She lands in a heap at my feet as I grab onto the oars. I row with the last of my strength. With everything I have in strokes that make my side scream, that tear a roar from my throat until we break the current and the tide and the sea and crash into the smooth stone floor of the beach.

  Chapter Five

  Gray

  The minutes after the crash are a blur. I’ve only kept seconds. Snapshots of what happened captured in the flash of the lightning when the world was too real to ignore. I remember hitting the shore. I remember people rushing the boat. I remember Karina and the fishing crew and hands lifting me. I remember the cold. The hurt. The fear.

  I remember the girl.

  “You saved her,” Karina repeats proudly.

  I look away. Her eyes are too big, too bright. They make my head hurt.

  “I didn’t mean to,” I mumble, my cold lips slipping over each other numbly.

  Karina laughs, the sound echoing off the walls of the nearly empty exam room.

  I don’t laugh with her. I wasn’t joking.

  Dr. Kanden strides into the room, her grandmotherly appearance at odds with her no-nonsense attitude. She offers me a neatly folded stack of clothes wrapped in twine. “Here. Fuller sent these up for you. I told him you were mobile and he said for you to get dressed and go guard the girl.”

  I nod as I take the clothes from her.

  “You can pull this curtain to change behind if you want,” she tells me briskly, already turning to leave the room, “but leave your shirt off for now. I want to take a look at your side when I come back. Check your ribs.”

  She’s already looked at my head. She checked my appendages. All good, all functioning normally. The big concern is the hit I took in the side with the oar. It hurt to take deep breaths when she asked me to, something that made her purse her lips, but when I asked what was wrong she didn’t answer.

  As the door closes behind the doctor my eyes dart to Karina’s, hoping she’ll take the hint.

  She smiles at me, amused. “Do you want me to close my eyes? Turn my back and pretend I haven’t seen you naked a half dozen times since we were three?”

  “I’m pretty sure the last time you saw me naked was when we were seven. A lot has changed since then.”

  “Are you scared?”

  “Terrified,” I deadpan.

  “Coward.”

  I stand there dripping on the floor, waiting. Finally I reach for the curtain.

  “Oh for—Fine.” Karina turns her back on me. “Is that better?”

  I don’t answer. Instead I strip quickly, struggling to pull on the dry clothes over my wet skin. I get tangled and aggravated, but eventually I’m in fresh underwear and the dark pants of my uniform. I feel strange standing in a room alone with Karina and no shirt on. We’ve been swimming together a million times, this part of me she’s no stranger to, but this feels different. Everything is different.

  “Are you decent?” she asks.

  I run my hand through my hair slowly, letting it fall back into place. “Yeah, I’m good.”

  She’s grinning when she turns but she shudders when she sees me. “Oh my God, Gray.” Her hand reaches out for my bare skin. “Your side.”

  I look to where she’s nearly touching me, her fingertips stopped short of the purpling flesh over my right rib cage. She’s so close to me now that we’ve gone beyond awkward and spiraled into palm-sweating-what-the-fu—

  “Does it hurt?” she asks.

  I swallow hard. “It aches, yeah.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s fine.”

  She looks up at me, her hand lowering slowly to her side. She doesn’t seem as concerned by her closeness as I am. She’s unaffected as she stares at me.

  At least that’s familiar.

  “Are you okay?” she asks.

  I shrug. “I said it’s fine.”

  “Yeah, you said your side is fine. I’m asking about you.”

  “Same thing.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “It’s not.”

  “Is.”

  “It’s not,” she insists sternly.

  I grin down at her. “Is, times infinity.”

  She laughs, the annoyance easily evaporating off her face. “What are you? Six years old?”

  “If I was I wouldn’t have cared about stripping down in front of you.”

  “You would have done it to annoy me.”

  “You’re really squeamish about butts.”

  “Normal people don’t like them rubbing up on their arm, weirdo.”

  “It was clean.”

  “I don’t care if it was unused, fresh off the shelf.”

