Chapter 12
TWELVE
M o was elated that Kent agreed to his idea. If Mo couldn’t become human, the only way for them to truly live together freely would be out at sea. He still wanted to try, however, to see if there was a way for him to gain legs. But by the looks of things now, they weren’t making any progress. Kent found nothing in his reading that they didn’t already know, and the mermaid he met, Pazi, had no insight either. Perhaps there was a sailor who knew, who could help them out.
Mo didn’t doubt that sailors would let him onto their ship, if Pazi said they let her on board. He probably could’ve gone aboard the few ships he’d encountered in the past, if only he’d just asked, now that he thought about it.
But there was one other thought—his Song. He still hadn’t once mentioned it to Kent. Thankfully he hadn’t felt its pull for quite some time, but what would happen out at sea? What if the Song came knocking—how would Mo explain his physical reaction to the magic without coming forward with the truth? Would Kent be appalled at how much destruction he could cause? How many lives he’d already taken? Or would he understand since they’d already talked about sirens, how the magic was an inherent ancient part of merfolk, of himself, how it consumed his very core until he unleashed it?—?
No. He could take control of it.
He could prove to Kent, and to himself, that he wasn’t merely a bloodthirsty monster.
The next day, Mo swam back over to the docks. Portsmouth, he remembered Kent called the place. It was a warm summer day, sunlight bouncing back on the short waves almost blindingly. Plenty of people were congregating by the water, yet not nearly as many as the day the large ship docked, which Mo took note of. Many folks probably were out and about to enjoy the sun on private boats, or others were perhaps taking smaller vessels out for close-distance travel. A few larger ships sat in a stationary position tied to the docks, and Mo wondered when they would go out on another seafaring adventure. Perhaps one of these ships Kent could board…?
He swam further into the inlet, peeping only his eyes out above the surface of the water, and he found the same tall ship with the mermaid figurehead from before. He remembered, vaguely, the captain mentioned they’d be setting sail soon. How soon was soon? Would they require Kent’s help? No, he said he’d want a surgeon position. And Mo remembered quite clearly the bickering of the sailors, where he first heard the word ‘surgeon’.
As he continued to explore, he found a couple men standing on another dock to a smaller, personal craft. Mo hid underneath the boards of the dock and eavesdropped on their conversation, his ears above the water, gentle waves lapping at the underside of his chin. If he wanted to get anywhere with helping Kent, he needed to listen closely…
“Harris, shouldn’t you be packing? We’re leaving for Massachusetts in less than a week!”
Harris? Where have I heard that name before?
He wished he could see them, but he continued to hide out of their sight.
“I travel light, mind you. I don’t have many personal possessions of importance other than my fishing rod and my own body. Which, by all means, has not been satisfied the way I’d like this entire stay back. The lasses of the new world are much, much finer than English wenches.”
“Don’t you dare spit like that—the ladies in the colonies are just as English as you are. Besides, your own mother is English, isn’t she?”
“She’s been dead for over two decades. I’m a man of my own right, a man of the sea. I’ll assist the men and help myself to the lasses wherever I see fit, Davies. Why are you even pestering me like you are now?”
Davies. Mo had heard that name before, too.
“Because I’m boatswain of The Sterling Mer and just doing my job to ensure you don’t get yourself into too much trouble. I saw you out here while inspecting the ship.”
That was an interesting name: The Sterling Mer. Mo assumed that meant the name of the ship they came from, especially how it matched with the mermaid figurehead, and he chuckled softly at how funny it was for a boat to be named after merfolk.
“I’m merely enjoying the time I have before I return as surgeon. I won’t be long, Davies, so you can get your head out of your arse and stop worrying because all I’m doing is some leisurely fishing. I wouldn’t dare leave my position and you know it.”
“Yes, I know it far too well.” Mo could only imagine the eyeroll Davies gave.
Wait.
Surgeon.
A deep rumbling festered in Mo’s chest. Swirling, swirling, swirling. Pressure pulsed, in and out, in and out.
If Mo were to eliminate Harris, that would free up the space…
The magic moved up his lungs and tightened around his neck. A sensation of water filled his throat, expanding, expanding, expanding. His throat felt too tight; he reached both hands to clasp around his neck, an ill attempt to lessen the painful pressure building.
