An Excerpt of The Wicked Sea
The Wicked Sea truly has it ALL. We’ve got a mermaid on the run, a beautiful (and deadly) warlock, and a magical bargain until death do they part.
Need I say more.
Lucky for you we have the prologue and Chapter 1 for your reading pleasure below!
Prologue
Aurelia
The corpse of a mermaid rots high above a bushel of pure white gardenias. Her scales fall like stardust over the moonlit garden, shriveled but still glittering and iridescent, even as the rest of her congeals. No one pays any mind to the devastation, however. They’re too busy bathing in the glitter, smearing it on their chests and lips in sadistic ritual. Bittersweet liquor flows like a fountain from their hands as they drink deeply, as they shriek with laughter and dance around their victim, reaching up to pull at her long lavender hair. The men. The women.
Humans.
They do not mourn the creature they’ve slain. They celebrate her death and dance beneath her grave.
An old anger, hot and furious, clenches my heart in its sharpened claws. Just beyond the ornate white gates of the palace garden, beneath a dome of silvered glass and decorative marble columns, a full moon illuminates a hundred royals and nobles celebrating their vindictive masquerade. A hundred humans whose families have spent generations claiming and slaughtering and wrecking.
Tonight they will pay.
For five centuries, humans have slaughtered merrow. Out of greed. Cowardice. They fear what they do not— what they refuse to—understand, and instead of seeking our favor, instead of fostering peace, they butcher us on sight. To humans, a merrow commits treason by simply existing, and our sentence is swift execution—a sword in the heart, perhaps, if the human feels merciful, or a slow and torturous flaying if not.
And then they string us up.
Without fail, they hang us like garlands from golden ropes to ridicule, to desecrate, to drag their hungry fingers through our death and paint their skin with the victory. My eyes flick back to the dead merrow, her body jerking as a reveler shears her hair and braids it through his eagle mask. A hiss rises in my throat. My fingers tangle in my own short peach locks as I shove them behind my ears. My steps fall almost silent on the marble floor, and I cannot see or hear my sisters in the shadows, where they creep forward too. Where they watch, and they wait for my signal.
We are the depths of the sea and the salt of tears. We are the violence of the riptide and the snarl of waves.
We are vengeance.
A pair of guards stands watch at each of the gates’ entrances. They carry swords in heavy leather sheaths while their gilded armor reflects the flickering flames of cerulean torchlight. Their hearts are hidden beneath flesh and metal, but their throats are exposed. Veins in their wrists throb. I can almost taste their blood on my tongue.
Perhaps I’ll drink it straight from the vein.
It is less than they deserve. Humans. Men. I nearly spit at the thought, lingering behind a topiary crowned with pansies and tulips. Imported. Indulgent. I nearly choke on the scent of their sweet perfume, how it tangles with the rot of my people’s corpses. The laughter in the courtyard grows louder as the liquor continues to flow. One woman—her voice feeble, hideous, and thin as a fraying thread—sings a local hymn, snatching shorn hair and throwing it around like confetti while others snort sky- blue powder through greedy nostrils and fuck in the center of the garden. I hate them. I hate them all.
There are none so horrible, so beastly, as those who reside here in the Kingdom of Mortia.
And the lavender-haired merrow is not the only corpse rotting over their masquerade.
Seven days ago, King Constane Ador intercepted other refugee merrow from an offshore island. Merrow who were fleeing the Sel to escape a giant squid attack. The merrow did not harm the humans of the small fishing town. They did not use their magical abilities to maim or kill. They merely hid in a ramshackle building beside the docks, waiting for the tentacled monster to retreat, and when it finally did so, hours later, they left—or at least, they tried. Except an army of men with knives and swords waited for them outside the building.
The humans gutted them on sight.
And now they—my brothers, my sisters—weep dead flesh above human decadence and brazen merriment.
