Page 51 of Hijack the Seas: Seismic

“What?”

“She’s been listening this whole time. Cassie?”

I swallowed pie, which I’d been scarfing down while I had the chance. “I don’t want the throne,” I told the horrified man, who had turned to look at me with the dawning realization that his silence spell wasn’t so silent. “Well, crap,” I said when he suddenly hit the floor, prostrating himself just as the girl had done.

Alphonse looked at Pritkin. “That wasn’t funny.”

And when the resident fiend tells you that, you know you’ve gone too far.

But Pritkin was already helping the shaking guy up, who hugged the wall across from me with the look of someone headed to slaughter, just any second now. And goddamn, was I already sick of that! “I’m not going to hurt you!” I told him. “I’m sorry; I shouldn’t have been eavesdropping, but—”

“W-what?” he looked gobsmacked.

“—it’s the only way to find out anything around here. When people won’t even look at me—”

“Looking at Nimue was death! At least for one of us!”

“I’m not Nimue! I didn’t even like her—”

“And you apologize? To me?” He stared at me some more.

“Well, Alphonse was right,” I said awkwardly. “I shouldn’t have done that, and I’m, uh, I’m sorry. . .” I broke off because the guy had collapsed again into a huddled heap and was doing something that sounded like sobbing.

I looked at Pritkin, who was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching his friend but making no effort to help him. And then I realized the guy wasn’t sobbing; he was laughing. Or maybe it was half in half; I couldn’t tell.

It looked like he’d lost it, and Alphonse was running out of patience. “Should I slap him?” he asked seriously.

I honestly didn’t know. But I guessed not, as Pritkin was helping him up and bringing him over. And sticking out the guy’s hand because he was as limp as a ragdoll and seemed incapable of doing it himself. “Remember what I told you about shaking hands?” Pritkin asked him.

“I—I—I—” The man seemed incapable of talking suddenly.

So, I took his limp hand because Pritkin was making little gestures with his eyes, and I didn’t know what else to do. “Hi,” I said, feeling like a fool. “I’m Cassie.”

“Cassie,” he gasped and then stared around fearfully.

“God damn, does everybody have PTSD around here?” Alphonse asked.

“They won’t behead you over me,” I pointed out to the guy, who I really didn’t want to call Rhosier or any variation on that.

Along with the blond hair and fey height, he had a muscular build if you looked past the chef’s paunch and handsome features that seemed familiar, or maybe I was imagining things. Since Rosier’s kids had all died in the womb after draining the life out of their mothers, that seemed a safe bet. Pritkin was the only one who had survived.

And, thankfully, this guy’s eyes were brown. “They don’t like me around here, anyway,” I reminded him.

“Don’t like you,” he wheezed desperately and then kept repeating it like some kind of mantra. “Don’t like you. Don’t like you. Don’t—”

Pritkin slapped him.

It seemed to help.

Rhosier put his free hand over his eyes for a moment, then took it away to stare at our still joined hands. Mine was worse for the wear, it having been a while since my last manicure, and was also greasy from the pie’s buttery crust. But he didn’t seem to mind.

In fact, its less-than-perfect state seemed to reassure him. “I—it’s an honor,” he whispered and bent over it.

Right before someone started screaming.

He promptly forgot about me and tore down the hall, and we followed. It wasn’t that far of a run, but it felt like ages, especially with us scrambling together in a relatively narrow space. Except for Alphonse, who wasn’t with us anymore but had slipped away during all the drama.

Which was why I was only slightly surprised when we showed up to find him facing off with two redheads, one of whom had caught him in a spell that had him splayed against the wall of a small storeroom as if a giant, invisible hand was holding him there.

---