The Girl Who Belonged to the Sea by Katherine Quinn

Chapter Eight

Margrete

They enteredan expansive throne room where a chair of woven sea kelp and netting cast out of polished metal sat raised on a marble dais. Tiny gems littered the throne’s arms, a delicate vine of sapphire and opal stones. They spiraled up and around the arms to encircle an empty bezel of silver and gold.

Margrete’s skin buzzed. She felt compelled to close the distance, to take a closer look at the otherworldly throne. To touch it.

She took an involuntary step forward, driven by some foreign need she didn’t understand. It was the sound of Bash’s deep voice that stilled her movements.

“This way,” Bash commanded, forcing her gaze toward him. When she twisted away from the throne, everything quieted, and an unsettling numbness replaced the hum vibrating on her skin.

Bash ushered her past the dais with a lazy wave over his shoulder. She hurried after as he entered a winding corridor, leaving the strange room behind. Even still, the sense of unease didn’t dissipate.

She shivered in the warm air, the prickling sensation of being watched constricting her throat. It was a feeling she couldn’t shake, not even when the corridor finally came to an end.

Sunshine chased away the darkness of the hall, and Margrete let out an involuntary gasp of relief. The warm rays filtered through colored glass windows, designs of mighty sea beasts and crippling waves cast upon the stones.

Up ahead, a silver staircase spun, the metal fashioned to resemble coils of rope. Margrete paused at its bottom step, though Bash was already climbing the stairs. She placed a hand on the railing only to flinch, the metal icy beneath her palm.

It felt alive. As if the metal moved at her touch.

She began the ascent, telling herself to keep calm, but the farther they journeyed, the more her knees trembled, and the steps beneath her feet swayed as if she were aboard a ship. Soft hisses seemed to echo all around the stairwell, raising the hairs on the back of her arms.

Margrete was thankful when Bash exited on their desired floor, some four levels up. The moment she stepped into the dimly lit hallway, the voices vanished, though goosebumps still pimpled her flesh, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that the walls themselves watched her every wavering inhale.

At the end of the hall stood a single door with silver and gold whorls etched into its metal casing, a guard posted just outside. They were undoubtedly bringing her to her cell. The place she would be kept until they understood her father would never trade anything of value for her. What would they do with her then?

About ten feet from the door, Margrete realized her door was moving.

No. The closer they ventured, the more she grasped it wasn’t a door at all. It was a dark cloud. A cloud trapped within an ornate sterling frame. She halted a few feet behind Bash and Shade, not sure her eyes could be trusted.

She took a step back, hands fisting at her sides, uncertain of what she could possibly do to avoid this. A guard stood behind her, and even if she somehow made it past him and ran back down the stairs, he would be on her in an instant.

“I’m…I’m not going in there.” It was all she could think to say.

Bash stiffened, and an annoyed sigh left his lips. “Ah, but you see, you are.” The shark tattoo on his arm twitched its tail as if in warning, and then clamped its deadly jaw shut. Bash peered down at the inked beast with a raised brow, then brought his eyes back to Margrete. “You’re invited to dinner of course,” he added, his voice less severe. “I’ll send for you tonight.”

Bash lifted his hand, pressing his palm against the barrier, and the smoke scattered at his touch.

Margrete opened her mouth to argue one last time but was unceremoniously shoved from behind and thrust into the unknown.

This wasn’tthe cell she’d been expecting.

Much like nothing so far had been what Margrete could have ever imagined, the room she was brusquely pushed into didn’t appear at all like a cage.

Curtains of sheer blue fluttered around a massive bed cloaked in tones of gray and silver, the mattress raised on a platform of steel. An onyx armoire was the only other piece of furniture in the room, flecked with pearls and adorned with silver handles. But it was the walls that stole Margrete’s attention. They’d been carved with depictions of the sea’s mighty children—all the monstrous beings that would make even the heartiest sailor tremble. She trailed a finger across an image of what appeared to be a half-woman, half-fish. Long claws poked from blackened fingers, and her eyes were a shade darker than a cloudless night.

A nymera.

Margrete knew from stories that nymeras were the most feared of all the sea’s spawn. They were cunning and deceptive and sucked the soul from their victims with a single inhale.

