With a defeated sigh, she took in the titles of the books stacked neatly on top of the dresser.
Weaponry and Defense
Enemies of Azantian
Mortals and Humans: A Guide to a Fragile Species
A fourth book caught her eye. One that was noticeably out of place resting amongst the others.
Flora of the Western Islands
She traced the delicate spine, her mind going back to Bash and their conversation beside the Solanthiums. Bash had murmured to a guard and sent him running ahead to the palace. Had he procured this book for her after she’d expressed her interest? It was too much of a coincidence to overlook, but Margrete couldn’t imagine that the pirate cared enough to acquire such a thing for her enjoyment.
Here she was, trapped on an island that shouldn’t exist, stuck dealing with an insufferable man who alleged he wasn’t human, and she’d just witnessed magic with her own eyes—even if that magic was fashioned to imprison her within these very chambers.
Myths. Immortals. Azantian.
The leatherbound books in her father’s study claimed there had been a time when humans had been blessed with otherworldly gifts. Some had visions of what was to come, and others could delve into minds or manipulate small objects.
Of course, there were other stories, too, ones where humans participated in the banned arts of dark magic. The kind that required death and sacrifice and blood.
But those stories had been dated centuries back, and no reports of magic had been written in recent history. All Margrete had heard of such things were rumors, nothing more than petty gossip. People loved a good story in Prias and the surrounding islands. It added spice to an otherwise dull existence. Even so, Margrete found it hard to ignore the proof of magic right before her very eyes. A whole island full of myths. An island full of a beautiful and mysterious people.
Abandoning the heavy tomes, Margrete scanned the foreign surroundings with a keen eye. She needed to find a weapon, anything with a pointy end that she could use if she were caught escaping. She certainly wasn’t going to stick around and find out what would happen to her when her father didn’t pay.
Her first task consisted of rifling through the armoire and digging amongst the piles of folded shirts and trousers. Nothing. Even the bathing suite was devoid of mirrors and glass bottles storing soaps and lotions. Bash clearly predicted that she might use a shard of glass as a weapon. He would’ve been right.
Margrete grew excited when she discovered a floor-length mirror tucked away in the corner, but when she kicked at the glass, even going so far as to smash it to the stone floor, the damned thing didn’t shatter.
She hefted it back into place with a grunt. Whatever it was made of, it was not natural glass. Or at least, a kind that wasn’t easily breakable.
She’d explored every crevice by the time the sun lowered in the sky, the twilight casting the room in an ominous haze. There was nothing here she could use, and the portal was out of the question. That only left her one other option, one she didn’t much like.
The balcony.
The waters were calm directly below, but beyond the outer beaches of gold, past the arched bridges, the waves were roiling and anxious. Closing her eyes, she allowed her spirit to drift, only momentarily, and imagined herself diving off the balcony and gliding on a breeze. She pictured herself as a bird, wings outstretched, feathers flinching as she curved down to the waters.
The sea was luring her closer, urging Margrete to explore.
I am here, little one, the ocean called. Do not fear. The aquamarine crests reached out as if to grab her, whispering a name over and over again. Shana, it sang, breathing the name reverently. Shana.
Her eyes shot open, and her body jerked as if she’d been falling. The tranquil moment passed, only a brief reprieve from reality, but those whispers still lingered in her heart. Even if she were unable to hear them with her ears.
Perhaps she’d hit her head harder than she’d believed back in Prias.
Margrete lifted onto the tips of her toes, peering over the railing. Another balcony, nearly identical to her own, lay directly beneath her feet. Twisting further, she found that a thick ledge separated it from an expansive terrace that wrapped around the palace.
A ledge that was wide enough to climb across.
If she could make it to the ledge below, to the balcony, and then through its double doors, she might have a chance at getting out of here. If they were locked…Well, she’d deal with that when the time came.
