Zagreb earthquake caused $6 billion of damage: minister Israel deal protects Bahrain's interests amid Iran threat, minister says

Angie motioned toward apartment number 305. Mrs. Hernandez always comes out around nine to walk her dog. Dogs barking and a woman screaming in Spanish is quite the sight to wake up to.

Give us the prince and kindred, and we’ll leave, Captain Loc replies.Behind me, Ashwin is stony, but I read him as well as he does one of his books. I turn to Captain Loc. The prince and I stay.

Captain Loc goes on, unruffled. Kindred, your husband requires your presence.I throw a warning heatwave at his ship. The Voider is not my husband. My fire glances along their bow, scorching a line across the hull. Men dive away from the path of my fury. Captain Loc ducks behind the rail and rises again.An exquisite chill, akin to delight, empowers me. The raiders fear my abilities.

And well they should.But Captain Loc does not direct his crew to retreat. My impatience surges. Go away.

Flames fly from my hands, high across the water, their centers white and their edges a strange pale green. My heatwave hits the vessel’s mast and burns its flag. Captain Loc summons a pillar of water to extinguish the fire and then raises snakelike streams from the sea and aims them at me.

I stand ready, bolder with Chitt at my side than I would be alone. The navy vessels race closer, moments away. Should the raiders engage us, they will have to engage their entire fleet.Am I wrong? Should we stop searching for the prince?

I look to Deven for his opinion as a captain, as my guard, as the man I love. He gazes at the burning temple, his eyes pained. Since he removed his soldier uniform and put on a plain tunic and trousers, his attention often drifts elsewhere, lost in thought. Before Rajah Tarek died, he charged Deven with treason and stripped his command for helping me aid the rebels in their attack on Vanhi. But Deven’s only mistake was siding with me.What should we do, Captain? Brac inquires.

Deven flinches into focus, cringing every time someone uses his title. He scrubs a hand over his dark beard. His facial hair is scruffier than when he wore the crisp lines of his scarlet uniform, and the ends of his hair are longer, curling out from beneath his turban. His pause lasts longer than usual for his decisive nature. He has come all this way in pursuit of our new leader, and his hesitancy puzzles me.Son? Mathura presses.