AUTHOR’S NOTE: I don’t own the characters (Miramax does) or the fairy tales referenced in this story. I’m not making one single penny off this story. (pauses) I wouldn’t mind borrowing the boys for awhile though…

1) This is rated TEEN for a reason. There are some very adult themes and situations and angst in here and some violence. It deals with rather dark issues relating to familial rifts and deaths of family members (if you saw the movie, you know to what I’m referring). Can’t handle, please don’t read. 2) Although there are religious references in the story, nothing is based on any real people or cults. They were completely fabricated for plot purposes and if you see similarities to any real people or cults, you are squinting way too hard, if you know what I mean. Do not try anything you see in this story, boys and girls, because it’s all made up stuff. So, if anyone flames for reasons of dark themes or religious references, I’m going to ignore it because I’ve given fair warning. 3) The opinions expressed by characters do not reflect the opinion of this writer. See Chapter One for the rest of the notes.

8

Will slept, but Jacob could not rest. His body, numb and aching, begged for sleep but his thoughts gave him no peace. Instead, Jacob alternated between thumbing through his treasured journal, in hopes that a solution to their predicament would present itself, and considering the unexpected arrival of his brother. Will’s presence was the last complication to his plan that Jacob had anticipated.

Jacob had been disoriented when Torsten had bound and gagged him and covered him with that blanket. Jorn and Torsten’s other henchmen had crept aboard the Adalia, put the whaling ship’s crewmen (the ones who didn’t resist) onto longboats and left them at sea to row ashore. They’d come up on Jacob before he’d known what happened, as he’d been reading the pages he’d torn from his journal, the pages with the map to the Altar des Feuer, in the small quarters that the captain had found for his unexpected passenger. When the intruders had begun to break down the door, Jacob heard their muffled words: “Find the map.” Knowing at once who they were and what they wanted, Jacob had taken the map he’d torn from his journal and only just had time to burn it with the flame of the cabin’s lamp before the door crashed open. The pendant—meant to specifically protect Jacob and those of his family’s bloodline---that Serya had given him was lying out of reach on a table. Jacob wondered if the talisman would have saved him from capture.

He’d awakened one of the cargo holds with his hands and feet shackled. The strangers who’d imprisoned him demanded his book. By the grace of God, Jacob had left his journal in Serya’s care before he’d set sail on the Adalia. Jacob had refused and the torture had begun, brutally and efficiently. Jorn had tried to pummel the information out of Jacob. Torsten, meanwhile, found the Messier among Jacob’s belonging while searching for the book.

Jacob had seen the round, ornate, triangular pendant tucked beneath Torsten’s collar and known at once who these men were: Descendents of the men in Hollenstadt who’d first driven Desdemond and his followers from Germany. The scroll Jacob found that started him on his quest for the Messer and the altar indicated that these men had formed a society, quite independent of the church so that they did not have to answer to the church for their actions or their methods, dedicated to eradicating all traces of the cult. The scroll had been sealed with an imprint identical to the pendant Torsten wore.

When Jorn’s efforts failed, Gerit had used the wand/blade to try to persuade the boy to cooperate. It was only a pounding on the hatch above them---another of Torsten’s comrades with a problem demanding his attention---that interrupted the interrogation. Torsten had exchanged a few words with his minion and both men had stared at Jacob while they talked. Half-blind from his rapidly-swelling eye, ribs aching, cuts from the Messer spreading pain like fire in his veins, Jacob had sagged against the wall to catch his breath and prepare for the next round of abuses. He would not lead them to the altar. No matter whether or not he’d understood or agreed with their intentions, Jacob had set out to find the altar for his own purposes…and he meant to finish what he’d started.

When they’d finished their conversation, rather than resuming the torture, Torsten had tucked the wand/blade into his coat pocket. He was smiling an enigmatic grin that unsettled Jacob. “Jorn,” he’d summoned his comrade, “I have another mission for you. Bind our friend so he doesn’t move or speak---” He’d pointed to Jacob. “---and cover him up, then join me on the main deck.”

Thus, Jacob had found himself shrouded by the blanket. He’d blacked out from the aches in his battered body, falling into a dreamless slumber, until the creak of the hatch and a sudden, heavy ‘thud’ catapulted him back to wakefulness. He felt an instant of panic, especially with the coverlet that blinded him, before he remembered where he was and what had happened. Jacob had tried to reach out and pull off the suffocating blanket only to find that his chains had been tightened and now held him completely immobile. Someone had put a gag in his mouth as well. It was, all in all, an intolerable situation.

