Salt and Sorcery (The Cursed Tides #1)

Prologue

Jack

“Don’t you just want to kiss the ground right now?” I pant at Torin. He strides up the steep, winding hill ahead of me with lungs that apparently don’t need oxygen and thighs that aren’t currently screaming at him to slow down.

“Only if you like the taste of rat piss on your lips,” he replies without missing a beat.

“You have to admit, a month at sea without docking is too long,” I continue before gesturing around. “And I doubt there are many rats around here.”

The town is too quaint for that. There’s a single pub on the corner and a coffee shop down the street, along with the usual butchers and bakery.

In other words, it’s mind-numbingly mundane.

I have no idea how Kit stomachs living here without dying of boredom.

“Doesn’t matter what the place looks like, there are always rats somewhere,” he replies.

“So wise.”

I charge on with a Torin-like grunt and elbow him, earning myself a tingling funny bone for the pleasure, since the man is built like a marble statue.

“Shit, did you get bigger?”

He ignores me, so I continue panting alongside him, flapping my shirt collar like it’s my wings to send some air circulating to my chest. “You think we’ll persuade Kit to stay on the ship for longer this time?”

The wind takes that moment to shift direction, hitting me in the face with freezing drizzle, and I groan as it hits my overheated skin.

“He’ll manage a couple of days at most,” Torin replies. “As long as it takes for him to remove the curse, and then he’ll be on his way. Remind me to head to the apothecary on the way out too, I’ll grab some potions to stop him from throwing his guts up the entire time.”

That’s Torin for you, always with a plan of how to take care of everyone. He’s like a clucking mother hen with a fearsome glare and biceps made of stone.

“I hope so. The crew are going to lose their minds if they’re stuck on the ship for much longer.”

That’s where our man Kit comes in. Not only is he an expert cursebreaker, despite being Captain Finch’s brother, he’s also somehow the most level-headed bloke in all the six kingdoms.

We could do with his calming energy on the ship right now. Something about him always calms the frenetic buzzing of our captain, and we’re hoping that’ll extend to the rest of our cursed crew.

It’s too bad Kit’s terrible on water, so much so, he probably gets motion sick in the bath. We’ve tried everything: potions, spells, even a ritual performed by the famous Ballylach witches, but nothing’s worked.

Kit can barely stomach a day at sea, and Cap’s refused to step onto land in over a decade. So the two of them are at an impasse, which sucks for two brothers as close as the two of them.

But, as per usual, I digress. My mind’s working a mile a minute as I scan the street and the handful of people making their way along with their heads ducked to avoid getting a faceful of drizzle.

“You think he’ll have any more of those little cakes he had last time?”

Torin snorts and shoots me his favourite judgemental look. “Is that the real reason you agreed to come to pick him up?”

I shrug. It’s that and the fact my legs felt more jelly than flesh over the past couple of days. And since Tor and I are the only crew able to move freely, I wasn’t going to miss my opportunity to feel solid ground beneath my feet.

“You can fly whenever you want, so why not do it more often?” Torin mutters. I hear the silent ‘so you don’t keep complaining at me’ behind his words and snort a laugh.

It’s true I could switch into my raven form whenever I choose. But since I’m not exactly a seabird, I struggle with the high winds and the distance when we’re miles from land.

Not to mention that I’m stark naked whenever I shift back. And while I might not mind the attention, us folk with animal forms aren’t exactly popular in these parts.

I’m not what they call ‘beast-borne’, which is someone born with the ability to shift into an animal. Instead, I am a half-baked, low-powered sorcerer who has tried a whole bunch of magic over the years and whose only consistent form of magic is to turn myself into a bird.

But angry mobs don’t tend to listen to semantics when they see you transform from bird to person. Not when they’ve decided that beast-borne people are a scourge on society, classless and barely intelligent enough to hold down a job.

We finally reach the top of the hill, and Torin starts moving stiffly. I eye him with concern, trying to work out if his back’s paining him again, or maybe the stiffness is a result of the stick that’s lodged firmly up his bum.

It turns out it’s neither.

We approach the centre of the town’s market square and its twee painted shopfronts and waterless fountain. That’s not what’s got Torin’s attention, though. He gives a jerky, broken marionette’s bow to the image of King Wildrake and the crown of gold coins plastered on the side of the library wall.

I quickly turn my head like I haven’t noticed his unwilling display of respect and start up whistling a jaunty tune.

It makes even less sense to me why Kit chooses to live here if he’s surrounded by a bunch of throne-sniffing royalists.

Maybe it’s a good thing we’re taking him away for a few days before the rot can sink into his brain.

We step off the main street and head for the shop around the corner, where Kit lives and works.

His shop window displays the usual clutter of skulls, books and cutesy trinkets all shoved together.

Somehow though, he always has customers, and often when we show up first thing, there’s a queue of people waiting for him to open.

People must make a special journey here, considering the size of this town.

Not today, though.

The shop is entirely empty and there’s no one hanging around outside, either.

Huh.

We try the door, but it’s locked up tight.

“You think he didn’t bother to open the place since he knew we were coming to pick him up?”

Torin grunts. “Let’s head around to the back.”

We stride through the alleyway that leads to Kit’s apartment, and Torin pounds his meaty fist on the door. The drizzle takes this opportunity to redouble its efforts until we’re both blasted in the face with freezing rain as we wait for Kit to open the door.

Seconds tick by. Torin pounds harder on the door, letting out a frustrated huff before striding off back to the shop front where I can hear him hammering on the glass.

