CHAPTER 2: STORM
15 years old
The Cosmos gently rocks in the raging seas as a flash of blinding light illuminates the dark, dingy kitchen cabin. The dishes rattle as thunder roars like a hungry beast through the electrically charged air. Summer hides under the prep table instead of cooking dinner for the entire crew like she’s supposed to be doing. This type of behavior’s not normal—unless it’s storming. Landon, her only friend and ally, boils the water for rice and places rolls in the oven. They know if dinner isn’t served at exactly nine that evening they will be punished. And the whip is to be avoided at all costs.
“Ducky, ye all right?” Landon asks distractedly in his Scottish accent before dumping chicken in a skillet.
She taps twice from underneath the prep table where she hides. One tap for yes, two taps for no. It’s their signature language. Before he taught her to read and write, he was great at playing twenty questions.
Summer’s silence never falters. Along with her voice, she also left a part of herself back on land. In eleven years, she has yet to place a single toe on solid ground—Captain’s orders. She’s adjusted to being a slave on the Cosmos, the massive ship she calls home. Sometimes she still loses her breath when the reality hits her, but for the most part she’s accepted her life here.
“Ye can’t be scared of storms forever,” Landon notes.
Two taps and a I know you’re right and I’m being irrational, but it doesn’t change a thing sigh. He chuckles, understanding.
She’s considered talking to Landon before—he’s a slave on the ship too—but the fear of her spoken voice is so deeply rooted that she almost has a panic attack when she tries. He’s always been sympathetic and never pressures her to speak, which is one of the things she likes about him so much.
A flash of lightning, another rolling boom of thunder, and she searches around frantically—irrationally—for Jarvis, once a crew member on the Cosmos. There was a time when storms didn’t scare her. In the past, when it rained, she would run to the upper deck of the ship to dance in the delightful feeling of water tumbling down her abused skin. Dark, ominous clouds with bright blue lightning bringing the world to a massive, windy chaos—storms once fascinated her like that.
Not anymore. Jarvis made sure to ruin that. Not that the storm helped either.
“Ye know I’m not as good at makin’ chicken as ye are. Captain’s gunna know.” Landon adds butter and smoke rises into the air with a sizzling noise. “I can’t remember how this goes, Ducky. Help me out. Two tablespoons garlic and one cup Italian dressing? Or was it the other way around?” He knows she takes pride in her cooking and would be offended if he did it wrong.
A little screech erupts from under the prep table as her head pokes up. There’s a smear of dirt under one of her brilliant blue eyes, and her blonde hair falls in greasy tendrils around her too-thin face. A light smattering of freckles covers her cheeks from too many days spent scrubbing the upper deck, exposed to the elements. Landon’s coffee-brown eyes meet hers from under a mop of dark blonde hair, and he smiles. He’s not as tall as most of the crew members, but he’s much taller than she is. He holds the garlic powder over the measuring cup and pours it in. “This sure is a lot of garlic,” he remarks with a smirk.
What is he up to? she wonders, jumps to her feet, and dashes toward him like he’s about to pull the pin from a grenade. The ship rocks in the chaotic seas, and she tumbles into Landon. Her ragged dress (rags, really) catches on a hook and rips. It’s just another hole to add to the collection. He holds her at arm’s length and searches her eyes for the alarm and panic he expects any second, but she composes herself quickly. He beams with pride at her confidence and lets her go. Summer snatches the measuring cup and the garlic powder from his hands with a slight smirk. Her knuckles rap twice on the counter as she shakes her head, serious now. She’s about to pour the garlic back into the container until she realizes it’s empty. He tricked her. She purses her lips at him, and he chuckles playfully.
You think you’re funny, do you? Summer puts a hand on her hip and gives him her best glare—which isn’t very menacing.
He nods like he can read her mind. Sometimes she thinks he can.
She may not speak, but they have a surprisingly close relationship. They have ways of communicating that no one else on board understands. Landon can read Summer like the words are written across her forehead, and she trusts him to keep them both safe. Being a female on a ship of thieves is dangerous—especially when she’s the only girl on the whole ship.
“It was way too easy,” he says with a laugh. “There’s nothing to fear here; this is our space, Ducky.” He’s always reassuring her, but he doesn’t hold it against her. It’s just another reason why she likes him.
Her shoulders slump in defeat, and Landon triumphs over another battle won. Four years ago he joined her on the Cosmos as a slave. It took months for them to get into a rhythm, but only minutes to fully understand each other. Plus, he saved her from her worst fear—there isn’t anything she won’t do for him. She would probably even speak for him if he asks her to, but he doesn’t. He knows it will only make her have an anxiety attack.
She reaches for Landon’s arm to catch his attention and points at the skillet. He places his elbow on the counter and leans in to watch. The way he looks at her is always surprising to Summer. It’s always in wonder or fascination. In silence, she shows him exactly how she expects the chicken to be cooked. Her hand gestures and questioning glances amuse him so he just grins at her animated moves, nodding when necessary.
She stabs a fork into the chicken to check tenderness and turns to face him with a raised eyebrow, the gesture asking, Are you paying attention? Landon nods with much enthusiasm as she flips the chicken over in the skillet and adds more Italian dressing. Without glancing up, she points toward the bottle of honey. He immediately hands it over. She squeezes the bottle, dumping it all over the chicken and flips the piece over and over, making sure she covers all sides.
When the chicken is done cooking, she wraps it in foil to keep warm and stares up at Landon again. Her expression is triumphant and his amused.
“Rub it in—you’re better than me at cookin’ and I know it!” He wraps a sturdy arm around her shoulders and gives a tight squeeze.
A clap of thunder booms overhead, and Summer slips from his grip like a greased pig and dives underneath the prep table again, shaking. She still hasn’t forgiven the storm for its traitorous actions four years ago.
Landon reaches down and holds her quivering hand. “The storm will pass, and I’ll still be here,” he says, suppressing a sigh. “Ye can’t let that troll ruin your life. It’s just not like ye to let him.”
She grips his hand with more strength than someone her size should have before she lets go and clicks her tongue once. Landon doesn’t hold back his sigh this time because when she clicks her tongue it’s meant as a sarcastic remark. Once she wrote on a piece of paper “If you can’t see, I’m rolling my eyes” and then she clicked her tongue at him. He shakes his head and continues to make the dinner for the crew. It’s progress that she came out for even a few minutes. She hopes the storm passes before nine so they can both serve dinner. It’s best if questions aren’t asked and weaknesses aren’t shown. Summer knows that you won’t survive long if you’re weak, and she is anything but. Still, she must keep up her image of stamina, endurance, and show no fear. She’s proven herself on this ship, but mistakes can be major setbacks in the slave-crew relationship. Even minor sickness is considered weak.
Summer only needs thirty minutes; she hopes the storm passes by then.