Page 2 of Of Magic and Rum
Keeping the cool and calm demeanor I’ve worked up, I pass the pirate, holding back a gag from the putrid scents wafting from him and another pirate standing next to him—body odor, rotten eggs, andshit. I bump my shoulder against him, discreetly slipping my fingers to the knife’s hilt and sliding it from its holster.
The weapon is hidden within my sleeve when it scrapes against my palm, and I turn toward the pirate with a hand pressed to my chest. “Deepest apologies. Had a little too much to drink today.” I stumble as an extra selling point.
The pirate catches my arm and smiles with a top row of rotting yellowed teeth. “A pretty thing like you don’t need to apologize. Isn’t that right, Henry?”
Damn.
A fluttering cackle pushes past Henry’s lips, and he sidles closer to me, his apparent underbite cutting into his upper lip, hair a brown oily mess, and dirt so thickly coated on his face it makes his tanned skin even darker. “That’s right, John.”
“You know, we just got back from four months at sea and be mighty—restless.” John’s grip tightens on my wrist and he slowly pulls me closer.
Henry laughs again, his gaze glossing over as it unabashedly roams me from head to toe, the tip of his tongue licking his chapped lips.
“I’m sure there’s a brothel in town, gentlemen.” I turn to pull away, but John twists my arm.
It would be easy to break his arm and kick Henry halfway across the port.
“True. But considering our captain is about as useless as a cuttlefish, we returned empty-handed and are a bit scrapped for payment.” John’s hand reaches for my chest, and I let the dagger fall from my sleeve into my grasp. The blade is at his throat a breath later, pushing against his skin just enough to draw a thin line of blood.
Henry yelps, aiming his flintlock pistol at my head with a shaky hand.
John’s palms fan at his sides. “Now, now. No need to be rash, pretty thing. We’re going to get what we want one way or another. Best you make this easier for yourself and spread your legs, hm?”
I couldn’t—Ican’tstand here and do nothing. It’s not in my genetic makeup.
Glaring at John, his expression morphs from smugness to confusion to terror within several seconds. Saltwater bubbles from his lips before it begins pouring from his mouth. Henry drops the pistol and shrieks at the sight of John grasping his throat.
I could have brought the water to shore and drowned him where he stands, but calling it to fill his lungs from the inside out is far less likely to catch attention. When John drops to his knees, gasping as the water drains from his lungs, gradually returning his breathing to normal, I’m already walking away with extra vigor in my stride.
They make no effort to follow me. Considering the event’s outlandish, I’m sure they won’t connect me to it. How could they? John will likely assume he swallowed more water at sea than he thought and is now coughing it up. Henry will agree because Henry is a coat-tail rider through and through.
Catching my breath, I find the shade of a palm tree and press my back to it. The dirk’s blade has a speck of human blood on it now, and I wipe it away on my trousers before hiding it back in my sleeve. A sigh pushes from my throat, and the familiar sting burns my nose with threatening tears.
Surely, my family realizes I’m gone by now. And I feel far more guilty over their worry for me than any danger this realm can and will throw at me. The thought of my father, most of all, and what he’ll do to find me, carves a hole in my chest. He’ll search every sea and ocean, visit every powerful being he thinks could help, and run himself ragged because of it. And here, I can’t contact or let him know, at least, that I’m alright—that his only daughter isfine.
Anger overtakes me now, and I kick an empty wooden bucket with a subdued growl. I need a ship. I need to barter passage on a merchant ship stopping in port. Swimming my way back, trying to find my way back, is out of the question with the Charybdis lurking. And there’s nothing I can do marooned on this forsaken island. Out there—in open water—is my best chance. And despite my ability to materialize tail and fins, the idea of mermaids is an old wives’ tale in this time—a mirage sailors have chalked up to deliriousness from starvation or dehydration while at sea for months.
Pushing from the tree, I turn in the direction of the port. As I pass a rickety hovel, the thin wood door flies open. A woman in a bonnet and apron steps out holding a bucket. She tosses its contents toward the street, but instead of the dirty water landing in dirt and sand, it splashes ontome.
Gasping at the scales already shimmering over my hands and arms, I cover my face with my sleeve, panic consuming me as I look for somewhere to hide.
“Goodness, dearie, it’s just dirty dishwater. Sorry about that, though. Would you like a rag to dry off?” The woman leans toward me, trying to look beyond the guise of my arm.
“No,” I yell far louder than intended and startle the poor woman. “Sorry, but no. I’m fine. Thank you. Have a—have a great day.”
As I hurry in the direction I came from, I hear the woman mumble something to the tune of, “How peculiar.”
I find a vacant alleyway and prop against one wall, letting the sun warm and dry my scaled hands and arms. My head remains on a constant swivel for anyone passing by, and my leg bounces impatiently, as I wait for the scales to disappear.
It unnerves me to feel this ashamed about them. I love my scales. Adore my nymph form. And in my realm, I’d started to spend so much time in Atlantis that there was rarely a reason to hide any of it. It felt liberating. Like I’d finally been given the chance to be myself—to be who I wasbornto be.
A door creaks open nearby, and my eyes dart to my hands. The scales are gone. Peeking around the corner reveals two men dressed in black, carrying someone on a stretcher from within the house, a sheet pulled over the body. A lump forms in my throat—they’re dead. The lead man hitches the handles to readjust, and one of the mortal’s arms falls from beneath the sheet, hanging lifeless off the edge—a slender, pale arm that undoubtedly belongs to a woman. The lump in my throat goes coarse.
A burly man in trousers, bretelles, and a white, stained button-up shirt appears in the doorway with his arms folded. He doesn’t look to be in mourning or even seem to be sad in any way. I glare at the man’s red knuckles, one cracked and bleeding. As the stretcher passes the alley, I note the bruises lacing the woman’s freckled arm and the dingy gold band on her left ringfinger catching the sunlight. Strands of deeply red hair, much like my own, peek from under the sheet.
My gaze shoots back to the man in the doorway, a matching ring on his left hand, and the sight of it makes my blood boil. I’d love nothing more than to make a scene of this, the undertakers’ sheer audacity to simply look the other way when this man beat his wife to death. But I can’t do a damn thing. Helpless yet again. But this man’s face? I’llneverforget it.
“Name of the deceased?” A third undertaker asks, holding a small burgundy leather-bound book in his palm, waiting for the answer.
