Page 3 of Wicked Tides
I stood before Governor Whitton as he fattened himself on a pork thigh. The dining room of his pristine mansion was quiet save for the sound of his chewing and the slow rhythm of water dripping off the hem of my still-soaked coat onto the stone floor. I’d tracked a muddy trail into his home. Not that he cared. Two servant girls were cleaning behind me, making sure traces of my presence were erased.
Whitton was fully focused on his meal, his plump cheeks bouncing with every bite of greasy meat. He smacked his food and internally, I was wincing at the irritating sound.
Gnawing. The ripping of flesh. The slurping of fresh blood and pleasured moans of hungry mouths. Teeth scraping on bone. Tendons snapping.
I cleared my throat, hoping the governor would get on with things.
At my feet sat the sack with two heads stuffed inside. I was eager to pass them off. Burn them. Burry them. Whatever I was asked to do with them after I was paid.
“How many did you say?” Whitton asked with a full mouth.
He slapped his half-eaten leg of pig onto his silver plate, splashing melted butter onto the ivory tablecloth. With greasy fingers, he picked up a crystal glass of wine and slurped its contents. His wooden chair creaked under his weight as he leaned back to regard me and my bag.
“Two,” I said simply. “One of them a matron.”
“Oh?” he said with boredom. “Which matron?”
“Matron Ethrelia.”
“Hmm.” He took another drink, waving a hand at one of his other servants.
He had no idea what any of their names were. He knew very little about anything, especially sirens.
The servant walked to the sack and picked it up, setting it on the table next to Whitton. He untied the ropes, pulling it open to peer inside. I could have warned him, but I didn’t. Instead, I watched as the young man reared back with disgust at the macabre sight and the wall of sour stench that hit him in the face. He went pale, his eyes glazing over, and I knew he was trying not to retch.
“New kid?” I said, lifting a brow toward Whitton.
He shrugged with disinterest.
“I’ll give you fifty,” he sighed.
I stilled, eyes narrowing at the pampered fuck. “Fifty. For one?”
“For both.”
Chuckling, I said, “That won’t go over well with my crew.”
“I’m not responsible for your crew.”
“A matron alone is worth—”
“They’re worth what I say they’re worth.” He picked up his pork leg again and continued gnawing on the meat. “The Ginger James’ crew brought two of the singers to shore last month. Madam Letty put them up in her brothel and I swear half of Dawn was here paying just to see them and paying more to touch them.”
Which meant Madam Letty was paying twice as much in taxes. I ground my teeth at his greed, but I wasn’t surprised by it.
“And?”
“And the butcher in White Crown has been asking about tongues. Says his governor got a taste for them and is willing to pay hundreds.”
“Wonderful for him,” I said with a sarcastic smile.
Finally, Whitton’s eyes met mine, partially yellowed and droopy. He had the face of a bulldog without any of the cute-ugly appeal.
“So, killing them is outdated. No one cares about their heads anymore. They care whether or not they can eat their tongues or fuck them.”
Disgust roiled through me like turned milk in my stomach. I hung my thumbs on my leather belts, transferring my weight to one leg.
“The only good siren is a dead one,” I muttered to myself, repeating words my father fed me over and over as a child.