She dropped her hand and walked back to the door—or, no, the portal. She breathed in sharply before reaching out to the swirling smoke, her skin tingling with anticipation. Rather than a fine mist tickling her hand, her fingers collided with a chilled barrier of glass.

Margrete let loose a frustrated huff and lowered her arm. That exit certainly wasn’t a viable escape route. She’d just have to find another. Every palace or keep had them—the servant’s entrance at her father’s keep was the least protected.

As there wasn’t much to explore in her barren chambers, Margrete walked to the set of double doors leading to a covered balcony. She pushed down on the mother-of-pearl handle.

Unlocked.

What a pleasant surprise.

The breeze picked up as she grasped the railing and peered over the side of the palace to the jagged cliffs below. That wouldn’t be an agreeable fall.

“Everything meeting your needs?”

She spun around. A broad-shouldered man with golden brown skin and hair the color of midnight stood at attention near the doorway. She held his eyes, which were a striking shade of jade, a color that was soft and gentle and altogether soothing. He wore glossy trousers dyed kelp green and a linen shirt with pearl buttons tucked loosely into the waistband. A shark’s tooth tattoo marked his lower forearm, the creature it came from poking out beneath his rolled-up sleeves. All she glimpsed were two pectoral fins and an open jaw full of sharp teeth.

The man was beautiful, as everyone here appeared to be.

“I’m Adrian, Bash’s commander,” he said. “He sent me to check on you.”

“I see,” she replied coolly.

Check up on her. Of course. What was unexpected was that he assigned a high-ranking official to do so.

Margrete assessed her latest warden, hoping to find something displeasing about him, but his smile was genuine, and his stance, while at attention, was unthreatening and effortlessly serene.

“I’m Margrete, but I’m sure you already knew that.” She lifted her chin. “What will happen now?” She wasn’t in the mood to play games.

Adrian sauntered to the railing, his movements unhurried and easy. “Now, we wait.”

“I’m assuming we’re waiting on my father?” For him to return whatever precious gem or treasure he stole?”

It had to be something of immense value for Bash to go to such lengths.

Adrian scrunched his brow. “Bash didn’t say anything else to you?” he asked, as if surprised.

“Was he supposed to?” she retorted. “He was probably too busy smirking at his own reflection.”

Adrian choked down a chuckle, clearing his throat while his eyes laughed instead. “That sounds like him all right.” He shook his head, a smile blooming. “I’ll speak to him tonight.”

His jaw ticked, a slight tell that something was amiss. “Perhaps tomorrow I could take you for a tour about town. I’m sure Bash won’t have a problem with you getting some fresh air.”

Margrete nodded, but she hoped that by the time the sun came up tomorrow morning, she would be long gone.

Adrian bowed. “I’ll be right outside if you need anything. And…” He glanced from side to side as if making sure no one was in earshot. “Don’t let Bash give you too hard of a time. He’s not as awful as he lets on.”

With that, Adrian drifted to the portal, lifted his palm, and sent the mist scattering to the edges. He stepped through, and the clouds swirled chaotically before settling back in place. Margrete wondered how that worked—the door. How it could tell one person apart from another. It was but one more mystery on an island full of secrets.

With a defeated sigh, she took in the titles of the books stacked neatly on top of the dresser.

Weaponry and Defense

Enemies of Azantian

Mortals and Humans: A Guide to a Fragile Species

A fourth book caught her eye. One that was noticeably out of place resting amongst the others.

Flora of the Western Islands

She traced the delicate spine, her mind going back to Bash and their conversation beside the Solanthiums. Bash had murmured to a guard and sent him running ahead to the palace. Had he procured this book for her after she’d expressed her interest? It was too much of a coincidence to overlook, but Margrete couldn’t imagine that the pirate cared enough to acquire such a thing for her enjoyment.

Here she was, trapped on an island that shouldn’t exist, stuck dealing with an insufferable man who alleged he wasn’t human, and she’d just witnessed magic with her own eyes—even if that magic was fashioned to imprison her within these very chambers.

Myths. Immortals. Azantian.

The leatherbound books in her father’s study claimed there had been a time when humans had been blessed with otherworldly gifts. Some had visions of what was to come, and others could delve into minds or manipulate small objects.

Of course, there were other stories, too, ones where humans participated in the banned arts of dark magic. The kind that required death and sacrifice and blood.

