6. Chapter Six
Chapter Six
“ L ady,” a voice urges. I fight to open my heavy eyelids. My whole body aches from sleeping on the hard and uneven floor. Not that I slept much after my encounter with the ghost.
When my vision clears, the cabin boy, Lark, peers through the bars. The night has finally passed, and soft light floods the orlop, giving it a faint golden touch.
The chains bite into my skin as I push up and try to answer him, but the leather strap still muzzles me and instead, spit catches in my throat.
His brows draw together, and fear glints behind his wide eyes.
The last thing I want is for the young lad to be scared of me.
I try to give him a smile, but fail miserably.
“I have breakfast for you.” He points to a plate of hardtack, a biscuit made from flour and water, and salt fish, which he must have slipped into my cage while I slept.
Just at the sight of the food, my stomach growls. If I weren’t already drooling from the leather between my teeth, I would start now.
“Orders from the captain,” he adds quickly. “But I should tell you that it’s likely to be your last meal.” He stammers. “Unless you, uh…”
I tilt my head at him. Unless I what? Unless I follow his ridiculous orders?
Unless I succumb to their every whim as a prisoner?
I can think of many reasons as to why this might be my last meal.
Every meal has felt like my last meal in this unforgiving life.
His feet shift from side to side, his jaw tense, giving away his nervousness.
Did he forget? His eyes go wider than before, his eyes scanning his surroundings as though in search of the answer.
So he did forget. And he already knows that asking his captain for the message again will bring consequences for the pirate-in-training.
“Unless you’re good,” he snaps, trying to sound rough by mimicking his captain’s bark. I bet that’s not exactly what the Captain told him. His fingers curl into fists at his sides, though I know he’s bound to be more angry with himself than with me.
“Now eat.”
I point to the strap still in my mouth. He sighs and nods, then jogs up the steep steps to the main deck.
Seconds later, he returns with a key in his hand.
The crew clearly doesn’t trust him with one after he helped me the first night.
The lock clicks before the door to my cell is pushed open.
He eyes me carefully, as if I were a dangerous animal about to snap, then steps around me and unties the leather.
As it falls off, I groan in relief and work my jaw in all the directions I couldn’t before.
“Do not use your magic on me, witch.”
Lark backs out of the cell and locks the door. He sighs, obviously relieved to be out of my reach. Despite his attempts to act tough, I know he’s frightened, and that doesn’t sit right with me, so I finally manage a small smile.
“Lark, please know that I do not mean any harm to you. I only used my magic as a precaution. I couldn’t risk you shouting for the rest of the crew. And even you must admit that my fear of them is justified, given the situation I’m in now that they’ve caught me.”
Lark glances aside, as if checking whether someone might overhear. He steps closer to the cell again and lowers his voice. “So you really are a witch?”
“Something like that, yes,” I answer with a smile.
“Can you help us, then?” he asks, his voice low, his eyes searching mine as if he already expects the answer to hurt.
“Help…you?” I ask.
Is he talking about that thread of light again, the Glim? He opens his mouth to answer, but Grim comes down the steps from the deck.
“That’s enough, lad, ” he orders. “Go help Saint with the holes in the hold.”
While Lark hurries away, I grab the plate like a wildling and start shoving the food into my mouth.
I pay no attention to how I must look. The hardtack is – well –hard, as expected, but not moldy, which is a pleasant surprise.
The fish is surprisingly good. Naturally, I love fish.
It was all I ate until my seventh year. My mother insisted, though my father wasn’t pleased with it.
I don’t remember why exactly, but I assume he wanted me to know a life beyond that of a siren.
We eat it raw, not cooked as humans prefer, and the head is the most delicious part of all.
I swallow the whole thing with hardly any chewing.
Grim chuckles and leans against the bars.
“I will bring you more later. We have plenty. The crew will first eat the fresh food we organized in Cantora.”
“Organized?”
“Stole.” He answers with a shrug and holds back a smile.
I lift my gaze to meet his hazel eyes.
“Thank you,” I murmur, surprised by how weak the words sound.
“We leave the Sea of Crowns in a few days, and we expect heavy currents when passing the Intermaria. I believe the captain wants to speak to you before that. But I must warn you, lass, his mood is foul.”
“Is he ever in a good mood?” I challenge him, and regret it in an instant.
He straightens and glares at me as if I’ve insulted him personally, instead of his captain.
For a heartbeat, he seems angry, until his eyes soften.
Blinking, he turns his gaze away from me, his posture relaxing.
When he meets my eyes again, a faint smile tugs at his mouth. I release a quiet sigh of relief.
“Sometimes, lass. I hope you get to see that someday.”
I nod and watch his back as he leaves, then spot the leather strap at my feet. He didn’t put it back on. I consider using my hum, but it wouldn’t get me far. We are in the middle of the Sea of Crowns, and if he is right and we are near the Intermaria, there’s no island in sight.
So I sit and wait, as an obedient prisoner would.
Bored out of my mind, I count the ship’s frames. “Sixty-five,” I murmur as I lie flat on my back. Hours must have passed since Lark brought me the food, and I have resorted to desperate measures to keep myself alert.
“Bored already, little fish?”
Damn it. That’s not the voice I want to hear.
His voice. The Captain. Sable. I sit up and turn toward him, standing in front of my moldy cell.
My pulse jumps, the air catching in my throat.
By the Seas, this man has a talent for scaring me.
He wears a black coat, and a tricorn hat sits on his head now, casting his face in shadows.
His white linen shirt hangs loose, giving me a glimpse of his broad chest, and I hate the way my breath stumbles at the sight.
Charms that look like they’ve been carved out of bone dangle from necklaces layered around his neck.
There are dark circles under his eyes, a deep purple, as though he didn’t get much sleep last night.
His dark, messy curls rest atop his head like a crown.
