I reach for my dagger, my hands shaking. I get it free, then try to wedge the blade into the lock. It doesn’t fit. I bash at the chain, at the shackle, but the metal just dents under the blade’s onslaught.
I look around for something else like another weapon, a rock, anything. I see a fork in the trash pile, and try to use it to pick the lock, but it just bends and snaps. I grab a chipped cup and smash it, then try to saw at the chain with the broken edge, but it doesn’t even scratch the surface.
I try everything, but nothing works.
After a while, I sit on the floor, clutching the ball, and try to breathe. At least I can do that.
I count my breaths. I focus on the pain in my ankle, on the burn in my lungs, on the cold that never goes away. I refuse to let myself think about the surface, or about the others. I just count.
Then I hear a sound outside the door.
He’s back.
I stand, dagger in my hand, and get ready to fight. But my hands are shaking. And he already knows I’m slow. A human in the kingdom of water.
Except, this time, he doesn’t come back alone.
The shape that drifts into the room after him is even uglier than the merman, if that’s possible. It’s smaller, lumpy, with a head like a melon and a pair of eyes that flick back and forth, never once stopping on me. The first merman gives it a push, and it floats to the corner, curling up on a pile of what looks like seaweed but probably isn’t. It groans, a wet, slobbering sound, then starts chewing on its own hand.
The merman regards me, all his eyes blinking in turn. He has a necklace on now, several, actually, hung with rings, an old key, and what might be a shriveled human finger. But it’s the key that draws my attention.Does it go in the lock around my ankle?It’s fat and brass, which he fingers every few seconds, letting it rest on his chest where I can see it.
“You clean,” he says, and when I just stare at him, he bares his teeth.
He points at the floor, then the table, then the walls. “Make nice. Or else.”
He floats over to me, never moving his tail, just drifting like a dead thing. I get the dagger ready, hiding it behind my thigh, and as soon as he’s close enough, I slash at his face.
He leans back, laughing, and the blade cuts only water. “Slow,” he says again, and then he grabs my wrist and squeezes until I drop the dagger. He kicks the weapon away, and it spins through the room, embedding in a far wall.
He strikes me, and I go down hard, smacking my chin on the edge of the table. There’s blood, red and blooming in the water, and for a second I think he’ll be excited by it, maybe even hungry. Instead, he just watches the blood with bored interest, then spits on the wound.
It stings, but the bleeding stops.
He holds up the chain and wiggles it. “You stay. You work. I go now.”
He drifts to the door, then turns, eyes on me.
“If you good,” he says, “I feed you.” Then he leaves, and the door thuds shut behind him.
The little monster in the corner giggles, a high, stuttering whine, and gnaws a bone clean.
I crawl toward the far wall, but the ball doesn’t quite let me reach the dagger. Nowhere near it in fact.Damn it. How am I supposed to reach my only weapon?
I’m trapped.
It’s hard to fight the urge to scream, but if I open my mouth, the only one who’ll hear it is the idiot in the corner, and he’s too busy drooling on himself. So, I look around the room, hoping for something, anything, I can use to get my dagger back or free myself from the ball and chain.
The sand on the floor hides dozens of rocks and pebbles. I grab a big one and slam it down on the shackle. The sound echoes in the room, a dull, dead thud. The lock doesn’t even dent.
I try to remember everything my father ever said about locks, about chains, about escape. He used to tell me the only way out of a trap was through the mind of the one who set it. But there’s nothing in this room that suggests the merman even has a mind. He’s all hunger and orders, all cruel joy in making me small.
The thing in the corner shuffles closer, eyes flickering. It watches me for a while, then scuttles away. Which is oh so comforting, especially being almost naked. I sit, panting. If I could sweat down here, I would be soaked. My heart beats out a rhythm that sounds in my ears.
I try to brace my feet on the wall and pull the chain as hard as I can, hoping the bolt will come loose. All it does is rip a layer of skin from my ankle, and the pain brings tears to my eyes.
It’s useless.
Collapsing next to the table, my cheek pressed to the sand, I watch the blood swirl from my ankle, curling up into the water until it disappears.Maybe I could wait him out. Maybe I could pretend to play along, make the place spotless, and when he lets his guard down?—
