The Rebellious Tide Page 5

  Pride.

  The darkness of the cabin wrapped around Sebastien while he lay in his bottom bunk. He listened to the rhythmic breathing of Ilya, a man easily seduced by sleep. It sounded like a whistle caught in the wind.

  There was a reason there were no windows in the staff quarters. B Deck was the second-lowest level of the ship, so the view would have been like looking through the glass door of a washing machine. The officers on A Deck had the privilege of living above sea level.

  Sebastien didn’t mind the confinement. It reminded him of his bedroom closet thousands of kilometres away, a protective cocoon. The darkness also helped him sleep more easily, though tonight was different.

  He pictured his father’s smiling face every time he closed his eyes. An instance of kindness was far from enough to forgive that man — hatred still simmered inside Sebastien like hot oil — but it was an unexpected crack in the image he had sculpted over the years.

  Numbed by the spinning thoughts, he rubbed his face with his palms before reaching for his phone. Blue light washed over the space around his bunk. There was one new message from Sophie. His thumb hovered over the screen, a curious hesitation, before he decided to read what she had to say.

  It was nearly identical to her previous messages, filled with “I wish” and “why can’t you.” He had sent her a brief response when he first landed in Europe, confirming that he was fine and she had nothing to worry about. He had been vague about the details. This was his burden to carry, not hers.

  Guilt pecked at him for leaving his birthday dinner so abruptly three months earlier, although a part of him also felt justified. In the end, he was grateful for what Sophie had done. She had convinced him, in her own indirect way, to take control. Just as she had said, he wasn’t going to achieve anything locked inside his apartment. She had a way of giving him what he needed. It was a power she had always possessed.

  The screen went dark as the phone shut off. He was half a world away from Petit Géant, and he wanted to keep it that way. Thinking about Sophie brought him closer to that cruel town and the memories that lived there.

  His mother gave him a disapproving look from the picture frame on the desk beside his bunk. He could see it despite the darkness. The photo had been one of her favourites. She was as young as Sebastien remembered her being, her long hair blowing loosely in the wind.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” he said in a whisper that was barely audible. “I’m here because of you.”

  The cabin walls creaked as the waves battered the hull outside. The sounds echoed throughout the ship as though it were hollow.

  When Sophie and Sebastien were eighteen and still fumbling their way toward love, they convinced their parents to come together for dinner.

  The Lamoureux and Goh families held positions on opposite poles of the town’s social sphere. Marcel and Marie Lamoureux knew Ruby as the single mother who cleaned their friends’ houses and worked as a cashier at the Prix-Mart. They didn’t approve of their daughter’s new friendship with this woman’s son, but they didn’t see themselves as the kind of people who would forbid their children from associating with those they held in lower esteem.

  The dinner was Sophie’s idea, of course. Sebastien knew what her family thought of him and his mother. A dinner party wasn’t going to change that.

  Ruby fussed over what to wear for days. “What do people like that wear to dinner?” she had asked as though Sebastien would know. She ended up choosing her favourite dress — a cheap replica of a traditional Chinese silk cheongsam that was red with gold trim.

  It was her first time in the Lamoureux family house, the largest in town. She was uncomfortable, dishing out more compliments than were needed. “What do you call these beautiful things?” she said at one point, referring to the drapes that framed the windows. Sebastien found himself embarrassed by how visibly impressed she was by things that were ordinary to everyone else.

  Sophie had spent the entire day cooking a three-course meal. The table was elaborately set. Her mother would correct them whenever they picked up the wrong piece of cutlery. “There are so many forks and spoons,” Ruby said with a nervous laugh.

  Partway through the meal, Sophie’s father boasted about his daughter’s prospects after graduation. “She’s narrowed it down to two schools, but she really could go anywhere she wants. What about you, Sebastien? What are your plans for university?”

  Sebastien looked across the table at Marcel, knowing he was aware of the answer. “I won’t be able to afford it. And I don’t like the idea of taking out a loan. I’m going to apply for a few scholarships and hope for the best.”