Voices were arguing, Jacob’s mind sluggishly noted, voices that he recognized. One was his kidnapper’s, the other sounded like…

“If you’ve done anything to my brother, I will kill you.”

Will!

Jacob had tried to move, but the chains held him fast. He’d tried to speak, but the gag stifled any sounds he could make beyond a soft grunt…and the creaking of the ship and Torsten’s booming voice overpowered what feeble noises Jacob could utter past the gag and his too-dry throat.

“…yet you spend the better part of a month charging from one end of Germany to the other searching for Jacob…blood is blood, I suppose…”

Jacob glanced up from his book to consider his sleeping sibling. Will had been searching for him. Why? Jacob hadn’t so much as received a note from his brother in years, not since Jacob had left Catriona to study in Heidelberg, and Will had left their mother’s home at least a year before that, had sneaked away before sunrise of the night like a damned thief without a parting word to Jacob or Mother. The memory still infuriated Jacob.

Why was Will searching for him now, of all times? If he’d been trying to find Jacob to tell him about their Mother’s passing, why hadn’t he just said so? No, there was another reason that his brother had felt compelled to come looking for him, Jacob had seen that much in Will’s face when he’d asked, ‘Why are you here?’ There was something Will wasn’t telling him.

How had Will found him? Jacob, quite deliberately, hadn’t told anyone where he was going or what he was up to when he’d left Heidelberg to find the altar. Will wouldn’t have cared whether his brother got himself killed digging up old altars, Jacob had been certain at the time, so what was the point of telling him? Mother would have stopped him if she’d known his intentions, so Jacob couldn’t tell her either.

But, Will had still tracked down Jacob---tracked him down and guessed his intentions. How? Why?

Jacob supposed it wasn’t important. Jacob couldn’t let Will stop him. Will knew, and now that he knew, he’d try to stop Jacob from reaching the altar. He wouldn’t believe in the altar’s powers. Will had never believed in magic. He’d never believe in Jacob, either. Will believed in logic, rationality, and science, just like their Mother and sister had. Magic, fairy tales, the ‘poetic view of the world’, those were traits Jacob had inherited from their Father.

I should never have left him the journal. I should have burned it. Jacob rued his error. When he’d left the book in Serya’s charge, Jacob had fully believed it would be years before Will came into possession of the journal---better still, if Jacob had succeeded in his quest, Will would never come into custody of the book at all. The journal was Jacob’s prized possession, the only earthly possession of any value to him. A lifetime of work was collected in its pages. Will was the only family Jacob had left. That was the one simple reason he’d wanted his brother to have the book if Jacob should fail in his plans. Will would have no use for the journal.

Unconsciously, Jacob turned to very first pages of his journal and the first ‘entries’ he’d made in the book. The words on those pages were scribblings, gibberish almost, making sense only to the four year old mind that had created them. Jacob smiled seeing them, his eyes clouding…

Father couldn’t be blamed for indulging his youngest child. The fact that the boy lived was proof of the existence of miracles. When the midwife who delivered the infant had declared him stillborn, the crush of grief had all but shattered his parents. It had been their Father who had taken the infant into his arms---whispering prayers under his breath for the Lord’s mercy on the family and the child---when the miracle happened: The child began to breathe. One gasp, then another, and then rhythmic breaths had gradually brought a rosy tint to the baby’s deathly gray skin. For the longest while, both Father and Mother had sat there, clutching the baby in terror that he might disappear from their grasp, until gentle knocking on the bedroom door drew them from their fear-induced catatonia.

“Come in!” Mother had called, knowing who it was. The door scraped open, and two tiny faces peered into the room. “Children, come, meet your brother,” she invited her son and daughter.

Having been hardly able to wait this long---months anticipating the arrival of their sibling and then hours at the neighbor’s house while their Mother gave birth---the children had burst into the room. Sister had guided her toddler brother over to the bed, and Father had hoisted up Will to set the boy on his lap so he could see the infant their Mother held. “There, see, Will? You have a baby brother.”

“What’s his name?” With awe, Sister had brushed her hand over the baby’s forehead, feeling the wisps of pale, downy hair.

“We’ve named him ‘Jacob’,” Mother announced.

