Children Of The Sky (The Scripts Of Neptune, Book 2)

Chapter 38

The day Tiberius Squill and Rinthil Dalved joined the crew was a day that started and ended in chaos. Rook was startled awake by Min chasing and nearly killing the cat that'd gotten on board during the night; both animals ended up scrambling in the water with a bedraggled, drowsy crew watching and cheering over the side of the ship. The cat got away, thankfully, swimming frantically towards the piles and then the shore, and shot up the beach and between the buildings so fast when it hit the sand that Min wouldn't have had a chance even if he'd caught up in time.

It was their second time in port since Crynia had come aboard. They were there to let Mick off to be with his pregnant wife and his children, primarily, but Jack let the men persuade him to stay an extra day. Rook foolishly took advantage of this, and, without Jack's knowledge, pulled a cap over his curls after nightfall and slipped away to the tavern with the crewmembers.

It wasn't that he wanted to drink--he'd had a glass of beer once and gotten so sick he swore to himself that he'd never touch the stuff again. No, he wanted to hear the stories. Drunk men, he'd discovered the last time he was in town, told tales that were absolutely brilliant.

He was enthralled by a burly man's recounting of an encounter he'd had with a hag in the woods when Jack spoiled his fun. The air was full of that heavy magic taverns had after dark, stinking and nauseatingly warm, almost sticky, seeming to drag back on Rook's fingers when he moved them. He was hunched over at a table in the middle of the room, cap pulled low--his height aided him validity as long as he didn't speak with his newly cracking voice or let his illusionary older face drop. He laughed when the men laughed, drank from a clay cup that they assumed had ale but really held water, and soaked up their stories--barring certain details--like a little sponge.

He didn't notice, at first, when Jack slid into the seat next to him. Rook was in the middle of a long sip of water, and he almost choked when his brother cleared his throat, subtle so the table's other occupants wouldn't notice.

"What're you doing, Rook?" Jack said under his breath, and his tone held that dangerous softness that told Rook he'd best be very, very careful with his answer.

"Listening," he replied, words echoing in his cup. Jack gestured for it, and Rook obliged. That, at least, was something he was unashamed of tonight. Jack took a discreet whiff of the contents, raised an eyebrow at Rook in a look of mild approval, and pushed it back over.

"Listening to what?"

"Stories."

"Let's step out for a minute, yeah?"

The men at the table were evidently too drunk to notice when they both left and wove through the seedy, sweating crowd. The clear summer darkness outside felt like coming to the surface after you'd been underwater for longer than you could count. Jack waited until the few newcomers went inside, then ran his hands over his head and breathed out long and slow.

"You know I don't want you in taverns, Rook," he said, sort of gentle but still with that dangerous edge. He was a small man, Rook's brother, but he held himself in a way that made you wary of him if you were on his bad side. Rook had only gotten there a handful of times. He had Jack's storm to thank for the lack of serious consequences.

"I know, I just--"

"Just what?"

"I figured..." Rook was flushed with shame and he knew it. "I figured since I wasn't drinking or anything..."

"Mum didn't start with drinking either, remember?"

The jabbing reminder hurt every time; Rook winced and dropped his gaze. "I remember." Not really.