Page 62 of A Storm in Every Heart
I don’t have to look—I already noticed that the compartment where Elio and Odessa must have sat still has all its brass fixtures.
“I’m going to search the woods,” I announce, stepping irreverently over Elio’s dead body and marching toward the nearest door.
“I’ll go with you,” Jett says firmly. He seems far more worried now than he did before finding the emissary, and I don’t dare ask what he’s thinking. My head is already fucked enough as it is, thinking of all the possible things that could have happened to Odessa.
We burst out of the train car and onto the platform.
Jett and I don’t speak as we look over the rows of abandoned benches and forlorn luggage. Instinctively, we split up, covering more ground; he veers left toward the baggage carts while I sprint toward the edge of the platform where a line of wilted hedges marks the border between civilization and forest.
I’m moving through a fever dream, but my body won’t let me slow down. My mind races as fast as I run. Where’s Dessa? Was she taken? Did she run? Is she hurt?
At the far end of the platform, beyond a toppled cart piled with crates and barrels, something shifts. For half a second I think it’s an animal—a dog or maybe a bird—but then it moves again.
A man in blue lurches upright from behind a set of dusty lockers near the ticket booth. He staggers forward two steps before collapsing against a post, leaving behind a dark smear on the painted wood. The blue uniform is instantly familiar—I have one like it myself back at the Ashwater estate.
Jett spots him too, calling out in alarm. I’m closer, so I shout first and tear across the platform at full speed.
The guard lifts his head at my voice. He looks barely conscious; his face is pale beneath streaks of dirt and blood, one side contorted in pain or confusion. He blinks once, twice, as if he can’t quite process what he’s seeing. His hand shakes as he fumbles for something at his belt—a weapon, maybe—but it drops limply to his side when he recognizes me.
“Lord Kastian,” he pants.
I don’t recognize this particular soldier, but I’m not surprised he knows my name if he’s spent any time at the barracks in Storia. I skid to a halt beside him just as his knees buckle again and he slides down onto the flagstones. There’s a brutal gash running from his cheekbone to jaw, and blood seeps through his fingers as he presses them hard against his face.
“Kas,” Jett pants as he catches up from behind me, “is he?—?”
“He’s alive,” I say grimly. “Barely.”
My hands are already moving without thinking—I press a hand to the soldier’s cheek, feeling the warmth of magic glow beneath my fingers.
I’ve always been good at healing magic—it’s one of the things that Hydratta is known for, along with conjuring things out of thin air. I really need more time to heal effectively though, and I’m too impatient to wait long.
“There,” I mutter after a minute. “That should stop the bleeding at least.”
“Thanks,” the soldier coughs. “I appreciate it.”
“What happened here?” I demand.
“Pirates,” he rasps.
“Pirates?” Jett asks, sounding skeptical. “You mean bandits?”
The soldier shakes his head and winces at the movement. “No, I mean pirates. Don’t know what they were doing here.”
“How do you know it was pirates?” I ask.
“Just looked like it, plus they called their leader ‘Captain,’ and I heard one of them say something about ‘going back to the ship.’”
“Where were they from? Hydratta?”
His brow wrinkles. “I’m not sure…Solistine, I think.”
“Why do you say it like that?”
“It was strange. They were wearing Solistinian colors—lots of yellow and orange—but they had the wrong accents.”
“What did they look like?” Jett asks.
The soldier shrugs. “I don’t know—mostly men? I think I saw one woman with them.”