Jacob had been an incessantly curiously child. As soon as he’d learned to bleat out words, ‘why’ became his favorite one. “Why is the sky blue?” “How do flowers know when to grow?” “What makes the fog?” “Why do insects have wings but people do not?” “Why is fire hot?” “Why does cold turn water to ice?”

Father rose to the daunting challenge of trying to appease Jacob’s boundless curiosity. Perhaps knowing that scientific answers would mean little to a small child (perhaps not knowing every answer, especially to the matter of the sky being blue), Father invented fanciful answers, of which ‘magic’ was his preference. Seeds “magically” produced flowers, Father would say, because angels made them produce flowers. Jacob believed Father without debate. Will or Sister, ever sensible, would chime in that water and dirt made flowers grow, but Jacob ignored them. If Father said “magic”, it was “magic”. If he said “magic” made the sun rise each day, it was true. If Jacob called the orange, red, and yellow trees of autumn “rainbows”, Father agreed that it was a more apt description. Mother would tell Jacob, many years later, that it had delighted Father no end that one of his children shared his “poetic” view of the world.

In spite of Father’s great influence during his childhood, Jacob’s memories of Father were mostly snippets and impressions of feelings. Father had died when Jacob was barely four. His strongest, clearest memories were of winter and the long nights when the family gathered in the large living area of their home. Father would boost Jacob up onto his lap, press a quill or piece of charcoal into the boy’s hand, and let Jacob draw in Father’s own journal. Parchment being expensive, and Father’s notes being important, Jacob made sure to draw carefully so as not to waste a single inch of space on the pages.

The last time Jacob had scribbled in Father’s book was on Jacob’s fourth birthday. Out of the blue, Father had interrupted his youngest son’s work with an announcement: “I think we have a gift for our birthday boy.”

Mother had smiled, “I believe so. Now, where could it be--?”

At the promise of a hidden present, Jacob had vaulted off his Father’s lap to help his Mother search. Sister had watched from her chair near the fire, hiding a grin as her baby brother dashed to every corner and searched every shelf and drawer in the small house. Will had rolled his eyes and gone back to his own toys.

To Jacob, it was an agonizingly slow search, but only a minute elapsed before Mother pulled a bundle wrapped in cloth from a drawer. “This looks like a gift. Why don’t you check to make sure, Jacob?”

The child snatched up the package, dropped to his knees on the spot, and all but ripped the cloth away from his treasure. When he found it was a blank journal, identical in every way to his Father’s, Jacob let out a squeal of joy. He hugged his Mother first, then his Father. “You must promise to take very good care of it,” Father instructed him with a wink.

“I will, Father,” the boy had promised.

Jacob was caught off-guard by the solitary tear that escaped his good eye and impatiently brushed it away. I’m sorry I have to break my promise, Father, he silently apologized. Will meant to trade the book for their lives, but Torsten could not have the journal. Jacob had decided that much. He would not lead Torsten to the altar, but more importantly, this book was Jacob’s life work…all that he was. He’d prefer to burn the journal to ash than surrender it to his captors, if it came to that. Jacob would find another way to get himself and Will off of this ship.

He flipped past a few more pages and paused when Sister’s image stared up at him from the page.

“What’s this?”

Jacob had not heard Mother approach, so intently had the child been concentrating on his task. He’d had another dream about Sister the night before. The boy dreamed about her every night since she had gone to Heaven, in fact. Sister was an angel in the dreams. Jacob didn’t know how he knew that, he just sensed it somehow.

Before he had died, Father had explained about angels to his children, to Jacob in particular since Jacob was the youngest. Father had promised that when a loved one went to Heaven, even though you did not see them again for a very long time, God would make them angels and send them back to watch over you. If Father said it, Jacob believed it with all his heart. Father had said that he would be watching over all of them, and even if Jacob couldn’t see him, he need only to speak aloud and Father would hear him. Sister must also hear, the boy reckoned. Therefore, Jacob talked to them all the time, since Mother and Will never seemed to do so. It would be rude to pretend the angels weren’t there.

But, unlike Father’s angel, Jacob did see Sister’s angel. When he was asleep, he dreamed and she would appear. She would walk with Jacob along a hillside path or they’d play in a field beside a stone wall in a city by the sea that Jacob did not recognize. He wanted to see her when he was awake---see a picture of her as she was now, radiating light, kindness, and love---so he was sketching her in his journal.

