Page 1 of The Noble's Merman

ONE

English Channel, 1720

Blood in the water was a wonderful sight, and Mo longed to see it again.

A deep, primal urge rattled around and swam throughout his body, taking him hostage until he gave in to the desires and satisfied the need. It was magic, truly, pulling his mind this way and that. The legends said it was a unique kind of magic gifted to only the most deserving of merfolk. Mo never quite thought he deserved it, but still, he relished in it. The gift of his Song made him powerful.

The more he let it settle, the more it stirred inside him, wrapping around his heart like tentacles, reaching up and into his throat, the more restless he became until he unleashed it.

Mo swam out of his grotto home in the underwater mountain. He rolled a boulder to block the entrance, careful so he wouldn’t pinch his forearm fins in the process. Shielding the doorway into more obscurity was a curtain of weaved seaweed, constructed to blend in with the rest of the weeds climbing up the mountain’s face. His home was not at the peak, not quite near the base, but somewhere lodged in the middle, with half a dozen other merfolk grottos carved out above it. A friendly neighborhood. He couldn’t take such things for granted, when so much danger lurked elsewhere.

But as much as he appreciated his home, he never really talked to his neighbors unless required. He kept to himself. He was certain the other merfolk found him odd.

Thrusting his blue tail, Mo made his way toward uninhabited waters. Well, uninhabited by merfolk. The further he swam, the more variety he saw in the sea life. Time passed, goodness knew how long, aside from how the sun shifted places above, gliding past the threshold overhead. He usually had to swim far away from home to find the sort of ship he preferred to target. A pod of dolphins hurtled past him in a playful frenzy, circling him and nuzzling their bottle-noses on his shoulder. It was silly—oftentimes he felt more comfortable speaking to other sea creatures rather than to his own kind. “Stay safe on your travels,” said the dolphins.

“And yours as well,” Mo replied.

The dolphins squinted their eyes in such a way that one could describe as resembling a smile, and went off on their merry way. And so did Mo, swimming up a little closer to the surface.

He had nothing on his body aside from a couple dangling necklaces, which he found from a previous ship hunt. As he carried along, the water was calm, steady, but not without the odd gentle current tickling his skin. A great day to spot boats, he thought.

It happened about every couple moons—his Song would stir in his chest. An uninvited, yet not entirely unwelcome guest that knocked on the door of his mind, not leaving until Mo opened up and served it a meal. A meal of carnage, flesh, and blood. It would thank him for his hospitality with the greatest high imaginable.

If the Song knocked, he couldn’t leave it unanswered. He would always need to open that door.

In return, his Song would protect him if need be; if Mo ever felt threatened by humans, he could call upon its power.

The sun shone through the water in waving strips of light—dazzling yellow rays moving to and fro, painting the ocean with a warm glow. The sea floor seemed impossibly far, as when he glanced down, it was blanketed by darkness. But little glimmers of light blinked out from the void, like stars shining in the night sky. Sea crystals. Some stationary, some carried by other traveling merfolk who were hunting fish.

Mo looked up. So far, he hadn’t seen much activity from the surface. The sunlight obscured his view, creating a glare as he gazed upwards. He figured he’d have a better look if he breached it.

Foam splashed and small waves crested as the fresh air kissed his skin. Ah, air. It was always a shock to feel after being in the water for so long. The gills on his neck and torso closed gently as he inhaled through his nostrils, bringing the air into his second set of lungs. But it was still hard to see—and he moved his long hair away from his face.

And there she was, off in the distance. A black flag perched high on top of the mast.

Perfect.

A pirate ship. He’d learnt what they were called and how to identify them from the few talks he’d had with sailors in the past. Contrary to what most merfolk believed of sirens, Mo didn’t hate humankind. He would do what he did to satisfy the urge, the power his magic gave him, the beautiful sight of blood. What other choice did he have, when the magic of the Song took its hold within him? But humanity itself was not his enemy. Actually, it was the very opposite. Humans fascinated him immensely—with their fancy clothes, customs, meticulously structured buildings, and grand feats of craftsmanship such as the ships themselves. Humans and their culture were his special interests, ever since he was a youngling. He’d always longed to know what it would be like to live in their society.

As a merman, truth be told, he didn’t know much about human politics. There were so many different countries, so many people warring amongst each other; how could he know who would be friendly to merfolk? But he’d taken a chance and spoke to humans anyway—and he’d been lucky to come across English ships. He’d learnt some human lore from them, what they were willing to tell him in those encounters few and far between.

Pirate ships were all filled with dastardly, rotten men who pillaged and tortured for their own twisted gain. They were the nemeses of the English humans who were kind to Mo, the bane of their existence, one could say, so disposing of pirates was beneficial to not only Mo, but to the kind sailors as well. A winning move for everyone, Mo believed.

Mo swam closer, shielding most of his body under the water. He’d need to get at least close enough to see one of their faces on board, else the Song would not reach their ears. Slowly, he lurked; the warmth of the sun drying the water on the crown of his head. So far it seemed no one had noticed him, as no shouts of merfolk! or siren! came from the pirate ship.

That was all about to change.

A light rumble swirled and pulsed in Mo’s chest as soon as he saw the first face. Closer still, he swam. Another face came into view, and the rumble evolved into a buzz. The vibrations beat in his chest and also moved up to his throat, tugging at his mind, making his heart thud loud and overwhelming excitement take its hold?—

He began to sing.

To hell with it all, Kent thought. To hell with marriage, to hell with his inheritance, to hell with providing an heir. The earldom could end with him, for all he cared. Kent lost his chance for having any of that last year—the pressure from his father wasn’t going to change any of that now.

He didn’t know what to do. He wasn’t sure where to go. He just knew he had to get away for a while, far enough away from his father after the terrible argument they’d had. After greeting the stableboy, Kent mounted Biscuit, his trusty mare, and set out south. The sea wasn’t far from his residence, and if anything, he could always count on it as the one constant in his life that would never change. People come and go, move away, die, or even lie and betray you—but the sea would always be there. No matter what. It was a steady calm he could rely on in that regard.

The sun would set soon, and Kent wanted to see the water when it did. He steered Biscuit along the path in a trot until the road deteriorated; stone road turning to dirt, then to worn grass and dried leaves cutting through the lush forest around him. The trip would take about half an hour on foot, but with Biscuit, he arrived at the beach much quicker. His heart raced from the memory of the cruel words spouted by his father. ‘You don’t give a damn about your own family! About your heritage, about your lineage! Do we mean nothing to you?’ Kent’s face twisted in disgust as he tightened his hands on the reins. Perhaps the Wilson family line really would end with him.

Soon enough, they exited the woods into the clearing that brought them to the beach. To his left, to his right, and a dozen feet in front of him lay the flat shingle shores of the Solent. With a swing of his leg, Kent dismounted Biscuit, almost slipping on the uneven ground as his shoe dug into the mushy, grassy earth. He grasped her saddlehorn for extra support as he stood.

---