Page 9 of The Savage Queen

Aisling swallowed, pointing at the marble statues. “These were once mortal men?”

Annind nodded his head, refusing to meet her eyes.

“What could do this?” Aisling pressed.

“Murúch.” One of the crewmates moved to stand on the other side of Aisling. His doublet torn at the fringes, his tunic stained in sweat and salt. Skin as dark and rich as autumn’s last leaves, he was perhaps only a few years Starn’s senior. A ruthless sort of beauty.

“Unseelie donning the guise of beautiful maidens where the ocean falls most silent,” he continued.

Aisling turned to find the crewmate watching her. Eyes of brilliant amber, lined in coal and reflecting the gold star nailed to his left ear. He unlatched a crossbow from his back, readying it with an iron-dipped quarrel.

Aisling was familiar with this crewmate, often watching him ready the sails before they left, studying the map at odd hours, hushed conversations with Dagfin below deck, and overseeing the crew when they went about their hourly duties.

“Aisling, this is Killian.” Annind introduced them, eyes still locked on the statues glaring back and voice brittle with anticipation.

Killian smiled, offering Aisling his free hand.

Aisling considered his calloused fingers but ignored the gesture. There was something Aisling recognized in the curve of his expression and the glint in his eyes. Something hungry.Something predatory. The chains of iron beads and teeth wrapped around his throat, the knotted tattoos across his chest, visible only by the unlacing of his blouse. The iron belt chains, the iron rings. Something Aisling found she despised.

“You should make an effort to be more friendly, faerie.” Killian’s smile widened, at last lowering his hand. “Perhaps the others wouldn’t deem you an ill omen for sailing.” He propped his crossbow at the ready, glaring through its sight.

Faerie. Danu had prophesied humankind would refer to the Sidhe this way eventually. Yet Aisling hadn’t anticipated that fate would unravel so swiftly.

“You’d be wise to follow their example and keep your distance,” Aisling replied.

“You’ll find you prefer it when I’m near, faerie. Especially with signs of potential murúch close by.”

“Shh,” Annind warned them, but they continued their conversation. The rest of the crew drew their cutlasses and daggers and readied the cannons.

“I quite like these murúch,” Aisling said. “They seem to prey upon the weaknesses of man, of which there are many.” Aisling’s eyes flicked to the surrounding statues—all of which were male.

He laughed at that. “No one knows anything about the murúch, much less lived to tell the tale of experiencing one.”

Aisling opened her mouth to bite back but was stopped short. Her stomach catapulted into her throat. Realization dawning.

Aisling spun on her heel, taking in the sight of the crew eyeing the crags, the marble statues, and the all-too-still waters with lethal poise. Trained seafarers, either fond of sailor songs or having seen enough demons themselves to never turn their back on a silent sea nor ignore the strange. Sailors, among those few mortals, who understood the differences between Sidhe and Unseelie best.

Starn and Dagfin stood at the helm, exchanging glances with Fergus and Iarbonel positioned below the mainmast. Their muscles taut, their hands shifting to their weapons, their foreheads dappled in sweat.

Dagfin, at last, fixed his eyes on Aisling’s own.

Men. All of them. All save for Aisling.

A song rose from the currents, as soft and sweet as a drowning. It grew louder, a woman’s voice humming, then crooning a dreadful curse into the salt-ridden air. The melody, one of loneliness and shipwrecks. Of lungs filled with water and a mother’s, a lover’s, a goddess’s honeyed lullaby.

Aisling recognized the sound, its allure less potent the first time she had heard it, a meager whisper compared to the choir that thickened the air with a smell Aisling now recognized.

Lust.

At the fifth note, Dagfin shifted his attention from Aisling. An enchantment taking root.

“No,” Aisling breathed.

The Roktan prince searched for the source of the music, every step nearing the boat’s edge. Weapons lowering, cannons left unmanned, shoulders slackening, as the melody rippled from one crewmate to the next. Killian’s crossbow tapped his knees, lips parting as though drained of conscious thought. Only a man’s desire left behind.

“By the Forge,” Aisling cursed.

Once the murúch had sung that first note, it was already too late.

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