Page 6 of Of Magic and Rum
Her head pops from one upstairs directly above me, her chocolate brown hair ruffled, and the sinister grin on her face apparent. “I’m almost finished here, Cap. Promise.” Mary’s voice is rich with an English accent that is not unlike my own.
“Don’t rush on my account.” I wave at her, raising both brows as I see two women, one with raven hair and the other blonde, pawing at Mary to return inside. “We’re going to the tavern. Meet us at the docks in thirty minutes. And I do mean thirty minutes, Read. Or I’ll leave you here.”
“Aye, Captain. Thirty—” The raven-haired woman kisses her, cutting her off, and the door slams shut.
Shaking my head, I head back outside. My crew and I head to the local tavern to share a few drinks on solid land before embarking again. Perhaps the Mystic Mermaid offered precisely what I needed to sway them into voting in favor of going after the jewel: alcohol and distractions.
Thirst is another level entirely for a sea nymph. If we’re not in the water, we need to drink it as often as possible; otherwise, it feels like a fish out of water—constantly gasping for air which never comes. Only we never die. I clutch my chest, masking my pain and unease as I walk through the first tavern I see called the Mystic Mermaid. The irony is not lost on me—I’m also no mermaid. Mermaids are sequestered to the seas alone with no power to will their fins into legs and walk on land.
Dryness coats my lips and throat, and the fiddler playing a cheery tune in the corner of the establishment does little for the twisted knots my stomach has become. I press my palms on the bar, waiting for the tender to notice me. “Water,” I barely get out in a whisper.
“No water here, sweetheart unless you like pissing out your asshole. All I got is ale.”
Furiously nodding, I grip the bar’s edge and smile when the tender eyes me warily. He sets a wooden mug in front of me, foam spilling over the edges, and it’s in both of my hands within seconds.
After guzzling part of it, I slowly set it down and wipe my sleeve across my mouth. “I’m sorry. I don’t have coin.”
I can conjure anything aquatic-related, but I have no power to make money appear out of thin air.
The tender, a man in his later forties, tosses a rag over his shoulder, shifts his eyes to the patrons in the tavern, and props on one elbow. “This one is on the house. Looks like you were about ready to die of heatstroke.”
That is as good of an excuse as any.
I give a solemn nod and hug the cup to my chest. “Thank you.”
“There’s a vacant table in the corner if you wish to sit, lass.” The tender points and urges me toward it.
It’s the perfect excuse to nurse my drink and tune into conversations around me. With any luck, I’ll overhear ships sailing from port soon and get off this sandy rock, back to heavenly waters, and on my way home.
No sooner does my ass hit the seat than a man approaches my table. He’s stumbling ever so slightly, pulling the red lapels of his frock coat before taking the seat across from me. His midnight black hair catches the light from the dancing flame of the lantern resting on the table between us.
“Don’t recall inviting you to sit there,” I clip, sipping from my mug as if his presence does little to amuse me. And it doesn’t.
The man barks with laughter, his dark handlebar mustache twitching. “See, gents? Told you redheads always spit fire.”
Stick around and see what else I spit, you walrus’s ass.
Remaining silent, I pluck at the wood of my mug.
The man leans one elbow on the table, props the other on his knee, and flashes me an expression I assumehethinks is a smolder but comes across more like a nauseated goat. “Name’s Charles.”
“Oh? Not Chuck or Charlie?” Lifting my cup for another swig, I quickly scan the room to see if anyone is paying attention to us. Fortunately, the bartender watches us like a mother hen.
Charles sucks on his top row teeth, surprisingly not as yellowed and rotten as I’ve seen most pirates sporting. “Nah. Charles, my birth-given name, sounds far more prestigious. Wouldn’t you say?”
“A pirate concerned about prestigiousness. How innovative of you.” My grip tightens on my mug with each passing moment.
Charles chuckles, but not as heartily as when he first sat down. He pulls his chair closer, the legs scraping against the wooden floor, jarring my ears. “I like you. I like you a lot.”
“Little old me?” I lean back in my seat. “I’m nothing but a tradesman’s daughter temporarily in port for supplies. He should be back any minute now.”
Charles’s body grows closer, scents of tar and sweat wafting from his clothes. “I’m not proposing marriage, love. I’m proposing fornow.” His hand darts like a cobra, latching to my forearm.
I fake a gasp and yank with dwindled strength. “Let. Go.”
An itch courses through me—a desire to defend, snatch my dirk knife, use my powers, or doanything. But unlike before, we’re in a tavern with a dozen pairs of eyes who’ve now all turned their attention to the drama unfolding in the corner.
“That’s enough, Vane. Lady says she ain’t interested. Leave, or I’ll have you kicked out.” The bartender claps a hand on Charles’s shoulder, jutting a thumb behind him at the exit.