My knuckles crack as my hands curl into fists. My toes cut into the cold of the floor. Though my tail transformed into two legs the moment my skin dried of any remaining salt water, I still feel it whipping, lashing, inside me. A phantom limb begging to move. To act. To wound.
This kingdom shall atone for its sins.
Now.
I erupt from the shadowy colonnade with a strangled cry, and the guards stiffen at their posts. Ripping swords from their sheaths, they prepare for a quick but bloody battle. I don’t give them the chance to attack, however. Not this time. Not ever again. Instead, my cry weaves into a vicious melody, and a song spills from my lips as sinful as the Fathoms.
Their eyes widen. Brown and green fear. Their mouths open on a scream.
I enchant them before they can utter a sound.
Their swords clatter to the floor in response, and they collapse withunnatural force on brittle knees. A tendon snaps upon the impact. Agony reddens their pale cheeks as they try and then fail to resist me, to resist my song, and my lips twist into a vengeful smile. In a fair fight, a human will never win against a merrow. No, they must resort to base tactics, to overwhelming numbers and brute force, or else to trickery and deceit. I continue singing as I approach, as I bend down and scoop up one of their swords, as I aim it at their necks and relish the fury on their crude faces. Then, and only then, do I hesitate.
“Sisters?” I ask.
“It is time, Aurelia,” Argonia answers swiftly, her voice spilling across the darkness as she approaches the colonnade. “The north entrance has been conquered.”
“The south has fallen, Aurelia,” Phylla responds next, her voice faint from somewhere behind us.
The men beneath me exchange frightened glances. One reaches thick, clumsy fingers toward the lone sword on the floor. Before he can grasp the hilt, I slam my foot down on his wrist and twist my heel in the way I was taught by my queen—the way that severs every bone in his delicate forearm. He shrieks out his pain, and I devour the sound.
Kneeling, I drag my stolen sword across his metal chest plate. Silver on gold. It screeches the most earsplitting song.
“S‑siren,” he manages through trembling lips. His face has paled to a sickly seafoam green, and a fine sheet of sweat coats his forehead now. He knows what is coming; he has heard stories of the terrible sirens of the Sel, probably on the knee of his mother as a child.
“Siren,” I agree with a small tilt of my head. Short locks of sunset peach fall in front of my eyes as I cross my arms over the bone-white armor of my people. “I could control the last dredges of your mind with a single note. Does that scare you, human?” He doesn’t answer, clamping his mouth shut resolutely, so I grip his chin with my free hand and jerk my head toward his comrade. “I could make you gnash teeth through your friend. How do you think he’ll taste?” When he still says nothing, I lean closer, inhaling his fear. “This is a celebration, isn’t it? Perhaps the two of you should feast on each other?”
The scent of fresh piss scrunches my nose. I cannot tell if it is from this guard or the other. Both shake like frail tendrils of seaweed in a summer storm. Cowards. I shove his face away, disgust filling my throat like bile. These men are not worth the full force of my ire. No, that is reserved for their king.
I stand, lifting my chin, and glare down at the pathetic guards.
“P‑p‑please,” the other murmurs, pressing his hands together in something of a prayer. “Spare me. I’ve done nothing wrong. I— I have never hurt merrow.” His eyes widen desperately at whatever he sees in my expression. “I swear it.”
If not for the fury blazing in my chest, I would vomit on his boots.
Baring my teeth, I kick his face toward the lavender- haired merrow, toward the dozens of others who swing beside her. Debased and degraded. Dead.
“Perhaps not,” I snarl, “but you protect the garden from which they are strung. You defend those who mock our deceased. The blood staining their hands has rubbed off on yours. You are covered in it. This whole kingdom is drenched.”
“Please—”
“For the fallen,” I say, and I slit his throat before he can finish the plea.
His words gush from his lips with a burbling of blood. The other guard hastens to move, to climb onto his one good knee, but I stab him through the skull before he can flee. I pierce his brain as easily as one might pierce a sponge. He deserved so much worse. They all do.