Jacob hadn’t meant for anyone to see his artwork. Will would have yelled at him. His brother yelled at him quite often since Sister went to Heaven, so Jacob was being mindful to do nothing that would upset Will (not an easy task, since everything Jacob said tended to upset his brother). Mother was sad, and Jacob was trying very hard to do nothing to make her more unhappy.

But, Jacob had lost track of the time, absorbed with his task, and his Mother had come searching for him. He was hiding in the alley behind their home, away from the passer-bys, since they always gave him odd looks and whispered things as they walked past like “That’s the one” or “not quite right” or “magic beans”.

“Jacob? Why didn’t you answer me?” Mother saw the picture he was sketching. “What are you drawing?” she asked kindly.

Jacob closed the book, regretting that the hasty action would smear the ink and the picture. He opened his mouth, but it was ingrained into him not to lie and he dared not admit to his muse, so all that emerged was a squeak. “I---I—was---I mean---”

Not understanding his nervousness, Mother put a hand on his shoulder to try to calm her son. “What’s the matter? Jacob, you can tell me, whatever it is.” The boy shook his head vehemently, and her voice grew sharp. “Jacob, show me what you were doing. Now.”

Having been ordered, he knew better than to disobey. Reluctantly, he opened his journal to the smeared sketch of Sister. Mother’s hand went to her mouth to stifle a gasp and her eyes widened. Jacob feared she might cry or yell, but Mother did not. She only gazed at the image with watery eyes for a long time before she finally smiled softly and said, “It’s---It’s very lovely. You drew this yourself?”

He nodded. “It’s Sister.”

“Yes, I see that.”

“She’s an angel, like in my dreams.”

“You dream about your Sister?” Mother asked.

“Father said angels come back to watch their families.” Jacob stared up hopefully at his Mother. “Do you think Father and Sister are watching us?”

Mother put her arm around his shoulder and squeezed. “I’m sure they are.”

Jacob didn’t know how it had happened, when the dreams of Sister began to change from the happy visitations of an angel to the torment from a ghost. Jacob had stared at the sketch of Sister for hours on end as a child, but the sight of it now was a source of such raw pain that he could stand it only a few seconds before he had to turn the page.

Was it age that made him more keenly aware of how foolish he’d been believing that charlatan with the ‘magic’ beans? Was it years of those looks and whispers in his wake and the story that had followed him from village to village? Was it the disgust in Will’s eyes at any time when he caught Jacob elbow-deep in his “hokum” books or the way Will cried “magic beans” whenever he wanted to tell Jacob that he was being a fool (or simply wanted to win an argument whether he was right or wrong)?

He didn’t need Will’s reminders or the prattling and gossip of strangers---Jacob remembered his mistake all too clearly on his own. Will would never understand what it was like to live with that folly every day, to be reminded of it every waking minute of every day by the living and by the ghost in his dreams every night. He’d never forgive Jacob. How could he? How could Jacob hope to atone for his mistake with his brother when he couldn’t even make peace with it in his own heart? Will considered this situation—the Messer des Feuer, the altar---more rubbish, more of Jacob’s ‘insanity’. Let him. Jacob could not give up now, not when he was so close to finally having the chance to fix his mistake.

He just had to get Will out of harm’s way---and out of his hair—first. Torsten would not get the opportunity to kill his brother because Jacob simply would not be responsible for the death of another sibling. Besides, Will would interfere in Jacob’s plans if Jacob didn’t manage to separate from his brother and soon.

After all that was taken care of, there would be the matter of retrieving the Messer from Torsten…but one problem at a time.

There had to be a way off the Adalia. The answer was in the journal somewhere, Jacob just had to find it. He turned the pages with renewed determination, until he came to the pages filled with the tales of Serya’s people…

“Ho there, friend! Caught in the rain were you?”

“Only since I left home.”

Jacob was certain the rain had been sent to bedevil his every step. If not, it was an amazing coincidence that the downpour seemed to save itself for those times when Jacob was on foot…times which came quite frequently since he’d sold his horse and most of his belongings not long after leaving Catriona. He would need the extra money when he reached the school in Heidelberg, and he would as soon walk as use any more of his family’s meager savings.

