Page 2 of Song of Lorelei

He adjusted his headset, fitting it snugly over his ears. The engines, the waves, the ringing, everything disappeared, save for the low staticky hum of an open radio channel. The crew tore off the rest of the lids and prepped the crates for dumping overboard.

While everyone threw themselves into work, the youngest crew member, Ian, stared blankly ahead at the water, frozen to the spot. The sandy-haired kid didn’t even blink when another crew member bumped into him. Or squint at the sun, for that matter, even though he’d taken off his sunglasses, the skin directly around his eyes shone a lily white where the rest of his face was deeply tanned.

The glare off the water should’ve been blinding. Kid was probably damaging his eyes staring like that.

Killian clasped the young man’s shoulder and found it damp to the touch. “You okay?” His voice crackled across the comms.

Ian blinked twice and looked up at him. The hairs at the back of the young man’s neck rose above prickled gooseflesh, and although his eyes were glassy and unfocused, he nodded. The movement was slight, barely a dip of the chin.

Killian squeezed his shoulder. “It’ll be all right.” The kid didn’t usually get this worked up, but some days the fear of what lurked below just gripped tighter. “Why don’t you give Walt a hand with that crate? Helps to stay busy.”

“Okay,” Ian mumbled.

Killian left him to grab a broom. With his crew handling all the heavy lifting, the least he could do was sweep up wood shards and tether cuttings. Just because he was captain didn’t mean he was above the work.

As he went to open the deck box, a round, black object, with its center cut out like a donut, caught his eye against the steel deck. He crouched down and picked it up, squishing it between his fingers. Wrinkled foam. Like the cushioning in their headsets, which not only provided comfort, it also created the sound-blocking seal.

One side was slightly tacky, like glue, and there were puncture marks all throughout like someone’s dog had used it for a chew toy.

“Ian! Where d’you think you’re going, son?” Walt called out, his voice loud and clear over the radio. Killian glanced over to where the young man had last stood but the spot was empty. “Ian?” Walt repeated, his voice dropping low in volume. The seasoned fisherman took a hesitant step forward, his brow furrowed, a strong gust of wind whipping back his mane of tight, curly white hair.

The kid didn’t respond.

Killian rocked back on his heels for momentum and leapt to his feet. He followed Walt’s gaze to the pilot house steps, where Ian steadily climbed up. There was no hard rule saying he couldn’t be there, but there wasn’t a reason for him or other members of the crew to be. Their place, their work was on deck.

Although Ian was no model for good posture, his shoulders were slumped more than usual, the movement of his lanky limbs slowed as if filled with wet sand. When the kid paused on the steps to tilt his head and shake, Killian half expected seawater to trickle out.

And that’s when he saw it.

Shit.

Ian’s noise cancellation headset sat off kilter on top of his head…because he was missing the ear-padding on one side.

He dashed after the kid.

How had he not seen it before? He should have been paying better attention. While the tech was effective, it wasn’t foolproof. Unless the earpieces sat snuggly over top the ears, creating a seal that blocked out sound, the headsets lost all their protective qualities.

Ian continued to the door. “It’s so loud,” he whined, reaching for the handle.

The memory of a mermaid named Undine thrashing on deck, clawed hands covering her ears from the sound of the boat’s engines, spurred Killian up the stairs. When they caught Undine in their nets, she hummed until Branson shut off the engine, and she almost successfully compelled Lila to set her free.

“McAdams! Don’t let him shut the engines off!” Killian shouted to his helmsman.

“Wha—oh, shit. Ian, what the hell are you doing?”

The comms crackled with the sounds of a scuffle.

As Killian bounded up the steps, two at a time, he felt the vibrations from another set of feet pounding up the stairs behind him.

“Right behind you, Cap,” Branson’s voice assured.

A loud thunk, followed by a sharp cry over the radio, chilled Killian’s blood. He lurched forward, bracing himself against the pilot house door. Not because they sped up, but because the boat had abruptly stopped, its engine cut.

“Open those crates and then get yourselves below deck,” he ordered the others, wrenching the door open.

Inside, McAdams lay unconscious on the floor.

Armed with a paper weight, Ian stood guard over the navigation console, trembling. Killian stopped short and raised his hands. Ian may not have been a sturdy kid, but he was scrappy.

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