“The east is secured,” I say to my sisters. “It is time to wreak havoc.”
“Great luck,” Phylla sings softly as she departs.
“Great luck,” Argonia and I echo.
The wish is not needed. The goddess is on our side. This kingdom will not long survive.
We open our respective gates at the same time, in perfect synchronicity, and march inside Mortia’s royal garden. Phylla, with her brilliant blue hair and blue lips, weaves toward the largest crowd beneath the freshest merrow corpses. Red-haired Argonia pushes toward the bar, surrounded by masked revelers. And I—
I set my sights on the king.
Sitting upon a glittering throne in the center of the garden—a throne painted with iridescent scales—he throws his head back with a riotous laugh, and his golden crown nearly topples from his golden hair until he throws a hand up to catch it. The movement upsets the goblet in his other hand, but he only laughs louder as his wine spills across the floor. His eyes glimmer with dark brown delight behind the blackened feathers of his raven mask.
The sycophants surrounding him follow suit, chortling and chuckling as the perfect little puppets they are. Performing for their ghastly master. So caught up with being near the king, they don’t even notice me—not the Sel’s bone white armor affixed to my breasts and hips, not the peach hair curling around my ears.
Not the sword in my hand dripping scarlet on their glistening marble floors.
Of course, they notice the screams.
Beside a bursting fountain of crystalline waters, a drunken courtier holding two goblets of berry wine stumbles into Argonia. My sister doesn’t wait for an apology. She simply grips the man’s head between her hands and wrenches it from his neck. Argonia’s biggest strength has always been her . . . well, strength. Even if she weren’t a siren born of the Sel, she would be one of the deadliest weapons in the ocean. In the world. And with the courtier’s head dangling from her fingers . . . it is a tad bit hard to miss.
Gore explodes around her in an instant, followed by the shrieks of panic and terror. The human corpse thuds to the floor, and my sister turns, stabbing her nails through the cheek of a curvaceous woman, gouging white flesh with blackened nails. Argonia kicks the woman in the chest as she pulls out her fingers. Screaming, the woman careens backward into the fountain, cracking her skull on the stone and crumpling instantly. Another dead as the water bleeds scarlet. My turn to laugh.
And I do—I laugh, and I curse that woman with the same breath, kicking out at another who streaks past in terror. Breaking her knee, still laughing as Argonia swoops down to break everything else.
They laughed when they murdered these merrow. They laughed when they painted themselves with my kin’s scales.
The king’s gaze locks on to mine through the sudden chaos. I lift the sword to my mouth and lick blood from the blade. His eyes narrow with unconcealed hatred. He shoves forward, shunting aside the sycophants who flee in all directions.
“Merrow,” he curses.
“Murderer,” I hiss.
Behind me, the screams rise, but my sisters do not sing. My grip tightens on the stolen sword as Constane charges closer. I do not sing either—not yet—because we want them to know, we want them to fear, just as the others did. All those merrow above our heads. Before we take away their will, their lives, we want them to know they’ve lost. “You will pay for your crimes, Constane. You will suffer. My name is Aurelia of the Sel, and my sisters and I will finally bring you to your knees.”
“It’s King Constane.” He snatches a dagger from his back pocket, one as bejeweled as his trousers, and holds it in front of him in a weak show of defense. Too slow, too blundering from the wine. “And I don’t think you will, demon.”
He expects me to attack like my sisters, to duel him with this sword in my hand. Because of Argonia, he doesn’t yet realize that we do not need brute force or human weapons. We are sirens of the Sel, and our voices could demolish kingdoms.
The time has come for this kingdom. The time has come for this king.
So I open my mouth, and I sing.
