The ghosts of his past walked with Eamonn across the ramparts of the castle. They tugged on the cloak wrapped around his shoulders, tangled in the high peak of his braid, clutched at his wrists, and pulled him back towards the gloom.

He shook his head, trying to toss aside memories like water shaking from his skin. He was not so lucky. His mind held him captive and replayed old memories from his childhood.

His father stared with eyes cold and unfeeling. The blade in his hand glinted in the glaring sunlight that traveled up the sharp edge to the point. It swung down, slicing across his face and spraying blood across the battlements.

His mother turned away from the sight. His brother’s smirk scalded into his memory and branded his mind.

Memories were his prison. Torment his penance for years of foolish attachments and familial trust.

Storm clouds rolled overhead. Slate gray and heavy with moisture, they threatened lightning and thunder that would last for days. The weather grew angry with him and together they would rage against each heartbeat—each breath—that kept him alive.

He dug his fingers into the cracked stone of the barely waist-high wall that was the only barrier between him and a hundred-foot fall. In his youth, he would have feared cutting his skin. Now, he listened to the scrape of crystals cutting into granite that crumbled under his clenched fist.

A low rumble of thunder rocked the isle of Hy-brasil. Far below the castle walls, tiny dots of sheep and faeries scattered towards the safety of caves. They would wait out the sky’s anger there. Perhaps they would build a fire, drink mead and whiskey and tell stories from their youth.

All while their master stood upon the highest tower and roared at the sky.

Eamonn heard a voice just like his own on the wind. Deep like the thunder, but even more dangerous—his twin brother’s voice.

“This was your doing,” Fionn said. “You are responsible for all their suffering and the suffering of hundreds more. You made me do this, Eamonn, and now we all pay the price.”

He shook his head. “I did not choose this life. I did not force your hand.”

The wound upon his throat throbbed, and the geodes in his neck cast violet light upon his fists. He still felt the biting rope, fraying at the edges, and swaying in the breeze.

He released the catch of his cloak and let it fall to the stones. It fluttered in the wind, stretching out as though it were cloth wings.

Leather leggings hugged his thighs. The sewn strips dipped into craters of geodes and grew taut over peaks of pointed crystal. No shirt covered his bare chest, allowing the wind to whistle through the valleys of disfigurement. Abdominal ridges rose above the line of his pants, the bumps of his ribs bisected by gashes of violet wounds. His left shoulder was almost entirely gemstone, the large chunk limiting his movement. Spindly veins of opal traveled across his chest, down one thick bicep, and stretched to follow the line of his spine.

The deepest wound wrapped around his neck. The perfect circle was two fingers wide and created a hollow valley of jagged crystals. It deepened his voice to a gruff rasp.

Like his shoulder, veins of opal sliced across his face. Two twin lines started above his eyebrow and at the peak of his temple. They cut across his eye, skipped only at the opening of his mouth, and met at his throat. The crystal at his lips limited his speech and caused him to speak from one side of his mouth, giving him a permanent sneer.

He shaved his head on both sides, leaving only the top to grow freely. He wore it in a braid, letting it swing to the middle of his back. The golden hair was the last bit of beauty he had left.

Eamonn had once been the most desired Seelie man any woman had ever seen. The strength of his body, the legends of his battle prowess, and the startling blue of his eyes had wooed many to his bed.

The memories of beautiful women turning away when they saw his true form and the nightmare he had become plagued him.

He walked to the end of the rampart and let his toes hang over the edge. His eyes drifted shut as the wind brushed his cheeks. It whistled through the crystals and sang a song only he could hear.

He may not be dead yet, but the time was nearing. Soon, soon he could let go.

“Master,” Cian’s voice cut through the raging storm within Eamonn’s head. “If you planned on jumping, you’d have done it a long time ago.”

“Leave.”

The gnome never listened. Eamonn could hear his footsteps as he padded down the ramparts.

Cian cleared his throat. “Now it seems to me you’re frightening the pixies in the gardens. They’re staring up like your body is going to come crashing down on them any minute, and I need them collecting the pumpkins before the storm starts.”

“Make them gather in the rain.”

“Their wings will get wet, and we both know how difficult they are when they have wet wings. So why don’t you take a few steps back and stop their trembling.” Cian paused, and then added, “Or jump off and save us all the trouble of worrying.”

