The Girl Who Belonged to the Sea by Katherine Quinn
Chapter Seven
Margrete
Margrete jolted awake,clutching the tangled sheets in her fists. They were still slightly damp from her nightmare. As she often did, Margrete dreamt of her father, of the box, of screaming for air, but this time, trapped within the box, she heard a voice, one that whispered a single word over and over again.
Soon.
But it was only a dream.
Margrete glanced around the cabin. While the visions of her father and the box were not real, she was still in another prison. She surmised it was better to be trapped in the cage she knew—one controlled by a master she’d encountered before—than here, where she didn’t know what to expect. The unknowns were what terrified her most.
With a curse, she flung aside the coverlet and yanked on the boots she’d discovered the night before, a wool sock rolled into the head of each tip. Thankfully, she’d been able to rid herself of the bloodied gown after Bash left her cabin, and the loose linen shirt and too-large trousers she found in the trunk were mercifully clean.
Margrete brought the flowing sleeve to her nose, inhaling the scent of salt and dried ocean water. The fabric held another smell she couldn’t name, something dark and earthy that reminded her of clear skies and summer nights.
Dropping her hand, she turned to the porthole. As if mocking her fear, the sun painted the morning clouds in shades of orange and blush, a beautiful sunrise after a wretched day.
Sunrise.
The ship swayed as it crested waves, though Margrete’s feet were steady as she went to the porthole for a better look, expecting to see nothing but open waters and sinking hope.She blinked away the sleep from her eyes and took in the island ahead. The exquisite city that rose up from beyond the coast stole her breath.
She stumbled until the backs of her thighs hitting the cot. They were no longer anywhere near Prias. She wasn’t certain they were even in the right world.
Majestic ambers, mighty blues, vibrant emeralds, and dreamy silvers filled her sight, captivating colors from a foreign land of magic. Swaying palms and distant mountains rose high into the sky, a city of sea glass buildings nestled below. Surrounding the vast island were golden sands, each grain a glittering gem in the early light. Margrete had never seen anything like it, and its beauty struck a chord deep inside her chest, a note that the sea had never sung before. She’d imagined ending up on some sinful island of pirates and brutes, a place of petty savagery, rotting ships, and rusted iron.
Instead, she was in paradise.
“Where am I?”
As if answering her question, the door to her cabin unlocked and opened, swinging on its hinges. Bash stood there, his presence making the room seem even smaller.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” He rested against the frame, arms crossed and eyes glinting with admiration for what must be his homeland.
“Where are we?” she asked.
“Azantian.” He spoke almost reverently.
Margrete’s heart skipped several beats. “Azantian? But that’s not—”
“A real place?” Bash shoved off the threshold and closed the gap between them. He eyed her borrowed clothing as he approached, lingering where her curves tugged at the fabric.
Margrete’s breathing sped up as he neared. The scent of feral sea winds and masculinity clung to him like perfume. It smelled like the clothes she was wearing, and she wondered if they were his.
“Azantian has always been real. Your people simply haven’t been welcome. That’s why it stays hidden. The savages from your world would surely destroy something they couldn’t control. Humans and their weak greed.”
Margrete let out an indignant scoff. “You speak as though you’re not flesh and blood yourself.”
His lips twisted into a mischievous grin. One she was beginning to associate with him.
“I’m flesh and blood, princess. Prick me, and I bleed. Kiss me, and my skin grows hot.” He leaned close, his voice a dangerous whisper. “But just because something bleeds and wants doesn’t mean it’s human.”
She swallowed hard, her mind racing with thoughts—no, myths—of Azantian and the race of beings rumored to rule over its shores. Stories, that’s all they were. But as she studied Bash, truly gazed upon the sharp planes of his face, her conviction began to falter. She couldn’t deny the island she’d seen. How it beamed from within. Just as she couldn’t deny how different Bash was from every other person she’d ever known. If it wasn’t for the scar running across his brow, he’d be almost unnervingly perfect.
Still, her pride was not something she was eager to sacrifice. “Not all humans are alike.” Her mind drifted to her father. “You can’t condemn an entire species simply because evil men live amongst them. There’s beauty out there. People who deserve all the good the world has to offer.” She thought of her sister. “Those who carry love in their hearts rather than greed.”
