Time was a funny thing. One moment Margrete wished for it to speed up and to never stop. The next, it moved at the pace of a sailless vessel on a windless day at sea.
Right now, it stood still.
Still enough for Margrete to make out every detail—each silver scale and jagged tooth—of the monster freed from its cage. It was horrendous to look at, its sheer size overwhelming, and its soulless eyes were cruel and calculating.
The infamous sea serpent—a creature rumored to have once taken out an entire fleet of ships in one attack. Margrete shivered, holding Birdie to her side. Her sister had ceased her gut-wrenching sobs, though her silence was somehow worse.
With wide eyes, Margrete watched helplessly as the serpent headed for the shores of the island. An island full of innocents. It would devastate a place of beauty for the pleasure of watching it fall.
Her father took in the scene before him with delight, and a rare, genuine smile curled his lips. He thought the serpent, as well as the other monsters hiding beneath the swells, would be his to command soon. Once the transfer of power occurred, once Margrete was drained of the divinity in her soul, he’d have the greatest arsenal known to man at his disposal.
Margrete would throw herself overboard before she ever let that happen.
In the distance, the serpent slowed, its elongated body stilling five hundred feet from shore. The fool she was, Margrete hoped, for but a second, that her prayers wouldn’t be ignored. That it would turn and abandon Azantian and the promise of bloodshed.
That hope quickly dissipated.
With a guttural roar, one that shook Azantian and all of its people, the creature lurched high into the air. It plummeted back to the waters with a resounding splash that turned into a massive hundred-foot wave—one that barreled toward the southern side of the island. Even in the dark, Margrete saw its hasty rise, how the waves crested and glimmered with deadly passion.
In the span of a blink, the colossal wave fell, crashing past the golden beaches and colliding against the sea glass homes and colorful markets of Azantian. She could hear the screams from across the waters, though the sounds were distant and masked by the thick evening air. Nevertheless, Margrete made them out, and more and more cries pierced the night until the panicked noises became one eerie sound of all-encompassing fear.
Something about watching the wave strike Azantian roused her courage.
On those very shores, Margrete had shucked the mask of a lost girl who cowered before her father. It was on Azantian, that she rediscovered her will to fight, a will long since buried beneath years of trauma.
Twisting to the rail, she peered into the obscurity, to where the serpent headed for shore once again. This time, it swam faster and with a dogged purpose. She could hardly focus on anything other than the threat before her, the serpent’s spiked tail whipping out from the waters as its body flew into the air.
Margrete felt the first rush of searing ire pulse into her being. It was lava and deadly crimson that heated her blood. When the serpent eventually fell—splashing into the waters and launching another wave at Azantian—something shifted within her.
The song of the sea mingled with the smoldering heat of pure rage. She prickled all over, the pins and needles of wrath as sharp as any blade.
She watched as mighty vessels splintered, as sea glass homes toppled and collapsed on the sands. The screams of women and children and soldiers made their way to her ears, and her heart dropped into her stomach as bile rose in her throat.
Margrete was gazing at her father—the man at whom all her rage was directed—when he raced over to the railing, his men following his lead. The sheer ruin entranced them, and their twisted shouts filled the air.
“Look!” someone called out. “There’s a vessel out there!”
More boots pounded the decks until even Casbian leaned was leaning over the side and staring into the abyss. The creature didn’t pause as it thrust forward, its long tail swaying back and forth, causing massive wakes to rise in its path of destruction.
Margrete cursed, sparing a glance behind her. The crew left onboard the Iron Mast was bewitched. They ignored the prisoners they’d been instructed to guard, too taken by the living myth before their eyes.
This moment was her only chance.
Margrete held her breath as she inched back, away from her father and his gaping men, away from the governess. With their attention secured ahead, Margrete turned to where Birdie sat huddled beside a barrel, her knees pulled up to her chest. Now was the time to get her out, to save her before her father’s focus returned to his daughters.
