by Plum Pascal
The human buildings aren’t half so beautiful as the ones in my former home. Triton’s castle was all sweeping architecture; its halls, vaulted ceilings, and towering spires were fashioned from layers of polished antigorite, peridotite, and olivine. Even Aunt Opeia’s kingdom was more beautiful than this wretched place. Cold, minimalistic, austere beauty, to be sure. But still beautiful.
In comparison, these buildings are stumpy, blunt, and unattractive, with the same color as basalt. And just beneath the smell of brine is a rancid odor. I’ve not smelled anything quite so foul before. It’s somehow worse than the sulfurous gasses that vent from the underwater volcanos.
Yes, I definitely won’t miss the human experience. I belong in the sea.
Hook stops before one of the taller of the gray buildings and pounds furiously on the door until another human arrives to open it. The door swings inward, spilling a soft amber glow onto the street. The doorway is filled by a woman wearing a dress with a different cut to mine and in a light coral color. She has ample curves, black hair, and a sour expression screwed onto her round face.
“We ain’t open, sailor. Be gone with ye.”
Are all humans so surly?
Hook makes a sound of frustration in the back of his throat and draws out a pouch from his pocket. I spied it when I’d dragged the coat off him. He brandishes it at the woman and shakes it, and something rattles in the interior.
“Fifteen gold. Thirty, if ye can provide a balm for the poor lad an’ lass. They’re burned by the sun somethin’ fierce.”
The woman squints at Hook suspiciously. “Forty, an’ ye can earn yerself a meal in the mornin’.”
“Fine,” Hook says impatiently. “Let us in.”
The woman steps aside and allows Hook to sweep into the building. I only get a blurry impression of the main floor. There’s a rack of some sort, holding more coats. I see a wide bench-like thing with a bell on its surface, along with a wall of shelves behind it and a series of hooks holding keys. She snags one of them and tosses it to Bastion.
“Second floor, third room on the right. I’ll be up with the balm in a minute.”
Bastion stares at the keys in bewilderment. Keys are something of a curiosity in the sea. Doors, as well. Triton has only the one, to block the entrance to the castle. Generally, there is no need for such a thing. But humans seem to love them. There was a door on every building we passed.
Hook sweeps up the staircase, to the second floor. He sets me gently on my feet when we reach the door indicated, and takes the keys from Bastion, slotting the larger into the door. He unlocks it and pushes the door in.
The room beyond is small. My chest tightens and the sense of claustrophobia creeps in again. I hate this. How am I supposed to escape quickly from a cramped space such as this one? How do humans live like this?
“Is this safe?” I ask as I eye each length of the narrow hallway. “It seems so… difficult to escape. So small and narrow.”
“Calm down, lass,” Hook says, stepping into the room and tugging me gently along. “The mistress will be up with the balm soon.”
I shake my head. It’s useless to explain the insidious fear to the human, who’s probably used to such small spaces.
Bastion steps in after us, eyes darting over the surfaces in the room. There aren’t many. There’s a pair of beds, a chest at the foot of the nearest, and another door in the room. Does it lead to another, smaller room? Who could possibly live in such a tiny space?
Bastion looks as anxious as I feel, with slightly green cast beneath his silvery skin. Like me, he’s probably wishing we were back in the streets. At least there are places to run if we are attacked.
The landlady arrives quickly, as promised, and slaps a container of something into Hook’s palm. He thanks her and then offers it to Bastion.
“Strip down an’ rub it on yer skin, mate. Then try to get some sleep.”
Bastion gives Hook a grudging nod of thanks and pries the lid off the container. He cautiously dips a hand into the stuff and comes away with a glob, which he smears experimentally on his face and neck. The relief in his expression is immediate. He wastes no time stripping off the heavy layers of clothing, standing completely nude only a minute later, as he rubs the glistening stuff on his skin.
Once again, I stare in fascination at the strange part between his legs. It’s a similar size as Hook’s, though it’s not half-engorged the way the sailor’s was upon my first viewing it. I want to touch it again, to see if the tip feels as velvety and warm as Hook’s did.
