Page 66 of Captive of Secrets and Storms

Silas clears his throat. “Either escort us to your port, or kindly move your vessel out of our way.”

The stare-off teems with tension, mutual distrust, and disdain. For as much as the Fae aren’t fond of Virendrell, their citizens feel the same about them.

My stomach knots.

I don’t know which male, if either, will back off first.

The shadowy storm above us grows, casting the day into ominous dark, a silent promise that things are going to get ugly.

“Ahoy there!”

Heads turn.

Darius and Draven’s dinghy floats into view.

The surly Fae rows the boat while Darius stands, waving his arm in the air with a bright smile.

His clothes stick to his body, and wet hair is plastered to his forehead. “We aren’t missing out on the fun, are we?”

The men aboard the longboat begin to mutter and curse, displeased by the arrival of more Shadow Fae.

“You there, stop where you—” The brown-haired man’s words are cut off when a shadow flows into his ear.

Different tendrils flow into his sailors’ ears, too.

I jump to my feet, teetering on my heels when the boat rocks.

Rian’s hand snaps out and grabs my arm.

My pulse spikes.

I tug to free myself. His fingers tighten for a split second before he loosens his grip.

I slip away and swallow the lump in my throat, then focus on Draven. His muscular back faces us as he continues rowing while also wielding his shadows.

Impressive.

Silas’s quiet sigh reaches my ears.

I turn.

The men on the longboat have lowered their weapons, and the one I assume is their leader has lost his fierce glare. Now he simply looks wary.

“What is your business in Virendrell?” the man asks us again.

Silas doesn’t miss a beat. “That is a private matter, sir, but if you would be willing to escort us to your dock, we’d be happy to explain it to your mayor.”

Mayor?

The man purses his lips.

Another tendril of shadow dives into his ear, and he stiffens, then gives a firm nod. “Of course. Please, follow us.”

He strides to the center of the longboat where a large drum stands, positioned on its side. He grabs a cloth-wrapped mallet. The other men lower onto benches not visible to my eye. Two long oars slide through discreet openings along the side of the boat and splash into the water.

“Ready, men?” the man bellows as he raises the mallet and strikes the drum. “Row!”

“Hooo,” the men grunt as one, leaning forward and then arching back, dragging the massive oars through the waves. “Rah! Hoo–rah. Hoo–rah.”