Page 3 of A Curse of Salt

The air swept from my lungs. Every nightmare from the past weeks collided, blooming into the very thing I’d feared and hoped for most. Father.

A cry escaped my lips as the villagers dragged his unconscious form into the living room. I hovered nervously as they lowered him into an armchair, his tattered clothes soaking through the upholstery.

Gods, I prayed, don’t let him be dead.

‘What happened?’ I finally choked out.

The taller of the two men shrugged. ‘Ship washed up in the storm. She’s seen better days, but yer father took the worst, by the looks o’ it.’

I glanced down at his slumped form, taking small comfort in the slow rise and fall of his chest. He’s alive. He’s alive. But no matter how many times I repeated it, I couldn’t shake the thought that followed – How many aren’t?

An image of the blacksmith’s husband flashed before my eyes, shirt bloodied and torn, his body broken on the shore. ‘And the rest of the crew?’ I asked, dreading the answer.

The second man ran a hand over his balding head, scattering raindrops to the ground. His lips thinned. ‘Nuthin’.’

‘Damn pirates,’ his companion grunted.

A chill sluiced down my spine. Leviathan had left port with a crew of seventeen sailors. Five would be buried in dirt graves on a cliff east of the bay, and those were the lucky ones.

‘Take him up to the bedroom.’ Aberdeen appeared in the doorway, her face grave. She led the way as the two men hauled Father upstairs, no questions needed. Her footsteps were steady as the rain, unfazed by the horrors that had my heart and mind racing.

I hurried in tow, fingers gripping the banister in an attempt to stop the world falling out from under me.

The men settled Father on to his bed, the colour swept from his fair skin by some ungodly tide. They withdrew with a solemn bow of their heads, leaving Aberdeen and me standing wordlessly over his unconscious body.

The room swirled with stories we’d whispered in the dark as children, stories I’d prayed would never come true. Black-hearted pirates who sailed the raging tides, men and monsters alike at their mercy. Creatures with shark teeth and serpent tongues, and water so thick with blood it tasted of steel.

One figure loomed in all of them. A man, in some tales, a tentacled beast in others. Here in Northbay, the stories gave him eyes like an abyss, scaled skin and the fangs of an anglerfish. In Bray, his tentacles were made from shadows, his eyes gleaming red and hands like hooks of bone. No matter where we went, the moniker of the Heartless King meant one thing: monster.

Some said the cities of the north were free from King Oren’s reign because of him. Because of pirates who ravaged and pillaged and plundered. Our village knew better – the Heartless King’s fleet did not rail against King Oren in support of anyone but themselves. They did it because they could. They sank ship after ship of soldiers and sailors alike only because they were too proud to share an ocean.

I sank on to the side of the mattress and drew one of Father’s hands into mine, frightened by how cold it felt. I brushed the damp hair back from his forehead and shivered.

As if he could sense my touch, Father’s eyes flew open. Wide and startlingly blue, the horrors they’d witnessed were drowned in terror.

‘Felicie,’ he gasped.

2

‘Soup isn’t going to bring him back from the dead.’

Warm morning light trickled across Father’s sunken face

as I set the bowl of broth in my lap with a sigh, ignoring Aberdeen’s snide remark. We were both on edge; it had been a restless night, overshadowed by a sense of doom that thickened with each passing hour. Father had barely been able to string a sentence together since he’d woken last night, let alone explain what had happened to his beloved Leviathan and crew.

He lay beneath the coarse white sheets, hair still damp from the sea. The smell of salt only sharpened the dread gnawing at my stomach. I could’ve woven together a thousand stories from what I already knew, but each was as violent and harrowing as the last. I was only surprised – and grateful – he was alive at all. Pirates weren’t known for their mercy.

I returned the bowl to the table by Father’s bed as he lifted his head to offer me a weak smile. There was colour in his cheeks despite the unnerving emptiness of his eyes and I forced out a sigh of relief.

At least he’s here.

Aberdeen stepped closer, her pale green dress crisp against her almond skin. ‘What happened?’ she demanded, at the same time I asked, ‘How do you feel?’

Father struggled to pull himself upright, his thin arms shaking. ‘My dears,’ he rasped, soft blue eyes hollowed by a fear I’d never seen before. ‘We’re in greater danger than I feared.’

Greater? We’d always known the perils that lurked beyond the bay, but Father had escaped. He was free. What other kind of safety was there, in this world?

Aberdeen’s brows creased, mirroring my concern. ‘What are you talking about?’ she asked, low, cautious.

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