  “The butt shelf?”

  “You’re such a strange guy, do you know that?”

  I laugh. “I was a strange kid. You’re the one who hasn’t grown out of it.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Nipples.”

  Her eyes go wide, her finger rising to my face in warning. “Don’t you dare.”

  “Don’t what?” I ask innocently. “Don’t say the word nipple?”

  “Stop that.”

  “Flippy nipple.”

  “Grayson!”

  “Nipple dimple.”

  “I hate you so hard.”

  “I’ve got a million of ‘em.”

  “I believe you,” she laughs. “I’ve heard about seven hundred thousand, you jerk. You know I hate that word.”

  “I’ll stop,” I chuckle, the motion burning in my ribs. “For now.”

  “You’re a saint.”

  I smile down at my hands still holding my shirt. I’m anxious to put it on, to cover my body and all the things about me that have changed, because this moment right here with Karina is one of the best we’ve had in weeks. It’s small but somehow huge, like looking at an old picture suddenly come to life. One you would give anything to step inside of and live in forever.

  “You really are, you know,” Karina tells me quietly. “Maybe not a saint, but you’re definitely a hero.”

  And just like that, it’s gone.

  When I look at her I’m fractured. I want to be the man she thinks she’s looking at. The one who saved a life, who risked his to do it, but I’m not. I’m a boy who sat shaking scared in a boat waiting for the tide to take him home, and if I’d had to expel one more ounce of effort than I did to ‘save’ that girl, I wouldn’t have. I would have saved myself. My pathetic, cowardly self.

  I want to pull the curtain. I want to ask her to leave, to back up even a step. More than anything I want her to stop looking at me like that. Like I’m more somehow. Like I’m Easton.

  The doctor knocks on the door before cracking it. “Are you ready, Grayson?”

  I look away from Karina, clearing my throat. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m ready.”

  Doctor Kanden smiles briefly at Karina. “Abby is with the girl next door. She could use a hand undressing her and getting her in warm clothes, if you don’t mind helping.”

  “I don’t mind at all.” Karina kneels down to collect my wet clothes off the floor. “I’ll take both of their things down to the L and get them cleaned and dried.”

  “You don’t have to do that,” I tell her, reaching out to stop her. “I can bring it down later.”

  She pushes my hand away gently. “Don’t be stupid, Gray. I’m going back down to work anyway. I might as well take it with me now.”

  There aren’t words for how weird I feel about Karina touching my wet underwear.

  When she’s gone I feel myself slacken. I don’t know if I sigh or if the doctor is psychic, but she grins at me knowingly.

  “Are you alright?” she asks.

  “My ribs ache, but otherwise I’m okay.”

  “Are you pretending you don’t know what I mean or do you really not know what I’m asking?”

  “Pretending and hoping you’ll let it go.”

  She nods her head agreeably. “Whatever you want.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Though I have some advice if you want it.”

  “Medical?”

  “It has to do with the heart.”

  “Pass.”

  She chuckles as she presses her fingertips gently against the tender flesh of my side. It burns but I don’t make a sound. “That’s your choice, Grayson, but I’ll tell you this; you’re never too young to be concerned with the inner workings of the human heart.”

  I grunt in pain as her fingers find a soft spot, her probing touch suddenly making me collapse defensively in on my side.

  Dr. Kanden tsks as she takes a step back. “I was worried about that. You cracked a rib. Maybe two.”

  “Cracked or bruised?”

  “Cracked. Definitely.”

  “What do I do about it?”

  “You heal. That’s all you can do. I don’t want to wrap it because it might make it even more difficult for you to take deep breathes and you could contract pneumonia. I’ll give you something for the pain, though.”

  “I’ll manage without it.”

  She shakes her head, her face serious. “You say that now but when you try to get to sleep at night the pain will most likely keep you awake. You won’t be able to lie comfortably. You’ll have trouble doing daily activities. This is going to take a good seven weeks to heal, and a lot of that time is going to hurt. Take the painkillers. It doesn’t make you any less of a man.”