If he weren’t a pirate or my captor, I might consider him handsome.
Unfortunately, he is both. And the sight of him sets me alight with pure ire.
“There is very little to keep a prisoner entertained in this disgusting cell, I’m sure even you understand that.” My voice wavers, but I keep my chin high. “There is no need to keep me caged like an animal. I mean no harm, and I will leave your ship as soon as it is possible to do so.”
I rise slowly to get somewhere near eye level, but he’s still so, so much taller than me, so I tip my head back to look at him and give him my best glare.
“What makes you think we will make for a port again?” he asks, a grin spreading across his face. There it is again, the teasing tone that makes my skin crawl.
I narrow my eyes even more, but he doesn’t look away, not even for a second. Heat creeps up my neck, but I don’t blink first. I can’t resist the challenge flickering in his eyes.
“What makes you think I need a harbor? I will gladly walk the planks once the shore is in sight.”
My response surprises him; his eyes widen for only a heartbeat before he snaps back to the same stern expression.
“I do not negotiate with my captives,” he says. “But you will answer my questions when I bloody ask them.”
He turns to grab a nearby stool and pulls it toward the cell, but instead of sitting immediately, he studies me first, as if something about me does not sit right with him.
His gaze traces my white hair, my scales, before lingering on my wounded foot.
If he notices the blood-stained makeshift bandage, he does not comment on it.
Only then does he lower himself onto the stool, elbows on his knees, fingers loosely clasped.
He looks composed, but there is tension in the line of his shoulders that tells me he is not.
“Who cut the mooring line?” he asks, leaning forward slightly.
“I don‘t know what you mean,” I answer with care. If I tell him who cut it, it will only raise even more questions.
His jaw tightens.
“You were on that dock,” he continues. “My ship doesn’t drift free by accident. Someone cut her loose.” His eyes narrow slightly. “I saw you running away from a few men through the window in my cabin.”
Unwanted memories creep into my mind, of their voices, their boots drumming the deck behind me to the rapid beating of my heart.
“I wasn’t with them,” I say, avoiding his stare.
“That‘s not what I asked,” he says as his gaze drifts toward the back of my cell, unfocused for a heartbeat, before snapping back to my face. He stands abruptly, the stool scraping across the planks.
“Who,” he takes a deep breath through his nose, then exhales just as slowly, “were those men?”
Biting my lip, I scramble for a plausible explanation he’d buy, but nothing comes to mind.
“Hunters.”
His gaze sharpens.
“Hunting what exactly?”
My breath catches in my throat. At my hesitation, his mouth curves, as if he already got a hold on the mask of lies I’ve carefully crafted and only has to rip it off my face whenever he feels like it.
“What are they hunting?” he presses, stepping closer to the bars.
The ship gives a sudden rise and then drops abruptly, and for the first time, he stumbles on his feet. His eyes flick to the side again, to the empty space near the ladder, searching for something.
“They hunt…various things,” I say and furrow my brows, searching the spot he is staring at.
“Not a good enough answer,” he drawls. He curls his fingers around the iron, as though he needs anchoring.
“You compelled Lark with a humming trick. You have scales scattering that pretty, pale skin of yours. You dare lie to me about being a witch.” His voice lowers. “What? You thought I wouldn't notice?”
Anger flickers in his eyes before they darken.
“You’re not telling me the truth,” he says, his voice tight.
“I can’t,” I whisper, and even to my own ears it sounds thin.
His mouth presses into a thin line. I can tell he is losing his patience.
When he reaches for the lock, I step back, trying to create distance between us.
The door opens with a low groan, and he steps inside the cell.
My fingers curl at my sides as I measure the space behind me, the wall already too close.
There’s only one reason for him to open that door, and that is to drag the truth out of me.
“You truly expect me to believe that?” he says and begins circling me in slow, calculated steps. “That you’re just some harmless witch with a fondness for scales? Surely you’re aware of how ridiculous that sounds.”
I don't dare to move. Don’t even dare to breathe. Of course, he doesn’t believe me. I don’t even believe the lie myself. My teeth press into my tongue as I force my mouth to stay shut, even though every instinct in me screams to run, to bare my teeth, to do something.
“You see, my sister is a sea witch,” he continues, his words a little quieter now.
He stops his pacing behind my back, his presence making me shiver.
“So I know a whole damn lot about them, and I know for sure they cannot choose their appearance to their liking. My sister would’ve chosen beautiful, glistening scales if she could.
But instead she’s stuck in the form of a living reef. ”
He continues to circle me.
“So try again,” he says, and comes to a halt.
My heart beats so loudly, I am certain he must hear it, considering how close he is standing in front of me.
“What are you?” he asks and narrows his eyes until they are almost slits.
“The code demands a tribunal. But I do not tolerate liars, and I cannot risk having you on board if I don’t know who or what you are.
So I suggest you stop lying to me, if you do not wish me to cut off your tongue and feed it to the fish. ”
My breathing grows heavy. A pirate tribunal.
My father once told me about those things.
A crew member once made a mistake, I was not told what it was, and they all voted to decide his fate.
He was abandoned on a little island in the middle of the sea.
Grim wasn’t lying when he said the captain isn’t in a good mood.
I remember the words of the ghost— that I should tell him the truth.
Despite this, I consider lying again, of inventing something else, making something new up to further hide the truth.
But I know he would pull away every thread of my lie, until the fabric came apart in his hands.
“I am—“ My throat closes around the word.
He waits and widens his stance, like a man bracing for impact.
He already knows what I am. I can see it in the way he watches me with intent, like he’s only waiting for me to confirm.
If I say it, there’s no taking back. No pretending.
My tongue feels heavy in my mouth, as speaking it out loud might be the moment the ground gives way beneath my feet.
“I am a siren.”