As he watches me for a moment longer, I realize it isn’t just his fingers that spasm. His lower lip trembles, the muscles of his jaw locking and then loosening, like he’s trying to keep his teeth from clacking together.
But he raises a gloved hand, carefully unwinding a ribbon from his wrist. It dances through the space between us, before floating gently down to caress the siren’s forehead. Softly, like the hand of a mother to a child. The siren’s eye closes, and her brutalized body relaxes, her last breath a soft exhale of relief that echoes in my soul.
Relief. Something I’ll never have. And Niko—Niko is the epitome of it.
I shove the thoughts aside, turning away from him to lift the siren. Leveraging my arms beneath hers, I slide her as gently as I can manage toward the sea. I focus on the burn of my muscles, on honoring her last request, the task keeping me from dwelling, at least momentarily. On what happened with the Strayed. On what happened in the years before I fell into Letum.
The water is cool as it laps up over my toes, but the sand is still warm as my feet sink into it. I soak the hem of my dress, wading as far into the lagoon as I dare. The water is calm now,the violent waves having given way to gentler rolls that help me ease the siren back into the water. Welcoming her back home.
When I peer into the distance, it’s to find three more of the creatures bobbing above the surface, their emerald hair sparkling in the same manner as the waves. Her sisters, perhaps.
“I hope you find peace,” I whisper to the siren, feeling the weight of our unspoken bond, forged in those last few moments of terror. And then I push her out to sea. As a soft wave carries her body toward her family, a high, clear note echoes through the lagoon.
Beautiful and haunting, it threads through my ribs and tugs at my heart, like the layered melody is a whirlpool pulling things long buried up from the depths. A rush of emotion crests over me, as the sirens disappear beneath the surface, and Letum is quiet once again.
Swallowing roughly, I turn back toward where Niko lingers on the shore. His expression is indecipherable, and as I wade through the water and back up onto the sand, I steel myself for the weight of his fury.
For escaping after he’d warned me not to. For running straight into the dangerous hands of the Strayed. For taking the time to show the siren mercy when the few that escaped his wrath could return at any moment.
But Niko doesn’t scold me.
He sways precariously. His body spasms. His eyes roll back in his head.
And the King of Carrion collapses to the ground.
Chapter sixteen
The chilled surf splashes around my ankles, and my heart hammers in my chest as I rush toward the king. I don’t stop to consider the wisdom in touching a man who holds the power of death, my feet driven forward before my mind can catch up. His long legs crumple beneath him, and he tumbles face first into the surf. I dive toward him, sand and salt gritty in my mouth, my feet slipping in the silt.
His silk shirt is logged with water, and slick beneath my fingers as I paw at him, struggling to turn him over and keep him from drowning. His ribbons whirl frantically in the air above us both, as I grunt in exertion, leveraging my own weight against his shoulder. His head lolls listlessly, as I finally manage to flip him onto his back, the force of the movement sending me flying backward, tripping over the hem of my godforsaken dress.
I slink through the sand on my knees back to his side, checking the king for signs of life. His eyelids flutter wildly, and though his breaths are faint and irregular, they still come. He isn’t dead, and I don’t know whether that’s a blessing or a curse.
My eyes search the beach, the sand still littered with the bodies of the Strayed. I count thirteen, and though it’s hard to tell from the bloated condition of the corpses, none of them appear to be Dawson. I’d been so preoccupied with the siren’s agony, I hadn’t considered where he’s gone.
I’ve already wasted too much time. The remaining Strayed could be back with reinforcements at any moment.
We have to get off this beach. Now.
My hand hovers over the king’s chest. Though his ribbons are no longer wrapped around him like thick ropes, they’ve draped themselves over his body from his throat to his feet, and I don’t dare touch him. They appear as injured as Niko, lying still and lifeless, but I’d be a fool to believe them benign when I’ve seen what one touch can do.
Niko’s breath hitches, a painful wheeze sucked between his pale lips. His eyelids begin to twitch, his muscles pull taut, and he begins to seize.
“Niko!” The name is a desperate yelp, my hands fluttering over him before snapping back to my own chest. I can’t touch him—not with the way his ribbons are splayed. His teeth clack together violently and a groan of pain bubbles low in his throat, the sound so guttural, it echoes between my ribs like a vibration, teasing my panic higher and tighter.
Dawson and the Strayed could be back at any moment, and Niko is in no condition to fight them off. I have no way of contacting Marina or Sam, and no way of knowing who else to trust. Which means I need to do what I do best—find somewhere to disappear. With one last brutal shudder, Niko’s body relaxes. His head lulls to the side, spittle and black sand crusting to his snow-white skin.
The terror of being found has me reaching my hand out once more; desperation has me tracing a finger delicately over the ribbon shrouding his heart in the mimic of a caress. ThoughI don’t actually touch it—can’ttouch it—it vibrates beneath my ministrations and the air between us sparks with energy. I continue the motion over the others, caressing my finger through the air above each ribbon. As they all respond in turn, I wonder if my earlier instinct was correct: the death Niko wields is somehow sentient.
Tilting my head, I rake my gaze over where they’ve lain, shielding the king’s most vulnerable parts. I assumed he’d called them to him as a final barrier of protection, but maybe…maybe his death ischoosingto help him.
I continue the soft path of my finger through the air. “I won’t hurt him. I want to help,” I whisper, my voice little more than a breath. “He won’t be able to protect himself if Dawson comes back.”
The ribbons still, as if mesmerized by the sound of my voice. As iflisteningto it. “Please,” I plead softly. “He helped me. Let me help him.”
When nothing happens, I withdraw my hand with a defeated sigh, feeling foolish for even trying.
Despair crests over me in a looming shadow, when the ribbon draped over the king’s heart flutters. Once, twice. Slowly, each one of the satiny black sashes begins to writhe. Their subtle movements gradually grow more excited, until all of them are slithering over his body like a pit of angry snakes. They sweep over Niko’s skin, weaving together so furiously, they blot out the intricately stitched seams of his clothes, and the tattoos spiraling up his throat.
