The Raven and the Dove (The Raven and the Dove #1) - Kaitlyn Davis Page 0,143

crew would handle their part, and pushed back her single wing, letting her muscles flex and feathers rustle as she tightened her hands on the wheel. The canvases snapped and a squall rushed across the deck, magic and air crashing in a wild torrent that brought a smile to her lips. She lived in that tornado, letting it whip her clothes and her hair, basking in that brief moment when the ground fell away and the sky held her in its arms and she almost, almost felt as though she were flying.

She opened her eyes and threw the breeze back across the sea.

The fog dispersed. White tendrils drew shapes in the air as the gusts swirled and twirled around a single falling figure. The blast formed a cyclone to slow the rapid descent, air turning into a cushion, a loving embrace that held him as he dropped gently through the haze. By the time they reached him, he was hovering in midair, a peaceful moment at the center of a storm.

“Ready?” she called.

The crew grunted.

She pulled the magic back beneath her skin. The wind died away. The boy dropped…and smacked against the moist wooden planks of the ship.

“Ten sailors and not a single one of you thought to catch him?” she shouted with a sneer, jumping over the rail of the quarterdeck and landing hard enough to make them flinch. What a bunch of no-good sluggards! “Look alive! Fresh water, bandages, and for the love of all the magic in the world, somebody fetch me a bottle of dragon’s breath.”

They scattered, which was good, because she didn’t want her crew to see the way her fingers trembled as she rolled the boy over and pressed her fingers against the bloody wounds on his back, silver magic flickering beneath his gnarled skin.

Her own scars burned.

The memory flashed like lightning, the sort of pain and terror no time would ever erase. The slash of the knife. The white-hot searing. The scream that couldn’t possibly have come from her own throat. The echo of boots as her mother and father walked away without so much as a goodbye. The kick to her back that sent her teetering over the edge. And the never-ending fall, which still gave her the sweats in the dead of night.

Her shoulders writhed.

Her single wing folded around him, half-hiding them both from view. She brushed the hair from his cheek, revealing smooth ivory skin and a jawline that would make the handful of girls in her crew swoon, and hell, some of the men too. But she was sure of one more thing.

“This will not defeat you,” she whispered. “It will not define you.”

The curved edge of a glass bottle nudged her shoulder. She turned to meet the concerned gaze of her first mate. He’d been with her a long time, long enough to understand the turmoil churning in her icy eyes.

Captain Audezia’d’Rokaro snatched the bottle and took a long sip, shaking her head as the fire poured down the back of her throat. It settled like a flame in her stomach, shocking her system back to life. Dragon’s breath, indeed. She stood and stepped to the side, letting the crew take over. They cleaned the boy's wounds and wrapped him in bandages.

While they worked, her first mate leaned over, arms crossed, focus on the murky fog. “I got news of an attack on the floating city of Ga’bret. A whole district was burned, Zia. Could be the beast we’ve been tracking.”

The edge of her lip perked. “Then by all means, old friend, take the wheel.”

67

The King

He cut the necklace of onyx feathers from around her throat and tugged it gently away before running his gaze over the edge of her ivory wing. Unable to stop his fingers from inching forward, he ran them along the graceful curve, her plumes like living silk beneath his skin. Her eyes were closed. Her features relaxed, serene.

Like an angel from the myths of old, he thought, putting his hand to her cheek, holding her the way he did so often in the dreams that Kasiandra didn’t spin.

He’d been alone with this burden for too long, hardened by it, molded by it, chipped away, bit by bit, day by day, until sometimes he didn’t know what part of himself was left. The boy he used to be, a child of wonder and hope, was gone. Now he was a king—no, not just a king. The king. The King Born in Fire. He’d forgotten