Chapter 32
Jarin felt the exact moment the curse broke.
Searing pain lit up his solar plexus, and he felt a strange rushing sensation, as if falling from a great height. He was in the middle of the road with Riella and Silas and Drue, and he had to pretend nothing was amiss. But right away, he knew his invulnerability no longer existed.
The dark power that’d flowed through his veins for a decade vanished. He felt lighter, as if he could move more freely, but also far more vulnerable.
Why did the curse end? Most likely, a woman fell in love with the prince. Jarin hoped that was the case, because Davron deserved happiness, after everything his mother had done to him.
But for Jarin, the timing couldn’t have been worse. Riella faced death, and he was now far less useful than he’d been a day ago. He could die like any man now. Another stab to the heart would be his last.
Artus, he could deal with. But Polinth? How could Jarin defend Riella against an amoral sorcerer?
His best hope to save the siren was still the amulet. If Artus or Polinth had it already, he could steal it from them and use it to save Riella’s life. He was still a pirate, after all. Stealing was second nature to him. Hardly a solid plan, but it was the best he had.
One thing he knew for sure? He wouldn’t tell anyone the curse had broken. Riella might act differently if she knew, and put herself in danger. He didn’t want her to be concerned for him, especially this close to the full moon. While she was striving to save Seraphine, he would strive to save her.
“What are you thinking about?” came her sleepy voice.
She blinked her eyes open and stretched her body against him.
“You.”
The afternoon gradually turned to dusk, making it safe for Jarin and Riella to emerge from the inn. They visited a boutique for new attire and continued to the pre-wedding festival at Creta Square. Most of his crew came along, although some went to the docks to plunder ships instead.
They arrived at the festival as night fell, the stars blossoming silver in the navy sky. Jarin determinedly ignored the nearly full moon. He could not ignore its light, though—opalescent, and edging the city in white.
Riella wore a cobalt-blue dress that showed a distracting amount of her décolletage. The dressmaker had fitted her with a headpiece made from gauzy material and elaborate beading, concealing her distinctive platinum hair.
He chose well-cut black attire for himself, to blend in with the merchant class of Klatos. The city crawled with royal guards, and the last thing he needed was to be thrown in jail the night before Riella faced her fate. The breaking of the curse had been a big enough blow.
Creta Square was in a rough part of the city, spitting distance from the docks. Tonight, the square heaved with musicians, entertainers, hawkers, and revelers. Lights were strung between the buildings and every few seconds, firelights bloomed in the sky overhead, bathing the crowd in transient colorful light.
Riella stayed close to Jarin, reaching for his hand, which made his heart want to explode like the firelights. Affection from a siren was the most impossibly perfect thing he could’ve experienced in this lifetime. Nothing was rarer or sweeter or more vicious than Riella. Maybe he truly could die happy.
Sometimes he forgot she’d only been a land-dweller for a very short time. And for most of that time she’d been on Hieros Isle, where she was surrounded by the ocean. To find herself in a drunken crowd of partying strangers must’ve been surreal and unnerving for her.
“We’ll split into pairs,” he shouted to his crew over the din. The pirates were in varying states of inebriation, having mostly spent the afternoon drinking. “If you clock Artus, one of you keeps an eye on him, and the other comes to find me. Understood?”
If he could dispense with Artus tonight, that would leave Polinth as the only remaining threat to Riella. As far as he knew, anyway. He didn’t have a huge amount of information to go on. Would it have been too much to bloody ask that the fates tell Ferrante how the siren might die?
Silas saluted, his eyes unfocused, then plunged into the crowd. A hapless and very sober Drue went after him. The rest of the crew, including an already hungover Berolt, splintered off in different directions.
Jarin guided Riella toward the center of the square, where a tarnished bronze statue of the former King Branimir Nikolaou loomed over the festival. The king who’d ordered the slaying of Jarin’s father. The king his mother had then executed in retaliation.