She would find out tonight, she supposed, memorizing every line and curve of the ledge. The trouble would be lowering herself to the balcony below while hanging in midair hundreds of feet above the cliffs. While she’d prayed for a more exciting life back in Prias, scaling buildings wasn’t what she had in mind.
Margrete passed the time exploring her suite. There wasn’t much else to do until she could execute her plan, and instead of wallowing in self-pity, she focused on the living legends decorating the walls of her beautiful cage. She studied them for hours, tracing her fingers over the smooth grooves, memorizing the eerie images with her hands.
When the sun began to lower leisurely into the sea, she moved back to the balcony. While the waters typically soothed her nerves, the sight of them brought her little comfort now. Dinner was nearing, and Bash had told her he’d send for her when the time came. Though she hardly wanted to spend time with these strangers, she was impossibly hungry, and her stomach growled in agreement.
As Margrete retreated into the room, her eyes landed on the finely crafted dresser with palm trees and mangroves detailed on the edges. With a sigh, she peeled off her borrowed pants and flowing shirt and folded them neatly on a white ottoman. Instead of the fine dresses hanging in the armoire, she chose another pair of trousers and a billowing silk blouse.
Spinning to the floor-length mirror, she took in her reflection for the second time in two days. The first time, she’d been an anxious and chaste angel, all lace and false purity, but the high neck of her wedding dress had made her feel trapped, constricted. Suffocated.
Now she hardly recognized herself—not that it was necessarily a bad thing.
Margrete took in a steadying breath, only to release a choked scream.
Behind her reflection was a man.
One with several sharp blades secured to his belt.
Chapter Nine
Margrete
“I would’ve knocked but, well, there isn’t a door.”
Margrete spun around. A lithe blonde stood at attention, and while shorter in stature, he was all lean muscle, suggesting he was more deadly than he appeared.
“Who are you?” she asked, heart pounding.
The man approached with slow steps. He lifted his hands in a show of peace. “Bash is...detained at the moment,” he said. “So I’m here to escort you to dinner.” His voice had a calming lilt to it, light and full of warmth. “Sorry if I startled you.”
“And you are?” She found her breath again as she eyed his many weapons.
“Of course, how rude of me.” He let out a sharp exhale, his lips twisting into a coy grin. “My name is Bay. I’m the one who trains the sorry lot they send to the guard before I make them into soldiers.” He gave a slight bow. “And you might have met my boyfriend earlier. Tall, dark, handsome. A bit serious.”
The guard with the kind smile. “Adrian?”
“That’s the one.” He winked. “Now, come on. I’m starving, and you look like you could use a meal yourself.”
She was starving, and Bay appeared friendly enough. So when he offered his arm, she accepted, if only to get some food in her belly. When was the last time she ate?
Bay gave her hand what she assumed to be a reassuring squeeze as they walked through the portal and out into the corridor. “I have to admit, I was rather excited to meet you,” he said. “Not that I envy your predicament, but any new face on our island is a rarity.”
Margrete didn’t know how to respond,
so she didn’t. Bay kept talking, undeterred.
“You’re a quiet one, aren’t you? Bash spoke of you like you were some kind of hellion.”
That made her lips quirk up. The thought that she might’ve unsettled the pirate brought her a small amount of satisfaction.
“Then again,” Bay continued, “Bash is not the easiest of people to get along with, and first impressions are not his strong suit.”
Well, they could agree on that.
“However, he has a way of growing on you. Much like mold.” Bay chuckled, pleased by his own joke.
Margrete couldn’t hide her smile as they took to the stairs, her companion chatting about what would be served at dinner. The staircase spiraled, and on the second descending curve, Margrete’s blood rushed to her ears, her skin growing slick and clammy. The feeling struck her like a wave, and she would’ve stumbled if not for Bay’s grip on her arm.
Find me, a voice hissed from nowhere and everywhere at once. A voice that dripped like honey. Full and seductive and sickly sweet. It sounded familiar, and she recalled the nightmare she’d had onboard the Phaedra, a voice whispering ‘Soon’ into the shell of her ear.
