Chapter 9 Danica
Danica
As we make our way off the ship and onto the docks of Captain's Haven, a sense of relief washes over me.
Don't get me wrong, I love a good adventure as much as the next girl, but there's something to be said for the feeling of solid ground beneath your feet after being cooped up on a floating wooden death trap for days.
The water lapping gently against the shore is a shade of blue so vivid and clear it's as if someone took a giant bottle of Windex to the ocean. And the sand? It's so white and pristine like pure sugar cane was dumped onto the beach and left as is.
As much as I'd love to kick off my boots and bury my toes in that soft, inviting sand, we have more pressing matters to attend to.
Like, you know, rescuing Lucian from the clutches of a psychotic vampire king-wannabe and saving the world from total destruction.
Just another day in my crazy, chaotic life.
I can't shake the thought of what Lucian is enduring; guilt suffocates me. As usual, Rhyland picks up on my emotions and laces his fingers with mine. He gazes into my eyes with those piercing blues, and without uttering a word, he gets it. He knows exactly how I feel.
Rhyland, Erik, and I had a quick huddle before disembarking the ship. We're all in the same predicament—our powers are gone, and we feel weaker than ever.
I'm starting to freak out about what that witch did to us. Is this voodoo mojo permanent, or what?
I've gotten used to my magic—feeling that untapped power buzzing inside me. I've come to depend on it; it's part of me now. Without it, I feel exposed and adrift.
My new dumpster fire of a mission? Figuring out how the hell we're going to score an audience with the Water Queen and somehow track down this… Siren's Lyre.
The dull ache and burning sensation in my neck is a constant reminder of Azrael and his shitty bite. I've been trying my best to ignore it, to push through the pain and focus on the task at hand, but it's getting harder and harder to do so.
As if reading my mind, Rhyland leans close, his breath hot against my ear. "I plan to remedy that as soon as we are alone, Angel," he murmurs, his voice low and full of promise.
I shiver at his words, my body responding instinctively to his nearness. It never ceases to amaze me how in tune Rhyland is with me, how he always seems to know exactly what I'm feeling and what I need.
Is our bond getting stronger? Or is he just that damn good at reading me? Either way, I can't deny the thrill that runs through me at the thought of being alone with him, of feeling his hands on my skin—his lips on my neck.
That steamy public bathroom tryst at Playful Pint is still playing on a loop in my head, and my hormones are going haywire at the mere thought of some alone time with Rhyland.
This man will forever and always be my kryptonite, my Achilles' heel, my—I can't even think straight when he's around— weakness.
"Right this way." The Captain navigates through the sea of sailors and pirates. "Finn! Purge the hold."
"Aye, aye, Cap'n." Finn acknowledges and heads toward the back of the ship.
Yeah, Finn. Purge the hold—the one I almost freaking drowned in.
As we make our way through Captain's Haven, I marvel at the sheer variety of sights, sounds, and smells that assault my senses.
The air is thick with the scent of Caribean spices and roasting meats, and everywhere I look, vendors are hawking their wares and sailors stumbling drunkenly from tavern to tavern.
The day's heat is already starting to become known, and I can feel the sweat trickling down my neck as we weave through the crowds of sailors, merchants, and ne'er-do-wells that throng the docks.
Palm trees blanket the island, making it feel like a slice of tropical paradise.
We pass by a bustling shipyard where burly men with muscles the size of my head hammer away at half-built vessels, their sweat glistening in the hot sun.
The heat is so intense it's like walking through a sauna fully clothed, and I can feel the fabric of my shirt sticking to my skin in all sorts of uncomfortable places.
"Aye, here we are," the Captain says, stopping and turning to face us with a flourish. "Welcome to the Loot and Booty Inn."
The building looks like it's barely held together with spit, prayers, and a whole lot of wishful thinking.
I raise an eyebrow at the name. "The Loot and Booty Inn?" I repeat, with sarcasm.
Gee, that's subtle. What's next, the Plunder and Pillage Pub? The Rape and Ravage Resort?
As we step inside, I'm immediately assaulted by the smells of stale beer, sweat, and something that reeks suspiciously like week-old fish.
The common room is dimly lit and smoky, with a long wooden bar running along one wall and a smattering of tables and chairs filling the rest of the space.
The clientele looks like a who's who of the pirate world, with rough-looking men and women in various states of inebriation and undress lounging about, eyeing us with curiosity and suspicion.