The gnome had such a way with words. Eamonn shook his head and held out a hand. He kept his back turned towards Cian, knowing most of the damage to his body was reflected on his chest and face.

“My cloak,” he grunted.

“I’ve seen you before, boy. There’s no need to hide.”

“My cloak, Cian.”

He knew they all had seen him. Eamonn had accidentally strayed too far from his tower many times. The pixies had caught him washing in the waterfalls. The brownies found him in the training grounds. They were all stuck on the same isle; there weren’t a lot of places for him to hide.

None of this meant he felt comfortable around them. His disfigurement was a disgrace to the royal line. The truth was branded into his mind after they hung him for seven days. Old wounds like that cut to the quick and rarely healed.

Cool fabric met his outstretched hand. Eamonn’s eyes drifted shut for a moment, thankful that the gnome had followed orders. He would never say it. There was no purpose in congratulating someone for doing what they were told.

He swirled the cloak in a wide arc and settled it over his shoulders. Heat enveloped him with unwelcome arms. Eamonn hated the cloak. He hated hiding, but this had become his existence. He was no longer the handsome man he once had been.

“Storm’s coming,” Cian said as he walked up to Eamonn’s side. “And you’re still standing at the top of your castle leaning over an edge that could crumble at any moment.”

“Would it be such a loss?”

“No. We’d get along just fine without you, but I’d have to dig a new hole in the garden and I hadn’t planned on doing that until next spring.”

“Ever so gentle, Cian.”

“I don’t have to be gentle with you. The warlord prince of the Seelie Fae should have thicker skin.”

Eamonn twitched the edge of his cloak over his newly mangled hand. “That was a long time ago.”

“Take one step back, and I’ll tell you who I was before I came here.”

“I know who you were,” his toes curled over the edge. “Gnomes have always been good thieves. You stole from the wrong person and pay your penance here. Hy-brasil was and always will be a prison. Nothing more.”

Cian planted a hand firmly against the base of Eamonn’s spine. The sudden touch made him lock his muscles holding himself in place without twitching or revealing the sudden shock that raced through his veins. The gnome did not push, nor did he pull. He kept his hand against Eamonn’s back relaxed but threatening.

“I was no common thief. I stole to make a living and feed my family. Your people view gnomes as little more than slaves. We work in your gardens, feed your people while the rest of us go hungry. My children went to bed with their stomachs aching, and my wife withered away into nothing. I stole a single piece of bread from the kitchens of a lowly Seelie lord. For that, they banished me here — never to see my family again.”

Eamonn remained silent. He knew the Seelie court was corrupt. It had been his desire to change those ways, even as he fought in the wars that upheld them. He had not been the king, though, and had little power to change anything. Now, he never would.

His silence spurred Cian on. “I don’t like you, Tuatha dé Danann. Not because of what you’ve done here, or even who you are, but for what you stand for.”

The hand against Eamonn’s spine flexed. His own hands slowly curled beneath the cape. If Cian pushed, Eamonn could catch himself on the half wall. He would need to have faith that the castle wouldn’t crumble under his weight.

“I lost everything I ever had because your people consider themselves above everyone else. It was a damned piece of bread, and I was banished from the Otherworld like I’d murdered someone. I wanted to feed hungry mouths, to get paid for the work I did. And look what happened to me!”

Eamonn felt the slightest nudge against his back.

“You got nothing to say to that?” Cian growled.

“There is little I could say which would change your mind.”

“You’re right. There’s not.”

The hand against his spine withdrew, and the gnome backed away. Eamonn straightened and squared his shoulders. He would not bow. He would not yield. Though he was a disgraced prince, he might have been king of these people.

He would not break.

Cian’s feet struck the ground in hard echoes as he returned to the door which led to the rest of the castle. Creaking floorboards fought with the thunder.

“You know,” the gnome’s words flung into the night like sharp assassin blades. “If you weren’t such a prick, I might respect you. You don’t even flinch.”

“I fear nothing and no one. Leave, gnome, before I throw you from the tower instead.”

The door slammed shut. A bolt of lightning sizzled through the air and struck the top of the tower. Thunder crashed so loud the pixies in the gardens below screamed and fled in terror.

Throughout it all, Eamonn stood silent and unmoving.

Long ago, he had been a pillar for his people. They called his name as he rode through the streets. They threw flower petals at his feet in hopes he might look upon them. Now, they ran in fear.

