by Lani Lenore
“Leaving?” Sophia asked from behind him. He realized then that he had begun moving heatedly toward the stairs.
“Yes, I should go,” he muttered, pausing in his step, but not turning back.
“Well, if you need anything else…” She stopped, changing her mind about what she was saying. She went back to aiming her pistol, and he went back to going his own way. He hadn’t found out much, and there was only one thing left for it. He would have to meet with Treasure to decipher what had happened. He would ask her questions, and though she may not have been able to tell him anything with words, she could at least confirm his theories. Getting her to himself, however, would prove to be difficult and possibly dangerous.
Feeling discouraged and angry, Nathan took himself home once again, feeling that the only thing that had happened was that his mind had been forever changed about Ellister. And to think: he’d actually started to like the man.
Chapter Fifteen
Dawning Reflections
1
The amber liquid was flowing, rich and thick from the vial, and Nathan helped himself to as much as he pleased. It might have been dripping from the fingertips of the Virgin, the way he drank it so righteously, but religion had nothing to do with it, not any aspect of his life—not anymore.
He had reverted to a former version of himself. The one who sought only numbness. For the time, it seemed easier to drown his troubles than to sort them out, and so he drank the crown prince’s liquor until his vision began to swim and his mind grew a bit hazier. It had always taken far too much drink to make his conscience lie down.
This is not who you are, Nathan. He could hear Treasure’s voice in his mind now, trying to convince him that he did not need these escapes of his. He was working the wrong way toward freedom. Could she have been right? Was it even possible that anything he was doing was for anyone other than himself?
Treasure, he thought—sadly, as if she were a million miles away. I think you are the only one who has ever had faith in me; understood me; wanted me.
Those thoughts made him rise up, and before he knew it himself, he had left his room, wandering out into the palace hallways, ignoring the way the paintings and candelabras swayed in his vision.
She is not so far away. She is here—somewhere. But in his drunken state, the hallways of the palace were like a maze, and he could not keep his directions clear.
Nathan spent the rest of his sleepless night searching for the one he had lost—so near to him but so far away. He wandered the halls, seeking the room where Ellister had locked his Treasure away from him, but he didn’t find her.
He wandered until the day had caught up with him—until exhaustion had taken its toll—and finally, he stumbled back to his room.
Frustrated, he threw himself into the bed and stared up at the painted ceiling, his thoughts still driven by the one he sought. There was only to see her lovely vision in his head while praying that she was not with him—Ellister.
Please no. Anything to my heart but that.
When Nathan finally closed his eyes, his energy spent, his mind was tossed with visions of the dark sea, and of so many eyes looming over the water, waiting for him to make a false move.
2
The chamber smelled of sickness, of unwashed sheets and internal decay. A cloud of death was looming inside here, and each time Thaddeus opened the door, he felt that the stench collected on him as well, a curse, and would never wash away.
This place was a tomb. A lavish and well-decorated tomb, but it was not his.
The door inched open before him, the creaking hinges sounding far too loud in the spacious chamber. Every footstep echoed inside, carrying him closer to the bed which was soaked to the down with sweat. The curtains were open and the sun was rising over the sea, casting the room in a red glow.
Red in the morning, he thought absently, but his eyes did not leave the bed.
Servants scurried out of his way, muttering excuses for themselves, but he paid them no attention. His eyes stayed on the old man that was sunken down in the bed before him, eyes closed and skin sagging. He was thin and pale, full of too many veins, and Ellister felt his lip curl.
Many had said that Thaddeus was the spitting image of his father—that at his current age, he could have been the reincarnation of the man on this deathbed before him. Thaddeus had seen the proof himself every time he’d walked through the great hall, where a large portrait of the king adorned the wall along with his ancestors.
Looking at him now—the frail, weak creature on the bed before him—Ellister felt that he was watching his own decay. He hated the man even more for making him face his own mortality.
Thaddeus reached out and touched lightly at the ring on his father’s hand, then slid his fingers into the man’s palm and toward the wrist to test the pulsing strength of his life. He watched the old king’s chest rise and fall, hearing the rales in his breath. At that, he felt unusually content.
I’m going to do what you couldn’t, father, he sent to the man silently, wondering if his words might pass telepathically through the veil of death. I’m going to make this kingdom great. I’m going to relieve the people of their fear, and I will conquer two worlds at once. The nymphs are real. They are. I never got to show you that. Of course, you never believed me, did you?
Thaddeus considered saying those things aloud, but he never had before, and supposed that now he might not ever. What was the point, after all? In the end, every obstacle before him disintegrated in the shadow of the forces that drove him—even a corpse.
As he stood there, he briefly considered the same thing he always did—of setting a heavy down pillow over the man’s face and smothering the tiny remnant of life out of him. But he wouldn’t. The old man was in dreamland, aboard one of his many warships, no doubt, perhaps sailing farther into oblivion with each hour that passed. His son would leave him to it.