My vocal cords coax out notes of death, horror, torment, and torture. They climb higher with grief and loss and rage, the pain of such needless cruelty and evil. I direct it all at the humans—the humans who laughed, who danced, who now flee and beg and weep on their knees for mercy. They did not give the merrow mercy, however. The woman across the garden still clutches brittle lavender hair between her fingers as she wrings them, pleading with Phylla to spare her. I didn’t mean it. Please, please forgive me.
Phylla does not forgive. And I sing, and I sing, and I sing.
One by one, the humans begin to die.
My sisters join me now, our song throttling the glass ceiling. Blood trickles down ears, from the corners of glossy lips, from eye sockets and nostrils onto opulent masks. It smells like decay. Like vengeance. And I inhale deeply as I glare at the king before me, as I watch his jaw clench, his cheeks growing ruddy from the exertion of trying to remain in control. Of trying not to succumb. My melody weaves faster, as haunting as the sound of crashing waves on a pitch-black night.
Others in the garden drop like rocks. My sisters sing them into plucking out their own eyes or ripping out their own teeth. The metallic scent of viscera thickens further, overpowering even the pansies and tulips. The lilies and anemones. It is not enough, however. None of this will ever be enough.
“Your family has made a legacy of slaughtering our people,” I sing darkly, stalking closer to the king, circling him as he falters and sways. I want to see the light leave his eyes. I want mine to be the last face he sees. “May the Fathoms fill your eternity with dread.”
King Constane finally collapses. Though he does not scream, his body quivers from the pressure building in his skull, and his hand begins to rise against his will. The dagger turns around in his palm. It faces his heart.
I lean closer, near-giddy with triumph.
“Goodbye, Constane.”
My voice carries, crooning louder and louder, as the dagger travels closer and closer to his flesh. And then—
And then Phylla’s song comes crashing to a halt. In the midst of her melody, it just . . . stops, and my own song pitches off-key, my stomach plummeting as if I’ve missed a step. Frowning, I glance to my left, but I don’t see her anymore. Her blue hair has vanished amidst the crowd, and those nearest her have straightened with expressions of hysterical relief—bleeding and broken but no longer dying—as if they’ve been miraculously saved. But that is impossible. There is no one here to save them. No one can ignore a siren’s song. No one can defeat us.
Frown deepening—ignoring that sinking pit in my stomach—I whirl back to face the king, refocusing my gaze. Phylla is fine. She just ducked behind the fountain. My voice steadies once more, and Constane slices through the cotton swathing his broad chest. He slices through skin, drawing blood, and—
And Argonia’s song dies with a wet, gurgling scream. A scream so familiar, it could be my own.
No. My heart crashes through my feet, but I do not dare look away from King Constane again. Not as he grins—he grins—and a single droplet of blood trickles from his mouth to his jaw. Not as he wipes it away freely, my control over him slipping. No, no, no. My chest tightens to the point of pain, and my mind screams the refusal, unable to comprehend what is happening because my sisters—
I stumble backward, horrified.
It can’t be true. It can’t be real.
They can’t be dead.
“Impossible,” I hiss, and even to my own ears, I sound half wild.
Trapped.
When Constane laughs again in reply, I spin around to find Argonia in the crowd, to spot her red hair and ocean-blue eyes and the smirk that carves a dimple in her cheek, but she is—she is on the floor. Why is she on the floor? Pressure burns behind my eyes as blood pours from her abdomen. Her eyes gaze up, wide and unseeing, at the starless night.
“Impossible!” The word tears from my throat on a cry. I’m not singing any longer. My lungs feel as if they’re caving in, as if that hole in her abdomen is mine.
“No,” an unfamiliar male voice says calmly, carelessly. “Not for a warlock.”
He appears seconds before his weapon. White wings as tall and wide as the largest doorway splay behind him, tipped in molten gold, as his strange, ethereal gold- silver gaze fixes on mine. He does not seem to have been controlled by our songs. His hands are awash in red. The blood of my sisters. My heart shatters.
