Withthedarknesscomessilence.
Nightglass moves through the crew, handing out candle wax, and each man presses it into his ears with rough fingers. No one speaks. No one looks at me. I cannot tell whether they are still processing what I did to Rat or whether the threat ahead of us has pushed everything else aside.
I feel them before I see them.
The magic in the water carries a familiar pull, close enough to my own that my chest tightens in recognition. Slowly, Istep toward the railing and lean over it, careful not to tip too far forward. The surface below stirs, then smooths again in an instant, as if nothing had ever disturbed it.
A hum rises in the distance, faint and ancient, carried just above the water. I hold my breath as it stretches into a song. At first, there is only one voice, then another joins, then another and another, until there are too many to count. They weave together until the sound fills the air around the ship, encircling us with the dangerous song. I scan the deck for any signs that this is affecting the crew. That the wax hasn’t worked as they’d intended.
The pirates stand in place. Some sway gently with the movement of the Noctis, caught somewhere between awareness and trance. Others hold themselves rigid, jaws clenched, fists curled at their sides, the wax in their ears the only thing keeping them upright. As a siren, their song does not affect me, but it sure does affect them.
“Go inside,” I shout, my voice echoing across the deck. I don’t know if they can hear me over the singing or through the wax, but it’s all I can do.
They hesitate, then begin to move, hauling the affected men below the quarterdeck and into the cabins. I release a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding as the deck slowly clears. Only Grim remains at the helm, his eyes fixed on the dark water ahead.
Even with their ears sealed, resisting the song cannot be easy. I see it in him, the way his focus slips and returns, as though he’s fighting for something just beyond his reach. Grasping for his consciousness to remain with him. Behind him, a dark figure stands with his arms behind his back. He places one hand on Grim’s shoulder, as if reassuring him. Grim flinches at his touch, but doesn’t turn around. His pitch-black eyes find mine, and I recognize him as my ghost.
I give him a small nod, and he returns it without a word.
The water stirs again, closer this time. I lean over the railing once more and glare into the dark.
Be brave.
My mother’s voice surfaces like a memory pulled from the deep water of my mind. I straighten my spine. I am not afraid of my own kind, and I will not let them tear this ship apart.
“There’s a child on this ship,” I shout into the void, anger pooling hot in my chest. I know they can hear me. “Retreat. Let us pass.”
The singing falters, cutting off so abruptly that my pulse spikes. For a brief moment, I think they might actually let us pass. But the song surges back, louder than before. Stronger. My fingers curl into my palms as I draw in a slow breath through my nose and force myself to stay steady.
Bang.
The hatch bursts open behind me and slams against the deck. Someone stumbles up the steps and collapses onto the boards, gasping, palms splayed against the wood.
He looks up.
“Lark,” I whisper, already moving toward him. He doesn’t have even the glimmer of a chance against the song of the dark water sirens. They’re too powerful. Too compelling.
His eyes dart wildly, skimming over the lanterns as though they find no focus. His breathing comes too fast, catching in his throat as he tries to breathe, tears streaking down his face. When he finally manages to pull in a full breath, it breaks apart into a sob.
He is terrified.
I drop to my knees and pull him against my chest, wrapping my arms around his shaking body.
“Shh,” I say, brushing my fingers through his hair. “It’s okay. I’m here.”
I glance toward the open hatch and then toward the quarterdeck. Nightglass hasn’t followed him up, which is unsettling given the fact that he is usually so protective of his son.
“Nothing’s okay,” Lark gasps, clutching at the fabric of my gown. His words cause tears of my own too. In this moment, I understand why they fear us. Why the Pirates see my kind as a sort of enemy. The sirens do not show mercy. They do not relent.
“I feel wrong,” he whispers. “Something’s wrong.”
Without letting go of him, I check his ears. There’s wax in his ears, properly sealed. Thank the seas, I dread to think how badly he’d be affected without it. Carefully, I guide him toward the nearest barrel and sit beside him. A lantern rests on top, casting a small circle of light that barely pushes back the darkness pressing in around us.
“You’re safe,” I tell him quietly, though I am not sure if he can even hear what I say. I stroke a thumb across his cheek, offering him a weak smile in the hopes that it convinces him that all will be well.
His brows crease together as he nods faintly, but his eyes keep drifting past me, toward the edges of the light. Each time the lantern sways, his shoulders tense again.
That’s when I notice.
