She finds my gaze, then looks away quickly, blinking as if to orient herself. As if to pretend our cord doesn’t shudder with the echo of our combined desire. She wraps a delicate hand around the edge of the dry ground, hoisting herself up to peer behind me—around a corner where the grotto narrows into an empty tunnel. The bioluminescent walls illuminate the pitch black, reflecting neon lights off old barrels, frayed wicker baskets, and antique oil lamps. “As I said, no threats.”
“It smells damp.” She drags herself out of the water and rolls onto the ground, chest heaving as she stares at the stalactite ceiling. Her pink hair splays beneath her. The same shade as her torn bodice.
“It is an underwater pocket of air. It’s going to smell damp.”
She sticks her tongue out at me, but the action is tired. I’m tired too. These past few days have exhausted me in ways I never imagined. It’s a miracle I’m still standing. Still alive.
“Is the coast clear?” Gavriall whispers as he pokes his head through the surface.
I refuse to answer, so Zephyra deadpans, “No. We’ve been captured and taken hostage. Save yourself.”
A snort breaks loose from my chest. Almost a chuckle. It startles me enough that my wings stiffen, then curl inward as if to gape at me.When is the last time I laughed?Have I ever laughed? Not in the tower. Not on the streets. Not when I found my father’s body or when the elders split open my stomach that very first time. Not during the torture or torment or Trials.
I stare at Zephyra. She stares back at me.
All the while, Gavriall grumbles as he clumsily hauls himself out of the sea. Water cascades down his elaborate four-piece suit, sopping wet as he peels it off. First the ebony blazer, then the gray waistcoat, then finally a white button-down shirt. His tawny body ripples with the slender muscles of someone who carries a lot of books. Smaller than mine. Weaker. But Zephyra still glances athim, her eyes still rove his torso, and I can’t help tensing. Something potent swirls dark and deadly in my chest.
“My lady.” He offers her a handsome smile and a flamboyant bow. “I should introduce myself in earnest now that you are no longer a tower prisoner. I am Gavriall Praesepultus, and it is apleasureto make your proper acquaintance.”
She tilts her head, studying him for several more seconds before responding. Although, the response she gives is, as always, the one I least expect. “I’m not your first mermaid.”
Gavriall arches a brow. “Pardon?”
“You tried to feed me in the prison. You aren’t frightened of me. You didn’t flinch away from my tail.” She flourishes a hand over her iridescent scales. “I’m not your first mermaid.”
“I believe it’s more customary to exchange names—”
“Zephyra,” she says. “Of the Syl.”
He smiles wide and flips onto the ridge of a rock as if it’s a bench in the middle of a beautiful forest—rather than a moldy grotto in the middle of a festering sea. He flicks a fish skeleton away from his leg. “No, Zephyra of the Syl, you are not my first merrow.”
“Who was?” She pulls her tail into her chest and sits up straight, suddenly enraptured. Her pink hair falls in humid waves to her lower back. I imagine brushing them away to kiss, lick, nip at her throat.Shit.
“This is blasphemous,” I say. “Merrow and humans do not fraternize. You would be hanged if we were in Mortia.”
“Lucky we aren’t in Mortia, then. Forallour sakes.” Gavriall doesn’t bother glancing in my direction, though the insult lands regardless.
I just kissed a merrow.
Worse, I can’t stop thinking about her lips. Her moans. Her body against mine.So fucking soft.
Zephyra’s eyes flick toward me, her cheeks flushed the same pink as her hair. Because she knows. Just as I know she picks at her nails to avoid thinking about the same rush of heat in her veins.
“If you would like to earn my trust, tell me,” she says to Gavriall.“No better way for me to believe you won’t murder us in our sleep if you’ve already fucked a merrow.”
My hands clench into fists. I focus on my pain, my exhaustion, the cult—anything else.
“No fucking, sadly,” Gavriall says. “But I loved him. He was… magnificent.” A soft smile crosses his boyish face. “I was walking the shoreline when he appeared. I was frightened, naturally, so I started to scream for guards. He asked me to stop in this gentle voice. Precious and fragile. Like chipped glass. So I stopped. I sat in the sand. We talked for hours.”
“On Mortia’s shore?” I can’t keep the tremor of disgust from my voice.
“Yes, Warlock Stone. On Mortia’s shore.” Gavriall rolls his eyes. “The Southlands, where there is no wall. Our separation isn’t like within the walls of Crestfall. There is a certain freedom to the sea. A certain mystery.
“He told me about his life in the waters. I told him about my life on land. The hours stretched into days. He was normal, Arion. He was just—a person. It didn’t matter that he had a tail. He collected coins from every kingdom. He hated the taste of oranges, and he wept when I told him about my rabbit dying. He held my hand. I held his.”
“What happened?” Zephyra whispers, and there it is again—another jolt of pain. The same torment hanging over her head on the isle. It seizes my heart. And I loathe myself for it, but I—I feel bad for her. Not quite pity, but not apathy either. I want to take that pain away.
It reminds me too much of my own.