“Hello, Aurelia of the Sel. I am Warlock Arion Stone, and my voice is the last you shall ever hear.” He plunges a glass sword into my throat. “May your suffering be as great as your sisters’.”
One cut. That’s all it takes.
Sharp pain implodes through my bones, though I hardly feel it as I fall. I do not even care that I fall. All I see is the red on his hands. All I feel is sorrow.
My sisters my sisters my sisters.
The world darkens, and—the warlock is wrong.
The last voice I hear before I die is the king’s as he says, “String them up with the rest.”
Chapter One
Zephyra
“This is disgusting.”
“Then perhaps you should eat some ginger or, even better, leave.”
“I didn’t say I was going to puke. I said it’s disgusting—which it is. There are dead bodies in there. Freshly slaughtered. Days ago. By sirens. Remember? Rumor has it that the gore will stain the palace forever.”
“Remind me again why you demanded to come?” Vesper asks me with a deepening frown. The sight of it is almost as unnerving as seeing the kingdom splashed behind her, all razor-straight edges and glistening white marble. Ancient and fortified and deadly. Maybe I’ll puke after all. Mortia has never been a welcoming place, least of all for someone like me.
If this goes wrong in any way, that’s it. For all of us.
Vesper moves two steps above me, and the torches outside the temple walls coax her shadow larger and paint her dark skin an even deeper shade of brown. She crosses her arms beneath her navy cloak, and the silver bangles on her wrist clang from the movement. Navy to match her eyes. Silver to match her hair. All things considered, she looks exceptionally beautiful for a midnight grave robbery.
“I would tell her this too, if she hadn’t spent the entire walk here searching for excuses to send me back to the streets. No matter how anxious I am, I refuse to let it show. I refuse to leave. The score is too big. It could change my entire life. “I told you. I’m the one with the key.”
Her gaze narrows, and she licks her lips. Obviously, she isn’t finished with me yet.
“Show us.”
“What?” I blink wide turquoise eyes at her and run my hands through my thick honey curls.
“Show us the fucking key.”
“The most important part of teamwork is trust. After three jobs together, I thought you would trust me more—”
Vesper slides up another step, halfway to the temple now. “First job,” she says slowly, “you scorched half our map and we had to fumble our way through the jeweler’s vaults while three soldiers chased us down. Second job, you fell asleep when you were meant to be our lookout. Third job—”
“Third job, you exploded my babies,” Stavros says gruffly, stroking the gunpowder satchels in his arms with a pallid hand. I half expect him to kiss the rough fabric, but unfortunately, he chooses now to keep his oddities to a minimum. His mustache twitches. The veins twining up his thick neck begin to bulge. I sidle up beside him to pat him on the shoulder. When he growls, however, I think better of coddling the five-foot tall, three-hundred-pound ball of anger and quickly dance away.
Snatching a dagger from the belt strung across my waist, I lean against a massive column. “If you despise me so much, you shouldn’t have invited me.”
“You invited yourself,” Vesper hisses, “because you claim to have the key.”
“Trust is not just a five-letter word—”
“Guys! Stop fighting,” Eos snaps. “We have three minutes before the guards’ route returns them to the front of the temple.”
“She is the only one who doesn’t glare at me, instead directing her ire at her older sister. Vesper meets Eos’s gaze with an eye roll.
“Zephyra is right,” Eos says. “The only way we pull this off is if we work together.”
I smile brightly, winking my victory at Stavros, but Eos pulls the dagger from my grasp and stuffs it in her tool belt.
“Excuse me? I stole that. It’s mine.”
Eos pushes intricate silver braids behind her ears. Resolute, she lifts her chin and marches up the grandiose staircase. “You can have it back once we’ve excavated our treasure. Now, get inside before we’re tossed into prison.”
Prison.
I shudder.
No way is anyone locking me up tonight. My hands curl into my palms, turquoise nails slicing half-moons into my lightly golden skin. The pain grounds me. It reminds me what I left, what I’m still running from. No. I’m not going back there ever again.”
