by Adalyn Grace
A stunning Ker with russet skin and silky black hair steps forward next, smirking at the hungry crowd she’s drawn.
The pattern continues, girl after girl. I search their faces for any sign of discomfort, but the higher the amount of time they earn, the more their eyes glint.
Only when the auction is complete does the crowd disperse. Blarthe grins as he pats the backs of several men, ushering them toward the roulette wheels, or to tables filled with patrons playing cards. His hearty laugh doesn’t fit his young face.
Others line up near the entrance opposite us, their faces worn and hands outstretched. When they reach the front of the line, they prick their finger with a pin and press their bleeding thumb against a sheet of paper.
“One week,” says a young girl once she’s done offering her blood. The worker in charge of the area nods, makes a note, and then hands her several stacks of wood and a bucket of nails and supplies.
When the girl turns back out the door, her face is ashen and eyes hollow.
Only when Blarthe makes his way behind the polished ivory bar do I force my attention away and steel myself. We step forward, taking three seats near the end.
Blarthe’s quick to eye us, and roughly slides over three mugs of ale. Some of the amber liquid and its froth spills out over the edge and falls onto my cape.
I bite my tongue. It’s going to be next to impossible to get the smell out of the fabric.
“It’s not often I get new faces,” he muses. “Where are you kids traveling from?” The words are spoken too loudly. Too brightly.
“We’re Valukans,” I answer, not missing a beat. “We’re on our way to Enuda, just passing through.” I eye the ale in front of me. It’ll be suspicious if I don’t drink it, but the smell that wafts from the mug is a peculiar one. It reminds me of a rotten apple—strangely sweet with a foul undercurrent. I take the pint in one hand and slowly lift it to press my lips to the glass. I fake the smallest swig.
When my face lifts, Blarthe’s eyes are all over me. There’s a scar through his left eyebrow, and another at the side of his lip, but aside from that his skin is flawless. Yet his sharp green eyes are too aged for the rest of his uncomfortably youthful appearance.
Magic pulses within me, warning of danger. I want to latch onto the pulsating, ravenous thrumming in my blood and keep it close. My fingers brush against my satchel, seeking its comfort but finding only nerves in its place.
There are too many people here. So many that, should something go wrong with my magic again, it’d be a bloodbath.
Never before has my magic been a source of anxiety. But for now I have to stuff it back down, nerves prickling at my skin. I only allow myself to reach for the harmless part of my magic—soul reading.
This is the first skill I learned, and by far the easiest. It’s gentle and peaceful where the rest of soul magic is vicious, and I don’t hesitate to wrap it around me like a second cloak and wait for my and Blarthe’s eyes to meet.
His soul is like algae. Slimy and sticky, as if constantly attempting to ensnare others. It’s rotted and peeling at the edges, similar to Aran’s, the prisoner I executed back in Arida. Though his face is smooth and inviting, I understand within seconds how dangerous and vicious a man he is.
The beast gnaws within me, wanting to devour this soul it senses me considering.
Annoyance stirs in my chest. At the execution, I lost my focus and paid the price. But the journey I’m on is to prove myself as the ruler Visidia deserves. And the queen of a kingdom should not fear her own magic—she should relish it.
So that’s exactly what I do. The mistakes I made in the past do not make me weak; instead, I’ll use them to become stronger. I’m done being afraid of my own power.
I swathe myself in the full strength of my magic. It flares like fire within my chest, searing my fingertips and easing the tension in my shoulders. I relax into it, because this time, I will not lose control.
Beside me, the boys are tense, but Blarthe’s focus eventually drops as he wipes out a crystal mug with a plush amethyst rag. Only when he relaxes does all of Vice seem to take a breath. Several men at the bar had been hanging on to his every word, likely more than just patrons.
Behind us, the ball of a roulette wheel clacks quietly. A woman playing it hisses at her loss.
“Why have you come here?” Though Blarthe keeps his voice low, its sharpness cuts me like a knife.