  “Hope for the best,” Marcel repeated before taking a sip of his wine. “What about you, Ruby? Where did you study?”

  She blushed and shook her head. “I was never the school type.”

  “The school type.” He let the words linger in the air. Sophie shot him a disapproving look but kept her mouth closed as she chewed.

  “How old were you when you gave birth to Sebastien?” Sophie’s mother chimed in.

  “Twenty-three.”

  “So young.” She looked around the table with a sympathetic expression. “It must have been very hard for you, raising him all by yourself.”

  “Yes. It was hard.” Ruby looked down at her plate. She didn’t know what she was eating.

  When they returned to their apartment after dinner, Ruby kissed him good night and went straight to her room. She sobbed quietly, trying to stifle the sound, but he could hear it through the wall.

  His face was hot as he lay in bed, agitated by how casual the condescension had been during dinner. It seemed like the evening was designed to emphasize the absurdity of the Lamoureux and Goh families sharing a meal together. He’d been prepared for pity, suspecting that Marcel and Marie viewed the invitation as an act of charity, but he hadn’t expected cruelty.

  There was something else pressing against the inside of his skull, something stronger. He didn’t want to feel this way about himself, but it was undeniable.

  Shame.

  FIVE

  Better Odds

  “How do I look?”

  Ilya examined his cabinmate with a discriminating eye. A white bedsheet was pinned around Sebastien’s waist and slung over one shoulder like a sash. A handmade crown of leafy twigs was embedded into the curls of his hair. Holding a plastic trident on loan from the theatre’s prop storeroom, he spun around in the centre of their cabin so Ilya could view all angles.

  “Like a god,” Ilya said. “What about me?”

  He wore a pleated white skirt that ended at the thigh, borrowed from one of the dancers and belted by a thick band of leather. The only article of clothing above his waist was a red cape tied around his neck by a golden tassel.

  “Like a stripper.”

  Sebastien laughed as Ilya punched him playfully in the stomach.

  They had spent the day exploring the ancient city of Palermo before returning to the ship to cobble together their last-minute costumes. The Glacier sailed eastward from the island of Sicily. It would take two full days at sea before they reached Athens, completing the eighteen-day circuit around the western Mediterranean. Once there, two thousand new guests would board for the next sailing.

  Days at sea were gruelling for the staff and crew. They meant longer hours, irritable guests, and a heightened sense of captivity. With two full sea days ahead, the most reliable way of keeping the residents of Hades from descending into madness was throwing a party.

  In contrast to the stuffy events that were held for guests on the upper decks, these gatherings were characterized by debauchery. The staff and crew’s preferred method of letting off steam involved outrageous costumes, shots of ouzo, and risky sexual behaviour.

  The crew bar that evening was transformed into a nightclub version of Mount Olympus. Flowing white curtains were draped over Ionic columns. Vines spilled out of baskets hung from the ceiling. A thin layer of artificial fog floated throu
gh the room. The decorations were borrowed from the set of the theatre’s upcoming production, a modernized retelling of Homer’s Odyssey.

  Dominating an entire wall was a gigantic mural of Zeus holding a jagged bolt of lightning. The theme for the evening was plastered across it in glittery paint: Gods & Goddesses.

  Sebastien and Ilya arrived as convincing versions of Poseidon and Heracles, impressive considering the little time they’d given themselves to prepare. The crowd in the crew bar displayed similar combinations of sheets and skin.

  “He’s wearing even less clothing than you are,” Sebastien said to Ilya, pointing to a minotaur in a fur loincloth. “Unless you count the horns on his head.”

  “We’ll see who’s more naked by the end of the night,” Ilya said with a smirk.

  A striking woman sang from a pedestal against the far wall while her Grecian gown billowed around her body. The alluring voice permeated the crowd like humidity. Sebastien knew her only by reputation. Contessa Bloor was the ship’s star. She performed five nights a week in front of crowds eager to give her standing ovations. Radiant as Medusa, her hair was braided elaborately around golden snakes.

