4. Chapter Four
Chapter Four
M y breathing quickens as I try to step back, the railing biting into my spine.
The man in front of me radiates danger and something I can’t quite name.
Wet black hair clings to his face, framing kohl-rimmed eyes as grey as the sea surrounding us.
By the way those eyes narrow on me, I can tell he would toss me over the rail without hesitation should I try to escape – or fight.
“What, swallowed your tongue?” he taunts.
I open my mouth in anticipation of biting back, but no words come.
I clench my fingers into a fist at my side, half out of frustration, half in preparation for throwing a punch.
Normally, I can always escape. There‘s always a little alley I can sneak into, a wall I can climb.
But not here, the drop from the balcony is sure to bring me to my end.
No, if I wish to be free of him, I am going to have to confront the tall, muscled man before me.
A wicked grin spreads across his face as he closes the door with an eerily calm movement, though I know it only masks the darkness behind it.
He knows I am no threat to him, and he knows I cannot escape unless I let the sea take me.
Drowning is a miserable way to go, for the sea is as vicious as it is generous.
One can never truly know the nature of its intentions.
“How did you find me?” I manage, grabbing the railing behind me.
“Oh, darling. You thought you could hide from me on my ship?” His grin widens. “I thought you might enjoy a little game of hide-and-seek before I lock you up, so I asked Saint to force you from your hiding spot.”
He folds his arms in front of his broad chest, pulling the fabric of his shirt taut.
“Our cabin boy Lark told me all about you, and what you did to him. Poor boy thinks you’re a sea witch.
” His gaze drops to my collarbones and my arms, where scales glint faintly in the weak sunlight that makes it through the dense clouds.
“Though I must admit, I’ve never heard of a witch with scales. ”
I lift my chin, feigning confidence. Being mistaken for a witch is far safer than the truth of a siren without a tail or a full song.
“Then I dare say you have not seen many sea witches,” I answer. “We can take on the features of any chosen sea creatures if we wish.”
“And you chose to look like a fish?” he mocks with an arched brow, grin fixed in place. It takes all my efforts not to strike that smug grin right off him.
“Yes,” I say through my teeth, holding myself back by frayed threads. By the way he talks and holds himself, I already know he’s the kind of man who provokes just for the fun of it. Losing my temper and baring my canines will be of no help here. I do not exist for his entertainment.
“Mhmm…” he hums, as though he is tasting the lie and deciding whether it pleases him or not.
“You must think me a fool, lass,” he says, stepping closer. The ship rolls beneath us, but he doesn’t shift his weight, secure in his stance. “Sea witches do not compel lads with a hum, and they’re certainly not naive enough to hide on a pirate ship. Especially not mine.”
“And yet,” I say carefully, keeping my gaze on his. “here I am.”
“And yet,” he repeats, his chest rising and falling with excited breath.
The wind snaps between us, tugging at his coat and my hair. The space between us feels smaller with every passing second, and with the certainty of the cold water waiting below, I forget how to breathe.
“If I decide you’re lying,” he continues, voice almost too casual, “I‘ll toss you overboard myself. I don't much like stowaways. I like liars even less.”
Before I can answer, his gaze shifts past my shoulder, eyes widening. I turn to see a faint pulse beneath the waves.
A thread of light.
It blinks once, soft and distant, like a star pulsing in the darkest depths of the water.
A shimmer of light, too alive to belong here.
Even my deepest imaginings could not conjure up such an image, and for a breathless moment, I stand transfixed with awe.
The world narrows to that single line of light, moving with quiet conviction, stitching a path through the black sea, like a silver ribbon drawn through ink.
I narrow my eyes and track it. It threads along the side of the ship, keeping pace with us.
The captain steps closer to the rail beside me, all mockery stripped from him.
“It came back,” he murmurs, more to himself than to me.
The light pulses once more, then slips forward along the hull until the angle of the stern hides it from our view.
“What was that?” I ask and swallow, regretting the question as soon as it meets the air.
He turns his head toward me slowly.
“That," he says, studying my face with a new level of intensity, “is the Glim.”
I remember them talking about it last night, the so-called Glim. That they want to follow it into the intermaria.
“And as a sea witch,” he continues, voice cooling again, “you should know exactly what that is.”
My pulse stutters as I force my features into indifference, raising my chin higher.
“Of course.”
His gaze lingers a little too long. His grey eyes search mine, looking for a crack in the mask I have carefully crafted. A knowing look passes over his face.
“Of course,” he echoes in a low voice, and by now, I am certain he knows I am lying.
The wind rises again, tugging at my gown, and I swallow down the knot that has formed in my throat.
“Well then, little fish. We will talk tomorrow. For now, I have a ship to steady and a crew to tame.” He turns and calls over his shoulder, “Lads, come get the witch.”
The glass door swings open. A broad pirate steps onto the balcony first, carrying chains and cuffs. A wiry one follows, a leather strap already looped in his fist.