He tilted his head back and let his rage roar at the coming storm. He poured all the feelings of neglect, anger, fear, and self-hatred into the sound. It purged his blackened soul.

Eamonn twisted away from the edge of his castle and fell to his knees. Staring down at his ruined hands, he set his resolve towards living. He would begin his work again, turn his mind and passion towards saving his people in whatever way possible. Storms like this always brought shipwrecked cargo. He would wait to see what his people would find upon the rocky shore.

Death would wait a while longer.

* * *

Less than a week at sea, and Sorcha was ready to kill herself. She held onto the railing and breathed through her nose. In and out. Slow and intentional inhalations, or she would vomit again.

Manus tried to make her eat, but she couldn’t keep anything down. Even the ale tasted like bile. It exited her body as fast as she could drink it.

The ship coasted over a very large wave and crashed down the other side. Turning green, Sorcha moaned and leaned over the rail again. Watching the waves didn’t help, but what else was there? Waves upon waves, that was it.

Her vision blurred. The muscles of her stomach clenched, trying to force out what wasn’t there. She’d emptied her stomach of everything but thin bile hours ago. Now, dry heaves threatened to kill her.

The part of her brain which was a healer screamed she needed water. Not ale. Not whiskey. Water. Fresh, clean water that would hydrate her body. There was so much water surrounding them, and none of it was safe to drink. She licked her dry lips and wished for death.

“Sorcha! I need you away from the railing!”

She lifted her head and tried not to shake. “Can’t do that, Captain.”

“Now!”

“I can’t,” she whispered. “I can’t even move.”

A wall of dark skin and beaded hair stalked towards her. “When I give you an order girl, you best be following it. Get up.”

“No.”

“Get up!”

Sorcha leaned over the edge of the railing and prayed to whatever gods were listening. Take her now. Make it end, she didn’t care how. If only she could stop throwing up for just a few moments, she would consider herself blessed.

Manus grabbed the back of her skirt and yanked her up. Her knees shook, muscles quaked, body bowed as she retched.

“Enough!” he shouted. “We are sailing directly into that storm I showed you and I will not have you wrapped around the railing! The Fae wanted you in Hy-brasil, and that is where you are going. Now get back to my quarters!”

He released his hold, and she fell onto her hands and knees. “If I could stand to be in that room with that horrible raven then I would be there!”

“Raven?” Manus shook his head. “Damned thing can’t leave well enough alone. I don’t care who’s sharing the room with you. You will be out of sight until we are through the storm.”

“Why can’t I stay on deck?” She looked up at him, eyes wide and skin pale. “I’ll stay out of the way. The fresh air helps.”

“I’m sure it does, pretty thing. But that storm is going to hit us hard. Waves will crash right over the deck, and at least in the cabin you can hold onto the bed. Make sure you grip the posts tight. Don’t let go until I come for you.”

He held his hand out for her to take. Sorcha eyed it as though it were a snake which might bite. Going back in that cabin would make her vomit even more violently than before.

But she didn’t want to end up in the ocean during a storm, either. Sighing, she slapped her hand onto his. “I hate the ocean.”

Manus chuckled. “So many people do. She’s a cruel mistress, and a temptress when she wants to be.”

“A tempest you mean?” she asked while stumbling to the cabin.

“Well that, too, but it’s unlikely we’ll see a tempest while out here.”

“What do you call that storm then?”

He opened the door and shoved her through. “I call that a widow maker. Stay safe.”

Manus slammed the door so hard the floor quaked. The raven flapped its wings, slapping them against the table in anger.

“Yes,” she murmured. “I agree. The man is charming, but he’s also rude.”

The ship tilted at a drastic angle. The entire frame shook with the impact of the bow hitting the water. Swearing, Sorcha tripped and landed on her hands and knees again.

“Apparently, he wasn’t joking,” she muttered.

Standing proved impossible as the ship rocked back and forth. Moaning with seasickness and fear, she crawled to the bed. Her hands fisted in the dark blankets which slid off the frame rather than pulling her up onto it.

Sorcha curled her fingers around a post and hauled herself up. Her stomach heaved again. There was nothing to vomit, but she still leaned over the edge of the bed.

