As Isolde swam closer, she glimpsed a young man, his wrists bound above his head, tangled in the gold cords. Her heart hammered against her ribs. The stranger stared at her, his eyes a deep green, and she stared right back. Sharp cheekbones, full lips—he was beautiful. But how the hell was he still alive down here?
A sea-witch. Hadn’t Mom been ranting about a sea-witch trapped in a net? Isolde was just going to have to accept the fact that she had lost her mind, too. Later, on dry land, she’d try to pick apart the real from the delusional, and she’d regain her senses.
She swam closer. A tattoo of a large octopus curved over the man’s muscled chest. Sharp cheekbones, full lips, smooth skin the color of honey—he was beautiful. He mouthed the word Help, and tiny air bubbles drifted from his lips.
She couldn’t help him, though, not without fingers. She swam around him, careful to avoid the entrapping lines. Help. He mouthed the word again, his green eyes pleading. She wasn’t sure that she should help a witch. If they were real—and apparently they were—they were evil.
But she couldn’t just leave him here. He looked so human and scared. She couldn’t leave him to that horrible, lonely feeling of being trapped down here.
She’d have to transform again to free him. How had that worked in the selkie game? She’d just willed it, and she’d become human again.
She blinked, imagining herself shifting into her human form. In the next instant, her spine snapped upward, and her limbs extended with a sharp crack. Nausea gripped her gut, and for a moment, she drifted downward. Kicking to keep herself afloat, she swam closer to the stranger, grabbing hold of his wrists to anchor herself.
His body felt warm against hers as she worked away at the tangled net, yanking at the cords. She wasn’t going to make it before she ran out of breath. God, she wanted to breathe again. How deep was she, anyway? And how long had she been underwater?
Pain blazed through her lungs, but she almost had the lines free, and the stranger’s eyes pleaded, Hurry. At last, she ripped the net free, now unable to think of anything except air. While she struggled to the water’s surface, she felt the sea-witch’s strong arms enfold her.
But it was too late—her vision had already gone dark.
3
Isolde awoke with a gasp, her chest heaving. Warm blankets covered her sodden dress and tights. Air. I’m breathing air.
Her relief was short-lived. The room pitched and swayed, and something pinched her waist. She swallowed hard. Someone had bound her to a narrow bed.
The room had been illuminated through magic. A golden orb lit the cramped bedroom, and wood creaked as the room swayed again. She was on a ship. Despite the violent motions, the glowing sphere hung steadily above the bed, casting a dull light. The sea-witch. Are you kidding me? I tried to save him, and this is how he repays me.
Timbers groaned as the ship heaved to the side, so far Isolde thought it would surely capsize.
She clenched her fists, sucking in air. Was she alive? She certainly didn’t feel dead. Dead people wouldn’t feel this nauseous. Either she’d gone insane, or Mom had been right about the evilness of witchcraft. She wasn’t sure which was more horrifying.
Her mind raced. Was it possible that all the babbling about magical spells and evil witches was true? Maybe Mom had been right to burn Isolde’s arm. Everything Isolde had seen in the past half hour suggested that magic was real, and it was terrifying. She’d been attacked by the storm god, turned into a seal, and then a sea-witch had lured her into his trap.
Craning her neck, she glanced around the room. When she caught a glimpse of a rack of knives hanging on the wall, her breath caught in her throat. What was he planning on doing with those? What if the witch wanted to flay her alive? At the sight of the blades, her chaotic thoughts focused on one crystal clear objective: Survive.
For some strange reason, her arms had been left unbound, which left her the option of freeing herself. Frantically, she yanked at the knot until it loosened.
She pulled off the rope, but the violent pitching of the ship tossed her against a wall. After crawling back toward the bed, she clung to a leg for support. Her escape would not be easy.
As she touched the chalice pendant at her throat, she thought of her mother’s god. If the gods were real, would her mother’s blood god protect her? Still gripping the bed with one hand, she closed her eyes, whispering a desperate prayer. God of blood. I can’t remember your name. Just help me—please. She waited. No divine hand plucked her from the ship.
Gritting her teeth, she pushed herself up. She’d need to get to the deck and throw herself into the sea, transforming again to escape.