“I hurry up the stairs, gently smacking Eos on the shoulder. “Don’t boss the adults around.”
“I’m seventeen.”
“You’re a child,” I tell her. “But it’s okay. We love you regardless.”
Eos grumbles under her breath, and I know I’ve hit a nerve. At four foot eleven, with cherubic cheeks and a frame as slender as a skeleton, Eos is constantly mistaken for an actual child. Pretty helpful when she needs to purloin a meal or two for her and her sister, though she would never admit it. Not only do people pay less attention to children, but they’re also less likely to turn one in if they’re caught thieving. Of course, Eos doesn’t get caught. Neither do Vesper or Stavros.
Neither do I.
Huffing, I throw myself inside the temple with seconds to spare. The abacus shields us from the weather, but there are no walls to hide within. Instead, the four of us press up against separate marble pillars for sixty full seconds before peering out.
“Sure enough, four guards stand watch with their backs to us. In another eighteen minutes, they’ll begin their rotation again, splitting up and marching for the south side. We’ll have to climb down into the antechamber fast if we’re going to rob this place and escape before they notice we were ever here.
“Statue,” Stavros whispers, his voice as light as the summer breeze. He twirls his mustache six times for good luck. “In three, two…”
One, I think.
We race for the massive statue in the middle of the temple on quiet feet. No socks. No shoes. Silence is as much a necessity for these jobs as gunpowder and daggers. Though Vesper believes me to be an amateur, I’ve managed to steal enough to keep away from the sea for over half a year. No one treats this more seriously than I do. Because if I’m caught…
If I’m caught, it won’t necessarily mean a swift hanging in the city proper.
If I’m caught, he will come for me. And all the progress I’ve made, all the freedom I’ve stolen, will be for nothing.
“Vesper reaches the target first, and she yanks Eos after her. The two crouch behind a set of chiseled charcoal wings. I join them by pressing up against a rather impressive oblique. My hand slips with sweat, and I find myself accidentally fondling the stone ass cheeks of Mortia’s most revered god.
Mortem.
The God of Death; the first and worst traitor to merrow kind.
I consider snatching my dagger from Eos’s belt to slam the blade up his emphasized ass crack, but Vesper grips my wrist with a surprisingly strong grasp. “No, Zephyra,” she hisses, so low I almost don’t hear it. “I know that look. Don’t do anything reckless.”
Reckless.
The word crashes overhead like a dangerous current, threatening to pull me under. I blink hastily, however, erasing the bitter memory before it can drown me. Not here. Not now. Not when a trove of gold awaits.
If I can just make it through tonight—if we can all make it through tonight—there won’t be any “reason to worry about trauma and pain again. We’ll have enough coin to go our separate ways, to fund mildly lavish lifestyles in whichever cities or kingdoms we prefer. I’ll move to the mountains, as far from the sea as I can manage, and buy a small cottage with a real bed. Real pillows, and maybe even a stove. No more rooting through the garbage for scraps or sleeping on the hard limestone of dark, dirty alleys. I’ll buy a home, and I won’t have to run anymore. Won’t have to hide or pretend. I’ll be safe.
Free.
Goddess. It’s so close now, I can almost taste it. Like sweet ripened berries plucked from a garden no one else can enter. Wiping my hands on my linen trousers, I refocus on the present moment. On the temple and my three associates staring at me with their hands outstretched.
Fuck. What did I miss?
“Um…hello,” I say blandly.
Vesper glares at the ceiling. “The key, Zephyra.”
Oh. Right. I force a cheery grin, and Eos instantly groans at the sight. “See, the thing is…I couldn’t actually get it.”
“You what?” Stavros asks. His biceps strangle his precious satchels, and a bit of gunpowder spills from the openings. “Where is the key?”