Bastion heaves a sigh and gratefully sinks onto the bed, eyes fluttering closed as he hands the balm back to Hook. The sailor uses the remaining key to unlock the trunk at the foot of the bed and pulls out a thin cloth, which he drapes over Bastion. It seems light enough that it doesn’t chafe.
“Yer turn,” Hook says after a moment, turning to face me. “Off with the frock, Popsy. Let’s get the balm on ye.”
I tug eagerly at the strings that keep the frock in place. It comes apart almost at once, the coarse fabric of the sail sliding off my tortured body at once. It’s a measure of relief to be nude again. I don’t understand why humans enjoy their clothing so much. It’s so binding.
Hook stares at me for a long moment, and the ache in my clam returns. Hunger flickers across his face. Muscles in that strange and demanding place between my legs flex and a strong pang of want seizes me. Once again, my nipples pucker with the exposure to the air and to his gaze.
“Mayhap ye ought to lay on yer stomach, lass,” he suggests after a long moment. His voice is strained, quiet. “We can start with yer back first.”
I lay down on the bed, gritting my teeth to contain another whimper as my burned skin sends up prickles of protest. Then Hook is there, leaning over me, hands slicked with the greasy balm.
A sound of pure pleasure escapes my lips as the cool gel sinks into the skin of my calves. It’s like being doused in cool ocean water, easing the pain away by degrees. I wriggle a little as he spreads the stuff over my arms, my neck, the top of my back, and then down my legs again. It’s incredibly pleasant.
“Is my clam burned too?” I ask.
“Yer clam?” he asks with a chuckle.
“Yes, it feels… as if it burns.”
He takes a deep breath. “Nae, ‘tis nae burned, Popsy.”
“Then why…”
“I dinnae have the… patience to explain it to ye, lass,” he barks out, surprising me.
My body aches in an entirely new fashion by the time he bids me roll onto my back.
“Do ye want to do this yerself, lass?” he asks. “Mayhap I ought not touch...” He gestures broadly down my body and focuses on my breasts. I’m not sure what he’s prattling on about.
“They’re just breasts. They’re not even necessary.”
“Nae necessary?” Hook replies with a frown.
I shrug. “We don’t feed our young that way.”
“Then why do sirens have them?”
“They’re just leftover from Poseidon’s mating with a human woman all those thousands of years ago. Some sirens cut them off.”
Hook blanches. “They cut them off? Why?”
“Easier to swim and fight. I’ve thought about doing the same as I’m forced to do battle often.”
“Nae, lass, dinnae ever touch yer breasts!” he says, shaking his head. “They’re quite lovely.”
“Well, lovely or not, they’re unnecessary and they get in my way in a fight. And fighting is most important as the grotesquerie is getting out of hand.”
“The what?” he asks.
“The grotesquerie. The krakens are only one of the creatures that make up the horde of monsters trying to escape the deeps. The one that attacked the Jolly Roger was an adolescent kraken that escaped our dragnet.”
Hook just boggles at me for a few seconds. “That... that thing, was still growin’? ‘Twas enormous!”
I laugh humorlessly. “They get much, much larger.”
/> He hesitates, then reaches out, fingers skimming the swell of one of my breasts. He cups a hand around it. The blood in my veins warms, bubbling in a furious stream to my face, odd heat suffusing the skin there. When he rubs his thumb along the taut peak, he makes a soft, hungry sound.
“Dinnae cut them,” he says, finally. “They’re beautiful. Every part o’ ye is lovely. I’d hate to see ye mutilate yerself.”
“You like them?”
He nods. “Aye, love them. Most human men do. So ye might want to keep them covered. ‘Tis nae yer fault, but some men will see yer nudity as an invitation to do things they shouldnae.”
“I hate human clothing,” I gripe. “It’s so cumbersome. It makes my body sticky—as if it’s not sticky enough as it is.”
“Where are ye sticky, Popsy?”
