Caelan, on the other hand, was in his element. He prowled the deck with a loose, confident stride, a swagger that was both infuriating and strangely compelling. He barked orders at the crew, not with the gruff authority of Captain Joric, but with a reckless, infectious energy that they seemed to respond to. He was a temporary king on this floating heap of splintered wood and desperation, and he was reveling in it.
He paused at the railing near her, looking out at the dark, churning water. The pendant at his neck was no longer glowing, the angry red light having faded to a dull, inert black.
"The scrambler's spent," he said, more to himself than to her. "Good. The thing gives me a headache." He then turned to look at her, a speculative glint in his amber eyes. "How are you holding up, my dear alibi? Not feeling seasick, are you?"
She just glared at him, her lips pressed into a thin, tight line.