Like Riella, Jarin preferred being at sea. He felt uneasy here, in the place of his family’s devastation. If he and Riella survived, by some miracle, he vowed to sail away with her, anywhere she wanted to go.
And if she wanted to resume her siren form and return to the ocean, he’d make that happen for her, too. He’d take her to Starlight Gardens. If Polinth could do this to her, surely someone existed who could undo it.
Standing a head taller than most other people, Jarin surveyed the square. He didn’t spot Artus and his crew, but he had faith the chaotic festival would bear fruit. There were too many wealthy foreigners and drunk courtiers cavorting with abandon for the pirates to stay away.
“Riella!”
Jarin whipped his head around. Who on earth would be calling her name? It was a female voice, at least. That made it less likely he’d have to bury his dagger in their gut before they could get near her.
The siren searched for the source of the voice, smiling when her eyes fell on the red-haired woman squeezing through the crowd.
Jarin didn’t recognize her at first, but as she drew closer, he realized she was one of the women from Madame Quaan’s. She wore an expensive-looking crimson dress and had a dapper older man in tow. The gentleman looked politely uncomfortable and out-of-place, bumping up against the great unwashed of Klatos.
“Sehild!” exclaimed Riella, pulling the woman into a tight hug. “I’m so happy to see you.”
Jarin continued scanning the crowd while Riella spoke with Sehild, keeping one ear on their conversation. The older man stood at the edge of the group, twiddling his cane and intermittently bouncing on the balls of his feet.
“Where’ve you been?” asked Sehild. She surreptitiously swept her eyes over Jarin. “I see you’re still enjoying certain earthly delights. Not that one can blame you.”
“I’ve been on an island, mostly. But who’s this?” Riella lifted her chin at the older man, whose face brightened at the merest scrap of the siren’s attention.
Jarin snorted to himself. The gentleman didn’t realize the blonde beauty would flay him alive if Sehild gave even the slightest hint that he was mistreating her.
“This is Olivier,” replied Sehild, waving a jewel-encrusted hand in his direction. “We’ve just been at a salon off the square. They serve the most incredible concoctions. Enchanted with magic, they are. Have you been there?”
Riella shook her head. She started to reply, but Jarin cut her short by grabbing her upper arm. He’d seen two things in quick succession that’d turned his blood cold.
From the northern end of the square, a horse-mounted patrol of royal guards carved a purposeful line through the raucous crowd, heading toward the king’s statue. And to their right, on a balcony of a tavern, stood Artus, smirking and looking directly down at Jarin. Several of his crew mates flanked him.
Artus waved at Jarin, then pointed at the patrol. Dammit. He should’ve realized that Artus would’ve spread the word of Jarin’s presence in the city. The old captain would have sent his men out that afternoon to gather information, just as Jarin had done.
If Riella was captured by the patrol and thrown into the palace dungeons, would she die there, alone in a cell? He couldn’t risk that happening. He needed to draw attention away from her.
He bent low, speaking to Riella. “Go to the salon with Sehild and her patron. I’ll meet you there when I can.”
“Why—” she started, shaking her head in confusion.
He addressed Sehild. “Did you hear me?”
Wide-eyed, the woman nodded. “I owe you and Riella my freedom. We’ll take care of her, I promise.”
Before the siren could argue, he lunged into the crowd. If she knew Artus lurked nearby, she’d go straight to him and kill him. And fair enough, too. But she needed to stay out of trouble, lest anything hinder whatever the fates had in store for her tomorrow night.
Jarin moved diagonally through the writhing masses of people, away from the patrol. The chaos of the music and drunken shouting and exploding firelights did a good job of concealing him. Soon, he was at the edge of the crowd, under the awnings of the shops and taverns surrounding the square.
He looked back, squinting through the smoke and darkness, across the square at the balcony where Artus had been standing. He was no longer there, and nor were his crew.
“Jarin. I’m sorry.”
