I kick with my legs, blinded by pure rage, and connect with something solid. A grunt follows, and as I glance back, one of them is holding a hand clasped over his throat.
Good. I hit him hard.
I take the opportunity to bolt as shouts erupt behind me.
“Cut her off!”
The planks are slick beneath my feet, but it does nothing to slow me down. I nearly crash into a stack of lobster creels as another man emerges from the left, forcing me to run back towards the docks. The waves crash against the posts beneath as if urging me on, the voice of the sea no longer mocking, but insisting. I run faster, lungs burning, down the narrow path that leads towards the anchored ships, and when I pass another stack of barrels—I see it.
At the far edge of the harbor, where the docks meet the deeper water, a ship looms. The sound of the net being shaken opensnaps through the rain behind me, and I do not turn to look. I am already moving, my feet carrying me towards it, like sand dragged back by the undertow.
There is nowhere else to go.
The ship is huge and black, her hull a wall that drinks in the lantern light and gives nothing back. Torn sails hang from the yards like wet banners, the ladder drawn high out of reach. There are no nets drying, no baskets, no tidy piles of catch. It must be here for repair and not occupied. I do not know what kind of ship she is, only that she does not belong to hunters, and that is as safe as it gets for me.
The vessel is secured by several heavy mooring lines, stretching from the harbor to the ship‘s hull. I squint my eyes at the rope that hangs the lowest. I only have a few moments to estimate if it is thick enough to hold me.
Boots drum behind, coming closer. My time is up. I wrap my arms and legs around it and start to haul myself forward. I’m used to going where I shouldn’t, scaling walls for a safe sleep or a quick exit after stealing food. Shells and stones stick to the thick line, scraping my arms and legs, yet I can’t afford to care, and continue moving.
But the storm has grown teeth. The waves swing the ship on her ropes, making the line lift and drop. My fingers slip half an inch before I clamp down again, stopping myself from falling. My muscles scream in protest as I hook my ankle around the line and pull myself back onto it. Beneath me, open water never looked more perilous.
“Shake the line!” Grimsbane roars, and the line shudders. They‘ve grabbed it from the dockside, and now heave it from side to side, in an attempt to shake me off. I wrap both legs tighter around the rope, forcing my forearms to hold. Rain pools in my vision as I look up, where the railing comes closer.
“By the seas, cut it!” someone shouts. "It cannot be that hard!”
The vibration of the blade working against the rope makes me climb faster. Fibers snap one by one beneath me, until—
The line drops. I hold on for dear life as my body slams against the side of the hull, and for one sickening moment, it feels as though I am falling. The impact knocks the air from my lungs. The rope dangles uselessly now, no longer secured, swaying with the movement of the ship.
I almost reached the railing. I force one hand from the line and grope upward, until my fingers catch the edge of the rail. My arms tremble as I haul myself upward, until the railing digs into my stomach.
I draw myself up and over and fold to the deck, cheek to wet wood, my heartbeat thumping madly in my chest, my ears, my throat.
I’m finally out of their reach.
Chapter Two
Iamonthemaindeck of the ship. Barrels and buckets are scattered across the slick boards, and coils of thick rope lie piled beside the mast. It is mostly dark up here, only a few lanterns glow from the cabins beneath the quarterdeck, their light spilling through small fogged-up windows. Even that light does not travel far, most of the deck lies swallowed by shadow. I remember being on my father’s ship when I was little, though I never got to spend a lot of time with him and the crew– my mother didn't trust the other pirates around me.
I push my weight up by my palms, wincing as the ache in my arms reminds me of the climb. As my eyes adjust, the shapes along the bulwark, the wooden barrier lining the deck, sharpen. Dark iron mouths stare back at me from the gunports. Canons. A soft gasp slips from my lips as realization settles in. I only know two kinds of ships that carry cannons, those from the Royal Navy…and pirates. I pray for the first. Humans fear sirens, but pirates hate us to death. Honestly, the feeling is mutual. Besides my father and parts of his crew, every pirate I have ever encountered has been cruel. Lifting my gaze to the mast, I search for the royal colors, red and blue, but the rigging disappears into the dark. And where’s the guard? The Royal Navy would never leave a ship at dock without a watch. My stomach tightens, a creeping unease settling in, though I force the thought away.
Through the thunder that continues to roll through the night, the angry voices of the Rats drift up from the docks below. The storm swallows the clarity of their words, but I can tell from the sheer volume that they are arguing. If my past run-ins with the Rats have taught me anything, it is that they will not give up easily. Their kind never does. Once they have caught a scent, they hound it to the very end, no matter the cost. No, staying aboard this ship is the only chance at survival, especially seeing as they’ve probably already sent for nets for my capture. I must remain hidden, even just until the morning. I can jump off the ship in the morning and swim to the shore.
The wind makes the mast creak just as laughter bursts across the deck. A palm slaps against wood, followed by the muffled scrape of a chair. Then the cabin door swings open. A young lad stumbles out with a grunt, rubbing his eyes as he steps onto the deck.
“Lad, cast off the shore lines! And wake the watch!” a voice calls from inside.
The door swings closed again with a dull thud, leaving only the wind and the restless groan of the ship. I press myself lower and hold my breath as if stillness could fold me into the shadows. The boy stands perhaps fifty feet away. With an exasperated sigh, he strides toward the nearest mooring line and begins to work the knot loose, glancing downwards to the dark water below. He is casting off the line. Are they leaving? In this wretched storm? Surely they are not this suicidal. If they truly make for departure, I lose the last path back to the shore. There will be no escaping in the morning once we have reached deeper waters.
The boy's eyes lift to me. His hand stills, the rope goes slack, and his mouth falls slightly agape. For a moment, we just stare at each other, chests heaving and eyes wide, neither of us knowing exactly what to do. I must look feral in my white, ripped gown and scale-sprinkled skin. I swallow and go through my options, but deep down, I know I‘m screwed. If he calls for help, I am dragged back to the harbor, or worse. If I jump, I‘ll fall into the hunter’s hands. Only one choice offers any chance of survival at all.
I must use my song. Or whatever broken piece of it I can master.
He draws breath to shout. I, too, draw breath and let a sound rise. It is not a full song, only a hum. A quiet, gentle release of a melody. That is all I am capable of. It curls around my tongue, soft enough to not affect the men below, but clear enough to compel the boy in front of me. I loosen a single thread of it, enough to tug at, but not enough to drive him to drowning. It is bitter on my tongue, a sharp reminder that the magic I am using comes at a cost.
I rise and carry the hum with me as I cross the deck, the water still dripping from my gown, tracing my calves before falling away in a thin line. Confusion tightens his face, then fear. Helooks way younger up close. A cabin boy, if I have to guess, maybe around twelve years old. I stop a step away and wait until his pupils widen and the stiffness leaves his jaw. The line in his hand drops and swings between us.
“Be not afraid,” I whisper, keeping the hum steady in my throat. “I do not want to hurt you.” His gaze drifts down my torn gown and back up again, before leaning toward me, as if the tide is pulling at his weight.