She hurried to the rack, yanking out one of the knives. As she rushed out the door, the ship rolled again, and she stumbled into the hall. Leaning against a wall, she edged her way through into a narrow stairwell. Cold seawater sloshed down the steps, and she gripped the railing to stabilize herself.
Her teeth chattered. I wish I were wearing something more substantial than a flimsy dress.
The swim she’d embarked on today might have been the stupidest decision she’d ever made. Mom had needed her, and Isolde had just run off. On top of that, Old Cratten had warned her about the storm. Sure, he seemed insane, but maybe Isolde had been arrogant to dismiss him just because he seemed a bit strange. After all, wasn’t that what her schoolmates had done to her?
When she neared the upper deck, she braced herself. She had no idea how many sea-witches she might find waiting on the other side of the door, ready to rip her limb from limb. Inching forward, she clung to the doorframe.
Rain battered the deck. The skies were dark as smoke, and lightning lashed seething waves. Flashes of blue light sparked from the ship’s masts—St. Elmo’s fire. The thick scent of decaying seaweed hung in the air. Please don’t let me die out here. Death out at sea seemed so lonely.
She took another step forward, and her heart thrummed. Before her, three sea-witches stood gathered in a circle, their bodies glowing with greenish light—pure evil. Even with the wild wind
Their clothing belonged to a totally different century. With their colorful doublets, earrings and large belts, they looked almost like pirates, and each chanted in a strange language. It was the same language she’d used—not just to transform, but absentmindedly—right before her Mom had burned her.
She needed to dash across the deck, but it would be hard to escape the witches’ notice if she was flailing all over the rolling, water-logged deck. She had about three heartbeats to make it across before someone spotted her. One. She stepped forward, breaking into a run. Two. She reached the ship’s edge. Three. A sea-witch gripped her arm.
Shit. Where had he come from so suddenly? His green eyes bored into her, and she went cold. Within the next few heartbeats, he had the knife.
4
Tucking the knife into his belt, the sea-witch glared at her. Water soaked through his white shirt. “What are you doing? I secured you below deck for a reason.”
“You kidnapped me!” she shouted through the storm, clinging to the ship’s edge for support.
“You were drowning. I saved your life just like you saved mine.”
“I want to get off this ship.”
“You want to throw yourself at the mercy of the storm god?” he snarled. “Are you mad?”
“You’re a witch! You’re all witches.” Her pulse raced, and she stepped away from him. He has the knife.
He cocked his head, oddly calm. His eyes flashed with blue light, like St. Elmo’s fire. “So are you.”
What? What was he talking about? “I’m not a witch. I’m a high school student.”
“You’re a selkie.” His voice was low and rough.
Selkie. He knew the name.
Isolde shook her head. “No. I don’t curse or murder people.”
“Neither do I.” He turned, looking up at the sky. The black clouds were thinning. “We’ve quieted the squall.”
The ship’s rolling slowed, and she relaxed
her grip on the wood. “You were causing it.”
“Don’t be an idiot.” He pushed wet hair off his forehead. “You don’t seem to know anything about magic.”
“Only crazy people believe in magic.”
“You’ve seen it now. And you’ve done it. I guess that makes you crazy.”
“I don’t understand. Who are you? Where do you come from?”
“Lir. From the island of Atlantis.” He crossed his arms. “And who are you?”
“Isolde,” she snapped. Mom would lose her mind if she knew her daughter was chatting with a sea-witch. Assuming Mom hadn’t already lost her mind.
“What were you doing so far out to sea without a boat?”
“None of your business.”
The rain slowed to a drizzle. Lir’s eyes darkened. There was something feral in his gaze—something that sent alarm bells off in the primal part of her brain. Witch, her mind said. Stay away from him.
He licked his lips. “Fine. Whatever. But if you’re going to be on our ship, you need to meet the Captain.” He turned, striding across the deck.
Reluctantly, she followed. These creeps wouldn’t think twice about sacrificing her to their sea god.
Lir approached the other two witches, and one of them looked her over from head to toe. His skin had the same golden tone as Lir’s, but with his dark beard and the creases around his eyes, he must be at least ten years older.