The sneer vanished from his face. “Maybe you’re right.” He dipped his chin, catching her gaze, so close she could taste the mint lingering on his breath. “Or maybe you’ve been safe in your gilded prison and haven’t seen what your kind is capable of. Because if you knew, princess, I doubt you would defend them so easily.”
She let out a mirthless laugh. “I’ve walked beside evil all my life. Endured when others have perished. Yet I still see the good in the deserving and believe that the sins of some do not eclipse the decency in others. And that, pirate, is a skill I don’t think you possess.”
Bash stilled, his retort seemingly trapped in his throat. When he finally summoned the words, they were not what she expected. “I find that I’m rarely wrong.” His voice softened, full of reluctant amusement. “Although I do enjoy it when someone is brave enough to question me.”
He was so close. She should push him away, shove the bastard off his feet, do anything to rid herself of the unwanted sensations fluttering through her chest thanks to his nearness.
She began to take a step back—
A crashing wave rolled under the ship and the vessel lurched, sending Margrete careening forward into Bash’s solid frame. His arms surrounded her like a vise. Gasping, she looked up to find his haughty mouth and self-righteous eyes mere inches away.
He tightened his hold as another wave struck the hull. With her breasts pressed firmly against his body, Margrete’s thoughts grew muddled. She could only smell the salt and wildness of the open seas upon Bash’s skin, could only think of how his hands were strong yet gentle around her. How…secure she felt.
Which was entirely absurd.
Before she succumbed to whatever madness had befallen her, Margrete placed her hands on his torso and pushed, stumbling away from his heat. She stabbed a finger into his chest. “Don’t…don’t touch me.”
The corners of Bash’s mouth turned up wickedly. He was enjoying this.
“What?” She refused to lower her accusatory finger. Not that she was at all threatening, but she was making a stand.
“Nothing,” he mocked, eyes sinking to where she prodded his chest. “You’re just not what I expected.”
Margrete returned his penetrating stare and poked him again. “You shouldn’t have expected anything from me. You’re nothing but a low-life, despicable scoundrel, dirty pirate, bastard—” She searched for another wounding slur, her lids fluttering wildly as she wracked her brain for anything that might cause him offense.
“You done?” he asked, grinning.
Margrete flustered and snapped, “No, I most certainly am not!” Then, she added, “And a vile rogue!”
“Oh, Miss Wood, you disappoint me. I know you can do better than that,” he said, winking. “But while I’d love to stay and hear what other insults you conjure up, we really should be on our way.” He dipped his chin and his eyes sparkled, seeming to look forward to her ill-conceived taunts.
Margrete sealed her lips, not giving him the satisfaction. Bash looked almost disappointed as he wrapped a firm but gentle hand around her elbow and guided her from the cabin and down a narrow hall, one barely wide enough to accommodate his broad frame. He paused only when she bumped her shoulder as she came upon a slight bend, but his attention remained ahead, the muscles in his neck impossibly taut.
Margrete kept quiet and took in her surroundings, noting the smallest of details, if only to glean information that might assist in an escape. She wanted nothing more than to raise her knee between Bash’s legs again and run, but she was on a ship and had to bide her time.
Gods knew patience was a lesson she’d well learned.
Bronze starfish and polished shells decorated the rails leading to the deck, and Margrete trailed her fingers over the intricate designs as they ascended. Whatever else could be said about Bash, the vessel he sailed was still one of beauty.
Margrete knew a beautiful ship when she saw one. With a chamber overlooking Prias’s bay, she’d spent her short lifetime staring longingly at more fine vessels than she could count. Though being onboard a ship when she didn’t know how to swim was an entirely different thing.
Bash’s grip tightened as he led her quietly up the stairs and into the sun. A few sailors on deck stopped their work to stare, but most ignored her completely, carrying on about their duties.
Unlike Bash, they all wore the same deep blue tunic, the one she recognized from the attack, a moon and sun symbol brushed in gold on every chest. Booming demands rang out as men and a few women bustled to fulfill orders.
The presence of women was new for Margrete, as most captains were superstitious about having them onboard, as if the lack of manhood somehow attracted unfortunate weather. Margrete studied each face, noticing similar features in many of those she passed—the same sharp angles, luminescent skin, and haunting eyes of varying hues.
