Page 59 of The Noble's Merman

“Mo, you wouldn’t know any human tunes, would you?”

“No, but I could probably catch on if it’s easy enough to learn.” He accepted his drink as well, wincing as he took another sip.

“Then I’ll ask them to play something easy for you,” said Davies. “All this time, and you haven’t sung for us! That needs to change, especially since merfolk are supposed to have terribly beautiful voices.”

“Sure.” Mo nodded, heat rising to his cheeks. He could sing, of course, just like how he sang for Kent prior. This would not be a problem.

Davies danced across the room to speak with the musicians. Soon enough, the beat changed, strings strumming in a happy rhythm. Kent said he recognized the song and stood up in an excited frenzy, singing along and clapping with the other men. Kent’s excitement was radiant, shining bright like he was the sun himself—the joy spilled over to Mo as he listened in wonder to his human’s beautiful voice amongst the others.

After a few verses of sailing on the ocean and defeating imaginary giant sea serpents, they repeated the tune but no words this time—instead replaced with la la la. Kent took Mo’s hands in his, standing in front of him and swinging them side to side. How he wished he could stand as well, but this was good enough. More than enough, seeing Kent’s gorgeous smiling face. The notes sang straight into his heart, pumping loudly and forcefully, pleasant wrasses fluttering and swimming around in his chest. He needed to sing as well—he had to.

Mo found the tune easily, mimicking the same la la las Kent showed him after another verse. His human moved to his side so Mo could sing to the crowd. There they all were, together, wrapped in the tight confines of a familiar melody. Many listened closely as Mo sang with them, dancing all the same, clapping and drinking more of that disgusting rum. Mo’s head kept swirling because of it, adding to the enjoyment. This really was something else. After this song, he’d have to request more of that inebriating drink.

Davies, Walker, and Allen were all nearby, hollering and cheering as the same notes repeated over and over. The voices became so loud it stirred around that dizzying feeling in his gut, pulsing in his chest and escaping through his fingertips. Over and over and over, the melody kept playing, the voices chanting, and Mo kept singing. He felt elated, euphoric, sublime—powerful. Such a wonderful sensation shook his very core. His throat felt tight as he belted out in song, something special and magical letting itself out and spilling from his lips?—

Kent stilled. Next was Walker and Davies, halting their clapping and dropping their hands to their sides. Mo’s brows furrowed as he noticed, the tightness in his throat tugging tighter like tentacles clutching around his neck. The surrounding claps began to dissipate as well, as the men hung open their mouths, looking around cluelessly as to whom they should answer to…

Mo instantly stopped singing.

Kent fell on top of him, draping his arms over his shoulders like a ragdoll.

I used the Song.

He looked over Kent at the rest of the room, and there—someone was looking at him quite curiously?—

Allen.

The burly man rubbed his chin and stared at Mo, then took a gander around at his crewmates. The musicians never fully stopped playing, only slowed down, at least. They said something he couldn’t hear amongst each other before picking up the pace of their music once again. Almost as if nothing happened. Allen turned his gaze to them, then back to Mo, brows raised on his forehead and eyes open wide.

“What the devil was that…?”

“Ugh… Mo?” Kent stirred on top of him.

He ignored Allen’s reaction to respond to Kent. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, I think so.” Kent lifted himself up, standing while propping a hand on Mo’s shoulder. “Perhaps I had more to drink than I thought.” He lightened his words with a laugh.

“Perhaps, yes.”

Davies and Walker both blinked repeatedly. The quartermaster shook his head, rubbing under his nose with one hand while the other held his cup with a steady grip. “Perhaps we’ve all had a bit too much to drink.”

“I felt something like a wave,” said Davies. “That was nothing! We’re on a ship; large waves happen all the time, especially when it’s raining like now. Look here, see, I feel fine.”

He was completely oblivious. No one had any true idea of what happened.

“I suppose so,” Walker replied to Davies. “I don’t particularly feel nauseous.”

But Mo did.

A disgusting taste filled his mouth—worse than any rum he’d drunk. It slithered up and down his throat and stung like jellyfish stingers, sparking over and over, making it hard to breathe. He held his stomach and bent at the waist, heaving breath after breath after breath, grasping for anything to quell the awful feeling. Tighter and tighter, it clutched. His stomach somersaulted and he threw his other hand in front of his mouth to prevent himself from retching.

“Mo, what’s wrong?” It was Kent, still with his hand attached to him.

He couldn’t answer. How could he explain this? He’d used the Song—and then stopped. He’d stopped after a few notes, something he’d never done before. His tongue felt irrationally dry, desperate for a taste of saltwater. Everyone else appeared to be fine, no one was the wiser as to why they lost control for a brief moment. Aside from Allen. When Mo looked up and caught a glimpse of his sea-green eyes, he knew one thing for certain.

Allen was unaffected by the Song.

He has mer-blood.

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