Chapter 13
The portal spat us out underwater. Deep underwater. The pressure squeezes my chest before I can orient myself, and the cold is immediate. The kind that locks your muscles if you let it.
I open my eyes. The water is a murky blue-green, thick with silt and the lazy drift of river debris. Visibility extends maybe fifteen feet in any direction. I kick upward, lungs already burning, and that's when I see them.
Three figures hovering in the water ahead of me, maybe ten feet away.
Females. Or what look like females from the waist up.
Long hair drifting in the current like seaweed.
Beautiful faces. High cheekbones, full lips, skin that shimmers faintly with an iridescent sheen that catches the muted light filtering down from the surface.
They're smiling at me. Waving, with slow, languid movements of their hands, like they've been expecting me and are genuinely delighted I showed up.
Then one of them opens her mouth.
She has rows of teeth. Three concentric rings of needle-thin points angled inward like hooks. Her jaw unhinges wider than any humanoid mouth should open, and the other two follow suit, their pretty smiles splitting into something that belongs in a trench I want no part of. Sirens.
I twist in the water and kick hard for the surface, pulling with both arms, corruption flaring along my forearms in response to the threat. The locket bounces against my chest with each stroke.
Something brushes my ankle. I kick harder.
A hand, cold, strong, with fingers that end in points instead of nails, wraps around my boot.
I slam my other foot down on it and feel the grip loosen just enough.
I surge upward, and the surface hits me like a wall of light and air.
I break through, gasping, choking on water, and immediately take stock.
A river. Wide, slow-moving, bordered by dense forest on both sides.
The banks are a mix of clay and rock, lined with willows whose branches trail in the current like fingers testing the temperature.
Downstream, the water bends around a bluff.
Beyond it the trees thin into farmland. Or the outskirts of a settlement.
I know this river.
The Primara. The main artery that runs through eastern Wynmire, feeding half the coastal settlements and most of the inland trade routes. I've traveled it many times, and even in this iteration it looks the same. Wide, unhurried, deceptively peaceful for something that houses sirens in its depths.
A hand breaks the surface two feet to my left, grasping at air.
I swim. Hard, ugly strokes that sacrifice form for speed, angling toward the nearest bank.
The clay is slick to the touch when I reach it, and I scramble up on all fours, fingers digging into the mud, hauling myself out of the water with the graceless desperation of someone who has no interest in being eaten today.
I make it three feet up the bank before I allow myself to stop and breathe.
Three heads break the water in unison, those horrible mouths still open, clicking their teeth together in rapid succession.
The sound carries across the water like a cascade of snapping bones.
They can't leave the river. They know it.
I know it. But they hover at the waterline, watching me with flat black eyes, waiting with the patient hunger of creatures who have nowhere else to be.
I roll onto my back and stare at the sky, clear blue, a single bird circling high overhead.
Then I sit up.
"Peeble."
No answer.
"Peeble!"
I'm on my feet, scanning the water, the bank, the tree line. The sirens are still there, still clicking, still watching. If Peeble went under, if the portal separated us and they landed in the water without me—
I hear the clicking again. But this time it isn’t coming from the river. It's coming from upstream, around a bend of rocks that juts out into the shallows.
I round the rocks at a sprint and stop dead.
Peeble is sitting on a flat stone at the water's edge, dry and comfortable.
Legs crossed, or whatever the beetle equivalent of legs crossed is.
They're facing the water, where two more sirens have surfaced and are snapping their teeth at them with increasing agitation. Peeble appears to be mid-conversation.
"—and I'm not saying the rows are unattractive, per se, but have you considered the long-term implications?
Three concentric rings of teeth means three times the opportunity for plaque buildup.
That's basic dental math. You'd want to be flossing at a minimum twice a day, and given the curvature of those inner rows, you'd need a specialized tool. Something with a flexible head and—"
The sirens shriek. It's an ear-splitting sound, somewhere between a scream and a bird of prey's cry, and two of them lunge upward out of the water, clawed hands swiping at the rock where Peeble sits. They fall short by about a foot. Water sprays across the stone. Peeble doesn't flinch.
