Page 1 of Hooking Captain Teeth

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Sabrina, 1720 AD

“Why must you judge me for picking up random men at the tavern? I don’t judge you for seducing the pastor at the orphanage, and don’t roll your eyes as if your attraction isn’t obvious! You would trade your tentacles for him in a heartbeat,” I scold my big sister, Bettina. We reach the front of Maude’s dirty tavern not a moment too soon. My prim sister’s diatribe churns my stomach—not with guilt—but with annoyance. I have no reason to feel guilty.

What I choose to do with my one night a month as a human is my business.

“You could spend your time doing something good for the species we mimic. The joy I receive from those children’s smiling faces—”

“Iget the same amount of smiles. I promise,” I say with a wink that twists Bettina’s face into a scowl. “By the time I lower my skirts back into place, every man I encounter is smiling.”

“Sabrina, how could you! You’ve ruined yourself for your fated mate,” she snaps.

My eyes roll so far, I can see the back of my red hair. I thrust the bundle of fish I carried for her onto her shoulder. After she drops me off at Maude’s tavern, she will continue to the cathedral in the island’s center. The kids will be thrilled to roast fish over an open fire as she tells them stories of our undersea adventures. I’ve watched her flirt shamelessly with a man of the cloth without guilt. Why should I feel guilty because my idea of fun is more… raucous…bawdy…lively?

Her face is red with frustration and embarrassment on my behalf. The wishy-washy pastor has brainwashed her. She should remember that we can’t conceive a baby without the soulbond to make us human or our mate into a Kraken. Should I inform her that once the full moon lowers and we change back into Kraken, we shed all human ailments—including the Bube and pox? Probably not. Admitting I have contracted and shed such ailments would dig me deeper into her hole of disrepute. There is no harm in what I choose to do with my time…or what she chooses…except when she tries to choose forme.

“I’m having fun! As for my fated mate… If I find him at Maude’s, he’s as unscrupulous as me. Otherwise, he will never know what I’ve been up to. Dancing on tables is fun. Drinking rum and flirting with the men who buy it for me until I’m three sheets to the wind—is fun. And guess what? Sex is fun too.”

“Sabrina, you’ve grown into a horrible wench!”

“Not horrible, I’m good at it,” I say with a flip of my waist-length hair over my shoulder. She presses her lips together until they are white, like the lacy collar under her chin. “I’ll meet you under the pier in the morning to stash our clothes. Have fun sleeping alone on a straw mattress in the drafty chapel.”

Shedding my prissy sister like an itchy coating of sand, I press through the swinging half-doors of Maude’s. The smoky interior smells of cigars, spoiled ale, coconut rum, and unwashed sailors. Breathing a healthy dose into my lungs, I make my way to the bar. My hips swing with feminine sensuality as I weave between the long wooden tables and askew benches. I scan each seat for my intended targets. One to buy my drinks, one to pay for my room, and one to tip Maude so she doesn’t get on me for taking customers from her working girls. At least three men will treat me tonight…make that five. My sister has soured my mood, so I’ll need twice the drinks to loosen up.

“The usual, Sabrina?” asks Jamal, who tends the portion of the bar closest to the door.

“Not yet,” I say with a laugh. “I haven’t found the man who will tend to me tonight.”

“Put her on my tab,” says a dark-haired man with a scar running from his eyebrow to his chin. He throws back his shot of rum when I give him a demure nod of gratitude, lowering my lashes over my bright, sea-green eyes.

Jamal’s an easy-going landlubber and would probably fit Bettina’s definition of someone appropriate for me—even if his reliable job is at Maude’s. He never drinks while behind the bar, stands up for strumpets whose clients can’t understand ‘no’ or ‘not now,’ and always wears a smile. His smile—and my strict don’t-bugger-your-friends policy— is the reason I’ve never taken him to bed.

I don’t touch rot. Blackened teeth, matted hair, gangrenous limbs, and yellowed fingernails are deal breakers. I won’t allow a man with rot to touch me—not even to help me off the tabletop after I dance over him. With Jamal’s poor dental hygiene, it’s a miracle I accept drinks from him.

Lucky for me, the scarred man who offered tobuy my night’s drinks is moderately clean. He drops off his stool to hobble my way with his peg leg clapping the wooden floor louder than Maude’s off-tune piano. Missing a leg doesn’t mean he has rot…quite the opposite in my experience. If he has access to a competent ship’s doctor to perform such an operation, I expect he also has access to soap. This man’s growing in my favor and could be my bedfellow for the night.

“Tonight’s not the night for a delicate flower to swindle drinks from pirates,” he whispers in my ear. His breath is thick with alcohol and coconut milk. It fans over my bare shoulder and exposed cleavage. I feel my nipples harden at the first attention I’ve received in a lunar cycle.

“What if this flower isn’t so delicate?” I ask with a flutter of my eyelashes. He’s missing a few teeth, replaced with metal crowns. Otherwise, they’re as clean as his slightly yellow fingernails.

Truth be told, I could snap this guy in half with one of my tentacles. Who’s he calling a flower? I’d drag him to the bottom of the ocean and drown him before he knew what had happened.

“My ship’s been in this harbor for two weeks, and I’ve dipped my stick in every well under this roof twice…except yours. You aren’t one of Maude’s regular girls. I doubt you are even a working girl. I betDaddyis in some hacienda wondering where his little princess ran to,” he says before sucking on my earlobe.

I shiver at how much I like a man to play with my ears. Too bad his sexist comments smell of rot and drop him down a notch on my list.

“No hacienda. Mydaddyisn’t on this island, nor is my keeper. You’re right. I’m not one of Maude’s girls. I’m my own girl,” I whisper against the bottom of his chin. Yum, he smells of gunpowder and boat tar. He’s a sailor—pirate or merchant. No way would a naval soldier come to the tavern out of uniform when the uniform earns them free drinks and privileges from Maude.

“Patricia’s Wishdocked this morning. Her Captains are a she-devil and her consort. The crew is a hoard of demons. Any one of them would ruin you,” he says, rubbing a proprietary hand down my back.

“How do you know I’m not one of those demons?” I toss back the end of my drink in one swallow. My sailor’s pupils dilate as he watches my throat work the liquid down my gob. I have no time or interest in conversations about good and evil. If I did, I’d be at the orphanage with Bettina—all pious and boring.

As if to come to my rescue, Maude plays a livelier tune, and the real tavern girls clamor onto thestage to dance. Their singing resembles the alley cats marooned by the ships docking on this island, but it’s catchy enough to tap my sailor’s toe. I lead him to the end of a long table and use him as leverage to climb on top of it. With a salute to Maude, I lift my skirts to my knees and dance along. My hem flies over my sailor’s head to give him a glimpse of my thighs. I wink over my shoulder at the other men at the table to prevent him from thinking we’re exclusive. He blew it with his warning about demons and she-devils.

There’s one she-devil in this bar, and she’s me.

I twirl as the music comes to a crescendo. Time to find my next mark. Pity because that sailor smelled so good. His rot was on the inside. The men at our table are uninspiring, so I hop onto the one adjacent. Nope, they smell of yeast dough and cheese—the telltale signs of foot and lip fungus.

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