Page 72 of Stealing the Merman

Darin felt himself turn green. “What. Did. You. Do?” Pure horror crept through him, but he had to know. Conall’s behavior hadn’t made sense—not until now. Anne’s smile was so genuine, he wanted to bury his fist in it until she had no more teeth. She relished telling him and Finn. That’s why she was talking to them. Her eyes took in their every move, hungry for their dread and terror. Darin was playing into her hands. She enjoyed this, but he needed the truth, for the truth was the key to Conall’s heart.

“We were in the Bahamas. You know the sandbanks that peel out of the sea when the tide is low, disappearing when it comes back in? I found him one of those. There were no larger islands in swimming distance, and the sandbank was out of the way of common trading routes. It was perfect. It took half a dozen men to restrain Conall once he realized what my plans for him were. He fought like a caged lion. They beat him. He resisted. The fight drained so much strength from him, it was a shame because I wanted him to have all his vigor for what I had in mind for him. He was sweating and panting when my men—formerly his crew—held his beaten body upright.

“‘Give me a pistol,’ he’d said.

“‘A pistol? I don’t think so,’ I told him.

“Conall had seen the sandbank and knew it was low tide. It would flood in a matter of hours, and he wouldn’t drown the first time the ocean seized it, he was too strong for that. ‘I need a pistol,’ he said. ‘One shot. I’m not going to shoot you. Your men are all around you. Heck, for all I care, throw me a pistol when I’m on the island. Don’t do this, Anne. I loved you.’

“What a pathetic man. Had he thought I loved him too? He must’ve. It amuses me to this day. I told himno, there’d be no pistol for him. He fell to his knees and begged. Begged me to shoot him if I didn’t want to give him a weapon to end his own life. But where was the fun in that?

“We left him on a sandbank not half the size of this room and sailed away. Too bad I never got to see his struggle, his agony. But I pictured it. How he must’ve sat in the sand with his head between his knees, despair thrumming through him while the unforgiving sun burned his back. I had the men rip off his shirt so his skin would turn red after hours of exposure and then blister. The back and neck get tight and hot, and then the pain sets in. No shade on a sandbank. The heat that day was unforgiving, it must’ve induced a throbbing headache.

“And then the tide would’ve closed in, swallowing the sandbank inch by inch until the sea ate it all. Conall would’ve stood on it, feet in the water. But not for long. The high tide would’ve forced him to swim. Easy enough for an hour or two. But five? Six? The body gets tired, the muscles weaken. Your fingertips wrinkle, your legs cramp, your neck hurts, your muscles lock. Perhaps, after a few hours, Conall wanted to give up, dive down and drown himself to escape the pain, but the human body wants to survive. I imagine how after a minute underwater his body panicked, and no matter how strong his will was, survival instinct drove him to the surface. The breath he took prolonged his suffering by hours.

“Then the tide went back out, leaving Conall exhausted and dying of thirst. I picture him lying flat in the sand, grateful for the rest but hating it too because it gave his body time to rebuild its strength, though not fully. Enough to suffer through another high tide. How many of those did it take until he started drowning? When were his muscles so weak that he could no longer move them, and he slipped underwater, breathing in seawater that burned his lungs? That would’ve given him the strength to shoot back up to the surface, cough and spit and breathe until his muscles failed again, his body dragging him under. Then, when he thought it was the end, the tide would go out, giving him a few hours of rest before the water returned.

“Sun and thirst were slowly killing him while the sea wasn’t. His head would’ve hurt like a horse had kicked it, his tongue growing heavy, his mouth dry. Did he lie on the sandbank sleeping, the tide washing over him as it rushed back in?”

“There was never a shipwreck,” Finn said, choking on tears. “He said he was shipwrecked. He told me not to look for survivors because there were none.”

Finn’s pain made her beam with satisfaction. Anne wanted to see their agony as she stabbed their souls and twisted the knife. Darin kept his expression as stoic as possible, not letting her feed on the cold misery her words caused. She’d set out to torture Conall to death, the forces of nature her indifferent accomplices.

And she’d been his lover. Of course Conall was distrustful and withdrew when Darin and Finn got too close to his heart and spoke of a future together. He feared love more than anything else because love had caused him a torment nobody should have to suffer through. He’d never told them what happened because it’d be too painful. Recounting the experience meant reliving it, and that was anguish.

Finn had saved him. Not from shipwreck, but from the agonizing death this mad woman had planned for him. It made Conall trust Finn, perhaps more than Darin, who on the surface shared many of Anne’s features, features that Conall was attracted to, but that attraction had almost killed him. It had cost him part of his soul.

“What did you do!” Darin bit out. Blood rushed in his ears.

A pained roar came from the hallway. “You!”

Darin whipped around. Conall was standing in the door, a white-knuckled grip on the frame as if he tried to strangle it, chest heaving. Terror widened his eyes. He looked deranged, like a wild animal deciding whether to fight or flee.

“You’re in league with her?” Conall barked, looking from Darin to Finn and back.

“What? No—”

“If I see any of you again,” Conall said through gritted teeth, pain and anger burning in his eyes, “I will kill you with my bare hands.”

Of course Conall thought Darin and Finn were with Anne. Why else would they be standing in this parlor, talking? From Conall’s point of view, it made sense. After what he’d lived through, it was a reasonable assumption, no matter how much it hurt Darin.

“Conall, I—” Darin said, but he’d turned and was storming away. Abandonment sliced through Darin. He knew why Conall acted this way, but that didn’t make it less painful. The three of them had been the closest thing to a family he’d ever experienced. They’d been building more than a tavern in the south of Vieques. It could’ve been home.

“I’ll go after him,” Finn said and pushed past Darin, who hauled him back when Anne pulled her swords from their sheaths, blocking the exit.

“Uh-uh-uh,” she said, light gliding over her razor-sharp blades. “How about I chop your heads off and send them to him? He’ll think I fell out with you too. But deep down he cares about you, and he will spill hot tears over your deaths.”

Darin drew his pistols faster than lightning, aiming at Anne.

“Oh, you’re going to shoot me? I can smell the rum on your breath from here. You’re a boy, and you haven’t shot anyone in your life.”

“Wrong. I’m a pirate.” And he had shot a man during the failed raid with Conall north of Eleuthera. It wasn’t something he was proud of, but he’d shot the man because his sword had gotten uncomfortably close to Conall’s skin.

“You’re a drunk pirate at best.”

“And you’re less than three yards away. How drunk do I have to be to miss?” Yes, he reeked of alcohol, but how much of it was what other pirates had spilled on him throughout the night? He’d emptied the pockets of captains playing cards in this state. His body was used to liquor.

Anne didn’t care and moved forward. “This is the Brethren of the Coast gathering. Do you really want to shoot a captain?” She nodded toward the small crowd that had gathered downstairs in the drinking hall, staring up at the first-floor parlor to see what was happening. “You’ll end up rotting in the dungeon.”

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