise out of people, who is careless as he courts danger and a beating, his quietness is like another man’s scream. There is a constant unsettled fluttering low in my belly that tells me all is not well.

 I stand in Raglan’s shadow on the prow under the watch of two outlaws as sacks, barrels, and crates are thrust from shore to ship. At the clank of the heavy anchor being raised, the captain, a short, barrel-chested man, calls for us to be taken to the hold.

“There is something wrong,” I whisper to Raglan.

“It is all fucking wrong,” he says, frowning as he stares at the diminishing docks.

Not once have I heard Raglan utter a curse, and it adds further discord to the hostile situation.

The guards turn to us, ushering us to follow, cuffing Raglan, even though he’s doing as they ask. He bears it without words. His stoic endurance of their many beatings and cuffs is a wonder to me. I’m struck once again by a notion that he is not what he seems. He might be a bad man, might have betrayed the King, but I cannot believe that the man is wholly bad.

Perhaps I only fancy him to have some level of goodness because it provides a hope to which I might cling.

I don’t want to go below deck, but I stay close to Raglan, harboring that same foolish notion I always have that he is safe.

He is not safe, I tell myself. He betrayed the King and was sentenced to hang. Together, we are setting sail for distant lands where the Blighten rule. Every step I take toward the stairs leading to the hold is like a prophecy of doom. In my heart, there had been a hope that my mates would save me, that this could not, and would not, happen.

It is happening. The enormity of the situation sees me stumble.

Raglan catches my arm, steadying me. His speed and grace of movement, even cuffed, often surprises me.

“Keep moving, shifter scum,” the guard says, cuffing Raglan. He is still holding my arm and the blow jostles me. Raglan’s growl is low and menacing. He does not care what they do to him, but I want to believe his anger is because their actions hurt me. I see the glow enter his eyes that I’ve seen in Nate’s and signifies an imminent shift.

The guard sees it too. There is a split moment of tension so thick I scarcely dare to breathe.

A cry goes up from the far side of the ship, and all our heads turn that way.

A fierce commotion takes place. Outlaws converge on the site, and all I can see is a mass of bodies and flying fists.

“Hold the bastards!” Derick calls.

I can see little through the crowds, and yet the hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention.

“No!” The cry tears from my lips. My hand stretches out. I take a single step before, cursing, Raglan snatches me back. “No!”

I see them held by the outlaws, faces bloody, straining with all their great strength as sticks beat them into submission.

“Hush, lass,” Raglan growls. “Your screams will drive their instincts to fight when they cannot win this round.” His arm tightens around my waist, pinning me flush to his body. His immense strength means he subdues me with ease, but the image of my mates being beaten is a torture I cannot endure. “Be calm, or they will never stop fighting. For