I push Vesper’s hand away. “I tried, okay? But the merrow attack was only four days ago. The palace is swarming with guards and soldiers and executioners, and King Constane is on high alert for any sort of treachery. Soldiers have been told to arrest any suspicious persons without trial. I couldn’t exactly seduce the High Priest right under their noses.”
Vesper glowers at me now, and Eos doesn’t try to stop her. Sharp as a blade, Vesper says, “You can’t seduce the High Priest. Mortia priests and priestesses vow eternal silence and celibacy in honor of Mortem. You should know that.”
I blink at her. “Oh. Well—good thing I couldn’t try.”
Vesper seems about ready to throttle me. “I cannot believe you. Why are you here if you don’t have the fucking key?”
It’s not a bad point, but there’s no way in the Fathoms I’m missing out on this score. “I offer this group more than just a key.”
“I’m not seeing evidence of that.”
“I narrow my gaze. “Who told you that the king’s premier jeweler was moving inventory three months ago? Who found the records for the shipwreck you plundered?”
Vesper seethes, her cheeks flaming red. “You are not and have never been a real part of this crew. You found us in a tavern, and you attached yourself. We allow you to help us—”
“Two hundred twenty-six,” I hiss. “That’s how much copper we’ve made the last few months. I’ve helped plenty. Stavros may have been the brains behind this particular plan, but that’s because he’s desperate for a reason to explode his newest shipment of gunpowder. I’m here to make sure it goes smoothly and we actually nab the jewels.”
“It is true,” Stavros answers earnestly. “I want to make boom.”
I grin at him, and now he winks at me. It’s oddly disconcerting as he continues stroking his precious powder. At least he’s on my side. Vesper shakes her head, however, still unconvinced. “This is the fourth time you’ve screwed up. If we’re caught—”
“We won’t be caught.”
“You’re a liability,” Vesper snaps under her breath.
“Panic begins to seize my lungs. Reckless. A liability. It’s a familiar narrative. It’s damned me more times than I can count. I shove my coarse blonde locks behind my shoulder and lift my chin, my own skin flushing with bitter resentment. “You have such interesting hair, Vesper,” I whisper. “I don’t believe I’ve seen that kind of blonde before. Almost as if it’s…silver in the light.”
A muscle feathers in her jaw. Her inhumanly silver brows pinch. “Maybe because it’s natural, and you wouldn’t know anything about that. Would you, Zephyra?” She reaches for my own hair, and I smack her hand away.”
“Luckily, Eos interjects before I can hurl myself at her sister and potentially expose our entire operation. “Both of you, knock it off.”
I glance at her, deciding on my next insult, when my gaze drops to our feet.
Aha. That’s it.
Tilting my head, I force a serene smile and flutter my lashes at Vesper. “What’s the point of your minnow of a sister coming if not this?” I gesture with delicate fingers to my new discovery.
An air vent an inch or two less wide than Eos’s shoulders rests between us, right beside the keyhole that would typically open the secret stairwell.
“Eos goes down,” I say, “and she opens the stairwell herself. So long as she does it soon, we’ll be able to finish the job behind the guards’ backs.” I lick my teeth when Vesper stares at me, unable to think of a mean retort. “See? Helpful.”
“I don’t know whether you are a genius, or just really fucking lucky,” Stavros says, his unibrow pinched in concentration.
I shrug. “A bit of both.”
Vesper sighs. Apparently deciding I’m no longer worth the fight, she turns to Eos and asks, “Can you fit?”
“Eos studies the vent. Prying up the metal frame with my dagger, she traces her fingers along its smooth edges. “Hypothetically, yeah. Looks easy enough.”
Vesper’s gaze flashes with an anger typically reserved for reckless daughters rather than careful sisters. “If you dislocate your shoulder again—”
Eos huffs. “I’ll be fine, Ves.”
Vesper frowns, clearly incredulous. “No amount of coin is worth your safety.”