"Well, that was unnecessary," Peeble says, brushing a droplet off their shell. "I was trying to help. A little constructive criticism never hurt anyone. You, on the other hand, could hurt someone with that breath. When's the last time you gargled? Saltwater is right there."
"Peeble."
They turn their head toward me with the casual ease of someone interrupted during afternoon tea. "Oh. There you are. I was wondering when you'd stop floundering around. You really should work on your swimming. Very graceless. I was embarrassed for you."
"We need to move. Now."
"Hold on, I was just getting through to the blonde one. I think she was really considering the flossing."
"Peeble. Focus." I crouch beside them, keeping one eye on the sirens. "Can you tell what iteration we're in?"
They huff, clearly disappointed at having their dental seminar cut short, then crawl to the highest point of the rock and hold one claw over their eyes, shielding them from the sun. They scan the horizon, the tree line, the river's curve, the distant bluff where the settlement sits.
"Hmmmm." They rotate slowly, mandibles clicking as they process. "We're near Silverpine Hollow. The bend in the river, the willow density, the particular shade of clay on the bank—oh." Their whole body perks up. "Oh, oh! I know this one!"
"Which one?"
"Iteration Eleven!" Peeble's wings buzz with excitement. "You and Elle were pirates! Oh, this was a fun one. You two were insufferably lovey-dovey. It was quite sickening, actually. Holding hands on the deck, pet names, the whole thing. I nearly molted from secondhand embarrassment."
Something in my chest loosens at the word pirates and tightens at the word Elle. "We were pirates?"
"Oh, don't say it like that. You were excellent pirates.
Very dashing. During this iteration, Auradelle's forces were primarily trying to take over coastal areas, and you and Elle worked together to loot every supply ship you could intercept.
Take from the rich, give to the poor. Very noble thievery. "
"Did we hurt any Wynmire residents?"
Peeble cackles. "Oh, heavens, no. You were beloved. The common folk adored you. There were songs. Bad ones, mostly, but enthusiastic."
I file that away. A version of us that fought together, that the people loved. A version where we were on the same side from the start. The ache of it is almost worse than the iterations where she hated me.
"So," I say. "We need to find the ship. Get a spot on the crew."
"Now you're thinking like a pirate."
We make our way toward the port on the outskirts of Silverpine.
The path follows the river for a while before cutting inland through a stretch of forest that gives way to narrow alleyways between stacked wooden buildings.
The settlement is busy with merchants, dockworkers, a handful of fae in mismatched armor who look like they belong to no one's army and everyone's.
Typical port town. The kind of place where nobody asks questions because the answers are never good.
I keep my head down and my stride purposeful. Peeble tucks themself into my collar, out of sight.
Except we're not alone.
I notice it three blocks from the docks.
A presence behind us. Not close, maybe forty feet back, but consistent.
Matching my pace, pausing when I pause, turning when I turn.
I've been alive long enough to know when I'm being followed.
The sensation is unmistakable: an itch between my shoulder blades that has nothing to do with Peeble's legs.
I take the next corner and press myself flat against the wall, drawing the short knife from my belt. I wait. Count to four.
A cloaked figure rounds the corner.
I have them against the wall. Blade at their throat before they can react. One hand fisted in the front of their cloak, the other pressing steel against skin. The figure goes rigid but doesn't scream. That tells me something. People who aren't trained scream.
"What do you want?" I keep my voice low. "You've been following me since the market square. Give me a reason not to open your throat."
I yank back the hood and pause.
It's a young woman. Barely out of her teens, if I had to guess.
Dark hair cut to her jaw, sharp features, and a pair of brilliant green eyes that are staring at me with an expression I can only describe as deeply unimpressed.
She looks at me as if I'm a mildly inconvenient puzzle she's already solved.
Something about her face tugs at a thread in my memory. I've seen her before. I know I have. But when you've lived as long as I have, faces blur. People overlap. The past becomes a crowded room where everyone looks vaguely familiar and no one has a name.
"Do I know you?"
She laughs. A short, private sound, like a joke only she's in on. "No," she says. "But I should tell you that the Sage sent me."
I take a step back. The knife stays up, but my grip loosens.