“You must understand,” Sable leans closer, his voice low, sending a shiver through me. “We cannot let a sea witch roam free and play her wicked little tricks. Sorry, darling.”
He straightens, the faintest curve returning to his mouth as if this were all a performance staged for his own amusement.
“Take her to the hold,” he orders, his tone shifting into cruelty.
“And find my fucking hat,” he throws over his shoulders as he disappears into the galley, leaving his men to finish the work.
“Don’t you dare put that dirty leath—” My scream cuts off as the wiry one shoves a leather strap between my teeth and yanks it tight.
Salt and old tannin flood my tongue. I try to spit it out, but I can only gag.
The other pirate grabs for my wrists, but I refuse to give in without a fight.
I twist away, nearly lose my footing, then lunge back into him out of spite.
I throw a punch that rebounds off his shoulders.
I scratch blindly at the air, nails scraping skin or cloth, as anger and fear take control over my actions.
“This one’s feisty,” one of them murmurs, grabs me by my wrists, and secures the cuffs with a metallic clicking sound. Naturally, I test them, tugging at the restraints, but the iron bites into my wrists, sharper than I thought it would.
“Aye, she is. Reminds me of Captain’s sister,” the other one adds with a chuckle.
Hatred burns hot in my eyes, but though they water, not a single tear falls.
I will not give them that satisfaction, but the weight of it presses down nonetheless.
Within the span of a single day, my life has been overturned.
Fate surely cannot be so cruel. To strip me of my tail and cast me into the hands of pirates.
Anger coils sharp in my chest, at the world, at the sea, myself.
Mostly myself. I shouldn’t have let it come so far, but I have had little choice in the matter.
They march me into the orlop without a struggle.
My limbs drag with the weight of my exhaustion with every step, and I know there is nowhere left to hide, so I give in.
The air grows heavy in the ship’s belly.
Tar and salt thicken on my tongue until my throat stings.
I have not missed that smell. They push me into one of the two cells, chain my ankles, and fasten the iron links to a ring sunk deep in the planks.
The younger pirate tugs the chain once to test it.
Pity flickers across his face before he looks away and turns the key.
“Match, be a good lad and bring the lady a bucket of fresh water to clean up,” his mate orders.
“Aye,” Match answers. His eyes meet mine for a heartbeat before he hurries off.
“There is a bucket for waste.” The mate jerks his chin toward the corner, where the bucket waits. Wait, how am I supposed to...? With my wrists bound, I cannot lift my gown. He reads the question in my face, and a small smirk shows through his beard.
“Figure it out,” he says with a shrug. He leaves without another word.
Bastard.
I take a deep breath and shuffle towards the wall opposite from the bars, then let myself slide down against it until my butt touches the cold boards.
Darkness gathers, and with it comes the sorrow.
I close my eyes and listen to the water rushing against the hull, trying to find comfort in it.
For a moment, I can almost feel the hum of the swarm, the flick of tails in dark water, my mother’s voice telling me to go to the surface and take air.
She had been loving, even when the others whispered that I was wrong, that a siren born without a tail should never have been born at all.
They left me anyway. I wonder if it was all for nothing, if I will ever feel a tail behind me, cutting the current the way it should.
I refuse to vanish in this belly of wood and iron.
I am still here. I will make that mean something.
Through swollen eyes, the cell comes into focus.
Salt now clings to my cheeks, and I realize that I must‘ve been crying. There’s no cot in this cell, not even a scatter of straw.
Lanterns swing from the beams, their glow soft and uneven, painting the walls in a sickly gold.
Chains hang idle, creaking whenever the hull shifts.
Above, the main hatch hangs open just enough to spill a thin wash of light across the boards.
It seems like the crew is still dealing with the aftermath of the storm.
Boots thud along the planks, and ropes strain on their pins while voices rise and fall.
I pick out the carpenter, Saint, by his steady tone.
The captain’s voice does not carry down here, which surprises me, because he enjoys barking orders at his crew.
I focus and sift through the sounds, matching names to the faces I have seen.
The carpenter, whose name is Saint. Lark, the cabin boy I compelled, who might have helped me even without the hum.
Match, who showed a flicker of mercy, though I do not know how long it will last. His mate, the one who sneered and spat, kept his name from me.
For now, I call him Rat, as I call any man who chooses to treat me poorly. Yes, that feels right to me.
And then there’s the captain, Sable. He clearly does not trust me. My hands curl into fists at my sides until the cuffs cut into skin. He finds amusement in hunting me through his ship. And let’s not forget the leather strap that sits between my teeth, making me drool like a sick whelp.
Saint. Lark. Match. Rat. Sable. I say their names in my head and fix them to the faces of each one. Better to remember them all, I think to myself, and a smile tugs at my lips.
The siren in me stirs with excitement.