The Edge of Lost by Kristina McMorris Read Free Book Online Page A

braced himself for the boy to come charging over, for the girl to blush with embarrassment. But in a split second he heard the door swing open and immediately shut. The couple must have taken the noise for that of a crewman, or maybe a ghost, causing them to flee.
    That was Shan’s assumption until more voices entered the air. No one had left; rather, more had joined, and all were speaking Italian. Shan was familiar with the accent when used in English, but not the language itself.
    Soon, talk turned to laughter, a threatening sort, followed by a thud.
    Far more careful this time, Shan raised his head for a peek through the shelves. There were three more Italian boys in their late teenage years. Two of them had pinned the original fellow against a wall, his face now in view as he struggled to break free. He was fourteen at most. Shan had seen him on board from a distance, gambling with dice under the stairs and smoking on the lower deck, a sooty area reserved for steerage. He had a grand charm about him, clearly not missed by the girls. Perhaps not even by those who were already spoken for.
    Shan discounted this as the issue, however, when the girl held out her palm and the fourth fellow filled it with coins.
    “Ciao, Niccolò,” she said, and blew a kiss toward the boy she had baited. His eyes, even in the low light, flared with betrayal. As soon as she slipped out, the leader of the gang fisted his hands. He gave a snarling smile before pounding away on Niccolò. Twice to the face, the same to the gut.
    Shan yearned to help, but what could he do? From the handful of times he’d defended himself against scrappers in Dublin, along with the dozens of pub brawls he’d witnessed, he knew how to throw a punch. But there were three here to take on and he was the smallest of the group.
    Then the leader pulled a knife. He moved closer to Niccolò and held it between their faces. Niccolò took in a sharp breath, but then pushed out his square chin, a dare—even as the blade hovered over his throat.
    Panicking, Shan scoured his thoughts for a plan. He tightened his grasp on the flashlight.
    The flashlight … meant for the crew …
    His gaze shot to a box at the end of the row. It was the size of a small crate. Like so many stages he had performed upon. Could it really work?
    Among the shadowed shelves before him, he found a kitchen worker’s hat. No time to search for something better. Donning the cap, he prayed his scheme wouldn’t fail, or he might be tossed off the ship after all. In quick succession he stepped onto the box, flicked on the flashlight, pointed at the Italians’ faces, and ordered in a low British tone, “You there! Stop what you’re doing.”
    All eyes snapped toward the beam, squinting. It was clear the fellows were puzzled by the presence of a stranger suddenly in the room. From another door perhaps?
    At the possibility that they might investigate, Shan’s nerves rose like a rash. He hastened to add, “This area is strictly prohibited! Give me your names this instant.”
    They appeared to understand. One of them nudged the leader, who threw Niccolò to the floor, and the trio scrambled into the hall.
    Thank heavens.
    Niccolò coughed as he pushed himself to rise, trying to scurry out.
    “Wait, don’t go.” Shan switched to his natural brogue, but with a tremble from his jitters. “You’re safe now. Don’t you see?” He shined the flashlight straight up under his chin, wishing he could say it in Italian.
    Niccolò watched as Shan hopped off the box and added, “I thought you could use some help.” He slowed down and exaggerated his speech. “You understand what I’m saying? Help .”
    The start of a smile stretched Niccolò’s lips, the bottom one swelling. He used the back of his hand to wipe blood from the corner of his mouth. “Oh, I got that part. Just a little shocked how you pulled that off.”
    Shan looked at him, stunned. After all, the fellow’s olive skin and brown deep-set eyes