But those stories had been dated centuries back, and no reports of magic had been written in recent history. All Margrete had heard of such things were rumors, nothing more than petty gossip. People loved a good story in Prias and the surrounding islands. It added spice to an otherwise dull existence. Even so, Margrete found it hard to ignore the proof of magic right before her very eyes. A whole island full of myths. An island full of a beautiful and mysterious people.

Abandoning the heavy tomes, Margrete scanned the foreign surroundings with a keen eye. She needed to find a weapon, anything with a pointy end that she could use if she were caught escaping. She certainly wasn’t going to stick around and find out what would happen to her when her father didn’t pay.

Her first task consisted of rifling through the armoire and digging amongst the piles of folded shirts and trousers. Nothing. Even the bathing suite was devoid of mirrors and glass bottles storing soaps and lotions. Bash clearly predicted that she might use a shard of glass as a weapon. He would’ve been right.

Margrete grew excited when she discovered a floor-length mirror tucked away in the corner, but when she kicked at the glass, even going so far as to smash it to the stone floor, the damned thing didn’t shatter.

She hefted it back into place with a grunt. Whatever it was made of, it was not natural glass. Or at least, a kind that wasn’t easily breakable.

She’d explored every crevice by the time the sun lowered in the sky, the twilight casting the room in an ominous haze. There was nothing here she could use, and the portal was out of the question. That only left her one other option, one she didn’t much like.

The balcony.

The waters were calm directly below, but beyond the outer beaches of gold, past the arched bridges, the waves were roiling and anxious. Closing her eyes, she allowed her spirit to drift, only momentarily, and imagined herself diving off the balcony and gliding on a breeze. She pictured herself as a bird, wings outstretched, feathers flinching as she curved down to the waters.

The sea was luring her closer, urging Margrete to explore.

I am here, little one, the ocean called. Do not fear. The aquamarine crests reached out as if to grab her, whispering a name over and over again. Shana, it sang, breathing the name reverently. Shana.

Her eyes shot open, and her body jerked as if she’d been falling. The tranquil moment passed, only a brief reprieve from reality, but those whispers still lingered in her heart. Even if she were unable to hear them with her ears.

Perhaps she’d hit her head harder than she’d believed back in Prias.

Margrete lifted onto the tips of her toes, peering over the railing. Another balcony, nearly identical to her own, lay directly beneath her feet. Twisting further, she found that a thick ledge separated it from an expansive terrace that wrapped around the palace.

A ledge that was wide enough to climb across.

If she could make it to the ledge below, to the balcony, and then through its double doors, she might have a chance at getting out of here. If they were locked…Well, she’d deal with that when the time came.

She would find out tonight, she supposed, memorizing every line and curve of the ledge. The trouble would be lowering herself to the balcony below while hanging in midair hundreds of feet above the cliffs. While she’d prayed for a more exciting life back in Prias, scaling buildings wasn’t what she had in mind.

Margrete passed the time exploring her suite. There wasn’t much else to do until she could execute her plan, and instead of wallowing in self-pity, she focused on the living legends decorating the walls of her beautiful cage. She studied them for hours, tracing her fingers over the smooth grooves, memorizing the eerie images with her hands.

When the sun began to lower leisurely into the sea, she moved back to the balcony. While the waters typically soothed her nerves, the sight of them brought her little comfort now. Dinner was nearing, and Bash had told her he’d send for her when the time came. Though she hardly wanted to spend time with these strangers, she was impossibly hungry, and her stomach growled in agreement.

As Margrete retreated into the room, her eyes landed on the finely crafted dresser with palm trees and mangroves detailed on the edges. With a sigh, she peeled off her borrowed pants and flowing shirt and folded them neatly on a white ottoman. Instead of the fine dresses hanging in the armoire, she chose another pair of trousers and a billowing silk blouse.

Spinning to the floor-length mirror, she took in her reflection for the second time in two days. The first time, she’d been an anxious and chaste angel, all lace and false purity, but the high neck of her wedding dress had made her feel trapped, constricted. Suffocated.

Now she hardly recognized herself—not that it was necessarily a bad thing.

Margrete took in a steadying breath, only to release a choked scream.

Behind her reflection was a man.

One with several sharp blades secured to his belt.