Thaddeus left the king’s chamber, silently hoping for the day he would no longer have to return. He knew it would not be long.
3
Shadows passed across the floor of the underwater chamber like the ghosts of her past life. Bliss watched them, somewhat tranquil, though in the back of her mind, she knew that she could not let her guard down. She was a free body, but she was among enemies here.
It had been a long time since Bliss had viewed the palace with her own eyes, and even longer since she had been free in it. It had been far too many years ago—many more than she would care to admit—but she remembered the old days, before she had been a slave; before she had been shunned.
She’d been with the old ones, and had heard the stories of a time past, when her people had thrived beyond the sight of man and had not been concerned with the world above. The Sea King had been on the throne and the movement of his staff was all it had taken for the sea to respond. He gave the humans still waters in return for their worship, and he had lived many eons with his own people as the only male among them until his mysterious death. Some said that it was disbelief from the world above that had killed him—a lack of sacrifice from the humans—but none could truly say. All they knew was that his death had been the start of bad times.
The nymphs had been forced to seek new methods of reproduction, and the first of the imperfects had been born. In the beginning, they were not regarded with much more than an uncertain eye, but it was the Mistress who had begun to hate them, and that hatred bred more.
The Mistress’s aims had taken work, but gradually, she had convinced the rest, and had risen up as their leader a century ago.
And still jou are dere, aren’t jou?
Despite their difference in appearance, Bliss and the Mistress were very much the same. They were hatchlings together, the offspring of nymph and human, just like the rest. There was no way to know who their mother was, since all eggs were deposited in the same place to avoid such connections, but since they had been born of the same brood, they were sisters. Even so, there had never been love between them. Th
ey had been different, but in those days, Bliss had at least been free. She was branded as imperfect even then, but had not been bound as a slave in her own habitat. But being regarded as different, she had begun to wonder if she would find her culture elsewhere. She had sought the human world of her father.
She had gone near to the land, seeking humans like her. It had taken a while of searching, but she had finally located a small island of people, and she had learned to make the sounds of the human tongue by listening to them speak. From there, she had gone on to learn more. In the years that followed, she had sought out as many humans as she could, until she had found some who were truly exceptional. She had watched them closely, learned their chants and their magic, and she had found a new strength within herself by that, but she had kept it as her own secret, for fear that she might be shunned further by her own.
The Mistress had ended all of that quickly, before Bliss could retaliate. Some, like Treasure, had been born into this life. A life of captivity was all they had ever known, but Bliss knew of how it should be, and exactly what she needed to do.
She had lost Treasure as her pawn, but Bliss would not give up. She had inserted herself back into the nymph society, and now was only to bide her time until her plans were set into motion, and then—
“The Mistress is ready.” The high-pitched voice behind Bliss stung her ears, but she understood it all the same. Her time of musing was up.
Without a word, she swam forward, following the guard into the chamber that had been prepared, slick with scum. Here, the Mistress was waiting—surrounded by a dozen armed attendants.
The sea witch wanted to snarl at the sight of the Mistress hovering there so smugly, but she controlled her emotions. She smiled viciously instead.
“Jou’re ready, are jou?” she taunted, coming closer to the altar, upon which was placed the items and substances she would need for the task she would perform.
“Just remember, witch, that if you try anything other than what you promised, my guards will kill you,” the Mistress reminded her.
“Of dat, I am certain,” Bliss assured, coming forward, letting her fingers dance across the items on the altar. “Since jou denied my request to surface, we will have to do tings differently. Here,” she said, lifting a stone with a portion of colorful, living anemone. “Bite dis. It will sedate jou—”
“No,” the Mistress said, staring boldly into Bliss’s eyes. “I want to be awake.”
There was silence—several ticks. It could not be said which of them was more frightening to those others in the chamber; whether it was the Mistress with her imposing size and fiery ember eyes, or if it was Bliss herself with her darkness and mysterious power. The two of them stared at each other fervently, and all that passed between them in that moment might have been for centuries of hatred, jealousy, and torture. They might have both been on the verge of changing their minds—the Mistress not allowing an imperfect to have power over her, and Bliss wanting to kill this hated ruler on the spot, but in the end, there was only one thing to be done on either side.
Taking the guarded oyster shell from around her neck, Bliss opened it up to reveal the fleshy pink tongue within.
“Very well den,” she said with a spiteful bite. “Let us proceed.”
4
Within the empty tavern, above the cellar where images of sea nymphs plastered walls, Sophia sat by herself at a table. She cleaned her pistol with precision, taking care to prevent corrosion in the barrel. Most women did not know how to handle a gun, but she had been raised by her father, and to her, it had been a necessity. If only she’d mastered it sooner, perhaps she wouldn’t have had such grief and bitterness in her heart.