She shuddered.
“You all right?” Bay asked. They had reached the ground floor where a sweeping chandelier lit with hundreds of candles illuminated the palace’s grand entrance.
“Fine. I’m fine.” The lie came easily, but her skin prickled, and her chest constricted, and her thoughts wove around the sinister timbre of that new voice.
“Are you sure? You look quite pale.”
“Is there somewhere—” She searched around the hall as bile rose in her throat. She was going to be sick.
“Ah, yes, of course!” Bay seemed to understand her predicament. Guiding her down a corridor off the main entry, he directed her into a small privy. “I’ll…I’ll just be right outside.” His cheeks were red, his face pinched in concern, but he mercifully closed the door and allowed her some privacy.
Margrete made it to the basin before she dry-heaved, her empty stomach protesting as she panted for air. Gripping the basin’s cool porcelain, she willed her breathing to calm.
Closer, the unnatural voice whispered, and she weakly lifted her head to stare into the mottled mirror. Her skin was still sallow and clammy, but the nausea was subsiding. She turned around, her gaze instantly drawn to what she’d missed while rushing into the room.
A damned window.
Margrete smiled, wiping at the sweat coating her forehead. Bay had brought her to a room, alone, where an unlocked window dangled freedom before her eyes.
She didn’t hesitate.
Shoving open the shutters, she inhaled the fresh night air, eagerly slipping one booted leg over the sill, followed by the other. She landed on her feet. Reeds licked at her calves and scratched the tips of her fingers as she ran through a garden of untamed shrubbery. The moon cast the world in an ivory glow, highlighting the abundance of colorful flowers and lush green trees. A small fountain trickled somewhere in the distance.
Her heart was a pounding mess, but adrenaline fueled her limbs.
The garden wound around the palace, blocks of ashen stones surrounding the verdant enclosure. Had she not been running for her life, she’d have taken the time to study the many foreign plants and flowers she’d never glimpsed in nature. But she didn’t slow her pace for a second, swerving around overflowing pots and dodging vines that dangled from overhead tree branches. As she rounded the bend of the palace, she saw a gate, its edges carved with extravagant whorls and twists.
So close.
Peering beyond the gate and the cover it provided, Margrete noted two guards milling about with their backs turned. One of the men was in conversation with a woman who ran her hands up the length of his arm, a demure smile on her lips. When the man leaned down to whisper into her ear, Margrete made her move.
She slipped through the gate and turned in the opposite direction of the guards and their female companion, sliding into the darkness on silent feet. It wasn’t bright enough to fully admire the island’s sea glass buildings or to imagine what the empty marketplace would look like bustling with noise, but even in the quiet dim, it was striking.
Although muted, color was everywhere, woven linens and dyed ribbons of every hue were tied to posts, waving with each gust of wind. There was a whimsical quality about this area—from the arched windows of the homes to the eccentrically painted pots lining the street, all overflowing with wildflowers.
Margrete’s heart thumped in her chest as she slowed her pace, trying to appear unassuming should more guards approach. But with her sweat-soaked skin and nervous feet, she surmised she’d be easy to spot.
The winding path abruptly curved to the left, and while she should’ve been stealthier, her nerves had gotten the best of her. It took everything in her not to run.
Margrete turned down the street—
Only to crash into a figure cloaked in shadows.
She stumbled to a halt, instinctively clenching her hands into tight fists.
“You shouldn’t be out here all on your own.” The man stepped into the light, the moonlight flowing across the planes of his rounded face. With a graying beard and laugh lines crinkling his eyes, he almost came off as welcoming.
“I-I don’t know what you mean.” She tried to step around his massive frame, but he mirrored her every movement.
The street was much narrower here, the walls closing in on both sides. The stranger stood directly in her path.
