Page 21 of Crown of Serpents

“The likes of us? What is it exactly that you hate about us? Is it our mortality?”

Medusa almost laughed. He thought she despised their mortality — as if she hadn’t shared their fragile flesh and beating hearts for sixteen years, as if her own blood didn’t run red. If not for that vulnerability, he wouldn't have captured her at all.

The man clicked his tongue impatiently at her silence. “What will it take for you to answer my questions?”

What was his game? What answers did he seek?

“I’m not in the habit of making small talk with my captors,” Medusa hissed. “Though your crew must be terribly dull if you need a prisoner for entertainment.”

The man practically growled back, “I am not trying to make polite conversation with you. I am interrogating you!”

He seemed to have a temper, Medusa noted as a wicked grin spread across her lips. Maybe resisting his sorry attempt at an interrogation could be fun.

“Besides, why bother with questions now when you were meant to kill me in my sleep?”

“Because unlike you,” he barked, “I don’t simply kill for sport, spite, or hatred, or whatever it is that makes you hunt down all those innocent sailors bound for Cisthene.”

“I can assure you that I have never murdered an innocent man.”

It was the truth. She only shed the blood of those who sought to harm her, or other women, or those who sailed underhisbanner, sent to destroy her. It made her a hunter, a warrior, a monster perhaps — but never a senseless killer. She revelled in the terror she instilled, but her bloodlust always had a purpose.

Still, the words tasted sour as the image of the barmaid’s lifeless eyes flashed before her. Medusa may not have killed an innocent man, but she had killed an innocent girl.

The poorly stitched wound in her abdomen throbbed in phantom pain, a reminder of that cursed night.

Her captor spoke again, “Then, why do you kill? What didthose men do to deserve such a fate?”

She forced her face into an impassive mask, sensing his eyes upon her. He would never understand. No man would. Not when they were raised to believe that women were their property — mere objects to be owned and used at their whim. She would not justify the urge to slit the throat of those who lifted a woman’s skirt against her will.

“Do you need to hunt to survive? Are we what you eat?”

Medusa ignored him, her fingers working at the shackles. There had to be a way to open them. Did he have the key? Would he be reckless enough to bring it to her cell? Maybe she could lure him close, trip him, knock him unconscious, and search his pockets. Even if he had not brought the key, the thought of him sprawled on the floor beneath her was intoxicating. She would relish her revenge, digging her nails into his chest and tearing his heart out. Her snakes hissed in anticipation, eager to taste his blood.

“Were you born a monster, or did you choose to become this way?”

Bored with his questions, she cocked her head and inhaled deeply, a predator scenting its prey. Medusa flashed her sharp teeth at him. It was a shame she couldn’t see his reaction — disgust, perhaps? Fear?

Unfortunately, his voice remained steady, “Were you cursed?”

A flash of memory: unforgiving grey eyes, a face carved from marble—Athena, her goddess devoid of empathy. A blinding silver light, then searing pain. Medusa snapped back to the present, realising her expression had betrayed her.

“That’s a yes then.”

Medusa dug her nails into her palms.

“Can it be undone?”

“I don’t think the goddess who did this would ever let that happen,” she said in a clipped tone, her years at the goddess’s temple resurfacing. She swallowed hard.

“Why? Was this curse a punishment for something you did?”

Of course, he would assume she had done something wrong to incur the gods’ wrath. Mortals were so naive, believing in thegods' fairness and justice. Blind fools. Medusa had never harboured such illusions. Even while serving in Athena’s temple, knew the gods were capricious, acting on whim and power, not some moral code. But she bit her tongue. One never knew which deity might be listening, and there were fates worse than death at the hands of mortals. The Olympians, with their infinite cruelty, could devise tortures beyond human comprehension. She would never become their plaything again.

The man sighed, “Look, I don’t want to kill you, but my crew risked their lives to bring you to justice. I have someone whose life depends on bringing your head back home, so I will need you to give me a reason why I should let you live … something that I can tell my men to explain why we cannot claim the bounty on your head yet.”

Medusa scoffed at his self-righteousness. “Do what you must, but I won’t grovel for my life! Nor will I confess to crimes I haven’t committed so you can feel better about slaying the monster you believe me to be.”

“So, you are saying that you are not a monster?”

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