  Kostas and his officers were clustered in front of the stage. They often came to these parties to partake in the hedonism rather than to police it. It was in their interest to allow the crew this outlet for their angst, to keep them pacified. The officers never dressed up for the parties — they didn’t want anyone forgetting who was in charge — though their uniforms were less conspicuous than usual given the profusion of white throughout the room.

  Sebastien stared at the uniformed men on the far side of the bar. “Grab me a beer, will you? I’ll be right back.”

  “As you wish, master,” Ilya said with a theatrical bow.

  Contessa’s song came to an end, and the officers cheered loudly from the base of the stage — all but Giorgos. He stood with his arms crossed over his chest and eyes fixed intensely on the woman in the spotlight.

  Sebastien weaved through the sea of togas toward the stage. He hadn’t seen his father since the previous night, when he’d tumbled down the staircase in the atrium. Now that the initial contact had been made, he felt bolder. This could be another chance to speak with him. It was a party, after all.

  Kostas stood near the centre of the white-suited crowd, the gold stripes on his shoulders glinting beneath the spotlights aimed at Contessa. Sebastien couldn’t get a good view through the mob of officers, but he’d already learned to recognize the shape of his father’s hair and the proud angles of the man’s stance. Standing at the edge of the crowd, he watched as Kostas pulled aside a younger officer. They retreated to a quieter, darker corner of the party. Sebastien followed close behind, trying to be discreet, despite apologizing for every jostled shoulder and stomped foot.

  He sidled along the wall, stationing himself at a high-top table where he could hear his father’s voice. It was more hushed than usual, though still heavy with authority.

  Sebastien cursed under his breath when he realized he didn’t understand their words. They were speaking Greek. It looked like Kostas was delivering orders of some kind, but the younger officer’s narrowed eyes and tight lips hinted reluctance. The two men looked in the same direction, trying to spot something, or someone, in the crowded room.

  They turned to face each other. Sebastien watched as Kostas reached inside his white jacket, retrieving what looked like a small paper envelope. The younger officer hesitated before accepting it and shoving it into his pants’ pocket. Kostas said a few brusque words, gave him a nod, and disappeared into the crowd.

  Sebastien didn’t know what he had just seen, but the officer didn’t seem pleased. His thick brows pulled toward each other above eyes that couldn’t stop darting from side to side. He coughed into a closed fist, then headed through the mass of bodies.

  The air was dense with artificial fog and cigarette smoke as Sebastien followed the officer’s close-cropped hair. Contessa’s voice boomed through the speakers, this song livelier than the last. The dance floor was a blur of skin and loosening fabric that pulsated to the beat of the music.

  The young officer reached a counter slick with spilled liquid. Glasses went up and down in an endless choreography of flexing arms. He prowled over to a group from the cabin-cleaning crew. They had their backs to the officer, laughing and shouting while one of them told a story with erratic hand movements.

  Clearly nervous, the officer leaned against the counter in a pose that was meant to appear casual. With a quick scan around and a shake of the wrist, he emptied the contents of the little envelope into a glass filled with clear liquid. The powder formed a white cloud before dissolving into nothing. He buried his hands in his pockets and slunk away.

  We need to deal with him.

  The words Sebastien had overheard Giorgos speak the previous night echoed through his memory. Recalling Kostas’s response sent a shiver along his skin.

  What do you propose we do? Throw him overboard?

  One of the Filipino men in the group reached for the glass with the invisible substance. His hair was styled like Elvis Presley’s from the 1950s. The top three buttons of his linen shirt were undone, revealing a small gold crucifix that dangled from a thin chain around his neck.

  Sebastien hurried over to him. “Hey, buddy!” he said loudly, locking their hands together. He smiled widely and lowered his voice. “Just pretend you know who I am.”

  The man’s confused expression transformed into a laugh as he wrapped his arms around Sebastien. “What’s going on?” he asked, playing along.

  “Put down your glass. Don’t drink it.”

  The artificial smile on his face faltered. “Why? It’s only water.”