If his Mother had known how little he’d managed to save for his studies, she’d have insisted he take more of her own money, protective of her children as she was. She’d given a full third of her money to Will when he’d left home the year before, and another third to Jacob when he was invited to Heidelberg. However, in her advancing years, with both her sons away from home, she’d need her money to pay the villagers for help with household tasks and for doctors when she was ill (God forbid). Jacob wasn’t a child, he was midway through his teen years, and he had his wits. He could manage, so there was no point worrying (or bankrupting) her.

If only this confounded rain would leave him alone! Jacob had been walking in it for days. Few wagons or carriages or carts were traveling in the foul weather and still fewer paused to offer rides to the young man. He was nursing a remarkably stubborn cold and his feet were soaked thanks to the holes in his boots. He was beginning to doubt his chances of every reaching the school alive the way things were going.

So, the appearance of the small caravan of brightly painted square-shaped carriages was as good as a gift from God. More miraculous was the fact that, rather than adding to his misery by splashing water on him as they rolled past, the drive of the lead wagon reined to a stop alongside Jacob. Three more wagons, trailing the first, halted as well. A few people poked their heads through their carriages’ windows, curious at the unexpected stop, to see what was happening. The lead driver, bundled under a thick coat and wide-brimmed hat, peered down at the young man and flashed a grin full of yellow teeth.

“And where’s home?” the driver asked.

Jacob stared up at the man, blinking past rain that was whipped into his eyes by the breeze. “Catriona.”

The traveler was familiar with Germany. “Two days in the rain? That’s a long while.”

Jacob shrugged, somewhat abashedly, “Six months, actually.” There were myriad fascinating discoveries to be made on one’s first time away from home, Jacob had learned. The constant intrigue of new places and new people had delayed him on a daily basis.

The driver grinned wider and whistled. “Six months to get here from Catriona? You’ve gone by the leisurely route, I take it?”

“The only route worth your time,” Jacob confirmed, returning the grin.

“A poet’s attitude! So true, lad.” The quip earned a belly laugh from the older man, who slapped his knee in his mirth, which abated only when the teenager let out a rather violent sneeze. Sobbering, the driver said: “Tell me, boy, where’s the end of your ‘leisurely stroll’?”

“Heidelberg,” Jacob sniffed.

The man nodded. “Well, we’d best take you as far as we can. You’re about to catch your death from the sounds of it.” He reached around to bang his hand on the roof of the carriage. “Serya! Open the door! We’ve a lost soul in need of a ride out here!”

A plump, matronly woman peered out of the window, took one look at the water-logged youth, and agreed. Jacob heard shuffling within the carriage, the scrap of a bolt, and the rear door swung open. The driver gestured to the door. “Go on, lad. It’s not much warmer in there, but it’s much drier.”

Grateful beyond words, Jacob touched his own hat politely, “Thank you, sir,” and hurried climbed into the wagon.

Contrary to the driver’s opinion, the inside of the carriage felt warm as the sun after days of trudging in mud and rain. When his eyes adjusted to the dimness---the only light was the sunlight, diffused by clouds, which poured through the window----Jacob saw the woman, Serya, and two small shapes huddled beneath blankets.

“Dear boy, what are you doing out here alone and on foot in this weather?” Serya was in the process of pouring liquid from a clay bottle into a clay cup. She tsked in sympathy at the drenched young man. She laid a cool hand on his forehead. “Hmf, just as I thought, catching your death, that’s what you’re doing.” Serya shoved the cup into his hands. “Drink this---wait…” she withdrew her hand and the cup. “…how old are you?”

“Twenty,” Jacob lied.

Serya raised her eyebrow. “Minus--?”

“Four,” he admitted.

“Twenty? A pup!” She handed him the cup again. “Drink up, anyway, and sit before—“

Jacob heard the driver whistle and the carriage lurched forward without warning. He tumbled to the bed of straw lining the floor of the wagon.

“---you fall,” Serya finished.

The cup was full of strong brandy that immediately sent warmth into Jacob’s aching chest. Serya provided a blanket and---with unwavering insistence that she was far too old for him to be bashful in front of her---a change of clothing. Warm and dry for the first time in months, Jacob inspected his few belongings for rain-damage while Serya whittled.

“Your family’s in Catriona?” she asked.

“Just my mother,” he corrected as he piled his belongings onto the straw. The bag containing his only possessions was quite soaked, as it turned out. Jacob had attempted to use his cloak to shield the bag, but the wind had blown the rain from every direction to foil his efforts. The bag held a few changes of clothing, too rain-soaked to be of use at the moment, quills and ink (one bottle had broken and spilled mostly onto one formerly white shirt), what little money Jacob had, and his journal.