Bastian leans forward, fingers dancing along the mug but refusing to drink what’s inside. There’s a sword under his cape, and a dagger plus a satchel full of teeth and bones beneath mine. If we need to use them, the last thing we need is ale clouding our judgment.
“We’re looking for a mermaid,” Bastian says, wasting no time.
A crooked grin parts Blarthe’s lips. He chuckles, too dark and low for his body. “Every man is looking for a mermaid, mate. I don’t blame you.”
While Ferrick flushes, the comment isn’t enough to dissuade Bastian. “Three gold pieces for any information you have.” Bastian guides Blarthe’s curiosity toward his hand, where he produces a single gold coin from between two of his fingers. He rolls it into his palm, but the shopkeeper’s face remains impassive.
“You seek me out, needing my help, and yet you think it wise to insult me?” he asks, harsh eyes slicing into us. I flinch back, nerves feasting on my bones. “I don’t barter with something as simple as coin, kid.”
“I’m not asking you to hand her to me. I’m only asking for information.” Bastian rolls the coin between his fingers and up his sleeve.
“If I told you where a beached mermaid was, it’d be as good as giving her to you,” Blarthe says. “And there isn’t enough coin in the world to make that a worthwhile trade.”
Ferrick begins to push himself from the bar. “Perhaps we should look somewhere else,” he suggests, a nervous bite to his words.
Bastian ignores him, tensing his jaw. “How much do you want?”
“I already told you, I don’t barter with coin.” Blarthe sets down his mug, and the room snaps into silence as several of the patrons cling to his words. “I barter with time. Six years for information about mermaids.”
I lean back, noticing those playing roulette have now stilled. At the card tables, all heads turn to face us. It’s clear these are no ordinary patrons; they hang on Blarthe’s words, waiting for his command.
“Okay, now I really think we should go,” Ferrick urges under his breath. This time, I agree.
Beads of sweat dot Bastian’s brow, but he’s yet to reach for his sword. I catch another metallic whiff of blood beneath the false, soft spices, and pray it’s not the smell of our future.
The roulette wheels cease their clacking and go silent.
“I’m afraid I’ve no time to trade,” Bastian says, keeping his voice firm. “And it seems as though I’ve wasted yours.”
Blarthe snorts. It’s a deep, guttural sound that’s strange on his rosy lips. The lips of a man who has stolen his youth. Then his scarred face contorts, and I anticipate the first sign of danger.
“Perhaps you don’t have any time,” he says, “but the princess might.”
I unsheathe my dagger. Magic flares within me, white-hot and ready.
“Stars, Princess,” Bastian grumbles under his breath. “Does everyone in this blasted kingdom know your face?”
Several patrons rise to their feet as Blarthe chokes on a throaty laugh. From beneath the bar, he draws two wrinkled posters, one with Ferrick’s illustrated face and the other with mine. WANTED ALIVE is written in thick letters across the top of each. And though Ferrick gulps, my lips tighten as I look at the image of me—they’ve drawn me too thin, and my nose too sharp. And I certainly don’t scowl as deeply as the depiction staring back at me.
“Arida’s High Animancer sent an entire fleet this morning,” Blarthe says. “They scoured the whole town, looking for a little lost princess and her fiancé. Said they were fugitives. They’re probably in Enuda by now.” He
motions to the several men who surround us. No longer needing to be concealed, I toss back the hood of my cape to look directly into the eyes of the man whose soul my magic craves.
“How much does this say they’re offering for information on the princess?” Blarthe peers down at the poster. “Ah, yes. Twenty gold pieces, just for information.” His attention turns to the men who now surround him. “Give it a season, and the price will triple. And I’m sure we can find a way for the princess to earn her keep in the meantime.”
I spit at Blarthe’s feet.
“Run, Amora.” Ferrick’s hand is on my back. “We’ll hold them off.”
But I won’t flee. Bastian’s scanning the room, most likely in search of a clever way out of this mess, and the increasing layer of sweat on his face and neck tells me he’s drawn the same conclusion I have. We’re going to have to fight.
And if there’s one thing I learned in my years of training with Casem and his father, it’s to never let your opponent strike first.
