Page 17 of Wicked Tides
“You break it, you buy it,” he said with a shrug.
“She still has a tongue,” I hissed.
“Of course, she does. Keeps it fresh.”
Collin slid his pistol into his belt and then replaced the gag over the woman’s mouth, shoving me away from her as soon as the buckles were secured again. Then he gestured to one of his men with a rope. The man—or boy—was too young to be on a hunting ship. He hobbled forward with a limp and started wrapping the woman tightly in additional binds until she could no longer lift her arms. Then two other men took her by the shoulders and started forcefully leading her away from the docks.
“Happy hunting, boys,” he said, putting his hat back and tipping it mockingly.
I watched Collin go with his unenthused crew and siren prisoner, clutching the hilt of my cutlass so tight, my knuckles cramped. Slowly, I heard my men putting their weapons away and turned to face them. All eyes were on me, quietly asking how the fuck we were going to deliver living sirens if I couldn’t even hold myself back from killing someone else’s captive.
I was asking myself that question, too.
Gus was still leaning against the post puffing on his pipe only now his hand was resting on the butt of his pistol instead of in his belt.
Taking a deep breath, I brushed my hand over my hair and slid my cutlass into its sheath.
“Back to work,” I ordered.
~ 8 ~
Vidar
A survivor was he of a nightmare at sea.
A wolf cub from the Mother’s Fang.
~A Sea Shanty
The ocean reminded me of so many dark things. Horrible things. It took the spirit of the Mother’s Fang and the creatures within took her crew. I’d done nothing but kill monsters or watch people die on the ocean and yet it felt more natural to feel the floor swaying beneath me than it did to stand on solid ground.
It was two days into our travels. I was going to follow the merchant routes, but we had a particular path that was much less direct and much less obvious. Sirens stalked the merchant routes and following them exactly was too conspicuous. Too expected. Daughter’s Pass was too rough that time of year, even for the Rose. So we sailed in between.
I stayed on the stern for some time the next morning, sitting on a stool with my feet up on the helm’s railing. In my lap was my book of smeared charcoal sketches and blotted ink writing.
The sea air really didn’t do paper any good. Even with the leather binding, nearly all of my sketches had been tarnished in some way.
I’d started a new sketch, trying my best to remember the siren Collin had in cuffs before we left. She was different and a different siren was something I didn’t like. I always tried to record all of the information I could gather on our hunts. Their weaknesses. Their appearance. Their strengths. I’d come to find they were all different and I wrote every detail in that damn journal. When I could no longer stand thinking of that woman’s face, I tucked my charcoal into the folds of the paper and closed the book, setting it aside.
I stared out at the undulating expanse wondering how much I still didn’t know about it. My heart still wasn’t completely set on taking Whitton up on his deal. It could hardly even be called a deal at all. It wouldn’t be long before every man-eating bitch from the sea decided to come ashore and wreak havoc on everyone, not just hunters and fishermen. What Whitton didn’t understand was that we were at war, even if he never rolled his fat belly onto a ship himself to see it. He was safe in his mansion eating the spoils of every hunter’s sacrifices.
The weather was calm and the sky was sunny all morning until a thin fog rolled in. The rain was soon to follow, but I had some time to think. Not that thinking ever brought me much comfort.
Below me, a few men had gathered on deck with an overturned barrel and some dice. The sound of the dice rolling soothed me a bit. I’d listened to that sound over and over on the Mother’s Fang though I’d never participated. I was always too distracted by the sea and the way she moved like a temptress only to strike down anything that wasn’t ready for her violent tempers.
A few other men sat up against the rail talking. And then there was Gus with a bottle of rum in his hand and a foot propped up on a crate. The wind was soft, fluttering the sails and allowing us some time to just drift. I enjoyed the silence, but Gus never did. He told me many times that the noise of a busy tavern or a booming town was where his soul was at peace and I couldn’t blame him. The laughter and boisterousness of a crowd kept his thoughts in line.
For me, the absence of sound was bliss.
“Join us, Cap’n,” someone said. I glanced down to see James trekking up from below with another barrel to sit on.
“Cap’n don’t join in games,” Mullins chuckled, tossing his dice out.
“Fine where I am, James,” I nodded.
“Well, it’s too damn quiet on this deck,” Gus rasped loudly, clearly getting a bit agitated.
“Not our fault the weather’s agreeable,” Mullins replied.
