I WATCH THE HUMANS jumping from one end of the boat to another, pulling on ropes and yelling words and names I don’t quite understand. At one point the boy with the knife – Kye – trips and slices his palm. Quickly, the tattooed girl rips the bandana from her head and throws it to him, before running to the wheel and lurching it left. The ship twists too quickly for me to stay steady, and I collapse to the floor again.
I screech in frustration and search the decks for my captor. Prince Elian leans over the edge, one arm tangled in rope, the other holding the mysterious object up to the light.
“Steady,” he tells his crew. “Hold her steady.”
He whispers something to himself. A slew of Midasan that I can’t make out, much less understand, and then smiles at the compass and screams, “Torik, now!”
The large man leans his head into the lower decks and bellows at the crew. As soon as the boom of his voice shudders through my bones, a high-pitched whistle tears through the air. I bring my hands to my ears. It’s not so much a noise as it is a blade carving through my skull. A sound so shrill, I feel like my eardrums could explode. Around me, the humans seem unaffected, and so with a grimace, I lower my hands and try to hide my discomfort.
“I’m going in,” Elian calls over his shoulder. He throws the compass to the girl. “Madrid, lower the net on my signal.”
She nods as he pulls a small tube from his belt and places it into his mouth. Then he’s gone. He meets the water with barely a noise, so quiet that I stumble to the edge of the ship to make sure that he actually jumped. Sure enough, ripples pool on the surface and the prince is nowhere to be seen.
“What is he doing?” I ask.
“Playing the part,” Madrid replies.
“What part?”
She pulls a small crossbow from her belt and fixes an arrow in the latch. “Bait.”
“He’s a prince,” I observe. “He can’t be bait.”
“He’s a prince,” she says. “So he gets to decide who’s bait.”
Kye hands her a black quiver filled with arrows and cuts me a guarded glance. “If you’re so concerned, we can always throw you over instead.”
I ignore both the comment and the hostile look in his eyes. Human pettiness knows no bounds. “Surely he can’t breathe for long,” I say.
“Five minutes of air,” Madrid tells me. “It’s what the tube’s for. Nifty little thing the captain picked up a while back in Efévresi.”
Efévresi. The land of invention. It’s one of the few kingdoms I’ve been careful to steer clear of, made cautious by the machinery that patrols their waters. Nets made from lightning and drones that swim faster than any mermaid. Ships more like beasts, with a knowledge and intelligence of their own.
“When the captain comes back up, you’ll get to see something wonderful,” Kye tells me.
“Monsters,” says Madrid, “are not wonderful.”
“Watching them die is pretty wonderful.” Kye looks pointedly in my direction. “That’s what happens to our enemies, you see.”
Madrid scoffs. “Keep watch for the captain’s signal,” she says.
“He told you to do that.”
She smiles. “And technically, darling, I outrank you.”
Kye scratches his face with his middle finger, which is apparently not a flattering gesture, because a moment later Madrid’s jaw drops and she swipes to hit his shoulder. Kye weaves effortlessly out of the way and then grabs her hand midair, pulling her toward him. When Madrid opens her mouth to say something, he presses his lips to hers and snatches a kiss. Like a thief stealing a moment. I half-expect her to shoot him with the crossbow – I know I would – but when he breaks away, she only shoves him halfheartedly. Her smile is ruthless.
I turn from them and clutch the ship ledge for support. The sun boils down on my bare legs and the wind hums softly by my ear. The shrill ringing has mellowed to a faint echo around me, making everything seem too quiet. Too peaceful. Under the sea, it’s never so serene. There’s always screaming and crashing and tearing. There’s always the ocean, constantly moving and evolving into something new. Never still and never the same. On land, on this ship, everything is far too steady.
“Ignore Kye,” says Madrid. She stands beside me. “He’s always like that.”
“Like what?”
