by Chris Howard
"...all the girls are getting it done."
McHutcheon stared at Corina as if an eye had opened in the middle of her forehead.
Shrug your shoulders and glare at him defiantly. Do it!
"Fine,” said McHutcheon softly, not knowing how to respond to someone who purposefully mutilated her hands. Californians, they were notorious for such behavior. “Can you tell me, Miss Lairsey, what happened to Mr. Pinnet's eyes?"
Oh shit. He ate them?
"Miss Lairsey, we looked around my cabin when we cleaned up ... after the mess, and his eyes ... they're gone."
Tell them you don't remember. Say it, “I don't know.” Put your face in your hands, sob a little.
"I don't know,” whispered Aleximor, curling into a shuddering knot, burying his face in his hands.
The room was still except for Corina's trembling and sniffling. The three officers watched her with varying levels of concern. The second officer, Trevor Aldrich, was on Teixeira's left. His fingers played with the snap on the holster strap, his little finger tapping the handgun's black plastic grip.
Aldrich cleared his throat. “Miss Lairsey. I have a couple questions."
Aleximor looked up, eyes puffy and red, then he went into a full breakdown with tears streaming down his face. “Stop staring at me, please. I am not a monster. I don't know what happened. I don't remember."
Yes, you are.
The captain and McHutcheon looked away, uncomfortable. Aldrich seemed unmoved by the display. “This doesn't have anything to do with Pinnet's attack. I'm simply curious."
Corina felt something heavy drop inside her body. Aleximor sensed danger in Aldrich's tone.
Aleximor brought Corina's voice low and solemn. “What is it?"
"We brought you on board and you had a sealed container for your driver's license and a few other possessions.” He gestured casually with an open hand. “Why are there two rings in the pouch when, with the skin between your fingers, you cannot wear rings?"
Ha! Get out of that one. What you get for fucking with my hands!
Aleximor nodded, relieved, wiping the tears from his eyes. “They belonged to my mother. She and my father died in a ... terrible..."
Fucker! Car accident. Say it. A drunk driver killed them.
"...and I carry them for...” Aleximor's whispering voice trailed off. He was fishing for something to say.
Damn you! You carry them because they mean a lot to you, it's like Mom is with me, when I carry them.
"...because they remind me of my mother, as if she is with me when I carry them."
"Return everything to Miss Lairsey,” said the captain, annoyed at Aldrich's question. Aleximor's eyes dropped to his hands, but he looked up at the slim watertight pouch Aldrich slid across the table, grabbing the gun on the return trip and putting it out of sight.
"I'm sorry,” said Aldrich roughly. “I didn't mean to upset you further.” He didn't ask his last question—why there were four pieces of what looked like bone in the sealable pouch.
"I think we are done for now, Miss Lairsey,” said Teixeira, turning to McHutcheon. “Can she return to your cabin, Daniel?"
"Yes, sir. The room's been cleaned. We don't have any women's clothing on board. Sorry, Miss Lairsey, but we have collected something for you to wear."
Aleximor bowed Corina's head almost to the table and whispered dejectedly, “That will be fine. Thank you."
McHutcheon continued as if speaking of nothing more serious than the weather. “We've zipped Pinnet in the bag and put him in the cooler on deck three. Phari turned the refrigeration on for me. I can perform a cursory examination for cause of death, sir."
Teixeira cleared his throat, indicating with a sour look that, although a response was required, he found it distasteful. “The insurance company suggested it and more. I told them we would do what we could.” He held up a hand to stop McHutcheon from continuing the discussion, and turned to Aldrich. “See that Miss Lairsey gets to her room safely, Trevor."
"Sir.” Aldrich stood, scraping his chair against the rough wood floor.
He led Corina up a flight of metal stairs into the sunlight. Aleximor, stunned for a moment, held his hands over his eyes, squinting painfully at the dark blue surface of the ocean off the starboard side the Maria Draughn. He breathed in a lungful of the sea air.
"Beautiful."