Bash steered her toward the vessel’s starboard, and, with a prod to her shoulder, he pointed across the thundering waves. Silently, she followed his gaze.
Azantian came closer with every rocking swell. A thick band of smooth stone ringed the island, held aloft on beams of burnished silver. Ships sat moored at various posts along the outer band—grand vessels worthy of a king. Connecting the surrounding docks to Azantian’s beaches were four bridges constructed of the sheerest blue glass, their strategic locations reminding Margrete of the points on a compass.
“How did we get here so quickly?” she asked.
“Another thing that doesn’t concern you,” he replied without emotion.
“Of course, it doesn’t. Why ever would it?” She gestured around them and then back at herself. “Apparently none of this is my concern, even though it seems to have everything to do with me.”
“Just because you’re involved doesn’t mean you have a right to know. You are, after all, his daughter.”
“And that means what, exactly?”
Bash ground his teeth, his lips a thin line. “It means...I don’t trust you.”
“And I don’t trust you, so it appears that we have one thing in common.”
He didn’t respond, not that she expected him to, but she glimpsed the subtle way his mouth twitched at one corner, as though repressing a smile.
Ignoring the mercurial pirate, Margrete turned to the dock where men in crisp amber uniforms—with the same moon and star symbol—stood patiently at the ready, waiting to catch the coiled ropes set to be tossed overboard by the sailors on approach. But it was what laid just beyond the scurrying men and their shouts that stole her attention. Every sea glass building gleamed like a colored mirror, as alive as the waters dancing just out of reach. Margrete’s heart ached at the sight. Prias was dull and dreary in comparison—a copper penny set against a glittering diamond.
“It’s the most breathtaking thing I’ve ever seen.” She thought of Birdie, who would, for once, be speechless had she seen such a place.
Bash responded with a satisfied smirk. His hand, while still clasping her elbow, loosened as the vessel’s gangway lowered.
Bash eyed her with interest before releasing her elbow, only to slip his arm through hers and link them together. He motioned to the gangway, where sailors bustled down the planks, carrying heavy trunks and barrels. “Let’s go.”
Avoiding the swerving and dodging sailors and workers storming up and down the planks, Margrete descended, only to pause before the final step. The dock glimmered with an unnatural glow, silver and gold flakes mixed in with the deep wood. Bash led her through throngs of people who watched her with hauntingly vivid eyes. At her side, Bash motioned in the direction of a sheer blue bridge, one of the four that crossed to the city’s towering center.
“Hope you’re in the mood for a short hike,” he said, seeming to enjoy how her eyes widened at the sight of the bridge. It was longer than she’d believed.
“Of course,” she replied, but that was a lie. She was in the mood for a hot bath. One taken as far away from the pirate and his band of rogues as possible.
Margrete’s boots thudded across the glass, the material clear enough to see to the waters below. A dolphin frolicked in the depths, chasing playfully after a wave. It reminded her of one of Bash’s tattoos, and she turned to him then, hoping to get a better look.
It was no longer there. The shark was missing as well.
Margrete squinted in the bright sun as strands of ink morphed and took shape below Bash’s right elbow. The shark returned, but it was far from immobile. The magnificent predator of the deep swam gracefully up and down his arm, settling back into place when he reached Bash’s wrist.
“Incredible.”
Bash glanced at his arm, shrugged, and then ignored her stares as if it wasn’t out of the ordinary for living ink to swim across his body.
“They didn’t move before,” she pointed out.
“Let’s just say they come alive on these shores,” Bash replied, taking in her obvious wonder.
“Well, that certainly answered all of my questions, thank you.”
“Always eager to be of assistance,” Bash said. “Now, if you’re done staring, I have a schedule I need to keep.”
Turning his back on her, he marched ahead, the guards at her heels prodding her to follow. “I’m going,” she muttered.
As the city, with its many domed glass buildings and lush, green vegetation, grew sharper with every step, Margrete considered the other legends swirling around Azantian. Namely, those that spoke of the monsters locked below the island itself. The sea’s wicked children. The depths had been free of them for centuries, though sailors still recalled harrowing stories of men braving the seas when the waters ran red with blood. She prayed it was just that—another myth—but she shuddered at the thought.
When they reached the sandy shores on the other side, Margrete’s muscles were screaming, the sun’s brutal rays heating her every inch. Of course, Bash wasn’t even sweating.