—Release it. You know what you have to do ? —
It’d been over a moon since he’d last used his Song. What better time to use it than now? If he killed Harris, who would that benefit? Himself, the crew members, and especially, Kent.
If Kent took his place as surgeon, then we could…
Mo heard footsteps on the planks above reaching the small boat, and he ducked his head underwater to avoid being seen. The boat bobbed from the weight of the man climbing aboard, down and up, and Mo waited patiently for it to begin moving. Each moment that passed tugged harder at his chest, harder at his throat.
Slowly, the boat drifted away from the docks. Wooden paddles dipped into the water, over and over, pushing it along above him in the blue expanse. Mo wasn’t sure how far out Harris was planning to row it, but if he were planning to go fishing, he’d need to go out far enough for a proper spot. Mo could see for himself that not many fish congregated in the waters near land.
His heart banged restlessly as he trailed the craft, further into open waters. This would be a first. He’d never sung the Song to a singular person before—only to large ships with crews of dozens of people. But this was for the best. He was manipulating how he used the Song, for how he saw fit. This was exactly what he wanted.
He wanted control .
Once the boat was quite a distance out, the movement stopped. The oars were pulled back inside, and the craft rocked gently over Mo’s head. Should he breach the surface again? It was tempting, with how every beat of his heart pumped the magic through his veins. The boat bobbed once more, boards creaking, waves swaying, fish swimming around scattering.
Thump, thump, thump.
His hands ached, claws extracted, like knives tearing through his fingertips.
What am I waiting for?
Mo creeped around the edge of the craft, finding the backside of it, and slowly rose his head, only his eyes peeping out of the water. Harris didn’t notice him yet, thankfully, and Mo looked around. They really were quite a ways away—land was merely a distant strip laying against the water, ships at the docks small like starfish.
This was good.
He rose gently above the surface, water lapping around his chest.
The human had his back to him, messing with something inside a box, whispering curses as he fumbled around with his hands.
“Harris.”
It was the first time he ever addressed one of the Song’s audience by name.
“What? Who goes there?”
Harris frantically turned his head, left and right, shaking the boat, his brown hair flailing behind him in a queue. He dropped whatever was in his hands, hitting the edge of the box with a thwack . “Who the devil would be out here?” he shouted. “I swear I heard something?—”
“You did. Over here, Harris.”
The human turned in his seat.
Meeting Mo eye to eye.
“Ahoy there.”
“Who the hell are you?!” Harris’s brows were furrowed, mouth agape. “Am I imagining things? I came out here all by myself. How are you in the water? Did you get shipwrecked?”
Mo simply shrugged. “I’m a rather good swimmer.”
“Rather good, huh? But—how in the world do you know my name?”
“That’s not important.” The magic of the Song filled his throat, coating it, soaking it. “ Nothing will matter anymore. ”
Mo began to sing.
He sang not words, but a melody of oo’s and ahh’s , rising in pitch gradually in a gentle crescendo. It was the same tune he sang every time, one he didn’t learn , but came to him naturally. The inherent gift of the Siren’s Song was one he was born with, something he instinctively knew how to use when the moment was right.
Harris’s eyes flashed, almost glowing for a brief moment, halting all his movements as soon as the first note hit his ears. From the instant Mo started his Song, the human’s awareness was fading. Crumbling. He was no longer his own person, but now bent to the will of the siren. A siren who wished to see him die, to see his blood in the water, however he deemed fit.
Oftentimes, Mo dictated to the humans to destroy their ship, making it fall, seeing it sink. But today that wasn’t necessary. He merely needed Harris out of the way—out of Kent’s way. Yes, this is why I’m doing it. This is right. His Song continued, hitting a dazzling high note in an incredible falsetto. And the human leant over the edge of the craft, closer to Mo, reaching his hands out with a blank, soulless expression in his eyes?—
He tumbled out of the boat, crashing with a heavy splash into the water.
Mo pulled on Harris’s wrist, dragging him further and further into the depths, away from the surface. What happened to the boat didn’t matter; it could float away, wash up ashore, or sink for all he cared. The human in his grasp was his sole focus, and Mo tugged him through the water, still singing, passing by scurrying schools of fish. Rays of sunlight pierced the water in strips of gold, highlighting the man’s skin, his dull face. He made no effort to resist, almost no movement at all. Harris was completely paralyzed from the Song.