“Ridiculous,” she says, then turns to him. “If the sonar cuts again, go belowdecks and give that engineer a piece of your knife.”
“The sonar?” I ask.
“It’s that ringing,” she explains. “Doesn’t bother us much, but the sirens go mad on it. Hits their nerves and disables them.”
Kye plucks the dirt from under his thumbnail with a knife. “It stops them from singing their little song and drowning us all.”
I grit my teeth. Typical humans using their dirty tricks of technology to fight their wars for them. I’ve never heard of something that can take away a siren’s power, but experiencing the awful tearing in my skull makes it easy to believe. I wonder how excruciating it would be to hear it in my siren form. If it would be akin to my mother’s magic.
“I know we look pretty run-down,” Madrid says. “The crew’s normally a lot bigger, but we’re on a bit of a special case. Captain cut us in half for his latest whim.”
I eye her strangely. “I didn’t ask you about your crew.”
She laughs and pushes a curl from her face. Without the bandana, her hair is riotous. “I figured you’d have questions,” she says. “Not everyone wakes up to find themselves on the infamous siren ship in the company of the golden prince. No doubt you’ve heard the best and worst about us. I just want you to know that only half the stories are true.”
She grins at this last part, smiling as though we’re old allies. As though she has reason to feel comfortable around me.
“You can’t be aboard our ship and not know the ins and outs,” Madrid says.
Kye makes a contemptuous noise. “I don’t think Cap wants strangers knowing the ins of any of our outs.”
“And what if she becomes part of the crew?”
“If wearing the captain’s shirt made someone part of the crew, then half of the girls in Eidýllio would be sailing with us.”
“Good,” Madrid says. “We need some more female blood.”
“We get enough of that spilled on the deck from sirens.”
“Sea foam doesn’t count,” she snipes, and the disdainful look Kye had when talking about me disappears in place of an impish grin.
“You like making up the rules as you go along. Don’t you, love?”
Madrid shrugs and turns back to me, inked arms spread open like wings. “Welcome to the Saad, Lira,” she says.
And then Elian erupts from the ocean.
To my instant relief, the sonar dissipates, and though it leaves a ringing in my ears, the pain subsides instantaneously. Kye’s lips draw a smile and, at the same time, Elian draws a breath, sending the ship into a frenzy. From the water, a net claws its way to the surface, turning the ocean to mighty waves. Inside, a creature thrashes and hisses, her tangled fin the only thing keeping her from the prince and his heart.
Elian sits on the other side, knife in hand, and watches the siren. She scratches at him, but the net is wide and they’re separated by at least three feet. Still, Elian looks on guard, one hand gripped in the net to keep himself steady and the other clasping his knife.
“If you’ve got a minute,” Elian calls up to the ship, “I wouldn’t mind coming aboard.”
“Get moving!” Torik bellows to the rest of the crew. “I want that damn net up here five minutes ago.”
Kye rushes to his side and twists the rope that is hoisting the net up to them. He leans back so his entire body is balanced against it. He is breathless with the weight in moments. Below, the siren screeches so venomously that I can barely make out the Psáriin on her tongue. She’s bleeding, though I can’t see from where. The red seems to cover so much of her, like paint against her skin. As the net is drawn back to the ship, she continues to thrash wildly and the whistle sounds again. I clench my hands by my sides to keep from bringing them to my ears. The siren is maddened. Her hands fly to her face and she tears her nails through her cheeks, trying to rip the noise out. Her screams are like death itself. A sound that makes my newly formed toes curl against the ship.
Kye pulls the rope harder, his arms dripping with sweat. When the net finally reaches the top, he hands the rope over to another crew member and then rushes to his prince’s side. Within moments, the net is untangled and Elian is pulled free.
Kye and Madrid clasp his elbows and drag him out of harm’s way. As they do, I see that his arms are cut. Slashes so similar to the day the mermaid tried to steal his heart from me. Quickly, Kye tears his sleeve and grabs Elian’s hand. It’s punctured with deep, dark holes. The blood is black red and nothing at all like the gold I’ve heard. The sight of it gives me pause.