But that is not true, she reminded herself. She took care not to forget.
It was just before dawn, which meant it was near time for her to sleep, but she was restless. She’d been working all night, and she could feel the exhaustion setting in, but something was keeping her from her usual calm. She felt she had reached the point that her fatigue was comfortable, a mere state of existence, and she could carry on with it for as long as she wished. For now she was busy, and that kept her rooted to the spot.
“You should get some rest,” Gideon said, speaking the words she was already thinking, but now that he’d said it, she felt compelled to resist. Sophia was perhaps the only person who was not intimidated by her father—but she’d certainly not gotten her rebellious nature from him.
“A while longer,” she said distractedly. She knew he was only concerned about her wellbeing, but she could not give him the benefit of her obedience. She felt that she had earned the right to live by her own whims when she could, even small ones such as this.
She’d spent half the night deflecting drunken molesters, and when she was not doing that, she was listening in on tales of nymph sightings, told to her father but never aimed in her direction. Concerning the nymphs, however: she was as capable of understanding that grief as well as any man. She was not fragile. Her father understood that, but he must have been the only one. Despite what many might have thought by looking at him, he was a good man. She knew that.
“You shouldn’t have to do that,” she heard him say after a pause.
“Do what?” she asked distractedly, but she thought she knew what he meant.
The tattooed man sighed. When he did, his shoulders slumped slightly, and that made him appear old and weak. She had never thought of him that way, but it was showing now beneath his eyes and in the lines on his forehead.
“It’s never a father’s wish to see his daughter have the sort of life that you have.”
“Which part?” she asked with a scoff. “The part where I’m a barmaid, or the part where I had to learn that monsters are real?”
Her father seemed thwarted by this—but only momentarily.
“Your mother never would have wanted this for you,” Gideon said. “If we’d been able to keep the house—if we’d…”
For a moment, Sophia stopped her motion, letting the gun rest heavily on the tabletop. Her teeth clenched as her lips pursed together. Talk of how things should or shouldn’t be had always made her angry. One could not change the past; likewise, the future could not be predicted.
“What do you think you can do?” Sophia asked coolly. “It’s too late to change things.”
Gideon did not waste more time on this. He swiftly changed the subject.
“Ellister’s man came again tonight,” her father said. “Saw him leave. What did he want?”
“Just business,” she said, purposefully remaining vague. “He wanted to know more about the signs.”
“He’s different,” Gideon mused. “I wonder how Ellister got ahold of that one.”
“Just some pirate, I’m sure,” Sophia said dismissively. She didn’t want to think about that man, how haughty he was or how he’d emerged out of the blue. He had nothing to do with their life.
“What do you think about him?”
Sophia glanced up from cleaning the pistol, but did not quite look at her father. What a strange thing to ask. If he had meant to imply what she suspected—that she might be interested in getting to know Nathan a little better—she was not willing to play along.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said at first, but then on second thought, reiterated. “He works for Ellister, and you know how much I like him.”
Gideon chuckled, but Sophia’s mind was still working. Nathan had seemed troubled when she’d seen him tonight. His concern for the signs wasn’t out of mere curiosity. There was something personal in it. He’d asked about a sea nymph gaining legs. What was that about? Sophia wondered this, but decided to keep it to herself for now. Instead, she decided to be vague.
“When he was here earlier, I started thinking he might be different from what I thought,” she contemplated aloud. “I actually think he cares about the cause after all. I just don’t know why.”
“He could be like us,” Gideon suggested. “Maybe he lost someone.”
/> Sophia shook her head. No, that wasn’t it. Something about that man—Nathaniel Thomas—was softer than the rest of them. She had seen the look in his eyes. It was more of worry than of malice; more of confusion than hatred. He was a man desperate, not one who sought revenge.
“He’s on the verge of madness,” she uttered, and then as if to correct herself, added: “He’s going to get himself killed. So he’s not worth thinking about.”
She was sure of it, believed it. But even as she said it, she wondered.
Chapter Sixteen
Forbidden
1
There was a lovely view of the morning sea through the windows. The glittering waves shimmered in the distance until they touched the blue horizon, reminding Treasure of what it was like to be in the open air. She had fond memories of that. When time had permitted—and she’d been brave enough—she would surface and sit on a rock for hours, near enough to the water that she might not be detected by her enemies, or if so, she might make a swift retreat. She had taken in the view of the sea from above the surface, as the humans did, and she’d found a beauty in it that went unrecognized to many of her own people. The sea had so many faces. The sight of the rolling waves calmed her—made her remember that she was not so far from what was familiar, even though her life had been drastically changed.
Though the ocean was directly in front of her through the tall windows, Treasure was not allowed to gaze at it for as long as she wished. She was scolded by her tutor when she tried. The old woman had the sharp, unfeeling eyes of a shark, zeroing in on her as prey if she so much as averted her eyes from her lessons.