Mo smiled devilishly, magic pulsating through his body?—
Thump, thump, thump.
Mo lunged forward, opening his jaw, sinking his fangs into the human’s neck. He bit down, hard, tearing at the flesh, ripping a chunk away from Harris’s body. He kept at it—teeth, tongue, and claws. He scratched and tore through the man’s clothing over his chest. Blood, oh, that beautiful blood crept away from the wounds, floating around in clouds of crimson red. The sight fulfilled something deep inside Mo. The pleasure rumbled inside his veins, waves flowing through to the ends of his fingertips. So light, so satisfying, so utterly delightful.
I am in control.
After that phenomenal last encounter with Mo, Kent set his sights to look around Portsmouth for a new job. He wandered around riding on Biscuit’s back, checking bulletin boards around the town and listening in where he could for any leads. He stopped in at a few pubs, loitered around the boatyard, accepted some handbills people gave, keeping an ear out. Mo told him he would be helping too, so hopefully there would be an opening for him somewhere.
As light was turning to dusk, Kent found nothing he considered useful. Biscuit guided them both on the journey home, stopping occasionally for a short breather. Kent hadn’t told any of his family yet, but he figured he could once he did land a position on a ship, making the decision on his own, not giving into the whims of people who might try to convince him otherwise. His family would understand. Katherine especially, since she was the one who knew all the details about Mo. However, his father needed to be taught a lesson, a very important one: just because he was Kent’s parent did not mean he needed to control every aspect of his life for him. And what better way to teach him that than to take matters into his own hands, leaving home on an adventure? What could be more perfect than that?
As another day came, Kent went back to Portsmouth once more in search of his goal. He made sure to treat Biscuit well, pampering her for all the walking, storing extra treats in his coat pockets. He hoped they could still make it back to Stubbington in time for sunset to meet Mo again, so they set out early, sun shining above high in the sky. The brim of his tricorn hat shielded his face from the blinding light.
Kent found his way into a tavern by the pier after lunch hour, after the rush of food when people would stay lingering around to gossip. With Biscuit hitched outside, he slid indoors and ordered an ale, finding a spot at a table to himself. It was somewhat near the front entrance by the windows, facing the crowds—a fine spot to eavesdrop, or catch any comings and goings.
However, it wasn’t long before someone caught his attention, or more specifically, he caught theirs.
“Lord Fareham? Lord Fareham, is that you?”
He perked up, setting his cup down after a sip. “Yes, that’s me. You are…”
The clean-shaven man with long, dark brunet hair wearing a tricorn hat nodded, walking up to his table. He looked to be slightly older than Kent, possibly in his mid-thirties. “Charles Davies, your lordship. We met at the barber-surgeon last week. Thank you still, for the wonderful cut and trim. Being out at sea, my hair certainly needed some pampering.”
“Yes, I remember now. You’re very welcome, Mr Davies. I’m glad it serves you well.” He smiled.
“Just Davies is fine.” He didn’t smile back. Instead, he looked nervous, glancing down and fiddling with his sleeve.
“And just Fareham is fine with me, too. Was something the matter? Here, have a seat.” He gestured to the open chair on the other side of the table. Davies nodded again, and sat down.
“Yes, something’s terribly the matter. It’s a wonder bumping into you here, actually, and I figure, perhaps you could help me? Not just me, but the whole crew of my ship, that is.”
His crew? Kent’s heart rate quickened at the mention. “What is wrong?”
“So, our ship, The Sterling Mer, is set to sail for Fall River, Massachusetts in five days. But one of our crew members, the surgeon Harris, has mysteriously disappeared. Gone. Vanished.”
“What?” Kent’s breath hitched. “Wha—how?”
“Not really sure how, or what the devil even happened. Last time anyone saw him was yesterday, and that was by me. He said he wanted to spend some time fishing and he rented a rowboat from the wharf over here. I said, fine, sure, what have you. Figured he would just be out for a while and then come back, if he really was merely fishing. But he never showed up to the inn last night according to the other lads, and when I checked this morning at the wharf, apparently he never returned his boat.”