“Are you mad?” Kye yells. He uses his shirt as a makeshift bandage. “I can’t believe you got into that thing.”
“It was the only way.” Elian shakes his hand as though shaking off the injury. “She wouldn’t be lured.”
“You could’ve nicked an artery,” Madrid says. “Don’t think we’d waste good stitches on you if you were going to bleed to death anyhow.”
Elian smirks at her insubordination. Everything is a game to him. Loyalty is mockery and devotion is kinship in place of fear. He is a riddle, disguised as a ruler, able to laugh at the idea of disloyalty as though it would never be an option. I can’t fathom such a thing.
“If you’re gonna keep this up,” Kye says, “we should invest in some safer nets.”
I look to the net in question and almost smile. It’s a web of wire and glass. Shards weave into one another so that their twisted metal can make a nimble cage. It’s monstrous and glorious.
Inside, the siren wails.
“She’s clever,” says Elian, coming to my side. “Normally the noise confuses them so much that I stand by the net and they fly in. She wouldn’t have it though. Wouldn’t go unless I did.”
The crew gathers with their weapons at the ready.
“She was trying to outsmart you,” I say, and Elian grins.
“She can try to be smarter, but she’ll never be quicker.”
I scoff at his arrogance and turn to the creature he has caught in his web. I’m almost eager to see the siren stupid enough to fall for such a trap, but at the sight of her face, an unfamiliar feeling settles into my stomach.
I know her.
A sleek charcoal fin that smudges across the deck. Cold black hair stringing over her cheeks and nails carved to shanks. She snarls, baring her fangs and slapping her fin violently against the wire. In the background the whistle hums, and whenever I think she might sing, she whimpers instead. I take a step closer and she narrows her eyes. One brown, the other a mix of blue and blood. Curdled by a scar that stretches to her lip.
Maeve.
“Be careful,” Elian says, his hand hovering by my arm. “They’re deadly.”
I turn to him, but he’s looking at the siren, seaweed eyes sharper than her nails.
“Aidiastikó gouroúni,” Maeve growls.
Disgusting pig.
Her words are a mirror of the ones I spoke when Elian saved me from drowning.
“Be calm,” I tell her, then grimace when I realize I’m still speaking Midasan.
When the siren’s eyes meet mine, they’re full of the same hatred we’ve always shared for each other. It almost makes me laugh to think that even as strangers, our animosity can be so ripe, stretching beyond the bounds of knowing.
Maeve spits on the deck. “Filthy human whore,” she says in Psáriin.
Instinctively, I lurch forward, but Elian yanks me back by the waist. I kick violently against him, desperate to get at the defiant girl in front of me. Siren or not, I won’t let the insult stand.
“Stop.” Elian’s voice is muffled by my hair. “If you want to get yourself killed, one of us can do the job a lot tidier.”
“Let her go.” Kye laughs. “I want to see how that ends.”
I writhe against Elian, scratching at his arms like the animal I am. “After what she just called me,” I say, “it’s going to end with her heart on the floor.”
Maeve cackles and uses haw a Psáriin circle on her palm. When my eyes widen at the insult, she only laughs more. It’s a symbol reserved for the lowest beings. For mermaids that lie dying as their fins are stapled into the sand in punishment. For humans unworthy of a siren’s presence. To make that gesture to the royal bloodline is punishable by death.
“Kill her,” I seethe. “Áschimi lígo skýla.”
“Human scum!” Maeve screeches in return.
Elian’s breath is hot on my neck as he struggles to keep ahold of me. “What did you say?”
“Filthy little bitch,” I translate in Midasan. “Tha sas skotóso ton eaftó mou.”
I’ll kill you myself.
