Page 112 of Heir of the Beast

Mort nods. “He has me very curious as well. I think he is very sick. I heard some crew members saying he was involved with a witch. When he broke up with her, she cursed him with a deadly virus.”

I frown. “Really?” I think about that. “I can actually see that happening. He’s kind of a playboy.”

“Yes, he is a very attractive human like Apollo.”

I shoot her a glance. “Do not compare him to Apollo.”

She laughs and holds up her hands. “Okay, calm down. I think Black Siron is seeking out the healer. Pierce thinks he is going to hold Eltson hostage in return for healing power.”

“That’s perfect,” I say. “So how are we going to get the healer back to Apollo?” A thought occurs to me—I have not asked about his health today. “How is Apollo?”

Mort sighs. “The same. Pierce has gotten clearance to pay the healer what he asks for. Probably virgin blood and unicorns’ horns.”

I nod. “We can do this, Mort. We can save him.”

“Damn right we will.”

I walk out onto the main deck and spend a few hours soaking up the sun. No one bothers me, and I am assuming its orders from the Black Siron.

There are men fishing, and I can’t help but be intrigued by their devices. Maybe it’s boredom, but I want to try it for myself.

I walk up to a large man who looks like he has a bow, but it’s attached to other nets and metal contraptions. “Is it easy?”

He pauses and turns to look at me. His red beard and blue eyes remind of a Scottish highlander. I see his eyes glance up to the upper decks, probably searching for the warden. ~Eye roll.~

“Lass, if you catch a fish, I will be the one dancing for you.”

I hear a few snickers behind me and a smile. “Deal.”

He glances up again and shrugs. “If you’re here, might as well put you to work. We have a lot of mouths to feed in this crew, so get to work, lassie.”

He winks at me and hands me his large fishing contraption that smells like dead fish. Strange. The Scottish men in this world talk the same as on Earth. Parallel universes, mirroring each other.

“I am bored to tears. I will be delighted.”

The next hour consists of me ~not~ catching any fish whatsoever. This is hard, not like shooting arrows at all. I let out a grunt of frustration and stomp my foot.

I blame my bad attitude on my inability to have patience. I could in no way defuse a bomb. I’d get pissed and end up headbutting the bomb and blowing my own head off.

I try again and hear laughs when I shoot the hook only for it to pitifully slosh in the black sea waters. “Are you kidding me?”

The laughter dies, and I hear someone approaching. I curse because I know what that sound is—a ~cane.~ I don’t turn around. Instead, I try again. What’s he going to do? Throw me overboard?

I pause. He totally could. I lower my fishing bow and turn around to stare at his imposing figure.

I suck in a little breath, only because I have never seen him in this state of undress, and in the general sense, like any female, it gives me a slight pause.

Less than a slight pause—we are talking about a split second in time.

I can still only see his mouth, but he has a billowy, unbuttoned black shirt on, exposing his golden chest. I huff—of course he is super ripped. With an ego like that, it’s a must.

I wonder if he wears a mask because he thinks he is ugly—save for his mouth, that is. That’s kind of sad. God-like body and a pizza face? A true crime, if you ask me.

He tilts his head at me, reminding me that I am just staring at him like I’m struck by how hot he is. ~Please, don’t flatter yourself, Zorro.~ “Does the Black Siron need anything from me?”

That’s PG.

~Only~ PG.

---