Page 34 of The Noble's Merman

Mo began to sing.

He sang not words, but a melody of oo’s and ahh’s, rising in pitch gradually in a gentle crescendo. It was the same tune he sang every time, one he didn’t learn, but came to him naturally. The inherent gift of the Siren’s Song was one he was born with, something he instinctively knew how to use when the moment was right.

Harris’s eyes flashed, almost glowing for a brief moment, halting all his movements as soon as the first note hit his ears. From the instant Mo started his Song, the human’s awareness was fading. Crumbling. He was no longer his own person, but now bent to the will of the siren. A siren who wished to see him die, to see his blood in the water, however he deemed fit.

Oftentimes, Mo dictated to the humans to destroy their ship, making it fall, seeing it sink. But today that wasn’t necessary. He merely needed Harris out of the way—out of Kent’s way. Yes, this is why I’m doing it. This is right. His Song continued, hitting a dazzling high note in an incredible falsetto. And the human leant over the edge of the craft, closer to Mo, reaching his hands out with a blank, soulless expression in his eyes?—

He tumbled out of the boat, crashing with a heavy splash into the water.

Mo pulled on Harris’s wrist, dragging him further and further into the depths, away from the surface. What happened to the boat didn’t matter; it could float away, wash up ashore, or sink for all he cared. The human in his grasp was his sole focus, and Mo tugged him through the water, still singing, passing by scurrying schools of fish. Rays of sunlight pierced the water in strips of gold, highlighting the man’s skin, his dull face. He made no effort to resist, almost no movement at all. Harris was completely paralyzed from the Song.

Mo smiled devilishly, magic pulsating through his body?—

Thump, thump, thump.

Mo lunged forward, opening his jaw, sinking his fangs into the human’s neck. He bit down, hard, tearing at the flesh, ripping a chunk away from Harris’s body. He kept at it—teeth, tongue, and claws. He scratched and tore through the man’s clothing over his chest. Blood, oh, that beautiful blood crept away from the wounds, floating around in clouds of crimson red. The sight fulfilled something deep inside Mo. The pleasure rumbled inside his veins, waves flowing through to the ends of his fingertips. So light, so satisfying, so utterly delightful.

I am in control.

After that phenomenal last encounter with Mo, Kent set his sights to look around Portsmouth for a new job. He wandered around riding on Biscuit’s back, checking bulletin boards around the town and listening in where he could for any leads. He stopped in at a few pubs, loitered around the boatyard, accepted some handbills people gave, keeping an ear out. Mo told him he would be helping too, so hopefully there would be an opening for him somewhere.

As light was turning to dusk, Kent found nothing he considered useful. Biscuit guided them both on the journey home, stopping occasionally for a short breather. Kent hadn’t told any of his family yet, but he figured he could once he did land a position on a ship, making the decision on his own, not giving into the whims of people who might try to convince him otherwise. His family would understand. Katherine especially, since she was the one who knew all the details about Mo. However, his father needed to be taught a lesson, a very important one: just because he was Kent’s parent did not mean he needed to control every aspect of his life for him. And what better way to teach him that than to take matters into his own hands, leaving home on an adventure? What could be more perfect than that?

As another day came, Kent went back to Portsmouth once more in search of his goal. He made sure to treat Biscuit well, pampering her for all the walking, storing extra treats in his coat pockets. He hoped they could still make it back to Stubbington in time for sunset to meet Mo again, so they set out early, sun shining above high in the sky. The brim of his tricorn hat shielded his face from the blinding light.

Kent found his way into a tavern by the pier after lunch hour, after the rush of food when people would stay lingering around to gossip. With Biscuit hitched outside, he slid indoors and ordered an ale, finding a spot at a table to himself. It was somewhat near the front entrance by the windows, facing the crowds—a fine spot to eavesdrop, or catch any comings and goings.

However, it wasn’t long before someone caught his attention, or more specifically, he caught theirs.

“Lord Fareham? Lord Fareham, is that you?”

He perked up, setting his cup down after a sip. “Yes, that’s me. You are…”

The clean-shaven man with long, dark brunet hair wearing a tricorn hat nodded, walking up to his table. He looked to be slightly older than Kent, possibly in his mid-thirties. “Charles Davies, your lordship. We met at the barber-surgeon last week. Thank you still, for the wonderful cut and trim. Being out at sea, my hair certainly needed some pampering.”

“Yes, I remember now. You’re very welcome, Mr Davies. I’m glad it serves you well.” He smiled.

“Just Davies is fine.” He didn’t smile back. Instead, he looked nervous, glancing down and fiddling with his sleeve.

“And just Fareham is fine with me, too. Was something the matter? Here, have a seat.” He gestured to the open chair on the other side of the table. Davies nodded again, and sat down.

“Yes, something’s terribly the matter. It’s a wonder bumping into you here, actually, and I figure, perhaps you could help me? Not just me, but the whole crew of my ship, that is.”

His crew? Kent’s heart rate quickened at the mention. “What is wrong?”

“So, our ship, The Sterling Mer, is set to sail for Fall River, Massachusetts in five days. But one of our crew members, the surgeon Harris, has mysteriously disappeared. Gone. Vanished.”

“What?” Kent’s breath hitched. “Wha—how?”

“Not really sure how, or what the devil even happened. Last time anyone saw him was yesterday, and that was by me. He said he wanted to spend some time fishing and he rented a rowboat from the wharf over here. I said, fine, sure, what have you. Figured he would just be out for a while and then come back, if he really was merely fishing. But he never showed up to the inn last night according to the other lads, and when I checked this morning at the wharf, apparently he never returned his boat.”

“Seriously? Do you think he took the boat and fled, then?”

“The bastard had nothing on him! Definitely not enough shillings to get himself very far, with what the lads told me was left at the inn. Unless he had some master plan up his sleeve to leave us all, not telling a soul about it. But still, he reassured me, right before he left, he wouldn’t dare leave his position on The Sterling Mer. Captain Brooks treats him a little too well for his own good, if you ask me. Leaving that luxury seems like a rather stupid idea, even for him, you know? What I think is the more likely case is that he got shipwrecked, lost at sea, not that he fled from us.”

“I suppose it is possible…”

A mystery was suddenly at hand. What could have happened to this man, Harris? Going out on the water, suddenly disappearing, possibly even dead? Kent didn’t remember the weather being terribly bad yesterday; he was out and about himself. And if Harris were out on a rowboat, he couldn’t have gone far, into dangerous waters. It sounded more like foul play, if he wouldn’t have fled willingly. But who around Portsmouth would seek out and murder such a man…?

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