"This way, Miss Lairsey,” said Aldrich, directing her along the open corridor to a white painted metal door standing ajar at the other end. They went through it, down a flight of stairs, turned right at the crossing of two long hallways. They made a left down a short hall with a white metal wall at the end, blank except for a big red fire extinguisher below a sign that had the word “Fire” in half a dozen languages.
He opened McHutcheon's cabin with his set of keys, and held the door for her. At the threshold, he gave Corina a curt nod, his face tight with something he wanted to say. “I don't trust you,” he managed in a low voice. “I don't know what it is about you, but you haven't been truthful."
Aleximor took this in with an appropriate blank stare. “I am not certain I understand you.” His gaze dropped to the name badge. “Officer Aldrich."
Aldrich didn't answer, but gave her another nod and extended his arm to the door.
Corina's thoughts sharpened to a bitter edge. Which means you will be the first to die, Officer Aldrich.
Aleximor latched the door and made a careful circuit of the room, looking in all the corners for intruders before smiling to himself and responding to Corina. “You heartless villain. Aldrich is not next."
It seemed to me your obvious next move. Who then?
"The physician, McHutcheon."
Why? I liked him. He scared me the least of the three.
"Did you not catch the current—the curiosity—in his tone when he asked about Mr. Pinnet's eyes? Not Aldrich, but McHutcheon. He is meddlesome, but incautious. Aldrich is wary, and anticipates a move against him. It will not come for days."
Saving the best for last?
"I would not say best, but the one who possesses a moderate amount of common sense. Intelligence, wisdom, these are simpler things to manipulate. Common sense is another matter. The captain is another one to watch.” Aleximor stopped to ponder something. “Corina.” He paused as if selecting his words carefully. “You have astonished me several times ... in the great similarity in the turn of our minds.” He actually sounded nervous, which scared Corina more than his anger. “We are alike in many ways, and, in such a short number of days, I have come to have a high opinion of your judgment. So much, that I cannot help fancying that with enough time together you and I will grow to ... enjoy each other's company."
Please ... Her thoughts begged for a response, rolling awkwardly over each other. Don't. I can't ... She reined in every stray notion, held them in mental fists with knuckles going white, and then continued in a controlled manner. At this time I can only consider you an unavoidable evil. I see no resemblance in our characters, motives, or judgments, and certainly nothing that approaches a faithful portrait. And because nearly all of her thoughts surfaced as something Aleximor heard: Why am I speaking like this?
"Have it as you choose, dear heart. We must dance together for some time. Until I can devise a method for extracting you."
She didn't want to piss him off, either. What did you expect? That my acceptance of this would be ready, that I would be grateful? I said unavoidable. It doesn't mean I won't speak to you. Or think to you ... or whatever this is called.
"I happily accept that, Corina Lairsey."
Go to the mirror.
She felt her body tense up. “For what?"
Normally one stands before a mirror to see what one looks like. I just want to see what you've done to me.
Aleximor made his way to the alcove that served as the cabin's bathroom, pushing the accordion door back as he stepped inside.
I look like shit! I have bags under my eyes. Ponytail's still tied—and a Bride o
f Frankenstein stripe of white hair. I'm still wearing the sweatshirt and pants you killed Pinnet in? And that's blood all over me? You didn't change? She didn't wait for him to answer. You've let me go to hell. Open my mouth! Holy fuck! Brush my teeth! You let me sit in front of those three—and speak—with my teeth looking like that?
"How do I brush my teeth?"
Corina sighed. You sea people—they must be rotting in your skulls.
He grinned, showing her teeth again in the mirror. “Sharks do not clean theirs."
They also have several sets of them. There should be a tube of something. This is the doctor's cabin, so there must be toothpaste. Look at the bed. I think someone's laid clothes out for me. There may be other stuff.
There were two pairs of sweatpants about her size, two T-shirts, one a faded black cotton, another with ?Vamos a vacilar! in bold white letters. Aleximor picked through a plastic baggy full of what looked like supplies someone had accumulated from various Mexican resort hotels, a toothbrush, tube of toothpaste, hair brush, shower cap, a razor and little bottles of shampoo and lotion.
