Chapter Nine
“I don’t like that it’s all sand.” Austin gestured expansively to the beautiful white beach.
His voice caught and broke in ugly places, and he snatched the cup Tristan had been following him around with and drank half of the contents.
He stood barefoot in a shaded, well-furnished outdoor porch overlooking the beach.
Tristan’s men were exercising on the white sands.
Those not running an unmarked track were practising flips and, just as often, practising falls.
Those nearest were unsubtly listening to Austin and Tristan argue.
Though since Austin woke with his fever broken, Tristan had swapped from dauntingly persistent to a state of extreme supplication: every whim was being met with yes and of course.
The lack of openings to attack was driving Austin mad.
Tristan looked past him to the white beach. “What would you like it to be instead?”
Austin scowled. “I don’t care about the beach. I mean, under the water. There’s barely any fish, if you hadn’t noticed. There’s no rocks or seaweed, nothing for octopuses to make dens of and hide beneath. It’s barren, and it’s boring.”
Tristan nodded, as if Austin were being perfectly reasonable.
He descended the steps onto the beach, and by unspoken command, the Troop broke away from their exercise and approached. It was too far to make out Tristan’s voice, but Austin saw as he pointed towards the ocean.
A unified, confused, “Yes, sir,” answered him.
Tristan rejoined Austin on the porch as the Troop broke off, heading for an outcrop in a nearby hill. When they reached it, they began tearing loose whatever rocks looked movable.
Tiredness crept up Austin’s legs, and he abruptly dropped into the nearest chair with a scowl.
He’d only walked from the room to here, and he was already spent.
Even his power was lying weak and curled up inside, not quite dormant, but Austin couldn’t hold his voice steady enough to use it anyway.
He’d never get back to Liam at this rate.
“I will fetch bigger ones,” Tristan promised, eyeing Austin up. “And transplant vegetation.”
Tristan knelt in front of Austin, hands kneading his calves. “Here?”
Austin’s lids shuttered closed. “I have done nothing but lie down for days, and my muscles are all so sore,” he complained.
“You have been tense and sick, not relaxed,” Tristan pointed out, his firm touch breaking up what felt like clumps of acid in his calves. “Not to mention you were sore before getting sick,” he added quietly, almost to himself.
There was a faint pop, and Tristan’s massage paused, then began anew with oiled fingers. Austin sank in the chair, biting down a groan.
“This is how I should have been taken care of,” Austin grumbled. “Not force-fed gruel and used dishwater.”
“Honeyed porridge and a selection of bisques and broths,” Tristan corrected. “Your senses were stripped, dulling your taste.”
“I wish my senses had been stripped.”
Tristan skilfully worked the pain from his calves, turning hard muscles to malleable jelly.
Austin couldn’t help his relieved sigh as the urge to lash out receded.
He would not apologise—for Tristan had stoutly refused to apologise, despite all his manhandling and persistence in feeding Austin.
He begged forgiveness, displaying a distinct lack of remorse.
“I’ve always been a bad eater,” Austin explained, eyes still shut, enjoying the massage.
“My father used to—” He caught himself, swallowed.
Tristan located a spasming muscle and vanquished the pain.
Austin exhaled in relief and continued. “He was curious how my body might metabolise things differently from others. He’d sneak chemicals into my meals.
At best, they’d leave me throwing up. Most often, my throat would be stripped raw, or I’d have burning pains in my stomach and headaches so bad I thought my brain was melting.
He once put bleach into an apple—as if I wouldn’t smell that.
It’s a wonder I still have a stomach at all! ”
Agitated, Austin opened his eyes. Tristan knelt before him, Austin’s feet guided onto his thick thighs.
Tristan’s massage stopped. The only thing to move were his eyes as he studied Austin’s face.
“It’s a habit,” Austin said. “Eating small amounts. I’d never get too sick then if I did eat something tainted. But when I’m already sick, and there is food…” He felt keenly the sharpness of his own smile. “You are very lucky that I lost my voice.”
Tristan considered Austin at length. “Where is this man?” he asked.
Austin dug his heels into muscular thighs, and the massage of his left calf resumed. “Dead. Supposedly.”
“Supposedly?”
“His body was never recovered.”
“You think him alive?”
Austin cast his gaze aside as Tristan’s Troop came trundling over the sands, men and women hauling rocks far too large for a normal human’s strength towards the shore. They chattered jovially, apparently unbothered by the odd task they’d been set.
If Cessair had lived, would he have slunk away and allowed Austin to inherit his fortune?
Of course not. Even exposed for his crimes, Cessair’s resources were vast enough to escape the consequences.
But the thought of him being gone, truly gone, sat in his heart like a lie.
There had been moments a few months ago where he’d settled enough into himself that he could broach the possibility of it, but as it always did, the monster of Cessair had crept back out of the depths to torment him.
Austin realised Tristan was patiently waiting for him to speak. “His ship wrecked. He’s human, not like us.” A wrecked ship would certainly be no danger to Tristan or Austin’s life.
Tristan hummed. “My father is also only a man.” He bent his head.
Austin thought for a confused second that Tristan was bowing, but then a soft kiss pressed atop his right knee, then his left.
From there, Tristan angled his head to gaze up at Austin, eyes so very sharp and dangerous.
“They forget when we’re young that our power will not remain lesser than theirs forever. ”
Austin stared into Tristan’s eyes, unpacking that implication.