Another great wave tossed the ship against the hard walls of the ocean. Sorcha’s pack thumped hard against the wall, and a stone weight on the captain’s desk fell onto the floor with a heavy crack.

She squeezed her eyes shut and hugged a pillow to her chest. There was nothing she could do but wait out the storm. She couldn’t go out on the deck and help, she didn’t know how. There were no men who needed healing, not yet. All she could to do was follow orders and stay out of the way.

It went against every fiber of her being not to help, but she could stay where she was.

She heard the shouts before the ship rose, straight as a tree. She clutched the posts of the bed and whispered prayers.

“Please,” she called out. “I do not wish to die so far from my homeland, from my family, from the earth. Faeries of the water and sky, help us.”

The raven took flight, cawing its agitation and anger. The ship shifted again and landed hard on the waves which seemed to turn to stone. Sorcha screamed.

One of the posts snapped with a harsh crack. The wooden piece went flying into the air, tossed by the waves and their uncontrolled jouncing. Someone hit the door to the cabin hard, the frame vibrating with the man’s weight.

Sorcha reached out her arms. “If we’re going to die together, I might as well name you. Bran!”

The raven’s head snapped towards her, as if it recognized the name.

“Come here!”

The ship rolled again, and the man leaning against the door shrieked as thunderous water ripped him away. Sorcha watched the handle rattle and whispered a prayer for the man to remain on the ship. Anything to keep them all safe.

Bran darted towards her as the ship crested another wave. Sorcha locked her arms around him and held him close to her chest. One hand gently stroked his breast feathers, the other clutched the nearest post and held on for dear life.

“I didn’t think I would die like this,” she whispered, treating the raven as her confessor. “I always thought it would be at the stake. Rumors called my mother a witch. She spoke with the faeries and kept the old tales alive. Because of that, they burned her alive. I still remember every moment of it.”

She pressed her face against his back. Bran tilted his head and tucked his beak against her throat.

“I’m not a witch. I’m not odd, or frightening, and I don’t have any knowledge that can’t be learned. Nothing will ever stop me from believing in faeries or leaving them gifts because they were here first. We need to take care of them because they take care of us in return. Not for payment, but because they are kind and good and everything humans have lost.”

The ship shuddered and froze. Sorcha listened to the groaning wood, the rivers of water splashing off the sides, and the pounding rain striking the deck. They had stopped moving.

A great deafening cry vibrated the entire ship. The high-pitched screams of men joined it and Sorcha realized with horror that the guardian had grabbed the ship in her mighty hands. She could imagine the wide split mouth gaping its terrifying scream, the thin pale hands clutching the Saorsa as if it were a child’s toy.

They were going to die.

She closed her eyes and breathed in a slow, deep breath. She had failed on the very first leg of her journey. But then again, this had been an impossible task from the start. The Fae didn’t want her to find the cure to the beetle plague. They wanted to watch a theatrical attempt by a foolish human girl who had trusted them too easily.

Hands slapped against the side of the ship. Tiny scratching sounds which were too small to be the guardian’s massive fingers.

Sorcha peeled open one eye, clutched the raven tight to her chest, and glanced at the porthole.

Green hair snaked through the opening, and dark eyes stared back at her. Rainbows danced across the merrow’s fingers as she reached through. When their gazes caught, the merrow paused and cocked her head to the side.

The raven struggled, squawking angrily until it wiggled free. He snapped at the air with his beak and flew towards the merrow.

“What?” Sorcha muttered.

Were they not going to die? Bran grumbled at the merrow who tilted her head to the other side. She reached out and brushed a long finger down the raven’s beak and then released the edge of the porthole. Her green tail shimmered as she pulled herself further up the ship.

“Are we saved?” She could hardly believe she uttered the words.

The angry look Bran cast towards her was answer enough. They were being saved by the very creature she was so terrified of. Now, she understood why it was so important to have a guardian in faerie waters.

Sorcha placed her hand against a post and rose on rubbery legs. She had barely been able to walk on the ship before the storm, now she didn’t trust her balance at all. Her hands were shaking, and she feared the guardian would drop them. She didn’t want to end up back in the water after that experience.

Carefully, she made her way towards the door. Manus’s voice echoed in her head. Do not go outside. Don’t open the door. Stay inside the cabin where it is safe.

Yet, she also heard the screams of his men. She heard the thumping crash of bodies landing against solid wood and the rushing waves of water cresting over the deck. There were people who needed healing.

