Page 17 of Cursed Waters

“We brought you a gift, Your Majesty,” the voice of the woman with dark lips purred, her words sugary enough to give me a toothache on top of everything else. Pressure fell away from under my chin, and the sack was ripped from my head.Oh, thank Poseidon.

Air flooded my lungs. I gasped for breath like a fished-up trout, my body crumpled in a heap on the floor. Ravenous for more, I pressed my cheek against the cool concrete and sucked down breath after breath of fresh air.

“Very well, we accept your offering. Bring her closer. We wish to examine her.”

Oh no.

There was no mistaking whom they had delivered me to. Even above water, King Eamon sounded like a foghorn, his gravelly voice possessing the authoritative tone of a natural-born ruler. His every command was absolute, and I could still remember how his light blue eyes had pierced through me, his gaze more pointed than the deadly tips of the magic-infused trident he wielded.

My chin lifted as I strained to see him, but my newfound friends yanked me to my feet before I could focus.Freaking harpies.

The thought of them being cursed delighted me. They deserved a curse and so, so much more. Poseidon help them if I ever caught one of them near salt water. One good kick of my boot, andbye-bye betta.

King Eamon sat before me on top of a foldable beach chair with all the dignity and poise of a leader. His legs were splayed, resting over the pink-and-yellow-striped seat, his posture as straight as it had been when he had sat atop his coral-laced throne.

I gulped. Even a mound of trash could be a throne when a king as imposing as him sat on it.

Cold sweat dripped from my hair as my eyes darted, taking in my surroundings. Corrugated steel walls surrounded the open space, and metal poles spanned the ceiling like a grid, the harsh overhead lighting reminding me of a warehouse.

The merfolk had fabricated structures all around the wooden platform where the king’s beach chair sat. The various hues and patterns of the cloth clashed against one-another, reminding me of a brightly colored coral reef. Someone had strung long swaths of mismatched fabric up on poles, partitioning off sections of the building and making it look like some sort of intricate vagrant village.

Hollow, expressionless faces peeked at me from the shadows of the dwellings, looking just as cast out as the trash they were now forced to call home. The cloth constructing the nearest hut wrinkled and swayed as two merfolk looked out, both watching me and the king’s platform in curious silence.

The rubber on the soles of my boots squealed as the women brought me up to the throne’s edge. King Eamon leaned forward, bracing a hand on his knee. Bright blue irises speared through me.

“Nerida, is it?” he asked—as if he hadn’t watched me grow up alongside his son during the entire nine years I’d spent under the waves.

Perhaps kings were too important to remember the names and faces of those they had written off as dead.

“King Eamon,” I forced out through gritted teeth. My hair was a tangled mess, the strands matted, pulling at my cheeks as I spoke. As if his penetrating gaze hadn’t already made me feel small enough.

Suddenly, the sound of shattering glass pierced my eardrums, and even the harpies on either side of me flinched at the sudden disturbance.

A body swayed out from behind two bright orange curtains. The man it belonged to was muttering loudly to himself, disrupting the entire scene. Guess he hadn’t gotten the memo about the hostage situation.

Although clearly drunk, he was still a giant. The unbelievable broadness of his chest suggested he’d once spent countless hours training underwater with a spear. Arms flew out, and the man swung half of a broken bottle through the air, stumbling two steps closer to me. My breath caught.

Gray irises veered about the room as his head rolled back, his eyes possibly searching for mine but seemingly unable to settle on which direction to look.

The man toed forward again, his gait wobblier and more uncertain than a newborn deer’s, until one of his muscled shoulders caught a pole, stopping him mid-step. Wrapping around it, he tripped over his own feet and crumbled forward, taking an orange blanket down with him. Even on rickety mortal legs, it was impossible not to recognize him.

Papa.

Bitter laughter filled the warehouse after Papa landed. The vicious sound had escaped my throat before I’d even realized it.

Oh, the hours I’d wasted thinking about this very moment.

What would I do—how would Ifeel—if I ever saw my birth father again?

Well, now I knew.

It seemed eleven years was far too long to wait around for him to reclaim me. Too long to spend dreaming of his comfort and craving his affection. It was too late. Now I was as twisted and soulless as the harpies clawing at my sides.

Looking upon him now, I was empty.Looking upon him now, my heart feltnothing.

The king cleared his throat, and the deep rumble was so gripping that it drew my eyes away from the pitiful drunkard who had once been my father.

“Nerida,” he continued, “we welcome you back to the Kingdom of the Atlantic, where you are once again under our protection and jurisdiction. As such, we henceforth charge you with treason against the Kingdom of the Atlantic’s Throne.”

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