  “Don’t look, but there’s an officer watching about twenty feet behind you. I saw him spike your drink with something.”

  “Fucking malákas.” The man shook his head. “I should have known.”

  “Why are they after you?”

  He tapped his knuckles against the countertop and glanced at the floor. “Look, I appreciate you warning me. But the less you know, the better.”

  “Tell me what’s going on,” Sebastien said.

  “Whatever you do, don’t tell anyone what you saw.” He walked away, the glass still held in his hand. Sebastien watched him pour the tainted water into a garbage bin.

  “There you are.” Ilya appeared with two bottles. “I’ve been searching for you everywhere.”

  “Sorry,” Sebastien said, taking one of the bottles. They clinked the glass necks together before tilting them into their mouths. He looked past Ilya’s shoulder. The young officer with the close-cropped hair was no longer there. “Something strange is going on.”

  “How do you know Dominic?”

  “Dominic?”

  “Filipino Elvis. The guy you were just talking to.”

  “That’s the thing. I just saw —”

  He was interrupted by a sharp voice that pierced the drone of conversation around them. Everyone at the counter turned to see what was causing the commotion.

  In a nearby corner, partially hidden by a white curtain draped from the ceiling, were two people Sebastien recognized but had never seen together. Diya, the curly-haired blackjack dealer he’d met his first night on board, held her hands defensively in front of herself while Giorgos, the deck commander with the unsmiling face, towered over her.

  The surrounding chatter went quiet long enough for them to hear her words.

  “Back off,” she said, her tone blunt as a lead pipe.

  Even beneath the dim lighting, the anger was evident in the tight muscles of Giorgos’s face. “Who do you think you are, speaking to me like that?”

  “You’re vile.” She spat out the words like venom.

  An indignant noise spread through the crowd as Giorgos grabbed Diya by the wrist. She grunted, trying to twist out of his grip. When it was clear he wasn’t letting go, she pounded on his chest with her fist. He yanked her by the arm
until she fell to her knees, her white dress twisted around her legs.

  “Let her go!” Sebastien demanded.

  There were scattered shouts in Diya’s defence, but nobody stepped forward to help her. Their fingers itched to act, weight shifting forward in their bodies, but something stopped them. The uniform Giorgos wore acted like a fortified wall. It symbolized the height between his station and theirs.

  Giorgos glanced at the few dozen people watching the scene unfold. He was clearly humiliated by the unwanted attention, but he refused to let go of Diya’s wrist. Sebastien was shaking, unsure of what to do. He looked around frantically: everyone was in a similar state of conflict. Even Ilya, normally not one to think before acting, was frozen.

  For a moment it appeared as though nobody would be willing to stand up to the commander. Then one man came forward.

  “Get your hands off of her.” Dominic’s order was delivered with authority, despite his smaller size and status. His glare didn’t waver as it fixed itself on Giorgos’s eyes, which hovered several inches above.

  “Do you know who you’re speaking to?” Contempt simmered in Giorgos’s low voice. “You jungle rat.”

  The surrounding crowd erupted with rumbles of disgust. Diya seized the distraction to wrench herself from his grip. Her hand flew through the air and landed against the commander’s cheek like a paddle on the surface of a lake. The sound rang through that corner of the room, and it was followed by a stunned silence. Everyone’s expression reflected the one on Giorgos’s face.

  Before anyone could act, his palm swiped forward and struck Diya’s left ear. Her head jolted to the side against the blow.

  Dominic lunged, seizing Giorgos by the lapels of his uniform. They pushed and pulled, clenched in each other’s arms. Dominic twisted to one side, throwing the commander onto a table filled with empty glasses. With a roar, Giorgos picked himself up and leapt forward. The two men wrestled across the floor, colliding into stools and tables, as onlookers stepped back to make way for them. Sebastien jumped in and tried to pry them apart until Giorgos fended him off with a punch to the chest. Soon Giorgos and Dominic were entangled in the white curtain that hung from the ceiling, their limbs flailing as they tumbled to the floor.