It didn’t matter that she was afraid. Fear was a beast she could conquer as long as she could save just one life. This was what she was born to do.

Sorcha tugged hard on the door which resisted her movements. She threw her weight into the backwards motion and inched it open, bit by bit.

Men slumped all across the deck. Some had piled across each other, moaning and rubbing their wounds. Blood slicked her door, a red handprint catching her eye.

Merrows dragged themselves up the sides of the ship and across the deck. A few had curled around sailors and were gently patting their cheeks. They didn’t speak, instead, they hummed their concern. Their voices were deep and calming.

Sorcha stumbled towards the nearest sailor and dropped to her knees. “Where does it hurt?”

“Everywhere,” he groaned.

“Where is the worst?”

He gestured towards his chest. Sorcha reached forward without hesitation and ripped his shirt open. A bright bruise already formed, purple and angry.

She danced her fingers over his ribs and watched his reactions. He flinched from the tenderness, but didn’t respond overly much to her prodding of the bones. There was the slightest of groans when she palpated his stomach. Sorcha hesitated and did it one more time. She didn’t feel any swelling from internal bleeding but the number of bruises was concerning.

“Are you having trouble breathing?”

“Leave me, girl.”

“Answer the question, sailor. Can you breathe?”

Another hand touched hers. Webbed fingers spread across the bruising of the man’s chest and gently pulled Sorcha’s hands away.

Sorcha stared in fascination as the merrow wrapped herself around the sailor. The long green tail twined through his legs and down to his calves. Her chest pressed against the man’s spine and her iridescent webs glowed as they smoothed across his skin. She placed her chin on his shoulder, humming the deep base of the merrow song.

“Sorcha,” Manus said. “Come with me.”

She looked up at the hand he held towards her. “What’s happening?”

“I told you the Fae take care of us. Now, come on.”

Manus’s hand was just as cold as hers. He pulled her up and held onto her elbow when she swayed. “Were you injured?”

“No.”

“Good.”

He pulled her towards the bow of the ship. She glanced over her shoulder, watching more merrows swarm over the railings. Two dragged a man up from the ocean. They slammed him down on the deck so hard that Sorcha winced, but the hard strike made him cough up the seawater in his lungs.

They were not just saving the survivors, she realized. Three more merrows pulled up another man and laid him gently on the desk. They rocked back and forth over his body, keening their grief.

“They mourn the dead?” she asked.

“Of course, they do. We work with them, and we will mourn theirs before we set sail again.”

“They had casualties?” Sorcha glanced around, trying to find the merrow bodies.

“You won’t see them on the ship. Merrows turn to sea foam when they die. It’s a cruel death, but it’s better than letting sharks eat them.”

Sorcha swallowed hard. “I’m sorry to hear they lost loved ones.”

“Well, I lost good men as well. Feel sorry for the lot of us.”

She blinked and looked up at him. His cheeks were red and splotchy, his eyes casting glares in her direction even as he propelled her forcefully towards the end of his ship.

“Are you angry at me?” she asked.

“I never should have taken this foolish mission. The journey to Hy-brasil is dangerous, and I was fully aware of that.”

“And that is my fault?”

“You asked to come here, freckles.”

Sorcha jerked the arm he held. “How dare you blame this on me? I did nothing wrong!”

“You made a deal with the wrong faerie!” He thrust her towards the bow of the ship and the wooden Fae staring off into the skyline. “I lost good men because of you. I won’t blame you for their deaths, but I’m damned well getting you off this ship!”

She stumbled, catching herself hard against the railing. The storm was subsiding, though the waves still churned with uncontrolled anger. She couldn’t see anything in those secretive waves, the water dark and foreboding.

The island was within sight. Tall cliffs framed one side and led down to a rocky shore. A castle loomed over the small isle, crumbling towers and decaying wood structures giving the land an eerie, abandoned feel. It looked like a better abode for ghosts than people. Certainly not faeries.

“Hy-brasil?” she asked.

“You wanted to go to the island. There it is.” His feet struck the deck hard as he walked away.

“Wait!” Sorcha spun. “How am I supposed to get there?”

“That wasn’t part of our deal. As you can see, I have enough to worry about here.”

“Can I borrow a rowboat at least?” She raced after him and caught the edge of his sleeve.