“My underarms, under my breasts, in my hair, and down there.”
His brow bounces up. “Down where?”
I gesture down at the spindly legs I’ve been given. “There. That... thing down there. My clam, I suppose. It gets sticky every time you touch me.”
A slow, almost smug grin curls his lips. “Oh.”
“Oh?”
His smile broadens and he appears quite pleased with himself. “That’s... erm... arousal, Popsy.”
“Arousal?”
“Aye, it means ye desire me.”
“Desire you to do what?”
I know I want him to press his mouth to mine again. I’ve never felt anything quite like it. I want to explore this curiosity further.
Hook tugs his lip between his teeth, chewing it thoughtfully as he stares at me. I note idly that the thing between his legs has changed again. It’s pressing hard against the front of his trousers, straining against the buttons that keep it clasped.
“I can show ye, if ye like. But I’d have to touch ye there.” He says and motions to the strange, burning place between my legs. At the thought of him touching me there, it seems to grow even wetter and I have the distinct feeling it would like that very much.
“Is it pleasant? Like the mouth kissing?”
“’Tis... more than that. ‘Tis what humans call foreplay. What we do before matin’. If I do it right, it should stop the discomfort ye’re probably experiencin’.”
Humans have a pre-mating ritual? That sounds absurd.
But I can’t deny I’m curious. And if Hook can stop the ache of the demanding clam, I’m interested. “How do we do it?”
Hook’s breathing hitches, the bulge in his trousers growing larger. I can see the outline of him against the fabric.
“Spread yer legs for me, lass,” he instructs, tone husky and commanding. I oblige him, spreading my legs apart so he can see the newly formed part of me. He approaches, leans his weight onto the bed, and then climbs over me, bringing his mouth down on mine in another tender press of lips.
The fingers of his good hand skim the swell of my breast, explore the contours of my stomach, and trail down the curve of my hip. My hips perform a slow rolling motion as he caresses my thigh and then his fingers slide to the folds between my legs, gingerly touching the clam.
And the creature living there most certainly approves. A shock of pure pleasure dances through my insides and forces a sound from my throat. The sound only seems to spur him on. He runs his finger past the top of my clam and focuses on a little button there and something that feels like bliss begins to rain down on me. He leaves that spot and pushes two fingers into the clam, and the muscles clench tight in response, trying to pull him further inside.
“Gods,” he breathes. “Ye’re so tight, Popsy.”
“Is that good?”
“Ye bet yer fine arse.”
“What’s an arse?” I ask as he pulls his fingers out and pushes them back in again and I groan out because the feeling is… spectacular.
He grins, white teeth bright against his tanned face. His dark eyes twinkle with mirth, like the question amuses him.
“Ye’re so naïve, lass. I shouldnae be doin’ this.”
At the thought he might stop, I grow desperate. “Don’t stop, please,” I pant. The feeling of him inside me is exciting. Pleasurable in the extreme.
I was told by my stepmother that females can only find this pleasure while mating, with a man’s glans pulsing against ours. But Hook doesn’t have a glans. So I’m not sure how he’s doing this. But, I don’t want him to stop. Neither does the clam. It’s most eager.
“Ye sure?”
“Yes.”
He withdraws the fingers and I start to protest before he thrusts them back in again. In and out, a steady pulsing rhythm that has my back arching off the mattress. His thumb slides between the folds, finds the little pearl-like shape at the apex and circles the edges with just enough pressure that my vision pulses white. A moan escapes my mouth. My hips continue to roll without conscious thought, following the pressure of his thumb, the thrust of his fingers, trying to meet some unknown need.
“Gods, ye’re beautiful,” Hook breathes, wonder playing out on his face as he gazes down at me. “No wonder men drown themselves for a chance at ye lot. Most captivatin’ thing I’ve ever seen—an’ I’ve met fae lasses.”
He curls his fingers inside me, dragging them along a spot that makes my toes curl. My back comes off the bed, every part of me trembles, and more of the sticky wetness gathers between my thighs. I can’t find it in myself to be bothered by it. Hook was right. The ache between my legs is gone, replaced by a sense of deep satisfaction.