  I snort, carefully pulling my shirt over my head. “Two minutes ago Karina called me a coward. Now you’re telling me to stop being so tough.”

  “Why did she call you a coward?”

  I pull the shirt down slowly, trying not to wince. I fail. “She was joking. She called me a hero in almost the same breath.”

  “You don’t sound any happier about being called a hero than a coward.”

  “I’m neither.”

  “A lot of people will disagree with that assessment after what you did.”

  “They weren’t there. They have no idea what they’re talking about.”

  “The girl was there,” she reminds me. “We’ll see what she has to say about you when she wakes up.”

  Chapter Six

  Liv

  It’s cold. Cold and wet and dark.

  This has to be Hell. It’s the Twelfth hour, absolute midnight, and it’s every nightmare I’ve ever had. My mouth is dry, my stomach churning. I’m afraid to open my eyes. Afraid to find out I didn’t reach the surface. That I went in the water and I never made it out.

  My lids flutter, my mind bracing for the numbing cold water to sting my eyes. It doesn’t come. Instead I find light, blurry and faint. A flickering flame in the distance that makes my heart ache with joy. It’s the sun; bigger and brighter than it has been in weeks. Closer.

  The ships – they came back for me. They saved me. It’s the only way, the only reason, and the only person in the world who would have tried to save me is—

  “Gav?” I call out, my throat constricting around his name. I cough coarsely before trying again. “Gav!”

  “Stop yelling,” a voice rumbles to my left.

  A shadow moves in front of the sun, plunging me into darkness again. I start to shiver violently, the movement sending my left shoulder into burning agony, and the sickness in my stomach leaps to the back of my throat. I try to sit up but it only makes it worse. My head swims, my vision spiraling. My stomach can’t take it anymore. I lean over the side the bed I didn’t realize I was laying on and I vomit on the floor with an audible splat.

  The shadow curses as it backs away quickly. It manages to avoid the spray but there’s more. So much more. Salt water and the last meal I ate – chicken with lemon sauce – spews from my lips onto the ground. I gag as my body tries to pull in breaths and push out the contents of my stomach all at the same time. Muscle convulsions make my shoulder ache even worse. My sight bursts bright white at the edges, and when it dims it feels darker than before. My vision is clearer now that my eyes are wide open. I can see the light. It’s not the sun. It’s a candle on a desk. A desk pushed up against a smooth stone wall.

  “Where am I?” I whisper roughly. My lips ache and crack with the movement. When I lick them they taste of sea salt and copper. The sticky feeling on my skin smacks of dried brine. Wherever I am, dry or not, I’m still wearing the ocean.

  “Gaia,” the shadow answers dully.

  “I don’t know what that is.”

  “It’s a town.”

  “Where?”

  “Outside Porton.”

  Things are coming into focus. Not the shadow, but the space by the candle. The wall behind it leads up to a ceiling that merges seamlessly, both made of the same material. The same stone as the floor I threw up on. It’s everywhere, on all sides, and there’s only one place I know where that makes sense.

  The mountains.

  “What am I doing here?” I croak mournfully.

  The shadow takes an impatient posture along with a little more clarity. I can tell it’s a man, but how old or what he looks like I’m not sure.

  “You’re throwing up all over the room,” he says irritably. “That’s what you’re doing here.”

  “You’re a Mole.”

  “And you’re a Posher.”

  I frown. “I’m a what?”

  He steps closer, carefully avoiding the puddle I’ve created. “A Posher.”

  I can see his face cut in half by shadow and candlelight. He’s young, my age, with pale skin and shockingly dark hair. I can’t see the color of his eyes. As far as I can tell they’re black as night.

  “You’re a princess,” he continues, his contemptuous tone making me shiver.

  “I’m not a princess.”

  “That’s not what your arm says.”

  I pause, willing myself to breathe deep and even. “You saw my tattoo.”