But what really catches my eye is the woman behind the bar—a buxom redhead with a face full of freckles and a smile that could charm the gold right out of a pirate's pocket.
She's wearing a tight-fitting corset that looks like it's about to burst at the seams and a short skirt that barely qualifies as a suggestion.
"Aye, here." Gideon flips a bag of coins to Rhyland. Rhyland snags it midair. "This ought to cover the room and board."
"Thanks," Rhyland mutters.
"Clean yerselves up and meet me at the Salty Siren Tavern. There's a boutique around the corner where ye can find some fresh clothes to change into."
I catch Erik scanning the area with his usual stoic intensity, his sharp eyes taking in every detail of our surroundings. But even he can't disguise the hint of sordid disgust that flickers across his face as he takes in the dilapidated building and its colorful clientele.
"Little One," his voice as stoic and formal as ever, even in the face of such squalor. "Please tell me I am not expected to dress up like a pirate to blend in with this... colorful crowd."
I snort at his words, a grin spreading across my face as I imagine the ever-serious Erik decked out in full pirate regalia, complete with an eye patch and a parrot on his shoulder.
"When in Rome, big guy," I quip. "Or, in this case, when in Aquaria, do as the pirates do."
Erik's eyes narrow, and I can practically see the gears turning in his head as he tries to devise a way to avoid playing dress-up.
As we approach the bar to check in, I see the woman's eyes light up with interest at the sight of Rhyland and Erik.
She leans forward, her cleavage practically spilling out of her top like a pair of overripe melons, and purrs, "Well, hello there, handsomes.
What can I do for you, fine gentlemen, today? "
She addresses them like I'm not even here.
I watch with a mixture of morbid fascination and gag-inducing revulsion as the redheaded barmaid throws herself at Rhyland; her attempts at seduction are about as subtle as a sledgehammer to the face. I've seen more restrained performances from a drunken tavern wench on Dollar Draft night.
I'm seething inside right now at this thirsty skank brazenly hurling herself at my man right in front of my face. I can practically taste her desperation, and it's making me gag.
Girl, please.
Before I can unleash my verbal smackdown, Rhyland steps forward, his hand resting possessively on the small of my back. "We need two rooms for the night. And I would appreciate it if you kept your eyes and flirting to yourself, sweetheart."
The barmaid pouts, her lower lip jutting out like a petulant child. "Aw, don't be like that, sugar," she simpers, batting her eyelashes so hard I'm surprised they don't fly right the fuck off her face. "I was just being friendly."
I can't help but let out a derisive snort. "Friendly? Is that what you call throwing yourself at taken men these days?" I ask, "Where I come from, we have a different word for it. It's called desperate."
The barmaid's eyes narrow to slits, and for a moment, I think she might try to go for my jugular. But apparently, even she has some sense of self-preservation because instead, she tosses two keys onto the bar with a huff.
"Rooms 3 and 4, up the stairs and to the left," she sneers, her voice colder than a frost giant's ballsack. "Enjoy your stay—if you can."
I flash her a sweet smile, swiping the keys off the bar."Oh, we will, sweetie. And thanks for the warm welcome. It's always so lovely to know the staff here is so... accommodating."
With that, I turn on my heel and sashay up the stairs, putting a little extra sway in my hips just to drive home the point. Rhyland follows close behind, his presence a solid wall of muscle and agitation.
As we make our way down the narrow hallway to our rooms, I hear Erik's amused chuckle echoing behind us as he heads off to his accommodations.
"You know, Little Huntress," he calls out, amused, "one of these days, that sharp tongue of yours will land you in hot water."
I shrug, a wicked grin spreading across my face. "What can I say, Erik? It's a gift. And besides, someone's got to keep these thirsty wenches in line. Lord knows Rhyland's too much of a gentleman to do it himself."
Rhyland shakes his head. "What?" utterly confused.
I ignore him and head for the door to our room.
A small smile plays at the corners of his mouth. "You're going to be the death of me, woman," his voice low and rough with affection. "I put that bar wench in her place, didn't I?"
I roll my eyes. "Yeah, calling her 'sweetheart' really drove home the point, Casanova," I huff.
Erik laughs, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "I'll leave you to handle this one, brother. I feel you'll need all the luck you can get."
I unlock the door and step inside, ready to wash off the journey's grime and maybe stir up a little trouble. Rhyland's voice stops me.