What sorcery does he possess to do this? We aren’t a mated pair, and I’m not attempting to have a child with him. And yet he can make me feel almost boneless with pleasure.
My eyes are half-lidded, heavy with the need to sleep as the pleasure finally abates. Hook chuckles.
“Sleep, Popsy. I’ll take the floor.”
“No,” I murmur. “Sleep next to me.”
Hook looks like he might argue, but at my pleading expression, he capitulates. He strips off most of his clothing, leaving him in only a short length of cloth that covers the bits between his legs. The long protuberance is still straining against the cloth. He scoots me gently to the edge of the bed and turns me onto my side so he can curve my body against his. The hardness presses against my... what did he call it? My arse?
I’m facing Bastion’s bed, and notice something Hook has overlooked. Bastion’s eyes are open, observing us as a look of mild interest crosses his face. Then, he closes them and rolls onto his other side before I can attempt some sort of explanation.
Guilt slides like a piece of bad kelp into my stomach, erasing the satisfaction that comes from Hook’s touch. But Bastion has clearly dismissed me by his actions of turning the opposite direction. That means I can’t speak to him until morning.
So, I close my eyes as well, hoping that when I wake, things won’t be half so confusing.
SEVEN
HOOK
It’s another two days before I’m confident the pair are well enough to travel. By the second day, the worst of the peeling has passed, and the balm seems to be doing its job well.
Aria protests the sojourn, insisting we travel straight to the castle. I remind her she’s going to impress no one by showing up injured. She doesn’t like my response, but can’t fault my logic. She’s quite a feisty one. So we stay, and the pair grudgingly eat the bread and cheese they’ve been given.
Aria, in particular, seems to like the meals I provide her, though they’re relatively plain. I’ve had better fare on the Jolly Roger, and there’ve been times when all we had were crusty biscuits and grog. I’m not sure how the rough bread and barely-edible cheese can settle in her stomach. When we leave Bridgeport, I’m going to make sure she’s treated to a proper supper. Possibly in The Hollows. Or perhaps I’ll take her to the Tiddly Tigress. Layla owes me a favor after I smuggled her out of Neverland, all those years back.
I use the remainder of my gold to buy the pair proper clothing. It’d been a poor choice to fashion Aria a dr
ess from one of the smaller sails. Too much exposed skin. She’s burned worse than Bastion. As lovely as I think she’d look in one of those fancy ball gowns, I’m not going to put her at risk. Now, she’s wearing the same linen shirt, jerkin, and trouser combination as Bastion, her lurid magenta hair twisted into a braid at my insistence and tucked beneath a hat.
Presumably she can turn it any color she likes. It’d be more convenient if she turned it a golden color, like Bastion’s. It would save us more confrontations like the one on the docks. But the lass seems awfully fond of the color, and I have to admit it’s a little flattering she’s modeled it after my coat! It’s almost like having a tangible claim to her, a sign to anyone who looks at her that she cares for me, in some fashion anyway.
We’re walking the main drag through Bridgeport. The castle is situated on a large rock at the far end of the massive pier. The rock was brought here by means of fae magic, before such magic was outlawed. And the castle sits atop the rock, with an equally good view of the ocean and the land.
The city itself isn’t the picturesque kingdom one would think. It used to be, once upon a time, before the beasties started crawling out of the ocean, stripping the plant life, churning the pristine beaches into silty ruin, and utterly gutting the navy. I can’t blame the guards for their defensive posture, given how badly things have gone for Bridgeport of late.
And it’s going to get worse before it gets any better. The King of Delorood has remained adamant in his position against Morningstar. With Triton allowing the beasties to roam free and attack any ships with goods bound for Bridgeport, they’re going to be isolated—and starved within a few months, when their stores run low and they’re incapable of fishing. It’s fortunate Aria has come with a message from her ruler. Without safe tides, there’s no supply lines to anyone. The war will be over before it even begins.