“I know exactly who you are, and I know you shouldn’t be out here on your own.” He let out a heavy sigh, rubbing his temple. “You don’t know the island, and there are people here who are not what they seem. People who hate your father and would wish for nothing more than to see his daughter dead.”
His words seemed sincere—worried, even—but Margrete still eyed the dimly lit street, searching fruitlessly for something to free herself of this man’s attention. Just as she garnered the courage to make a run for it, his meaty hand wrapped around her wrist.
“We have so much to talk about, Margrete.” He lowered his mouth to whisper into her ear. “If I’m right about you, then you have much more to worry about than Bash. Or your father, for that matter.” His fingers pressed into her wrist almost painfully.
“What are you talking about? What more do I have to fear?” Her father was enough of a concern to plague her, and Bash…Well, he was keen on using her for his own purposes.
The man clucked his tongue and shook his head as though he pitied her. “You haven’t the faintest idea of what awaits you. Though you’ll soon find out,” he warned, eyeing her with fierce interest. Margrete’s skin burned beneath his inquisitive stare, his eyes a breathtaking shade of coral.
She wanted to demand what he’d expected of a woman he’d never met, but instead, she asked, “Who are you?” The more she looked into his astonishing eyes, the more she felt like she was falling, slipping into a memory that wasn’t hers to own.
“I’ve never cared for names or titles, as they are often irrelevant in the grand scheme of things, but I suppose you might call me—”
“Ortum!”
The shout came from behind them. Margrete spun around, the man’s fingers still biting into her wrist. Storming through the garden was a very angry Bash and the blue-eyed soldier she duped trailing at his heels. Bay’s head hung low as he hurried to keep up, and she nearly felt guilty for deceiving him.
“You found her.” Bash approached the man—Ortum, he had called him. The pirate’s eyes were narrowed into slits, his unruly hair appearing as though he’d run his hand through it one too many times.
“Yes, my king.” Ortum gave a deep bow.
My king.
Margrete’s eyes flickered to Bash in surprise, Ortum’s words repeating on a twisting loop in her thoughts.
King. Bash was the king.
Of Azantian.
She’d assumed he was some high lord or influential captain li
ke her father, but instead, the man who kidnapped her was the ruler of an island of ancient magic. Of legend. And he was looking at her now as though he wished to strangle her.
“You seem skilled at surprising me,” he said, his voice lower than she’d ever heard it before. Deadly. Dangerous.
“I told you not to assume anything about me.” The words flew from her lips before she could stop them. Not that she would have. Margrete certainly didn’t regret taking her chance to run tonight. Hell, she’d do it all over again. Rolling over and accepting defeat had never been something she was good at.
Bash drank in her glower, seeming to savor it like a fine wine. She was challenging him and judging from the fascinated look on his face, it was something he wasn’t used to.
“You’re more brazen than I gave you credit for.” He took her from Ortum’s hold and wrapped his fingers around her wrist, the calloused pads of his fingers rough. “That is a mistake I won’t be making again, princess.”
Margrete tilted her head and met his stare, silently relaying all the words she kept trapped. Bash had underestimated her, and he would do it again. Margrete was sure of it.
“Take her back to her chambers,” he barked, his eyes never leaving hers. Men stepped around him, easing from the shadows to stand on either side of her. “Make sure two guards are posted outside her rooms. Apparently, Miss Wood is wilier than she appears.”
He let go of her, then clenched and loosened his hand into a fist, shaking it as if to rid himself of the feel of her. With one final glare, one threatening her to defy him, he twisted on a heel and walked back through the garden.
The guards grasped her upper arms and dragged her away from Ortum, who stood nearly forgotten in the dark. The man had remained quiet throughout the encounter, but just before Margrete was led away, he spoke.
“We’ll meet again...Soon,” he promised.
She peered over her shoulder, his vow raising the hairs on the back of her neck, but Ortum was gone. In his absence, she felt a heavy sense of dread creep into her chest.
The Girl Who Belonged to the Sea Page 7