He recognized Drue’s voice at once. Jarin turned to find the boy ashen-faced and with a silver blade at his neck. Fletch hovered behind him, grasping the knife’s handle, his one beady eye glaring at Jarin.
“Come,” wheezed Fletch. “Captain wants a word with ye.”
Jarin glanced back at the square, where the royal patrol advanced.
“Let the kid go,” he said to Fletch. “Threats aren’t needed. I’ve been looking for Artus myself.”
Fletch’s eye twitched. After a few moments of contemplation, he shoved Drue away. The boy stumbled, righting himself and watching haplessly as Jarin followed Fletch down an alleyway.
The atmosphere of the dingy alley was in stark contrast to the square. The festival noise became muffled, and the shadows were dense. It was a likely place to be slaughtered like an animal, thought Jarin wryly.
At the dead-end of the alley, Fletch backed away, disappearing toward the street and leaving Jarin alone. Less than a minute later, Artus swaggered down in Fletch’s place. Jarin watched him approach with grim resignation.
The captain appeared to be alone, but his lackeys would be waiting nearby for his orders, whatever they may be. Was he after Jarin’s head, or Riella’s Voice, or the amulet? Likely, he wanted all three. At least Artus wasn’t aware Jarin could be killed now.
Unless news of the curse breaking had traveled here from Velandia already? Surely not. For even the fastest vessels, Port Hyacinth was a day-and-a-half-journey.
“Jarin, my boy.” Artus grinned, his pockmarked cheeks like the craters of the moon. “Funny meeting you here. Tell me, how’s Ferrante? And your lovely siren?”
Anger surged through Jarin’s body. Should he slice Artus’s throat open right now and be done with it, blood oath be damned? The only thing stopping him was Riella. He couldn’t leave her to fend for herself. Therefore, he couldn’t kill Artus.
But, what if he did something else instead? Like Jarin said to Riella, there were more ways to stop the old captain than killing him. He could disarm Artus until he could get the siren to safety, far from Creta Square.
Jarin glanced past the old captain. A rickety ladder ran up the rear wall of a tavern, right to the roof. The buildings were crammed close enough that he could run straight across the roofs, evading Fletch and the rest of Artus’s crew.
Jarin crossed his arms in front of his chest. “What do you want?”
“Ah, you know what I want, boy.” Artus brushed his sun-destroyed hands over the lapels of his black jacket. He, too, seemed to be imitating a merchant. “Ferrante gave me faulty information, lad. He sent me chasing my tail all over the bloody ocean.”
“Least he could do. You nearly killed him.”
Artus gave a magnanimous shrug. “And your siren stole from me. All I’m trying to do is get my map back and secure her Voice, then I’ll be on my way. I’m owed that much, I figure.”
“Can’t help you. I don’t have either of those things.”
“Ah.” Artus cocked his head, eyeing the younger man. Despite seething with anger, Jarin was immediately wary under Artus’s appraising stare. His shrewdness was unmatched. “But you and your siren read the map. And I’ll bet she knows exactly where to find the amulet.” His gold tooth glinted. “Perhaps she can be my guide.”
“If you lay your hand on her, I’ll cut it off.”
Artus hooted with glee. “Oh, she got to ye, didn’t she? That must be one mighty fine magical cunt she has. You’re making me regret I didn’t?—”
Jarin forgot he was newly mortal. He forgot at least a dozen pirates were waiting to ambush him. Or, more accurately, he didn’t care.
He strode to Artus, knocked him backward against a barrel, and withdrew a dagger.
Artus hadn’t put his hand on Riella, it was true. But he’d spoken foully about her. So, Jarin stuck the blade in the man’s mouth and sawed off his tongue. His old captain gurgled and screamed and struggled, but Jarin overpowered him.
The detached tongue fell to the gravel, blood spurting from Artus’s mouth.
In the time it took for the older man’s crew to register his screams over the festival’s din, Jarin had scaled the ladder and disappeared.