“Ves, I’ve got it. I’m a professional, remember? No one smaller and skinnier in all of Mortia.” Eos scrunches her nose, beginning to dangle her legs over the opening. She concentrates the same way she always does—with her tongue poking through her lips. Her feet slide through first. Her thighs don’t even touch the sides. “Easy,” she mutters. “No problem.”
Vesper holds her breath, knuckles paling as she grabs Mortem’s wing for strength. The stone splinters, however, and she glances at her hand. The sudden realization that she is both touching the God of Death’s statue and breaking it makes her rip her grasp away. She exhales a ragged breath, seeking her sister once more.
“Eos grips the marble with confident hands and forearms, biceps flexing as she lowers herself farther and farther into the hole. Her torso disappears next. Then her chest. She smiles triumphantly for a moment before her mouth screws up tight. A pained whimper passes her lips. She doesn’t move past her shoulders. She can’t.
“Shit,” she whines, twisting to try to release the pressure from her bad shoulder.
“Guards in eleven,” Stavros says, keeping track of the time in a way that feels almost magical. He shifts the gunpowder in his arms and stands. “We go now, or we don’t go at all.”
Vesper looks warily between us as Eos exhales another whine. I can’t tell if she’s making progress or if she’s hurt. She should have fallen into the antechamber seconds ago. If she gets stuck…if those guards find us here…
Glancing at their silver hair, I swallow hard.
“Eos,” Vesper says suddenly, “let me pull you out.”
“No.” Eos wiggles, biting down on more curses as her body twists unnaturally. “Fucking broad shoulders.”
“I stare at Eos. In so many ways, she really is a child. Small, bright-eyed, hopeful. If the guards catch her, she’ll die. “We’ll try another day,” I say, leaning over to help Vesper drag Eos out.
Eos glares up at us. “No. I can do it.” She seeks her sister’s gaze. “We’re getting that coin, and we’re leaving this shithole. Okay? I can do this.”
She shuts her eyes, and her tongue slithers out again. With an indelicate ergh, she yanks one hand inside the vent and forces it behind her back. It buys her the inch of room she needs, and her eyes pop open on another triumphant grin. “See you below,” she whispers, and then she drops. Falls.
A light thud follows, and Vesper exhales palpable relief. So do I. Both breathing heavily, Vesper and I step away from the statue in anticipation of the staircase unveiling itself. She glares at me from the corner of her navy eye, and I understand well enough that this time, her frustration isn’t my fault. At least, not it all.”
“If anything happens to my sister,” Vesper murmurs, “I will kill you, Zephyra. Do you understand?”
“We will make boom,” Stavros agrees.
Vesper nods, never once taking her gaze off my face. “Yes. We will make boom.”
This gorgeous DELUXE LIMITED EDITION is available while supplies last and features:
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Mermaid Zephyra of the Syl dreams of freedom. On the run from a dangerous captor and years of abuse, she’s shed her tail, grown legs, and hidden herself on land in the merrow-loathing kingdom of Mortia, left to steal and barter on the dirty streets. But her freedom is short-lived when she’s caught and sentenced to death by the brutal warlock, Arion Stone.
Arion is as beautiful as he is cold and deadly, only interested in punishing the merrow he views as evil. He has grown as strong as any warlock might, but at great personal cost…which can only be remedied by the heart of the God of Death, lost to a fabled kingdom beneath the ocean’s treacherous depths.
So Arion offers Zephyra a deal she can’t refuse; help him find the mystical heart, and he’ll spare her life. With no other options, Zephyra agrees, entangling their souls and forbidden desires in a magical bargain until death do they part. But Zephyra’s past is catching up to her, and the enemy she fled seeks vengeance. If Zephyra and Arion can’t learn to fight together—and trust each other—there are worse things awaiting them than just death.
Of course, in the wicked sea, everyone has secrets, and no one should be trusted.
For Fans of:
Enemies-to-lovers
Magic Sensual Bonds
Winged Romantic Lead
Forced Proximity