He looked at the razor curiously.
That's for my legs.
Corina felt the muscles in her face tighten into a questioning scowl. Aleximor twirled the handle between two fingers. “How do you use this for your legs?"
Shaving. Underarms too.
"Must I?"
Yes, it is ... expected. With you in here, I am dreading taking a shower. I don't even want to think about ... other things.
"A shower?"
People up here take a shower or bath, get in the water once a day to clean off.
"Do they really? And Mr. Pinnet?"
Apparently had a disregard for society's rules. Probably didn't brush his teeth either. Most people take a shower every day. They get up, they brush their teeth, they take a shower, they go to work or school.
"And what did you do, Corina?"
God, it's the weirdest thing, hearing my own voice ask me questions. I went to school. I worked in a coffee shop in downtown SJ.
"What sort of school?"
Music. I play the cello. I'm a comp major.
Which meant nothing to Aleximor. “Comp? What is a chello?"
Composition. It means I am being trained to compose, to make music. A cello is a string instrument, usually played with a bow.
"I have not played in many years."
Centuries.
"Yes,” he said almost sadly. He made a defenseless gesture toward the baggy full of bathroom supplies and the sink. “If you would, Corina, instruct me in what to do."
Teeth first. Get the tube and the little brush. The big brush is for my hair. Open the cap. Squeeze a little onto the bristles. A little! Okay, wipe some of that off. Not on the damn towel! Scrape a little off with your finger and let it go down the drain. Turn the water on. Right knob is cold water. Now brush.
Aleximor stuck the brush in tentatively and the toothpaste spread over her molars. He pushed harder, rubbing the paste into the teeth.
He gagged, his eyes watering. “Buggering Hades!” He bent forward and spit foam all over the counter. A spray of white hit the mirror. “It hurts! This paste is poison.” He cupped water in his hand and slurped it into her mouth, spitting and coughing.
It's minty. All toothpaste is like that. Don't be such a weakling. You didn't even start brushing. At least two minutes in there. Come on.
He reluctantly stuck the brush back in her mouth, pushing it along her teeth and gums, making painful faces, glaring at himself in the mirror—and in effect, glaring at Corina. “If this is some sort of trick, I will make you pay.” He used the same tone he had used with the corpse of Pinnet, telling it that he would make them all pay, but with the toothbrush and a mouthful of foaming toothpaste, Corina had trouble understanding his threat, and so she ignored him.
Spit it all out. Rinse the brush. Okay, let's move on to the hair. Take the ponytail out. Let's see what we have to work with.
Her hair came out of the ponytail like an unfolding dragon, snapping and shuddering like chiropteran wings—everything short of breathing fire. Her hair stuck out and poked her shoulders in stiff wiry bundles.
That's just gross. My hair's crunchy. Shit, I need a shower.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter Twenty
At the Captain's Table
Naiads are long-lived river witches, descendents of the Potameides, with far-reaching powers over freshwater lakes and rivers. Some of them have cultivated powers over rain storms. They are traditionally at odds with—and sometimes outright enemies of—the Seaborn, but Kassandra managed to sway an entire family to help her fight the great army of the drowned dead, the Olethren, carrying out her plans with freezing rain and weather.
—Michael Henderson, notes
* * * *
Bend over. Place the towel evenly on both sides, bring them together at the forehead and twist. Tighter. Okay, now straighten up and push the top over my head. That's it.
Aleximor stood in front of the mirror with a decent towel twist. The black T-shirt, which smelled strongly of laundry detergent, was too short, curling just above Corina's navel. The faded blue sweats were baggy, bunching up around the ankles, and hung so low on Corina's hips, it showed the top of the V-cut of her pelvis. She sighed to herself when Aleximor's eyes dropped to the skin above the waistband.
Fourteen or four-hundred, that's still all you males think about. God, I'm totally skanked in these. Maybe you can make a belt or something.
"If the waist of the pants is excessively low, that is skanked?"
