Beside me, I can senseDani's mind working overtime, trying to piece together the puzzle. I know she's just as skeptical as I am; her analytical brain searches for the missing pieces.
"There's got to be more to this story," I press on, my tone growing insistent. "Some reason why the merfolk haven't fetched it themselves. So why don't you cut the cryptic bullshit and give us the full picture, Captain?"
The door swings open, and a young man wearing a red bandana barges in. "Cap'n, we be reachin' the port. We need ye on the helm," he announces, his voice urgent.
The Captain rises and heads to the door, "Aye—We'll finish this discussion when we make landfall."
Danica
9
As we make our way off the ship and onto the docks of Captain's Haven, a sense of relief washes over me. Don't get me wrong, I love a good adventure as much as the next girl, but there's something to be said for the feeling of solid ground beneath your feet after being cooped up on a floating wooden death trap for days.
The water lapping gently against the shore is a shade of blue so vivid and clear it's as if someone took a giant bottle of Windex to the ocean. And the sand? It's so white and pristine like pure sugar cane was dumped onto the beach and left as is.
As much as I'd love to kick off my boots and bury my toes in that soft, inviting sand, we have more pressing matters to attend to. Like, you know, rescuing Lucian from the clutches of a psychotic vampire king-wannabe and saving the world from total destruction. Just another day in my crazy, chaotic life.
I can't shake the thought of what Lucian is enduring; guilt suffocates me. As usual, Rhyland picks up on my emotions and laces his fingers with mine. He gazes into my eyes with those piercing blues, and without uttering a word, he gets it. He knows exactly how I feel.
Rhyland, Erik, and I had a quick huddle before disembarking the ship. We're all in the same predicament—our powers are gone, and we feel weaker than ever.
I'm starting to freak out about what that witch did to us. Is this voodoo mojo permanent, or what?
I've gotten used to my magic—feeling that untapped power buzzing inside me. I've come to depend on it; it's part of me now. Without it, I feel exposed and adrift.
My new dumpster fire of a mission? Figuring out how the hell we're going to score an audience with the Water Queen and somehow track down this… Siren's Lyre.
The dull ache and burning sensation in my neck is a constant reminder of Azrael and his shitty bite. I've been trying my best to ignore it, to push through the pain and focus on the task at hand, but it's getting harder and harder to do so.
As if reading my mind, Rhyland leans close, his breath hot against my ear. "I plan to remedy that as soon as we are alone, Angel," he murmurs, his voice low and full of promise.
I shiver at his words, my body responding instinctively to his nearness. It never ceases to amaze me how in tune Rhyland is with me, how he always seems to know exactly what I'm feeling and what I need.
Is our bond getting stronger? Or is he just that damn good at reading me? Either way, I can't deny the thrill that runs through me at the thought of being alone with him, of feeling his hands on my skin—his lips on my neck.
That steamy public bathroom tryst at Playful Pint is still playing on a loop in my head, and my hormones are going haywire at the mere thought of some alone time with Rhyland. This man will forever and always be my kryptonite, my Achilles' heel, my—I can't even think straight when he's around—weakness.
"Right this way." The Captain navigates through the sea of sailors and pirates. "Finn! Purge the hold."
"Aye, aye, Cap'n." Finn acknowledges and heads toward the back of the ship.
Yeah, Finn. Purge the hold—the one I almost freaking drowned in.
As we make our way through Captain's Haven, I marvel at the sheer variety of sights, sounds, and smells that assault my senses. The air is thick with the scent of Caribean spices and roasting meats, and everywhere I look, vendors are hawking their wares and sailors stumbling drunkenly from tavern to tavern.
The day's heat is already starting to become known, and I can feel the sweat trickling down my neck as we weave through the crowds of sailors, merchants, and ne'er-do-wells that throng the docks.
Palm trees blanket the island, making it feel like a slice of tropical paradise.
We pass by a bustling shipyard where burly men with muscles the size of my head hammer away at half-built vessels, their sweat glistening in the hot sun. The heat is so intense it's like walking through a sauna fully clothed, and I can feel the fabric of my shirt sticking to my skin in all sorts of uncomfortable places.
"Aye, here we are," the Captain says, stopping and turning to face us with a flourish. "Welcome to the Loot and Booty Inn."
The building looks like it's barely held together with spit, prayers, and a whole lot of wishful thinking.
I raise an eyebrow at the name. "The Loot and Booty Inn?" I repeat, with sarcasm.
Gee, that's subtle. What's next, the Plunder and Pillage Pub? The Rape and Ravage Resort?
