They knew exactly how much he could endure. And doled it out.
Mr. Foster didn’t have a lot to say, which was fine with Hink, since he’d always thought the man to be a piss-proud lick finger who couldn’t blow his own nose without asking Alabaster Saint to hold the hanky.
But on the other hand, if Foster was the chatty sort, he might have some kind of idea where in damnation they were taking him.
Not that he supposed he’d get out of it alive anyway, but if the chance fell upon him, he’d like to know which direction to run.
The uneven drone of the ship’s damaged fans filled his head. There wasn’t a window anywhere in his eyesight. They’d thrown him belowdecks, but made sure he was trussed up well out of reach of any of the supplies down there with him.
And there were plenty of supplies.
Along with three guards who kept their guns leveled at him.
He knew one of those men. Couldn’t much recall his name, but he’d been part of the mutiny Hink had led all those years ago. Chickened out of it halfway to Chicago. Heard he went back begging to Alabaster for forgiveness. Heard Alabaster had accepted him into the new army he was mustering.
Course, he cut off his ear first.
Wasn’t a man who’d served under the Saint who had walked away from the last battle unscathed. So Alabaster Saint made sure the man carried a wound just like the rest of them.
The general enjoyed his torturing almost as much as he enjoyed just plain killing folk.
Hink thought maybe he could get a little conversation out of the soldiers, but he was still gagged and, frankly, not feeling his best.
So he did what he could to breathe, and hurt, and memorize the faces of the men who inflicted that hurt on him.
The Saint might be top cock at torture, but there was no man who could match Hink when it came to revenge.
With no water, and no relief, it was a long damn ride before the ship fans altered in sound.
They were heading into the wind, changing course. From the tip the floor suddenly took, they were coming down to land. He half hoped his gun company would find themselves something less useful to do and give him a moment to gather his wits.
Instead, they stood watch over him as the ship went through the various stages of anchor, catch, lash, and landing, and was walked to whatever dock or port had been readied for her.
Then one of the soldiers walked up to him and hit him so hard in the side of the head, he heard his neck crack before he went out.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Mae didn’t know how much longer she could last. Staying connected to the spell she had worked between Hink and the Swift took all the concentration she could muster. It would be too easy to slip into believing she was a part of the ship, to feel the pump of steam like hot blood driving her wings, to flinch from the icy cold of the night sky.
Between that and the sisters’ whipping voices, she might completely lose all hope of remaining herself, of knowing her skin was her own, her mind was her own, and her will was her own too.
If it weren’t for Cedar, who held her, the warmth of his body, the heat of the anger burning within him, helping her focus on her own bones and breath, she would be nothing, her mind torn apart and left in scattered ribbons on the wind.
He was a rock holding her to the earth.
He was a heat refusing to let death’s cold claws slice her apart for good.
“Mae,” Cedar said. “Where is he?”
It seemed to take forever to make her mouth move, to lift her tongue and carry the words from thought to breath. “South more. East soon.”
At the edges of her awareness, she heard his voice carrying her words. So much stronger, with so much more life and power than she had left in her. She knew people were moving about the ship.
They were talking about repairs. They were talking about weapons. She’d heard firebombs and cannons, dynamite and guns. But there was no fire in those words. Whoever had said it was worried, the words thin and tenuous, knowing that would not be nearly enough to win. To save Captain Hink.
She felt the connection between Hink and the Swift tug. Hard. Down.
“East,” she said. “Landing. He’s landing.”
Cedar carried her words again, and the Swift shifted joyfully closer to Hink, to the captain she searched for.
“You can let go,” Cedar was saying. “Mae. Mae. Let go of the ship. We see the landing area. We see the ship’s lights.”
But Mae could not seem to sort his words out from the sisters’ screaming for her return, could not divorce herself from the taut shiver of awareness, the almost inhuman hunger between the ship and Hink.
She heard his words, but they were just another rattle of noise that threatened to suffocate her screams.
Someone clamped a hand over her mouth. And then someone tore the ship away from her.