“No siblings?” the woman continued.

“None I’m on speaking terms with at the moment,” Jacob answered without thinking.

Serya wondered at the remark, but chose not press what was clearly a personal matter. “That’s a shame, that.”

Jacob nodded absently, more concerned with his book. He’d wrapped his clothing around it before the bad weather had set in, then tucked the bag beneath his cloak, caring more if his journal got wet than if his skin did. To his relief, the book was virtually untouched by the water.

“So, what’s in Heidelberg?” Serya eventually asked.

“School, actually,” he said.

She brightened a bit at that, approving. “Ah, you’re a scholar. How nice.” She nodded to his journal. “And a writer too?”

Jacob quickly tucked the book into his bag. “No, this is---just stories.”

That was the wrong answer, for it only piqued her interest. “Oh? Let’s hear one, then,” she requested. The two children nodded beneath their hoods and let out chirps of agreement.

Jacob felt the familiar stab of fear and heard years of disapproving words echo in his memory. Finally warm and off his feet, he was disinclined to say something that would get him pitched out into the rain again. “No, I can’t…they wouldn’t be very interesting…it’s…it’s religious studies…from school.”

“And why wouldn’t that interest me? What a fine thing to study. Let’s hear some,” the woman insisted.

Flustered, he still refused, “I can’t---it’s not religious so much as…mythology.”

Comprehension dawned in her eyes. Still, she was enjoying his nervousness. “Magic, you mean.”

He fell silent and nodded, tensing for the forthcoming condemnations. Serya, however, continued whittling the tiny wooden figurine of a horse. “Interesting choice of studies. Believe in magic do you, lad?”

Well, he’d been found out, there was small point in denying it now. Besides, Jacob did not like to lie, least of all to his elders and to women. Miserably, he nodded again.

“Heard words on the matter, too, I’ll wager,” she guessed.

“That’s putting it mildly,” the teenager said, wincing.

Serya pursed her lips. “Is that why your sibling’s not on speaking terms with you?”

“That’s part of it.” Jacob finally dared to meet her eyes. “Should I go?” Not waiting for her answer, he began gathering his belongings.

She reached over and caught his hand, stopping him, then gave it a friendly squeeze. “Would you like to see a magic trick, young man?” she asked with a wink.

Jacob was astounded. After a second, he remembered to answer: “Yes.”

“Good.” Serya released his hand.

She cleared a circle in the straw bedding and set her little horse carving at the center of the circle. The two shrouded children and Jacob all leaned forward to watch, riveted, waiting to see what would happen. The woman muttered an incantation and pointed her finger at the horse. When the words were spoken, the tiny wooden horse came to life. Jacob gaped as it let out a whinny and began trotting, just as a flesh and blood horse might, around the circle Serya had made.

The children squealed and began trying to catch the horse as it darted about the circle. In their enthusiasm, their blankets and hoods fell away. Jacob stared in fascination at the children: They were not flesh and blood---like the horse, the children were carved of wood. Marionettes. Puppets brought to life by Serya’s incantation…

Jacob slammed the journal shut, suddenly inspired. That’s it! That’s the solution!

A plan had formed quickly in his mind. He knew now what he had to do. Straining against the cumbersome chains, Jacob reached for the lantern mounted on the wall. He could just barely reach the candle inside with the tips of his fingers. Removing it, he carefully held the burning candle with one hand. With the other, he tore the pages pertaining to the Desdemondians, the Messer, and the altar from his journal and burned them…fighting the impulse to stamp out the small flames as his research was consumed. No, this is the only way, he told himself.

Will grunted in his sleep as the light scent of smoke drifted to his side of the tiny hold. He tried to roll over and drift back into deeper slumber, but his chain prevented it. The smoke made him cough and, slowly, he opened his eyes---just in time to see the last scrap of paper turn to ash. Will sat bolt upright, fully alert now: “What are you doing?!” He lunged futilely for the charred pages, but his chains held him back. He knew without asking which pages Jacob had just destroyed.

Jacob grinned. “I’m getting us off this boat.”

“You’re giving him the journal?” Will asked, with no small doubt that Jacob hadn’t just killed them both with his rash actions.

“I have a plan.”

*

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