“Borrow? How are you going to bring it back? Swim to the isle if you need to get there so badly, freckles, or stay on the ship and return with us. I don’t care.”

“You want me to swim to that isle?” Sorcha jabbed a finger at Hy-brasil. “Do you even know what’s in the water here? You said this was the gateway between the Otherworld and ours, so how many more faeries are there? We can both be certain I won’t find just merrows!”

“Then stay on the ship, and I’ll bring you home!”

He whirled on her. His chest rose and fell in exaggerated rage while his hands opened and closed. Sorcha narrowed her eyes. He wasn’t just angry at her, he was frightened. The storm had cost him much, and he was second guessing coming here at all.

They had to go back through the storm, she realized. This wasn’t about the initial danger but that they had to turn around and do it again. Maybe it would be easier returning to the human world, but she doubted it.

He would lose more men. More merrows would die. And she was pestering him with ferrying her over to the island which had caused all this trouble in the first place.

Sorcha released her anger with a soft sigh. “I understand, Manus. I do. But I need to bring my things with me, and they cannot get wet.”

“I never said I’d ensure the safety of personal items.”

“They’re my mother’s books,” she called out as he turned away from her again. “They’re the only thing I have left of her and I will not let them go.”

He hesitated. She watched his shoulders lift in anger and then curl forward in defeat. “You’re set on going, then?”

“I have no other choice, you know that as well as I. The faerie punishment for backing out of a deal is worse than a swift death at sea.”

“I have a charm which will help your pack stay dry. It was a gift from a selkie, and I expect to have it back someday.”

Sorcha twisted her fingers together. “I will do my best to return it once this is all over.”

“I won’t hold my breath.”

Manus motioned for one of his sailors, the most mobile of the bunch strewn across the deck like autumn leaves. The raven burst out of the captain’s quarters, its cry echoing as it launched into the air. She watched him stretch his wings and fly towards the isle.

Apparently, the raven was traveling to the same place as Sorcha. She turned her gaze to the land mass and suppressed a shiver. There was something about that place which felt wrong.

The air was too still. The ocean didn’t crash against the rocks, but sluggishly avoided touching the land. Even the elements had forsaken Hy-brasil. There was more to the phantom isle than the legends sang, and Sorcha was afraid to find out what.

She braced her feet as the guardian gently set them down. The ship remained steady, bobbing as if there had never been a storm. Sorcha wished she could forget as easily as the Saorsa had.

Footsteps marked the return of the sailor who held her pack at arm’s length. He held it far out in front of him, the pack dangling from his fingers as if he didn’t want to touch her.

Sorcha recognized that expression. It was the same look her mother had been given for months before they burned her. They blamed her for every bit of bad luck. A neighbor’s cow died, a child caught a cold, the well ran dry, all were the markings of a witch who had cursed the town. Sorcha’s mother had been the one they chose to burn.

She snatched her pack out of the man’s hands with a muttered curse. “I didn’t call the storm, you moron. Give me that.”

The sailor flinched away from her.

Good riddance. He could be frightened of her if that helped him make sense of the storm, but she wasn’t about to let him treat her like a witch. Sorcha was a good person. She would have healed them all if the merrows weren't here.

She swung the pack over her shoulder and held her hand towards Manus. “The charm?”

He pulled a small bag from his pocket. The burlap was completely dry. Not even a single drop of water clung to its checkered pattern.

“This will do. Stick it in your bag and swim as fast as you can.”

“Will the charm wear off?” She stuffed the small bag in her pack between her most precious books.

“It’s unlikely to wear off. And freckles? A word of warning: where there are merrows, there are merrow-men. They’d like a pretty thing like you to stay with them, and most of their wives are here with us. No one will stop them if they get ahold of you.”

“Thank you,” she gritted through clenched teeth.

He didn’t stay to watch. Manus left to tend to his men, and she stood on the precipice of another decision. The water was another dangerous part of her journey. The ocean had yet to be kind, and its inhabitants were likely even worse.

Her eyes strayed to the haunted isle that had spawned straight from her nightmares. Hy-brasil, the phantom isle spoken of in legends and myths for centuries. Many believed it was a utopia, a place where men of highest intelligence and scholars of world renown were sent.

It looked like a ruin.

She carefully hoisted herself up on the railing and balanced with a sail rope in her hand. This was it. There was no going back once she jumped off this ship and landed in the waters below.