“You could never have been weak enough for anyone to harm you.” How could any person, or even monster, grapple with a merman’s power?
He reached, pressing his fingers to the top of Tristan’s shoulder.
A plain piece of silk hid nothing. “You’re powerful.
I can feel it.” He let his fingers slide from shoulder to upper arm, drawing a shiver from Tristan despite the heat in the air.
“It’s a wonder you don’t burst apart at the seams.”
This close, Austin could see the ocean in Tristan’s blue eyes, feel its indomitable power.
He withdrew his hand.
“When I was a child,” Tristan began, “my father drove my brother and me into an inlet with a trapped arrow-whale. He wanted us to kill it. We”—Tristan’s chin pressed into Austin’s knee as he rested his head—“were small, and not up to the challenge. It caught me by the tail—you saw the marks it left—and would have torn my fluke off if not for Hal.”
Austin recalled the half-ring of teeth marks in Tristan’s tail. An agitated hum rose unbidden in his throat. Tristan ran an oiled, soothing hand up his calf. Tristan hummed too, but his was calming. His chest rumbled against Austin’s shins like a cat’s medicinal purr.
“Hal bargained with the whale. She would release me, and in exchange, we would dismantle the barrier trapping her inside the inlet. She found the terms agreeable. I still find shallow waters an uneasy thing,” Tristan admitted, “though I was not even a quarter of the size I am now back then.”
“You freed the whale?”
Tristan nodded.
“And what did your father do?” Austin could not help but ask.
Cessair’s moods had been tumultuous, his flashes of anger brief, yet painfully bright.
Austin was the one blamed for lagging research.
It was his fault the blood, marrow, or cells they took from him lacked what they were searching for.
Sometimes Cessair would forbid him from leaving his room.
Strip him of entertainment, appetising food, a bathroom and dignity.
Sometimes he would magic cruel behavioural tests out of thin air that simply must be done right that second: how does the subject’s skin respond to fire?
How does the subject’s muscles respond to an electric current?
How does the subject’s brain respond to no sleep?
How does the subject respond to a chair being thrown at them?
A breadboard? A phone? Whatever happened to be in arm’s reach.
“He separated us.” Tristan’s voice drew Austin from unpleasant memories. “I did not see my brother for years. Hal fostered quite the distaste for injustice in that time”—this was said with an undeniable fondness—“and the fervent desire to discover the most fair method of governance.”
“Injustice,” Austin repeated.
“It is a great passion. He’ll pursue it his entire life, I know.” Tristan lifted his head from Austin’s knee, boldly pecked it, then massaged out the tiny red imprint left behind by his chin. “Are you in the mood for music? The musicians I sent for have arrived.”
Austin considered it, but the signals his body was sending weren’t receptive ones. He scowled.
“You are tired.”
“I’ve been in bed for days!”
“Because you have been unwell. A few more days of rest and—”
“No.” Austin didn’t want to be alone in a room after remembering the many days when he’d gone through exactly the same thing against his will. “I want music and entertainment.”
“You shall have both,” Tristan promised. He set Austin’s feet gently on the ground and stood. “I will be a few minutes.”
Under Tristan’s instruction, the shaded porch was arranged for hosting.
A chaise lounge was brought from inside, draped with silky blankets and stuffed with plush cushions.
Austin migrated to the more comfortable chair immediately, half reclined as he watched the rest of the space take shape.
A centre table was arranged with jugs of fruit juice and a platter of little morsels, a pale blue sheet was hung to catch the breeze where it blew in from the side, three odd, oblong torches were lit that produced a scent like tea tree and drove away every hovering bug.
Two musicians finally emerged. A pretty girl clutched a set of pipes and a drum, and next to her, an old man held a guitar in a loose grip.
Unlike the white wood that Tristan’s estate was constructed of, the instrument was made from a wood so dark it was nearly black even in the broad daylight.
As Austin was studying it, the two musicians bobbed their heads.
“I’m Jaris, and this is Kada,” the old man said in friendly tones, flashing Austin a warm smile.
The wrinkles in his face matched the contours of his smile perfectly.
“I’ve never had the honour of performing for a siren before; I doubt anyone living has!
But I relish the opportunity. What kind of music are you in the mood for? ”
As the old musician spoke, Tristan entered the porch.
He crossed behind Austin’s chair and, hesitating only a moment, lifted Austin’s feet to set himself beneath them.
Austin eyed the merman and the uncomfortable position he’d set himself in.
That side of the chair lacked a backrest. Tristan, very intentionally not looking at Austin, rearranged a silk sheet over Austin’s bare feet.
Without removing his gaze from Tristan, Austin answered the musician. “Soft music, I’ve had a headache and don’t want it to come back.” Without looking, he waved at Kada’s drums. “And none of that today.”
“Very well,” Jaris said cheerfully. “And Prince Tristan, Prince Hal asked me to remind you that he’s requested your presence. He insists you go see him tomorrow.” Without waiting for any reply, the musicians set themselves up.
Austin kept his eye fixed on Tristan.
The merman finally relented and met his gaze, the look on his face impish. He expected a reprimand, Austin thought, for being so bold. Rightfully expected it, Austin also thought. With a sneer, he dug his heels into Tristan’s thigh, then moved his attention to the musicians as they began.
Tristan released a low, pleased hum as though he’d won some sort of victory.
Austin rewarded the merman’s victory by spending the next several hours pretending he didn’t exist.