Before he spilled blood.
“Birdie,” she whispered, crouching. “You need to follow me. Now.” Margrete held out her hand, which remained surprisingly steady. She couldn’t afford to be frightened, not when Birdie was near tears.
Birdie lifted her grimy, tear-stained face. Without a word, she placed her tiny hand in Margrete’s, trusting her to deliver her from danger. As she always had before, Margrete would make sure she didn’t betray that trust.
Margrete pulled on Birdie’s hand and led her to the ladder. A longboat was already rocking against the ship below.
Margrete went down the ladder first, ready to catch her sister should she stumble. She was proud when Birdie’s grip held fast, her small shoulders squared with determination.
When they reached the bottom, Margrete helped her settle. She untied the ropes and grabbed the oars.
As they pushed off, a shriek rang through the air, a tormented sound of anguish.
Her arms shook violently, but she rowed the longboat around the side of the Iron Mast, bringing them closer to the outer bands.
Margrete didn’t have much of a plan other than to get to the docks, where several small longboats were secured beside the larger ships. Being in the water with the sea’s children wasn’t an option, especially with her sister in tow, but neither was staying on her father’s ship.
So far, the serpent was the only beast to show itself, but Margrete surmised that might soon change. If they fled their prison and headed to the mortal realm, then she knew Bash wouldn’t stop until he had hunted them all down.
And she’d be right there beside him.
Margrete’s every muscle strained as she pushed them closer to the ring, to the southern docks, but even just a few grueling training sessions with Adrian had helped prepare her for such a moment.
“Margrete,” Birdie hissed, speaking for the first time. She pointed out to the expanse of black, to where the serpent slithered, readying itself for another assault.
“What? What do you see?” Margrete gasped, out of breath from the exertion.
“A boat,” her sister replied. “Someone is out there on a boat.”
All the air rushed from her lungs as her gaze followed the path of Birdie’s finger.
There. A flash of silver. The glint of metal bobbing on the waves. The blaze of a white sail whipping against the wind.
A part of her already suspected who manned the vessel. It was the only person who was brave—and stupid—enough to face one of the sea’s children head-on.
Gods, she wanted to throttle him.
Bash. She murmured his name under her breath as her heart raced savagely in her chest. It pounded and thrummed against her skin, begging to be released, to somehow find its way to where the King of Azantian decided to challenge an undefeatable opponent.
“W-who is that?” came Birdie’s muffled voice.
Margrete didn’t answer. The serpent rushed past Bash’s vessel, its wake nearly turning it on its side. The figure, cloaked in shadows, moved, adjusted the sail, and maneuvered the ship to turn back to the creature.
“You need to listen to me again, little bird,” Margrete murmured, her eyes never once leaving Bash. The outer band was nearing. “You’re going to stay here, on those docks”—she tilted her head back—“unless Father or his men come for you. Then use one of the longboats and get to shore.”
&nbs
p; “What do you mean?” Birdie protested, scrambling from her position and into Margrete’s lap. “You can’t leave me!”
“Shhh,” she soothed, gently lifting her sister in her arms and turning to where the polished metal met the water. Leaning over, she grabbed a rope and tugged their longboat against its side.
“I need to make sure he’s safe. He’s the king, Birdie, and if I don’t save him, if the serpent kills him—” She swallowed back tears. “If I can’t help him, and he fails, then more of those monsters will come, and the seas will no longer be safe.”
Of course, it was more than that. If she didn’t get to him—get him away from the beast and back to land—she’d lose a part of herself that she had only just begun to explore. The part that loved and was loved so fiercely in return.
The part made only for him.
Margrete lifted her sister onto the dock. The Iron Mast was still far enough away that Birdie could run should they venture near. “Now, please, stay here. I promise you, I will return.” She held Birdie’s blue eyes, which brimmed with tears. “I’ll never leave you. Ever.”
