Page 5 of The Pirate Queen of Ruin
I don’t have to say another word. Sober as a judge now, she sprints off down the street and back in the direction of the bar. Once we are truly alone, I let myself slip. Tentacles emerge from under my skin, stretching the material of my thermal as they wind their way around the prey at my feet. His shriek is cut off by the press of my blade, but the scent of piss rises in the air.
“Please, don’t.“
“Begging,” I grunt, tentacles grappling with the man until his chest is displayed. “Makes me want to hurt you more.”
He doesn’t get another word out. We are exposed here on the street, and I find that sour smell too off-putting. Before he can finish his next inhale, my mind focuses on the anger and pain of centuries of seeing men like him succeed and dig my knife into his chest. Love’s power burns through me, searing away the chill and filling me with a righteous euphoria that I chase. The calming pink glow of their light fades slowly, like the man in my tentacles refuses to die.
But they all do.
Now dead, when I lift the man, I feel nothing but his weight. I re-pocket my knife and adjust him on my shoulders. Tentacles slip beneath my skin again as though I am their ocean. They are hidden in the depths of my body. A home for Love’s power when we first became one. They are my guide and I am their heart. We are one.
Being on the Northbank makes disposing of the man simple. While the Riverfront area is more residential these days, the old warehouses and factories have transformed into luxury loft apartments. This side is full of bars, restaurants, and anything the city council could think of that would build commerce and further encourage tourism. The Northbank connects to the Harbour Crest Pier and into the high-end wharf where the city elite stores their planet-killing yachts.
A night on the Northbank is safe.
It also means that the Gwenmore PD doesn’t give a shit about patrolling this part of the city on a quiet Tuesday night. The Paspawa River is in low tide; the stairs that lead down to the silted bed of the river are wet but exposed. I clomp down them without care. It’s a short walk to a bridge, and the older mooring points the city used when it was still young. The heavy, rotted wooden posts are covered in algae and muck, but they do the job in a pinch.
Taking my knife back out once more, I shred the man’s suit jacket and tie the strips together in a makeshift rope. The label says it’s a cotton-poly blend, which means as long as my knots hold out, this guy will be fine for a while down here hidden amongst the moors and long disused fishing traps.
I look out at the river as I walk along the bank towards home, towardsThe Princess’s Despair. The wind blows softly, creating ripples and guiding me back to the bay. Light bounces off the water, and for a moment, I am transported. Memories flash through my mind, like historical re-enactments or old documentaries. Fires and salty waves, the pressure of the sea trying to crush my half-formed body as I dive to save the creature whose rage called out to Love.
Once again, hopelessness is hard to bear. This injured soul doesn’t fit with my twisted mess of a soul. She isn’t the one promised to me by my Love. I hold onto her as she weeps in anger, her tears like blades of ice through the hollow place that has formed in my chest. The best I can offer her is revenge, knowing those who have wronged her shall never see an afterlife of peace.
I blink hard to clear the memory. I have long since given up on the idea of soulmates. Love’s promise will ring in my ear for all of time, but I no longer search for my other half. They may exist, but I can’t be what they truly need, not any more. They deserve a normal life, far from anyone that I may offer.
Neither human nor monster, I am determined to stay away from both.
Chapter three
Delphini
Therearefewthingsin this world that I wouldn’t give up for my parents. Evening with friends, trips to Greece to visit myyiayia, my whole ass life.
Pink is not one of them, though. No matter what the echelons of the Harbour Crest Country Club members say, no matter how they look at me, they will have to pry this baby pink tennis outfit from my cold, dead hands. This outfit is the best flotation device a girl could ask for when said girl is drowning in the deep end of the old money society. The verdant golf course, emerald tennis courts, and lush croquette greens surrounding the club are dotted with people dressed in all-white outfits.
I don’t care that I am the odd one out. I have been my whole life. This part of me— the one that is hyper-feminine, pinks, peaches, and rouge—will never be silenced. It is a part of my being, like my thick curly hair and the stretch marks that cover my thighs and chest. There isn’t a shade of pink that doesn’t fit a formal occasion.
Even my wedding dress is a blush shade of pink if simply to piss off my fake ass fiancé.
My shoulder aches as I put my whole body into the forward swing of my tennis racket. Sweat drips down my face and neck as I try to keep up with the match. Across the court, my so-called fiancé, Miles Bradshaw, returns the ball too hard in my direction. Before I can pull to the side, I take the neon bullet to the stomach. A cackling laugh echoes around us on the sidelines as the morning sun beats down on my bent-over form.
Audrey Paine was the first woman I met in Gwenmore who wasn’t a Bradshaw. At my first party in the city, she hung off Miles’s arm like he was the son of God. Her pouty lips were so close to his ear that she might as well have shoved her whole tongue into it. It didn’t take long to learn that her attraction to Miles wasn’t simply for his looks but also his drug connections.
His hand groping her ass nearly the whole night was enough for me. I snapped one picture of it and sent it to my parents as proof that he would not be the reformed playboy his family claimed he was.
All I got in return was a conference call to explain how that isn’t evidence of infidelity or a breach of contract. Having our smarmy lawyer infidelity is the highlight of my holiday season.
“Your picture shows two people who are friendly, Miss Fields. Examples of infidelity, as listed in the premarital agreement you signed before moving to Gwenmore, are lewd acts with another person, sexual congress with another person, online relationships involving the sharing of sexually explicit images or videos, and public declarations of love for another person.”
“Stefan, he was clearly-”
“Thank you, Stefan. We’ll speak to you again in the new year about the post-marital agreement we need drafted.” My father, Brackston, cut the lawyer from the line and immediately moved to video call.
That is his go-to move for long-term intimidation. A phone call doesn’t suffice. He wants me to see the disappointment on his face. I rearrange my phone set up quickly to make sure I look more professional before answering the call.
The Fields family are a vicious lot. They have fought for everything they have ever had and will keep fighting. They will cut anyone down to get it as well. It meant the environment I grew up in was hostile and demanding, but it also meant people didn’t play games with me. Like when girls at prep school tried to bully me, it wasn’t a surprise a week later I had them wholly ostracised by the male student body. A simple rumour, a little slip of the tongue to a few boys on the swim team, and those girls were outcasts.
That viciousness is turned on me now.