I hold off for a moment before following him back around to the front. If the racket Torin’s making doesn’t get Kit’s attention, then I’m fairly sure he’s not at home.

“Where in all the netherworld is he? Do you think he’s gone to the bakery?” I try not to sound too hopeful, but from Torin’s huff, I’m pretty sure I’m unsuccessful.

An older woman passes by the shop, clutching a tiny dog in her arms, when Torin slams his hand against the glass, making it rattle. She lets out a disapproving humph, shaking her head while her little dog barks furiously at Torin.

I take the chance to dart forward and accost her.

“Hey, excuse me. Do you know where the owner is?” I ask in my very stilted Yarrovian.

I can say that much along with, ‘an ale please and another for my grumpy friend.’ ‘Thank you.’ ‘Saints above, your eyes are like starbursts.’ Those three phrases have been enough to skate by whenever we’ve visited these parts in the past. But the woman starts chattering away and I have not the faintest clue what she could be saying.

I manage to pick out ‘closed’ and that’s about it.

I wait her out until she finally seems to run out of air before asking, “So that’s a no, then?”

She shakes her head, which at least is fairly universal around here.

“Right, well. Thank you.” I blast her with my most charming grin and tip an imaginary hat.

Torin’s grinding his teeth so loudly I can hear it, but the woman doesn’t get the message that she’s exceeded her usefulness. She continues to chatter on as we peer through the glass, and Torin’s shoulders grow closer and closer to his ears with every word that comes out of her mouth.

He then lets out a rumbling growl, and the tiny dog yips in her arms, baring his teeth in a snarl at Torin, who rolls his eyes in response. Tor lets out another chest-deep growl, and the dog whimpers in response, cowering in her arms.

The woman falters in her rambling, peering up at him with a familiar gleam in her eye. Whatever words she comes out with next, they’re the usual mix of fear and lust that Torin seems to elicit.

Tor just straight up ignores her, and she finally seems to notice the dog in her arms is now shaking like a leaf.

“Thank you,” I say to her again, wishing I knew any other words. Or maybe that I had mind-control powers I could employ right about now.

She gives one last lingering look at Torin’s stiff back before bustling off, leaving behind the lingering scent of sickly sweet magnolias.

Tor and I share a look before heading back to the alleyway.

“How do you want to do this?” I ask him, eyeing the door. It’s solid wood and locked up tight. I don’t have a whole lot of magic, much to my family’s shame. But maybe I could summon enough to pick the lock, if—

BANG.

BANG.

BANG.

Torin smashes his beefy ol’ shoulder against it until the doorframe splinters and the door goes flying.

“That’s one way to do it,” I say. “Kit’s going to murder you.”

But Tor’s already stepping inside, sniffing the air and letting out another low growl. “Is it me or does it smell weird in here?”

“He’s definitely going to murder you,” I mutter as he tracks wet footprints through Kit’s hallway and up the stairs that lead to his dwelling above the shop.

Torin ignores me yet again, still sniffing like a bloodhound.

“Do you think he’s ill?” We clomp up the stairs to Kit’s sitting room. I yank open the curtains, filling the room with marginally more drizzle-diffused light before heading into the bedroom.

“He’s not here.”

The place is as filled to the brim as ever.

There is stuff covering the book shelves, the numerous endtables, the coffee table and even the floor.

It’s like the shop has spilled out its contents all over his house.

Or maybe it’s the other way around and Kit had to open a shop to justify his love of all this crap.

We head through to the kitchen where there’s the faint scent of cinnamon in the air, and Torin’s already testing the kettle with the back of his hand.

“Stone cold.”

On the wooden counter sits a tangle of chains, attached to two wrist cuffs. I poke them with my index finger before thinking better of it. “Part of his collection, do you think?”

“His collection of what?”

“I dunno.” I shrug. “Kinky stuff?”

On the scrubbed kitchen table, beside an unwashed mug, there’s a little golden safe covered in unfamiliar markings.

“I guess I don’t need to tell you not to poke that one,” Torin grumbles.

I hold my hands up as the picture of innocence. Considering Kit’s secondary profession as a cursebreaker, there’s no chance I’m going to risk touching it.

“Just the bedroom left to check.”

This place isn’t exactly expansive. If Kit were here, we’d know by now. But I suppose there’s the chance he left a note for us somewhere to let us know when he’d be back.

Inside his bedroom, I yank open the wardrobe and reveal dozens of pairs of jazzy trousers and neatly ironed shirts. On the bed sits a fat duffle bag that Tor unzips, sifting through the contents.

“Enough clothes for a few weeks,” he mutters.

It’s colder in the bedroom than in the rest of the flat, and there’s a dampness in the air, like the weather has seeped in.

“Window’s open.”

I step closer to the window and get hit with a scent that drags me straight back to my childhood, forcing a knot to form in my gut. “D-do you smell that?” My voice cracks like a pubescent boy, earning me a sharp look from Torin.

It’s rancid, metallic, and herbal all at once. The smell hits the back of my throat and I have to gird myself not to throw up all over my shoes.

“There’s blood.” Torin prods the window and it swings further open. “Smells wrong somehow, though. “You think someone came in by the window or that they left that way? There’s no sign the place has been gone over, or you’d think they’d have taken some of the gold stuff in the other room.”

Typical that now Torin’s decided to be verbose, right when I’m struggling to stop myself from descending into panic.

This room smells like dark magic that lures and binds, trapping you until you’re mired in sludge.

“Sorcery.”