  “It’s hard to miss.”

  I glance down at my arms holding me up on the edge of the bed. They shake with exertion and an unfamiliar weakness, a deep burn down in the joints, but the black markings are clear in the candlelight. A circle to represent the sun with three rays swirling out from its edges.

  The more I look at the spinning pattern of the rays the more I feel like I’ll vomit again.

  I shake my head, trying to clear it. “It doesn’t mean what you think it means. I’m not what you think.”

  “You’re somebody important.”

  “Trust me,” I mumble, closing my eyes against a rising dizziness, “I’m not.”

  “Then who are you?”

  “I’m—it’s…” The world is swimming again. Flying. It soars too high, dives too deep, and suddenly I can’t breathe. I lean over to vomit again but nothing comes out. There’s nothing left. “What’s wrong with me? What have you done to me?!” I demand.

  A black metal can appears under my face, his white hand retreating quickly from the line of fire. “I don’t know, but here’s a bucket. I’d love it if you didn’t flood the whole hospital in puke.”

  His tone is biting, his words clipped and annoyed as I hover over the floor in abject misery.

  If I had anything in me to throw up, I’d miss the bucket on purpose.

  “Water,” I groan. “I need water.”

  I hear his feet shuffle over the floor, the click of a door opening roughly. Light spills into the room.

  “Since you said ‘please’,” he mutters sarcastically.

  He bangs the door shut behind himself.

  Hostile as he is, I’m shocked to find I’m more afraid without him here than I was with him in the room. I’m shaking scared to be alone.

  I should get up. I should try to get out of here, wherever here is. I’m probably buried so deep down in the mountains I could dig a hole in the floor and hit lava. And I’d give it a shot if I thought I could walk. The world is spinning faster and faster, constantly shifting, throwing me off balance. I feel like my brain is sloshing from side to side. I can’t get used to it. I can’t get my bearings, and even if I could I’m pretty sure my shoulder would give out on me with one swing of a hammer into the floor. It burns in the muscles, in the joint, in a way I’ve never felt before. When I test it out it protests angrily but it moves. It’s not broken.

  The door snaps open. I catch a glimpse of the hall outside. It’s brightly lit, almost blinding.

  The guy closes the door behind him, plunging us back into darkness. He comes to the clean side of the bed to hand me the clay cup he’s carrying. He’s careful not to let our fingers touch.

  “Thanks,” I whisper faintly.

  He grunts in reply.

  I bring the cup to my lips hesitantly. I’m relieved that it smells normal and when I take a sip it’s surprisingly cold and clean. I risk a larger drink, then another, the cold liquid soothing the raw feel in the back of my throat.

  “What happened to my shoulder?” I ask over the rim of the cup.

  He looks away, giving me another profile glimpse of him. “It was dislocated. The doc popped it back in while you were passed out.”

  “It was dislocated?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How?”

  “Probably when your ship sank, don’t you think?”

  It’s an odd answer in that it’s not an answer at all. I open my mouth to press him further when the door swings open again. A shorter shadow stops short.

  “What’s with the candle?” she asks, reaching for the doorframe. “Why are the lights off?”

  “Because I didn’t want to blind—“

  Snap.

  The room bursts with light brighter than the lightning in the storm. I cringe, my eyes screaming at the intrusion. My head spins with a renewed dizziness.

  “That’s why,” my new best friend answers. “I was trying not to blind her.”

  The room begins to slowly take shape as my eyes adjust. The clay cup in my hand is shiny with lacquer and perfectly formed, almost identical to the cups we have onboard the Dashers. The desk on the wall and the table next to my bed are covered in a similar lacquer, black and glossy. The thick blankets draped over my legs are soft, the linens on my pillow crisp and clean. The clothes on the strangers staring at me from opposite sides of the room are well tailored. Their shoes are clean and mended. The hair on the woman in the doorway is combed smooth, glossy in the light pouring down from the ceiling.