Not even death could sever their bond.
With a weak nod, Birdie backed away, and Margrete gave her a final look before she pushed back into the thrashing waters.
Waters that now belonged to the god’s children.
With the Iron Mast to her left, Azantian straight ahead, and Bash and the serpent nearing on her right, Margrete steeled her spine and rowed as fast and as hard as her body would allow.
Another screech rang out, followed by the roar of a man. Bash leaped off the side of his vessel—
Directly onto the serpent’s back.
He paused, gathering his footing, and then ambled closer to the serpent’s head. Bash planned on attacking where it would hurt, where he would have the greatest chance of killing the beast.
He was nearly there when a wave crashed against the side of the serpent, sending Bash careening forward. Time slowed as he raised his dagger, the metal flashing in the moonlight. He let out a cry of war as he thrust the metal into the creature’s back, near its neck.
The serpent released an ear-piercing squeal, its mighty tail beating the waters as it screeched in outrage. Bash hugged its back, somehow able to lift his weapon again and bring it back down, slicing between the serrated scales.
While the serpent thrashed, bucking in an attempt to throw Bash off, a rumble of thunder shook both land and sea. As if in response, the animal stilled its jerky movements, its giant maw rising out of the waves and into the night, searching.
Bash held on, gripping the pommel of the knife still embedded in the animal’s back, but he, too, followed the direction the serpent looked.
The island gave an enraged shudder, and jagged streaks of lightning traversed across the clouded sky. Thick raindrops pelted Margrete’s skin and sliced at her cheeks, but each swell brought her closer to Bash, and she refused to stop.
The serpent slowed, allowing her the chance to catch up to its lithe body, though she remained wary of its deadly tail. This close, Margrete could make out its spikes, which glinted in the moonlight.
Only thirty feet now separated her from the man she cared for. The man she was going to rescue. Bash had saved her more times than he realized—and not just from death.
Before the sky erupted, the waters surrounding the serpent rippled. Margrete clutched her ears as a deafening boom pierced the air. In the center of the foaming waves, water began to rise, and a silhouette of a man climbed from a whirlpool of foam and charcoal. Margrete’s eyes widened as the brutal winds whipped painfully at her face.
She had to get to Bash. Now. Before whatever that was came for them both.
“Bash!” she screamed into the chaos and wind. The king, barely holding on to the serpent, turned at the sound of her voice. His emerald eyes were a spark of color amongst the darkness.
“Margrete!” he called back, voice pained. “Get away! Don’t come any closer.”
Her hands tightened on the oars. She kept rowing against the roiling waters, ignoring his pleas and desperate shouts for her to turn away. Bash should know her better by now.
Only when the figure’s image sharpened did her resolve waver. From the sea spray, he ascended. His bare body was slick and covered in kelp, and a mass of tangled black strands crowned his head. He had a straight, thin nose, hair the darkest shade of midnight, and a square jaw. Margrete stared on in shock as she took in his eyes, which were the color of the clearest sapphires. Chains hung from around his throat, thick iron that wrapped around him and rattled when his ethereal form advanced toward the serpent. Toward Bash.
The man didn’t walk across the waters he commanded, he glided, the current driving him forward.
Margrete had never seen a god before, but she knew, without a doubt, one stood before them now. The power within her sung as though recognizing its true owner.
Malum.
The sky erupted, silvery streaks of fire spiderwebbing across the black storm clouds. As the world ignited, Margrete caught sight of Bash struggling to stay on top of the serpent. He’d never stood a chance against the beast, and his dagger had done nothing but irritate the creature. He wasn’t one to stand by and watch his home be destroyed, even if he all but ensured his own death.
When the serpent slowed, almost as though it sensed its creator, Margrete shouted Bash’s name, a frenzied screech that matched the roar of the ensuing thunder. The king lifted his head in her direction, and the whites of his eyes flashed in the dark.
