Chapter 16 Knocking At Strange Shores
Beware whispers of the Smaurhiel, their power leads astray,
In the shadows of the heavens they dwell, sending mortal souls to graves.
—excerpt from the 'Song of the Old Gods', by Winston Pike
“Nymph.”
My body grows rigid and alert at the sound of his voice slipping through darkness.
Fingers curled into taut fists, I sit up and try to blink against the gloom, surprised to find a set of flashing eyes fixed on me.
Animal-like, they glow a deep, molten gold.
For a moment I think a kepra's gotten down here somehow.
It sends a feeling as eerie as standing over the mass graves of the poxy victims, digging well into the night.
Sometimes alone but never truly feeling that way.
“Pirate?” I don’t understand. His eyes are a rich midnight blue, the color of ashen storm clouds passing over a navy eve.
He blinks and moves towards me. “We need to be silent and move above deck.”
“Your eyes, they're—”
He shifts back quickly at my words, as though worried he's frightened me. “I'm sorry.” He blinks again, rapidly, and the golden light dims down to almost nothing. “Follow me.”
I peek out towards Mattias' underwater window. The slit in the curtain reveals nothing but black sea. A shiver eats its way down my spine.
“I thought we weren’t to go above deck at night.” The defiance in my voice hides the quiver of fear as the creatures from the night before bloom behind my eyelids. Gray, skeletal frames and fangs to rip and tear flesh from the bone.
He shakes his head, his dim outline turning back to face me. “We're moving through the mists. They'll begin to clear as we go but no monsters dare come too close to the sea witch’s isle. The crew and your friend have gathered on deck. You shouldn't be alone down here as we pass.”
My returning look is both sharp and curious. I wonder if he can see it through the dark, if that's why his eyes have taken on such a strange color. Why didn't I notice it last night, out on the deck?
“Why shouldn't I be alone?”
I imagine the look on his face is exasperated—a tight jaw and tense brow.
A smile threatens the corner of my mouth to think of it painted over his features like a mask he might wear whenever in my presence.
It feels good to get under his skin. Maybe he'll finally get so annoyed he drops me off and forgets about the things he wants that are hidden in my mind.
Doubtful.
“There are ghosts in these shadows. The Sea Witch seeks to keep outsiders from approaching her island and her favorite games are tricks of the mind.
She might convince you to see something that's not there so that you hurl yourself overboard, or drive you into madness.
Best you're somewhere you can be watched.”
“Of course.” I huff and drop lightly off the table onto my feet. “Gods above forbid anything happen to me before you can bring me back to Helgate and force me to find a treasure that isn't there.”
Feeling my way through the thick dark, I move by him, headed for the wide circle door, trying to hide my limp as I go. I feel pathetic enough. No need to reveal how weakened my body is. How slow I heal compared to other, full-blooded nymphs.
You could have sent anyone down for me. Why you?
I want to ask him, but instead climb through the door in silence.
I can feel him at my back, a foot or so away.
His presence is always tangible in the air, a force that's distracting…
impossible to ignore. I wonder again how I didn't know what he was the moment I saw him in that cave.
The scent of the sea follows him—cool brine, clean wind, and the faintest hint of driftwood.
“You're injured.” His tone is low, hollowed. There's the heavy weight of his gaze on my leg that slows me.
“I'm fine.” My clipped response is enough to quiet him as I move forward, forcing myself to walk as normally as I can.
The hall outside is narrow and enclosed, lit by a small hanging lantern. I study the ladder rungs for a moment before glancing quickly at Crow, who waits with a look of shadowed expectation.
I can't help but admit the relief of seeing him well and on his feet, not weighed down by that heavy exhaustion from earlier.
He's back to his irritatingly striking self, standing tall and broad shouldered, that soft black hair resting gently across his brow.
He's already more sunkissed than he was at the cove, as though the sun missed him and couldn't wait to settle back into his skin.
“After you.” He motions to the way up, a challenge in his eyes, and I only hesitate a second before wrapping my fingers around the rungs just over my head.
The latticed door's already propped wide open so I don't have to hurt myself shoving through, but when I move to start the climb up the ladder, an intense pain shoots through my injured leg, a feeling like fire and a thousand pin needles.