I tighten my grip around my dagger’s hilt and throw myself onto the counter.
The quiet whooshing of hastily drawn blades rings in my ears, following the clashing of metal as Bastian parries a quick blow. Most patrons bolt at the first sign of violence, leaving only a handful of men inside.
“Anyone who brings me the girl can consider their debt paid!” Blarthe’s yell bleeds into the walls and fills the room.
I ram my blade into his shoulder and he snarls. He manages to snag a fistful of my hair and drag me down; if I weren’t so vain, I might consider slicing it away. Instead, I dig my fingernails into his forearm hard enough to draw his blood. I free one hand, grip my dagger, then wrench the blade from his shoulder as uncleanly as I can manage. Blood pools through his shirt, and my blade bathes in it.
“Damned whore!” Blarthe lashes out at my face, and I barely dodge the blow. He rears back to kick my stomach so hard that I slam into the stone counter, the breath stolen from my lungs. For a moment, I see stars. Magic is what draws me back into reality, lulling me with sweet promises.
It’s as though it whispers to me: We can get out of here. All we have to do is kill him. Aren’t you hungry, Amora?
And gods, I’m starving.
Ferrick’s on the other side of the counter. He leans in and offers me his left hand. Because I don’t have time to dig through my satchel to find the bones I need, I wipe my blade on the back of my hand, saving Blarthe’s blood, and quickly reach over and slice off two of Ferrick’s fingers. He barely winces before I snarl at him to go help Bastian, who’s in the middle of sparring with three men at once.
There’s a small fire in the back of the shop, and now I have all the supplies I need.
I sheathe my blade and dive over the countertop. Blarthe catches my foot at the last second and yanks me back. My face hits the stone and my mouth fills with blood. I can’t choke on it or spit it up; I can’t mix my blood with Blarthe’s. So instead, I swallow it back down.
Mindful of Ferrick’s severed fingers, I grip the opposite edge of the counter and pull myself forward to kick Blarthe’s face. My heel catches his nose and I tumble to the floor, stirring up dust around me.
“Whatever you’re doing, do you mind doing it a little quicker?” Bastian lifts his sword in front of him in time to knock another one back. One man lies bleeding and choking beside him while Ferrick stands on top of a fallen roulette wheel, dealing with two more. He wields his rapier with skill, though it’s nothing compared to the sharp swords and daggers the others use with murderous intent.
One of us will die if I don’t move quickly.
I’m faster on my feet than Blarthe, who struggles to pull himself over the counter. Magic rattles my bones and pulses through my veins. It fills every inch of me with shadows that whisper sweet promises, telling me I can do anything I dream.
I wrap the whispers around me and smear the fingers along the drops of Blarthe’s blood on my hand. It’s not enough blood to kill him, but it’s enough to bind his soul to the finger I toss into the flames.
Halfway to me, Blarthe stumbles and roars with pain. He twists and clutches his left hand. One of his fingers has fallen off, the price of my magic’s equivalent exchange. It lies on the dirty floor, a pile of scattered cards around it. The blood that spills from the severed limb eases the tension of my magic. Now that’s enough to kill him, should I have to.
“Call off your men!” I slip a tooth from my satchel and drop to a crouch to wave it over the hungry flames. They singe my fingers, eager for something to devour. “Otherwise I’ll destroy that pretty grin of yours.”
I imagine the strange sensation he’s feeling—a tingling, burning numbness in his mouth. With his blood puddling onto the floor, I can do anything I want to him. If I could just get to it.
What he doesn’t know is that I need more blood to kill him, and I won’t let on. I hold the control in this fight, and I grin as fear flashes in Blarthe’s glare.
“Call off your men,” I repeat, enunciating each word.
This time he listens. The clashing steel silences after another sharp smack.
There are too many bodies for Vice to be silent—someone chokes in the corner, spitting up thick wads of crimson blood. One man has just managed to corner Bastian against a broken table, and leans into him with a blade. He looks the most annoyed with the sudden stall.
Bastian pushes the man away with a growl.
