“Open up, Im.” The heavy oak muffled Agatha’s voice.
“Shit.” With Agatha, I might as well be made of glass. She’d know something awful had happened the moment she laid eyes on me. “Just a minute.”
She gave another impatient rap.
“I’m coming.” Everything ached as I moved toward the door. The raw skin on my back pulled as I reached for the bolt. At the sight of my outstretched hand, I paused. Dark brown crescents of dried blood sat beneath each nail.
Evander’s blood.
Images of last night sliced through my mind. The feel of him, the salt on his flesh, the monstrous power I’d felt at the sight of those glimmering drops of red. I couldn’t parse which was worse—that I’d nearly killed him or that I’d let him live.
I’d always known what I was. When I was growing up, there hadbeen a beckoning whisper in my mind and a pull on my body to descend and meet the sea. I’d never heeded it, fearing it would make a monster of me. For the legends of Sirens and blood were true. We were created to yearn for it. To call it—hot and rushing beneath a sailor’s skin—to us. To pull them fully beneath the spume.
Forcing a fist, I finally slid the bolt and opened the door. My voice scraped. “Morning.”
Agatha rushed straight for my dressing room, not sparing me a glance. I locked the door behind her. “The ritual starts soon,” she said. “Let’s get you dressed.”
I’d been so consumed with worry over Evander that I’d forgotten all about King Nemea’s blasphemous ritual. For nearly three decades now, he had refused to worship the Great Goddess Ligea—the queen of Sirens. He claimed Sirens were vicious and pitiless as the sea, that they took joy in destruction, and over time he’d stopped honoring the Great Gods altogether. He made blood offerings to his water deity, Eusia, instead.
I wasn’t even convinced Eusia was real, as the histories I’d read were bereft of her name. Yet Nemea was devout, gathering his court for an offering before making weighty decisions, before fishing seasons, before name days. And before weddings too, so the betrothed could ask for her blessings. I’d been forced to give my blood since I was small. Denying Nemea and his deity an offering meant death.
“The tailor brought the wedding gown,” I called to Agatha. “Nemea asked that I wear it for the ritual.”
My body dragged as I forced my way to the basin to scrub my fingertips. The brush’s stiff bristles were sharp against my nail beds, and a shiver fell down my sore backbone.
“Imogen, I thought we might talk,” Agatha called from the dressing room. “Last night, I was able to speak with King Theodore—”She came in, brow buckled with thought, a clean chemise and the wedding gown of black lace carefully slung across her arms. She froze when she finally looked at me. Those big eyes of hers flared with worry, with the fierce, sisterly look she always armored herself with when I was hurt. “Tell me what’s happened.”
Suddenly, I was a girl again. Thirteen, slipping into a salt bath that a new maid had drawn me, forgetting that she should have forgone the salt. A sharp pulsing had filled my chest at the feel of it. My body had begun to ache. Agatha had pulled me out the moment I’d called for her. She’d had that same look in her eye then as she did now. She’d wrapped me in a towel, hurriedly drying the brine from my skin. “I’m like you, Immy,” she’d whispered. “A Siren away from the sea. Salt water only makes the longing worse. Keep away from it.”
Agatha had kept me safe. I was not so alone with her as my confidant. And so, I’d shoved the ugly, rearing head that was my true self below the surface. And last night, blinded by my unabashed desire, I’d hauled her back up. I’d let her gulp the air.
“Imogen?” Agatha’s gaze darted over my disheveled body. My dark waves were knotted with hairpins, my chemise was wrinkled and hanging askew. A light smear of blood marred my hip. “Imogen.”
My throat clamped. I threw my arms around her neck, crushing the dress she held between us.
“Oh Gods,” Agatha wheezed. She returned my embrace, hands pressing over my spine—over the open wounds left from my wings. I gasped at the pain. When she pulled away, her hands were red with fresh blood. Sudden understanding widened her dark eyes. “How?” She spoke in a rush. “We have to leave right now. We need to get down the mountain—”
A languid knock sounded at my door. My head snapped towardthe sound, hackles rising. “Imogen.” Evander’s taunting voice called through the wood.
Who is that?Agatha mouthed.
I gestured frantically for her to shut herself away.
“Open up, Imogen.” A loudthump.“Or I’ll open it myself.”
“Agatha,” I whispered, “go into my dressing room. Lock the door. Do not come out, no matter what you hear.”
She straightened her spine, defiant. “What—absolutely not!”
“Shhh.Do it.Please.” I hurried to the chair I’d spent the night in and retrieved my discarded dagger. “Now,Agatha. I could never forgive myself if you were hurt. Go. Do not come out.”
Finally, she rushed toward my dressing room.
Once the lock clicked, I raced to the chamber door. The bolt scraped. The hinges wailed as I opened it.
Evander stood, tall and imposing, wearing the black coat and trousers he was meant to have worn last night. His hand rested on the leather-wrapped hilt of the sword at his hip. Bright amber eyes slithered down my body. They creased with an unafraid smile when he saw my dagger. “You’re not ready yet.”
I took a step back, heart hammering. “What do you want?”
