Chapter 9
Chapter nine
Killian
She was worried about him. I should have known she knows James.
After all, she is forced to live in Peter’s castle.
James lives there freely. Porcelain shatters against the wall of the Captain’s quarters.
I should have never lost my cool like that.
He passed out because of it, and I would have killed him if she hadn’t topped me.
Another glass shatters against the wood, the shards crunching beneath my boots, but they do nothing to stop the pacing.
I should go to him again, bring him his dinner.
I am not like Peter. I don’t kill, strangle, and hurt for the hell of it.
My morals shifted after I lost her, but I have some left.
My feet drag, embedding the glass and porcelain deeper into the wood.
I touch the cool copper; the ridges, and edges pressing into the palm of my hand normally soothe me.
Not today. The crunching is back as I make my way to my porthole to watch the sun sink into the sea, bleeding out, plunging the world in darkness.
Tomorrow, I will go to him. He wouldn’t want me to.
I don’t necessarily love the idea of facing him again either.
But I am the captain of this ship. I was the one who said I wanted to kidnap Peter’s new mate.
Now I will be the one to carry this responsibility, both in caring for the stubborn human, and solving the problem that will arise if Peter never comes for his new toy.
I was naive, both in thinking Peter would care enough for any of his mates to come for them. And to think James would, after a mere seventy-two hours of being without his mate, see the truth about Peter and join us.
The cork comes free with an audible plop, sounding almost loud in the unnatural quiet on the Obsidian Oath.
I pull it out between my teeth. I need the rum to numb my senses, to quiet the thoughts racing around in my mind.
They always do after she visits, but today, it’s even worse.
With her pity for James, and James jumping up to kill her.
My attention refocuses on the sting in my neck, the skin of the cut pulling taut.
He didn’t just try to kill Tinkerbell, he tried to kill me too.
He has fire in him; I will give him that.
He just needs the balls to follow through on his threats, and I will make damn sure he doesn’t grow a pair here.
Hours later, the sun is gone and so is the rum. I wish I had the metabolism of a human. I have never seen one able to handle a full bottle of rum. For me, it numbed the pain, hushed some thoughts running rampant in my brain. Not all of it, though. Never all of it. Hopefully, it’s enough to sleep.
Damp sheets tangle around my legs, binding me to the bed.
Thick strands of clumped-together curls rest in my neck and the feeling is grating on me.
Every brush of thick hair against my neck makes me shiver.
Turns out the rum was far from enough. Now I am overheated too, and there is no way I can sleep like this.
What I need is another bottle of rum and the cold sea breeze cooling my body down.
Sighing, I climb out of bed, shaking my legs to free my feet from the silken restraints.
The above deck wood is slippery and cold with seawater beneath my bare feet.
Wind has picked up now, nipping at my feet like a horde of sharp teeth gnash weasels, protecting their lairs from unsuspecting fae walking the woods, where they live.
The cold wakes me up, fully, the tingling of my skin feels invigorating.
I easily climb to the crow’s nest, pure muscle memory.
I don’t need to pay attention climbing up.
I use the time to take in the open seas around me.
Small ripples in the water distort the reflection of the stars.
When you look at the oceans now, all you see is calm, a peaceful quiet.
But below the surface, the real power lies unseen, riptides that can kill you in an instant.
Monsters sleeping in the shadows waiting for a prey to devour.
The ocean is no crueler mistress than her sister, earth.
The ocean is more honest in her dangers.
Earth, and not just the human realm, but the soil, the land of all nine realms, houses people.
And people are the true monsters, and they stay hidden longer, more skillful than any of the beasts of the ocean do.
In the ocean, the deeper you go, the ghastlier the beasts are. On land? The higher the rank, the higher their so-called morality, the darker the shadows are. And I should know.
“Prince Killian, your father wishes to see you.” I sigh as the servant comes to fetch me for my father.
I planned to set sail with Princess Celeste this afternoon, but one does not simply refuse the King of the Dark Water Fae.
“Yes, Yes, go now,” I tell the servant, despite knowing that the poor lass did not deserve the brunt of my frustration.
My frustration has reached a tipping point.
. We pay her well enough for the job, so she can deal with our family being snippy with her from time to time.
She isn’t burdened with the crown, after all.
She is free to go home at the end of the day and live her life as she pleases.
A luxury I do not have. At 219 years old, I am summoned by my father’s servant like an obstinate child.
My soft leather-clad feet barely make a sound on the black marble floor.
I visited realms, races where one can stomp one’s feet.
An expression of frustration, of emotions, that like so many other simple things, fae do not indulge in.
“Father.” My tone is cold, curt, as I sit down, one of the few possibilities I have left to express my displeasure.
“Son, your time to take over is coming closer. You need to be more active. You can no longer hide, taking pretty young women and men on the Obsidian Oath with you for the entire day, fooling around. The prince of the sixth realm reached out.”
More boring politics, like my time as the king is upon us.
I am only 219; I would be 19 or 20 in the sixth realm.
I am unsure they would even want me to discuss matters, as so precarious they only ever reach out to us for help.
An argument I made countless times before, and every time I mentioned it, it fell on deaf ears.
Six years later, I am no longer a crown prince.
Maybe I still am, at least in title, back home in the fifth realm.
But here in Silvermist, here in the eighth realm, I am nothing but a scoundrel, a kidnapping, plundering, pirate.
And yet, I still have higher morals here than I had back home.
Until today, when I let an overindulged human get to me.
Slowly, I make my way down, now ready to sleep, with this new clarity.
I was just tired today, and it frayed my control.
Tomorrow it will all be different.
Hours later as I wake up, the silk sheets are yet again wrapped around my ankles like restraints.
My sleep has been much more fitful than I would like to admit.
The light filtering into the room after I open the curtains is still soft and golden.
I have the time to bathe before I need to face my responsibilities again.
Last night’s memory still lingers in my mind, as I watch the spice scented bubbles glide down the ink on my arms. Yet another thing father will hate, yet another thing I think she will love.
Another I cannot ask her about. More accurately, I can, I just won’t understand her answer, not when it comes out sounding like a swarm of angry wasps.
Every time I see Celeste, all these emotions are brought up.
Every time she visits, my nights are restless, my dreams are filled with father’s chastising and mother’s chiding.
I love when she visits. It is the fact she has to go back to that castle, as Tinkerbell instead of Celeste, that still knocks the air from my lungs every time I am faced with that truth.
The truth about the limitations put upon the girl that would make me smile no matter how overwhelming the darkness.
The crew knows, so they won’t ask questions when I look tired.
They will ignore the puffy darkened skin underneath my eyes.
They will think it is just from seeing Celeste again.
It suits me well. I do not particularly care for them to know that James Barington, a simple human who fell for Peter’s tricks, made it worse.
I will go visit him first thing after my bath.
I will offer James a bath too. He freshened up with the bucket and clothes we offered him the first morning.
A small offering after being dragged through the woods.
I do not need him to like me. I hate him.
He is everything I despise. However, life will be easier if he stops fighting me at every turn.
Not just for me, but for the crew as well.
There was a lot I was expecting when I opened the door to the cabin that serves as James’ makeshift cell.
But what I see doesn’t match my expectations.
He’s barely glancing at the door to see who is coming in.
Because his eyes are glued back to the porthole.
Like the last minutes of sunrise have him hypnotized.
“You must have missed the sunrise. Yet another thing Peter has taken from you. Do you see it yet, or do you still believe he is the hero in your story?” Waves crushing against the hull whisper the only answer.
James’s silence is all I need to know. It was foolish of me to think that taking his necklace from him would mean he would instantly see the truth.
Peter’s magic is more powerful than that.