“I am Amora Montara, Princess of Visidia and future High Animancer.” I ignore a loud hiss from one of the men. “You’ve harmed me and my men. By law, I can kill every one of you. If you think I’m incapable, I dare you. Try me.” I form a fist around the tooth and squeeze it tight. Blarthe winces.
I keep my expression neutral as I stare at the men, one by one, memorizing their faces. The mood in the room shifts as they watch the blood dripping from Blarthe’s hand and into thick puddles on the floor. To them, I’m the gatekeeper of their damnation. And though I don’t want to hurt these men—most of whom I’m certain have no choice but to work with Blarthe—I need them to believe that.
Neither Bastian nor Ferrick has moved into a safer position. Like the rest of the men, they’re struck by surprise. Bastian at least manages to look properly impressed.
“We’re looking for a mermaid,” I tell the crowd. “And we’re not leaving here until we find one.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The only mermaid in town is a young woman named Vataea, and when pressed, the men admit Blarthe has imprisoned her. Vice doubles as Blarthe’s home, and he’s hidden Vataea in one of the back rooms, only to be brought out for “special” occasions.
I grit my teeth firmly, not wanting to imagine what those occasions might be.
I send Ferrick back to get her. There’s no way I’m abandoning my position by the hearth, and Bastian is better help with a sword should the men lash out.
“He’s taking too long.” Bastian moves to stand beside me, dipping his blade into the puddle of Blarthe’s blood that covers the scattered playing cards. He then holds his sword out for me, making the blood readily available.
Blarthe’s face is flushed an angry red, but he plants his feet into the ground and keeps still. Sweat isn’t just a sheen on his face; it drips off him in beads and sours the shop’s already dank air. One wrong move and he knows I’ll toss this tooth into the fire. I’ll do it over and over again, until he can’t even think about standing back up.
Ferrick really is taking a while. I sent him back almost fifteen minutes ago.
The shop is eerily silent, so much so I consider sending Bastian to check on him until the air shifts. The men in the shop turn their heads toward the back hall as footsteps approach. I follow their eyes, and while I see Ferrick, it’s like I can’t even look at him. The woman standing beside him demands every ounce of my attention.
She’s young in appearance, physically near my age, though something in her golden eyes hints she’s much older. Her velvety skin is lightly tanne
d and brushed with a golden sheen, unblemished by even the tiniest freckle. Her black hair glides to her hips like perfect silk, and while she’s thin and delicate-looking, there’s a fierceness in her tensed jaw as she approaches. She juts her chin high in defiance, and jerks her body away from Ferrick as he tries to lead her.
This poor girl is dressed in dirty rags that hardly conceal her body. They leave clear the soft skin of her stomach and end just below her hips. I stare at the entirety of her smooth thighs. Like Shanty promised, they’re marked with thick flesh-colored scars that run all the way from her inner thighs down to her bare feet.
The mermaid is breathtaking. If Bastian wasn’t looking before, he certainly is now. Even Ferrick’s cheeks are flushed pink as he walks beside her, forehead pinched like he’s trying not to stare.
“What do you want with me?” Her voice is jarringly powerful, though there’s enough honey in her words to tell me not all the myths are false. Six words, yet she wields them like a weapon; it’s said a mermaid can sing one sweet song to lure sailors into the sea, and another to summon the ocean and all its creatures. This girl might not look it, but she’s dangerous. I feel it in my bones.
“If you touch me again,” she says, “I will tear the hands from your body and rip your throat out with only my teeth.”
Bastian goes to speak, but I stop him. I imagine Vataea has had enough of men for a lifetime.
“We want to get you out of here,” I say.
Her steely eyes—previously glued to Blarthe—whip toward me. There are heavy, tired shadows beneath them. She’s smart enough to piece the puzzle together, probably because of his sweaty skin and the blood crusting around his lips. Though she smiles thinly, her words are cold. “And take me where? To another island, only for me to be imprisoned and used again?”
“We don’t intend to kidnap you.” I make sure to hold her stare, though the way she watches me is like a constant challenge. My lips dry, unsettled. “We need your help.”