I’m about to break free, but the second Elian releases his grip on my waist, his hands clamp down on my shoulders. He twists me around and I’m thrown against the door of the lower deck. When he leans over me, the scent of black sweets is fragrant on his breath.
I dismiss him and make to move past, but he’s too quick, even for me, and blocks my path, pushing me back against the varnished wood. Slowly, he brings a hand to the paneling beside my head, closing me in.
“You speak Psáriin.”
His voice is throaty, his eyes as dark as the blood that seeps from his hand. Behind him, the crew keeps a watchful eye on Maeve, but every moment or so they shoot surreptitious glances our way. In my madness, I forgot myself. Or perhaps I remembered myself. I spat my language like it was the most natural thing in the world. Which, to a human, it would never be.
Elian is close enough that if I listened, I’d be able to hear his heartbeat. If I stilled, I’d be able to feel the thumps pulsing through the air between us. I look down to his chest, where the strings of his shirt have loosened to reveal a circle of nails. My parting gift.
“Lira,” he says. “You better have a damn good explanation.”
I try to think of an answer, but out of the corner of my eye I see Maeve still at the mention of my name. Suddenly she’s squinting at me, leaning forward so the net pierces through her arms.
I hiss and Maeve scrambles back.
“Prinkípissa!” she says.
Princess.
She shakes her head. She was ready to die at the hands of pirates, but now that she stares into the eyes of her princess, fear finally dawns on her face.
“You understand her,” says Elian.
“I understand many things.”
I push him away and he gestures for his crew to let me approach their prisoner.
“Parakaló,” Maeve screams as I near. “Parakaló!”
“What’s she saying?” asks Madrid.
She points her weapon at Maeve, as all of the crew does. Swords and bullets to hide behind, because humans don’t possess the innate strength to defend themselves. Only unlike the others, Madrid’s gun is not so much a gun at all. Somewhere along the way, she discarded the crossbow in place of something far more deadly. Gold-polished metal gleams in the shape of a rifle, but a long black spear rests below the site, the tip dipped in the purest silver. Yet despite having such an elaborate weapon, Madrid doesn’t look eager to attack. She looks as though she would rather keep her hands clean of murder.
I turn back to Maeve and watch the fear settle into her eyes. There’s never been anything close to tolerance between us, but it was only recently we began to consider ourselves enemies. Or rather, Maeve began to consider me an enemy and I enjoyed the compliment.
I take in her muddled eye, rippled by blood and shadowed by scars. I blinded her, not so long ago, with the blunt end of a coral piece. Now, whenever she blinks, her right eye stays open. Thinking back, I can’t remember why I did it. Maeve said something, perhaps. Did something that I disliked enough to punish her. Really, she could have done anything and it wouldn’t have mattered, because most of all I just wanted to hurt her. For whatever reason and no reason. I wanted to hear her scream.
It is like that in the sea. Brutal and unrelenting. Filled with endless cruelty that has no recompense. There was a time when I wanted nothing more than to kill Maeve but feared my mother’s wrath too much to act. Now the opportunity is here. Perhaps not to do it myself, but to watch as someone else does. The enemy of my enemy.
“Tell us what she’s saying,” Kye demands.
“She’s not saying anything.” I stare at Maeve. “She’s begging.”
“Begging.”
Elian is beside me, an unreadable expression on his face as he repeats my words. He clasps the knife in his wounded hand, and when his blood drips down the blade, it disappears. Metal drinking metal. I can feel the sorcery roll from it like thunder. The whispers of a weapon begging him to spill more blood so it can get its fill. It’s soaked in enough magic to sing like one of my melodies, but Elian doesn’t succumb to its refrain. His expression is hesitant and it’s been a long time since I’ve seen such a thing in the eyes of a killer. Yet Elian stares down at Maeve as though the thought of her pleading makes the whole thing wrong. Dirty.
“She’s begging,” he says. “Are you sure?”
“Parakaló,” I repeat. “It means ‘please.’ ”