“Margrete!” Bash screamed, his voice cracking. Their eyes locked, even from a distance, even as she sensed Malum nearing. Power rippled off his immortal body, the air ripe with tension.
The swells surrounding the serpent began to rise, but Bash wasn’t paying attention. His focus remained solely on Margrete, and he didn’t even flinch when the God of the Sea roared, the noise shaking the very waves they rocked upon.
One moment, Bash was in her sights, alive and fighting to survive, and the next, the sea he loved crashed down upon him and stole his body below.
He didn’t rise.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Margrete
Margrete screamed into the night, the sound coarse and broken and full of rage.
Rage at Malum.
A boiling anger that simmered in her blood and set her vision red.
The serpent had been pummeled below the waters, Bash along with it. Neither had resurfaced.
She lifted her gaze to Malum’s.
His eyes were blue, clearer than any precious gem. Otherworldly.
“Save him!” she roared, teeth bared and hands clenched. She dropped the oars, and the wood thudded to the bottom of the boat. Her arms were sore from her strenuous rowing, and blisters opened her palms. Rain drenched her from head to toe, her long hair a tangled crown around her head. She’d pushed her body to the brink, both mentally and physically, and now she was teetering on the edge, one foot hanging over the side of the cliff.
She dared call his name. “Malum!”
The winds devoured the sound of her voice, but she knew he heard her, knew he could taste her bitter anguish.
The God of the Sea towered over her—well over ten feet tall—and water danced along his massive calves. He glanced down to where Bash had been hauled under, and a thoughtful look washed across his slick face. Then he lifted his head.
Their eyes locked, the world around them forgotten.
She whispered now. “Please.” A single tear glided down her cheek, mingling with the rain.
A heart for a heart, was all he said, his voice soft against the edges of her mind.
Margrete nodded, choking on a sob.
He was going to save him. He would rescue Bash, and all it would require was something she didn’t even want—the heart of a god.
Malum cupped his palms and lifted them to his chest. His full lips moved soundlessly as he spoke, uttering words she knew didn’t belong to mortals.
&nbs
p; Margrete gripped the longboat. The waters were parting, moving, whirling. They spun and roiled and swayed…
After what seemed like an eternity, a head of auburn emerged from the depths, and the king of Azantian’s body was lifted above the sea, his legs dangling.
His eyes were wide.
Margrete released the air in her lungs in a painful rush as more tears fell, though these were borne of joy. He hadn’t drowned. Malum saved him before he’d been taken from her.
He lives, little one, Malum said. Now I need what I am owed. I will destroy—
Bash was knocked from the air, tossed back into the waves like a rag doll. Margrete cried out, flinging herself precariously close to the waters that splashed over the sides of her vessel. She searched for the top of his head, for the deep russet of his hair, not even sparing the God of the Sea a glance.
“Margrete!”
She turned, chasing the voice that would forever find her. There. Bash was floating, rocking on the waters to her left, treading water.
Margrete turned back to Malum.
The god was no longer there.
She skimmed the surface of the waves for any sign of him, but only the rippling blue and black stared back. She settled into position and swiftly picked up the oars, dipping the paddles and rowing toward Bash.
She couldn’t think of where Malum had gone. It was taking everything she had to get to Bash.
Margrete was nearly upon her king when a great wave pummeled her boat. It came out of nowhere, so fierce, so impossibly strong, that it shattered the wood and broke the vessel in half with a sickening crack.
She was flying…and then, just as suddenly, she was falling, plummeting. Margrete struck the water with enough force to steal her breath, and her arms flailed as she clawed at the water. Panic robbed all else, and there was only the need to stay above, to not succumb to the depths that would end her life.
Margrete’s hand landed on one half of the broken boat, her chest heaving as she pulled herself over the side. The wood dug into her stomach, and she gasped, sucking in air, cursing herself for never learning how to swim. It would be her ruin.
The Girl Who Belonged to the Sea Page 31