“My brother Nod,” said Lir, pointing to him. “Captain of the Proserpine.”
Nod gave a low bow. A ray of sun broke though the clouds, glinting off his hoop earring. “You saved my brother from the Purgators. You have my gratitude.” His voice had the same craggy edge as Lir’s.
Lir raised a hand toward the other man, with deep copper skin and dreadlocks hanging down his back. “And this is Jacques.”
Jacques flashed a dimpled smile. “Always nice to meet a beautiful lady.”
Isolde’s temples throbbed. What is Nod talking about? “Who are the Purgators? My mom was shouting about them, but I tuned her out.”
Lir shot her a perplexed look. “The witch-hunters. The people trying to kill us.”
Witch-hunters. Like my mother. “Not us. I’m not a witch. I need to get back to Innsworth.” She tried to inject a note of authority into her voice, but her fingers fluttered nervously to her neck. She rubbed her pendant for reassurance.
The Captain’s eyes froze on the necklace, and he stepped toward her, pointing a finger at her throat. “What is that?”
Isolde glanced down. “My mom gave it to me. She said it was for protection. Something about the blood god.”
Nod wrapped his fingers around it, snatching it from her throat. His green eyes swirled murky gray.
He gripped the back of her neck, forcing the pendant against her cheek.
She stiffened. Witch, her mind screamed. Run. Panicking, she tried to pull away from the captain. “What are you doing?”
“I know how these Purgator charms work,” he murmured. “I was tortured with one years ago. It burns your skin when you lie.”
Lir edged toward them. “Take it easy, Nod. She’s a selkie. I saw her transform.”
The entire world seemed to have gone mad, and Isolde along with it. “Let me go.”
Nod held the charm to her cheek. “Tell me if you’re one of them,” he growled. “Are you a witch-hunter?”
She swallowed hard. “No, nor am I a witch. I’m a high school student with a shitty life, and I didn’t believe in magic until today.”
Nod stared into her eyes for a few moments before stepping away. “Good enough for me. But we’re not taking any chances—not with Purgator trinkets.” He turned, tossing the pendant into the sea. It arced high over the helm, splashing into the water.
Jacques eyed her. “You’re a selkie, and your mother is a witch-hunter? How does that work?”
A breeze rushed over her soaked dress, and she hugged herself. “I don’t know anything about magic or gods. I don’t know what’s real anymore. I don’t know if I died and went to Hell, or if I’ve lost my mind and I’ll end up wandering around the beach in a mud-splattered raincoat jabbering to myself like Old Cratten. I was eating lunch at school. My mother came into the cafeteria screaming about—” She stopped herself. She’d already told them too much. “—something. I got upset and went for a swim to get away from it all, and the next thing I know I’m surrounded by storm gods and beautiful sea witches.”
Nod scratched his beard. “You meet us and wonder if you’ve gone to Hell? I’m not sure appreciate that sentiment.”
Jacques cocked an eyebrow. “She said ‘beautiful,’ though. I’ll take it.”
She shivered in the cold sea breeze. Besides the return of her sanity, what she really needed was a fireplace and a hot cup of tea.
Lir looked her over. “Dagon’s waters chilled the girl. Let me get her some dry clothes.”
Dagon. The name rang in her mind. She’d heard it before. Her mother used to tell stories of Dagon, the sea god. At least, she’d told those stories before Gil had drowned in his waters.
Lir beckoned her toward the forecastle, but she remained in place. “I need to go home. I don’t belong here.”
“We’ll figure that out later,” said Nod. “You need a hot drink.”
The sun escaped the clouds, washing the ship in golden light. It didn’t seem quite as forbidding in the sunlight. Reluctantly, she followed Lir below deck, back into the narrow room. A hot drink, he’d said. Apart from the creepy thing that had happened with his eyes, he didn’t seem very threatening. Well, that and his knife rack. She’d be keeping an eye on that.
In his room, Lir rolled a wooden drawer from under the bed, pulling out a cotton towel and a white shirt before handing them to her. “I doubt you’ll fit in my trousers. I’ll wait outside while you change.” He rose, leaving her alone to peel off her soggy clothes.