Something like that. It's not something I—or even you—should strive for. Open the drawer next to the sink. See if the doc has safety pins.
Five minutes later, with blood oozing from pin sticks in both thumbs, and Aleximor in a sour mood, Corina had her way and the sweatpants clung nicely over her hips. They still belled around her feet, but that couldn't be helped without cutting them, and they had probably confiscated all the scissors during Pinnet's cleanup.
A knock on the door brought Aleximor around, bringing his webbed hands up into claws. He froze, a song starting in his throat.
Say, who is it?
He cleared his throat. “Who is it?"
"Aldrich, Miss Lairsey. The captain has asked me to escort you to the dining room for lunch."
Aleximor turned to look in the mirror with a questioning stare.
Don't you know anything? Tell him we're not ready. Come back in ten minutes.
"We're—I am not ready, Mr. Aldrich. Will the captain allow me ten more minutes?"
"Certainly. I'll wait here in the hall."
Let's look at my hair. Hang the towel. Don't just throw it on the floor. Let's ... um ... run my fingers through my hair. Oh. It doesn't work with the mermaid hands. Get the brush. What do the Seaborn do with their hair?
"Braids, for the most part.” He brushed her hair straight and used one finger to split it into three even sections. “Most commonly in three braids, two on the side, one in the center."
Interesting. Do you know how to braid hair? And keep it down. Mr. Common Sense is right outside the door.
"Certainly,” he whispered. “Men braid their hair as well."
Really? I'd like to see that.
"It is mainly a preparation for war—or special occasions.” Aleximor stared into the distance, his vision going foggy as he concentrated on twisting and looping Corina's hair into braids. He found rubber bands in one of the bathroom drawers and tied them off. “We will not remain here long. You will see many of them—as soon as my work here is complete."
She was afraid she already knew the answer, but asked anyway, “Work?"
"Gathering the dead,” he said casually, pausing because her question interrupted his thoughts. “What was I ... oh, yes, braids. The king's trusted, the oktoloi, wear theirs in braids every day. They are killers. Every day is war for them. They are the front line to the king.” As if he couldn't rememb
er mentioning it, he said, “I am going to kill the king, you know."
Yes, I am aware of your ... displeasure with the Seaborn royalty. And some group called Rexenor. That Kassander, the one I saw in your dreams, he was a Rexenor. Then there's a guy named Strates Unwinder. You sure hate a lot of people.
With a very satisfied voice, he said, “Then it is settled.” His voice dropped. “Let us kill everyone on board the Maria Draughn. We will then go the Nine-cities and find a way to kill the King of all the Seaborn."
Corina's soul shuddered, nothing settling inside her.
Barefoot, in baggy blue sweats and a tight black T-shirt, Aleximor stepped Corina's body into the hall, looking up and back for Aldrich. The officer stood in the shadows of the nearest junction of hallways, holding his open hand in the direction of the stairs.
"This way, Miss Lairsey.” He gave Corina a quick, professional look. “I see that you have found everything. I'm sorry about the clothing. Captain Teixeira requested the smallest sizes of the crew."
Aleximor looked down at Corina's body in the somewhat skanky attire. “These work quite well, thank you. And please thank those of your crew who provided them. I shall find a way to return the favor."
I'm sure you will.
The dining room fell silent when Corina stepped through the door with Second Officer Aldrich, forks lifted halfway to mouths, heads swiveling toward her, eyes narrowing. The captain sat at a table in one corner with two officers and five empty chairs. Eleven of the crew occupied three more tables in the room. Aleximor looked around, taking in some of their expressions. Most of them puzzled him, but he thought he saw admiration in one or two, deep curiosity in several more.
It appears that Mr. Pinnet was not well liked among the crew. There is fear in their eyes, but praise as well. Corina huffed—in her imagination. Praise? Are you making me talk—think like this? Her thoughts seemed to come out normally, but then they quickly adjusted to some kind of mold imposed by Aleximor's thought patterns. It was like hearing the echo of her voice—she shouted her thoughts across the canyon and somehow the canyon walls changed them on the bounce.