“Seriously? Do you think he took the boat and fled, then?”
“The bastard had nothing on him! Definitely not enough shillings to get himself very far, with what the lads told me was left at the inn. Unless he had some master plan up his sleeve to leave us all, not telling a soul about it. But still, he reassured me, right before he left, he wouldn’t dare leave his position on The Sterling Mer . Captain Brooks treats him a little too well for his own good, if you ask me. Leaving that luxury seems like a rather stupid idea, even for him , you know? What I think is the more likely case is that he got shipwrecked, lost at sea, not that he fled from us.”
“I suppose it is possible…”
A mystery was suddenly at hand. What could have happened to this man, Harris? Going out on the water, suddenly disappearing, possibly even dead? Kent didn’t remember the weather being terribly bad yesterday; he was out and about himself. And if Harris were out on a rowboat , he couldn’t have gone far, into dangerous waters. It sounded more like foul play, if he wouldn’t have fled willingly. But who around Portsmouth would seek out and murder such a man…?
Perhaps it wasn’t a man who was the culprit . Now that Kent knew of their existence, it could’ve well been?—
A siren.
Should he bring that up as a possibility, though? What if Davies didn’t believe him? Kent didn’t want to come off as a complete nodcock, talking nonsense when there very likely was a more plausible explanation for the surgeon’s disappearance.
“Either way,” said Davies, “what happened to Harris or how he disappeared isn’t really the problem. Might’ve just been a rogue wave that capsized him, I don’t know. What the real matter is—now The Sterling Mer is without a surgeon. Five days before we’re to set off again! If that whoreson doesn’t show his face around these parts… Excuse my language, your lordship. I never liked the man.” Kent gave him a nod. “But anyway, we are to sail across the Atlantic and back, a trip that takes about two to three months round trip. Captain Brooks is at sixes and sevens wondering what to do. We can’t be out at sea that long missing such a vital part of the crew in case of injury, you know. The captain would be loath to delay our trip; we’ve important medicine to deliver to New England. Which is why I thought it was such a coincidence to run into you—someone with connections at the barber-surgeon—you wouldn’t happen to know someone looking for work who could fill Harris’s place on such short notice, do you?”
“Yes, me.”
The words came out all too quickly.
This was exactly the opportunity he was looking for. How was it possible that it stumbled directly into his lap?
“ You , Fareham?” Davies’s eyes widened, brows shooting up to the brim of his hat. “No, you don’t have to. I was simply wondering if you knew of someone?—”
“I’ve been looking for work on a ship, though. Take me with you.”
“B-but you’re a noble! You’re to inherit an earldom, are you not? Your father is the Earl of Fareham. You need to stay here in England…”
“Bugger that. Excuse my language as well, Davies, but I don’t expect my father to die in the next few months. He’s perfectly alive and well, and I see him that way for many years to come. And I’m a grown man. I can do what I want with my own life. I’m tired of feeling like I have no control over it.”
Davies sat silent for a moment. Hands on the table, mouth parted slightly. Dishes clinked in the background, and the front door creaked as another patron entered the pub.
“Well, then.” Davies swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing against his cravat. And then—he smiled. “How can I say no to that? That sounds wonderful to me. Are you sure your family will allow it?”
“They should. I’ve thought about this all quite a lot before you happened upon me, and what a coincidence that was.” Kent couldn’t help but chuckle. “And you said it was round trip—we’re not to stay in the colonies, but come back, right?”
“Yes, exactly. That is the job of The Sterling Mer —she’s a merchant vessel. I suppose if need be, that means if you wish to stay in England after this shipment, you may, and we could find a more permanent surgeon afterward. It is rather dangerous work, I warn you. Anything can happen out at sea. Are you sure you’re up for it?”
Kent smiled, full of glee. “I’m sure.”
He held his hand out, and Davies took it, giving it a rewarding shake.
“I’ll discuss it with the captain. And you can let us know if you still decide to change your mind, but I doubt you will. You sound quite confident.” He smirked. “The crew is to meet at this pub again tomorrow evening, so I shall see you then. Bring your passport and we’ll prepare some papers for you to sign. Welcome to The Sterling Mer , Fareham.”