With the sun beating down on them, their small group abandoned the beach and started down a curving pathway of indigo stones. Not far from the shore stood a gleaming tower with a domed roof, the tallest structure in the city that she could see from this viewpoint. It was wide and circular, made of cerulean glass. Bright yellow and blue flowers overflowed from vine-covered balconies that extended from every level, the tightly-woven tapestries tied to the railings fluttering in the wind.
Beyond the imposing tower, Margrete could only glimpse a hint of the colorful rooftops in the distance, the tips of the pastel dwellings encased in burnished silver. It was almost too much to take in all at once, and her eyes fell back to the trail where she let out an involuntary gasp.
Solanthiums lined the pathway, bulbous honey-colored flowers she’d only read about in one of her books. They were said to have been eradicated ages ago. Unable to help herself, Margrete bent down and brought a bud to her nose. It smelled of fresh apricots.
“I’d make a quip about stopping to smell the flowers, but I’m not sure you’d appreciate it.”
Straightening, she turned to Bash with a furrowed brow. “I thought Solanthiums were extinct?”
He gave her a quizzical look. “They can only be found on the island now. This was where they originated, after all.” With narrowed eyes, he added, “I wouldn’t have taken Captain Wood’s daughter for a naturalist.”
She arched a brow. “Perhaps you don’t have me as figured out as you believed.”
Wordlessly, he beckoned to one of the guards at her back, his eyes fixed solely on her as he whispered into the man’s ear. A moment later, the guard rushed ahead of them, scurrying for the tower.
“Let’s continue on,” Bash commanded without further explanation, though his eyes lingered on her for a second longer than necessary.
She wondered what he told the guard, but she wasn’t about to ask.
Margrete turned her attention back to the nearing tower as a set of arched doors opened. The most fetching woman she’d ever beheld stepped through. Her skin glistened as if it encased its own personal sun, her vibrant red tresses falling to the flare of her hips. An intricate sea star tattooed her shoulder, frozen in a careless spin below her sharp collarbone.
Her physical beauty was breathtaking, and her eyes were as blue as sapphires—depthless and brilliant and all sorts of sly. Opening her elegant arms, she trained her eyes on Bash.
He leaned into the woman’s embrace, his arms encircling her tiny waist. Margrete wasn’t sure why a sudden pang of annoyance sprang up inside her, but it was there, igniting like a sparked ember in a hearth.
“Shade.” Bash dropped his act of teasing indifference like a discarded cloak. Scooping her up, he spun the woman around three times before placing her back on solid ground. She withdrew but only just enough to peer into his eyes.
“Miss me?” she asked.
“Of course,” he offered, though his smile dipped at the edges. “I needed you here, though. What would we do without your brilliant mind?”
Shade cast her gaze to Margrete. “Bash, please tell me you haven’t frightened the poor girl!” she scolded. Without waiting for his response, she came to Margrete. “Shoo.” Shade waved the guard away, and he surprisingly complied. With a smile that lit up her face, Shade wrapped her hands around Margrete’s. “My name is Shade. Welcome to Azantian’s palace. I’m the court treasurer, though I have many roles here.” Lowering her voice so that only Margrete could hear, she said, “And if any of these men give you trouble, come to me. I’m sure all of this has been alarming but know you will not be harmed.” She dropped Margrete’s hands, stepping back to Bash’s side. “Well, shall we?” Shade asked the group.
Margrete caught Bash stealing a questioning glance her way before offering Shade his arm, and the rest of the guards fell into place. She wasn’t sure what to make of Shade or her offer of protection. Either way, the woman was more welcoming than Bash had ever been.
The guard nudged Margrete forward, but she hesitated, debating how much of a fuss she should make. Bash must have felt her heavy glowering on his neck. He twisted back to face her, a silent warning trapped in his eyes.
Fine. She would play nice. For now.
Shade and Bash passed through the stunning archway, inches apart as they conversed in hushed tones. Margrete knew they were likely talking about her.
With her chin lifted, she entered the palace, her boots scuffing the polished marble floors. It was beneath the domed ceiling of silver and speckled pearl that the weight of where she was came crashing into her. She was on Azantian. A whole new world no story from her childhood could have ever prepared her for.
She couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d never leave its shores again.