I stumble, nearly fall, but Crow stabilizes me with two firm hands, a hiss of displeasure slipping through his teeth.
“What's wrong with your leg, Nymph?”
“Nothing.” I shake my head, try to pull from him and grab for the rough wood again but he isn't having it. His hands are more effective than the iron shackles Harlow carries.
“Vale.”
“When the beast tugged me down I rolled my ankle. It was fine, but—” I cut myself off, nails digging into my palms.
“But?”
“But the more I use it, the worse it's starting to feel.”
“Yes, that tends to happen with sprained and broken bones.” He sighs, hands slipping away before he kneels down at my feet.
There's a tug of my boot laces and the leather comes free.
His hands are gentle as wind, more soft and forgiving than even the old surgeon's.
Fresh heat licks its way up my calf, following a trail to my inner thigh that makes me shiver.
“It's swollen and badly bruised. See if you can move it in a circle.”
A yelp of pain tries to push its way past my lips but I bite down on it, attempting to do as told with little success.
That sigh again. He runs a hand through his mess of dark hair and gently eases my boot back into place, lacing it tight. “There's no help for it. Looks like you're coming ashore. The Sea Witch will have herbs I can treat you with.”
“Coming ashore? I don't think I can even make it up this ladder.”
“There is a solution here.”
“Oh?” I feel my eyebrow lift into a careful arch.
“You’re not going to like it.” That ghost of a smirk. There's a terrifying gleam in his eyes. “Front or back?”
“What—”
“Back it is. Up you go.”
My breath leaves me as he scoops me up neatly, shifting me onto his back where I scramble for purchase, legs locking around his waist, arms across his shoulders.
And then he's climbing effortlessly up, to air thick with brine and sailor sweat. A faint hint of spilled rum. As promised, the whole of his crew is on deck. Too many bodies to count, all anxious stares fixed on the dark outline of a rugged coast, barely visible under the moonlight and mist.
Crow shifts me again, this time so I'm cradled in his arms like a small child.
“I can walk,” I half snarl under my breath, not eager to draw attention to us. As if that was ever a possibility. Heads started to turn the moment the captain emerged. Expectant faces, waiting for an order.
I scan the area for a familiar soul. Something to focus on other than the absolute humiliation roaring through me, painting my cheeks red as the roses the Sisters used to grow in their garden.
Rowan's there on the sterncastle deck beside a haggard looking Briggs and the helmsman from earlier, Tobias, holding steady to the ship wheel.
Sabre, who I've come to recognize as Rowan's shadow, is nowhere in sight.
“You're shaking,” Rhyland Crow murmurs low, for my ears alone. If I didn't know better, I might think that was a hint of concern in his voice. He moves me in such a way that his downward, penetrating gaze is more effective.
I curl my trembling fingers into fists and glare at the boards beneath his boots. The night helps to shadow the water and trick my mind into thinking I could be safe on land, but my logical half still knows it's there, lapping beneath us.
“It's cold.” The lie slips off my tongue pathetically, and I know without even looking up to see that he doesn't buy it.
Still, a soft flood of heat pushes out where his hands are gripping me, one arm hooked under my knees, the other tucked carefully beneath my back. It's everything in me not to press into the warmth. The feeling of comfort, like basking beneath rays of sunlight.
He moves toward Rowan, Tobias, and Briggs. Crewmen part at the sight of him, heads dipping in turn. Some even pull off their hats—but none look him in the eye.
No words or greetings are exchanged when we reach them, waiting at the helm.
Though I know Rowan is dying to ask why I'm being carried, she stays silent, nothing but a wide sideways glance at me.
Everyone else stares over the dark waves toward a billowing cloud of mist that lingers between us and the island.
We're about to head into it and Rhyland's fingers tighten against me.
“Brace yourself,” he murmurs under his breath.
I take in a deep gulp of air and tense, remembering the strange mist from the ring, Ire, now fitted snugly on his finger. Will this be like that? A rage so hot and alive it could boil me from within? Make me so angry I'd shoot a man I hardly know?
The first thing I register is the cold. A cold so brutal it makes me believe, for a moment, I'll never be warm again. Cold that has teeth and claws, eager to use them.
And then there's a whispering: low, insistent. A sound that chills my bones, makes my teeth chatter. Makes me want to claw the noise from my skull.