She lay the tights and dress over a chair to dry, and she pulled on Lir’s shirt, which fastened at the neck with two strings and hung on her like a short dress. Flipping her head upside down, she dried her long hair on the towel.
A few moments later, someone rapped on the door. She crossed the room in her bare feet, pulling it open. Lir leaned against the doorframe, a pewter cup in one hand. “Rum, herbal beer, and molasses. I advise against drinking it too quickly.” He nodded at his bed. “Do you want to sit?”
“Thanks.” She took the drink from him, perching on the edge of his bed. She’d never been in a man’s room before.
“I’ll leave you on your own. You must be overwhelmed.”
“How old are you?” she asked abruptly. She really needed to work on her small-talk skills, though this was hardly the time to practice.
“Eighteen.”
“I’m seventeen.” She stared down at her cup, having already exhausted her conversational overtures. And yet, for some strange reason, she didn’t want the witch to leave.
He pointed to her cup. “It’s fine to drink. We haven’t poisoned it, even though we’re witches.”
Wasn’t there a legend about not eating any food in fairy lands? She wasn’t going to drink anything from these people, or she’d end up trapped here forever. “I need to get home. My mother needs my help.”
Lir pulled out a wooden chair and sat, wrapping his hands around his knee. His fingers were tattooed with the words HOLD on one hand and FAST on the other. “We can’t turn back now. The witch-hunters are after us. We’re on a mission to Mount Acidale first. We’re picking up a recruit.”
Her throat tightened. “Where is Mount Acidale?”
“It’s a hidden land, connected to England.”
Her jaw dropped. “We’re going to England? But my mother needs me. The storm, and the witch attacks. She’ll be frantic. She can’t look after herself.” What she didn’t say was, and you people scare the crap out of me.
“What do you mean? Is she sick?”
How could she explain it? There had never been a proper di
agnosis. “She’s just a strange person. When my brother died, she lost her mind. She believes in—magic, which I guess is real. So that’s not the problem, but she needs me to make her meals, and….” She trailed off. This wasn’t sounding urgent, and maybe she needed to reevaluate Mom’s sanity anyway. “Are auras real?”
“Yes. They’re created when magic is conducted. The more powerful the magic, the stronger the aura.”
A weight on her chest began to lift. It all made sense. Isolde had been been zoning out, muttering in that strange language, when Mom had burned her skin. Isolde must have retained some of the old spells she knew, deep in her subconscious. Her mother had only been protecting her from the terrifying world of magic.
She yanked up her sleeve. “So when my mom burned off the aura, she wasn’t just being crazy. She was burning the evil away.”
Lir stared at her wrist, and when his eyes darkened again, the hair rose on the back of her neck. He rose and sat next to her on the bed. At the swirling darkness in his eyes, her skin raised into goose bumps, and she wanted to run. But he reached out, gently raising her wrist, his fingers warm and soft.
She swallowed hard. What is he doing?
Lir closed his eyes, muttering in the strange language that had so enraged her mom. A tattooed hand hovered over her arm. As the puckered, pink skin smoothed over to porcelain, she gaped at her arm.
He was a witch, but at his gentle touch, she felt a little bit of the ice in her chest begin to thaw. “You healed me.”
He let her wrist fall. “You can’t burn an aura off with fire. Maybe your mother was right about some things, but lighting youf arm on fire wasn’t one of them. You’re a witch, and you’ll always be a witch. Only death will stop that.”
She shivered. “But I’m not like you. In your eyes, I can see something—not human.”
“No. You’re not like me. The sea-witches have Dagon’s power. You’re just an ordinary, human witch. I’m tainted by a demon. At least, that’s what your mother would say.”
She sighed. “When we were younger, she’d take me to the shore. We’d swim through the sea foam, past the breaking waves. We spoke magical words and transformed into seals. I thought it was a game.” She could remember other things now, too: A spell for lighting candles, one for growing flowers, and one for tidying rooms. “And then my brother drowned in the harbor. And she started talking about a blood god. She said we were impure, that the gods would kill us.”
The Abysmal Sea Page 2