Papa’s eyes swam in front of hers. His painfully thin body, the grating cough that kept the others up at night, the dangers of what might happen should she fail and he die. The beetles would infect her sisters next; they were the nearest food source. The families nearby might also fall. And she wasn’t there to help prolong their lives.

Sorcha lifted her foot to hang in the salty air for a moment before she took a deep breath and leapt off the edge.

She hit the water with a stinging slap. Her skirts billowed up into her face and tangled with the long strands of her hair. The pack weighed her down, pulling her towards the bottom of the ocean with surprising ease.

Bubbles erupted from her mouth as she pumped her arms. Fabric tangled around her feet and trapped them. She couldn’t kick. She couldn’t breathe.

Frowning in concentration, she almost didn’t notice the movement in the depths. Calm yourself, she thought. Calm was the only way to deal with the Fae and it would assist her now. Panic would only lead to poor decisions.

She let her body relax although her lungs burned. Salt water stung her eyes when she opened them. Sorcha glanced down and held in a gasp when she saw red eyes staring back at her.

Deep at the bottom of the ocean, the merrow-men waited. They lacked the necessary tails to keep up with their brides. Instead, they had legs like a human man. Green scales covered their bodies which were hard with muscles. Gills and fins popped up with little rhyme or reason giving them a grotesque appearance. But it was their faces that disturbed her the most.

Large fish-like mouths gaped open as they inhaled her scent in the water. Jagged teeth lined their gums. Their eyes bulged when they realized it was a human woman in their realm. Frilled fins fanned out around their faces and evil grins spread wide.

One curled his fist around a trident and pushed off the ocean floor. He was swimming towards her, she realized. His webbed feet made him a much more effective swimmer, and her own pack was steadily dragging her to the bottom.

Sorcha wouldn’t let that happen. Determined, she reached down and ripped the bottom of her skirt. Two great, heaving pulls split the fabric down each side. It wasn’t much, but it was enough.

Her legs now freed she swam with all her might. Muscles burned, lungs screamed, eyes watered, but she eventually broke through into the sweet air.

She gasped in breaths that shocked her lungs. There wasn’t enough air in the world to satisfy her cravings, and every inhalation tasted metallic. She rolled onto her back, still sucking in air, and kicked towards the isle.

The merrow-man was still coming, she reminded herself. She couldn’t rest just because she could breathe. It was time to swim. Once she made it to the island, she could rest.

Only then.

When she finally caught her breath, she rolled onto her stomach and lifted her arms above her head. One arm at a time, one kick at a time, counting under her breath each stroke that drew her closer to Hy-brasil.

She couldn’t stop for even a moment, or the pack would drag her under the water. Her stomach churned from too many dips beneath the waves. A belly full of salt made her more nauseous, but there wasn’t even bile left to vomit.

She’d seen no sharks, but the stories said she wouldn’t until it was too late.

Above her head, the raven circled. Its caw snapped her eyes open as she paused for a moment to breathe.

“Bran?” she whispered.

Again, the corvid’s cry jolted through her body.

“Right. I have to swim.”

The isle grew closer and closer, even as the sun began to set and the ocean turned red. She could make it if only she swam a little…bit…more.

Her feet touched land.

A sob lurched her body forward. She slipped underneath a wave, but it didn’t matter that she couldn’t see. All she could taste was salt but there were rocks beneath her feet. She didn’t have to swim anymore, and she didn’t have to lose her mother’s journals.

“Thank you,” she whispered as she pulled herself onto the jagged shore. “Thank you so much.”

She curled her fingers in the sand and mud. The grit digging into her nailbeds made even more tears stream down her cheeks. She had done it. She had made it to the phantom isle through storms, giant whale creatures, and merrow-men.

Sorcha had really done it.

She laughed through the tears and rolled onto her back. The stars twinkled in the night sky. They were so beautiful. The land was so beautiful.

It no longer mattered that there was a mysterious castle looming overhead. It didn’t matter that ghosts likely traversed with silent feet all around her. She wasn’t swimming anymore, and the ground didn’t move here.

Letting out a ragged breath, her eyes drifted shut. Just for a moment, she told herself. She could rest for a moment before she had to get back up and find the Fae the MacNara twins wanted.

Stars danced beneath her eyelids as she settled into the sand.