“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.’ ”
17
Elian
I’VE NEVER KILLED A begging thing.
As the siren cowers on my deck, I’m perfectly aware that she is a monster. She’s whimpering, but even the sound is wicked. A mix of hisses and throaty laments. I’m not sure why she’s so scared when moments ago a net made of glass and spikes barely made her wince. Part of me wants to feel proud that my reputation has finally preceded me. The other part, perhaps the smarter part, is sure that I have nothing to be proud of.
I gaze over at Lira. Her graveyard-dirt hair clings to her shoulders as she sways with the motion of my ship. There’s something about her slight frame that makes her look menacing, as though every angle is a weapon. She barely blinks at the siren, who is now disfigured with gashes. As I stare at her, I see nothing of the wraith-like girl I pulled from the ocean. Whatever spell had threatened to transfix me when I saved her is broken now, and I can see quite clearly that she’s no helpless damsel. She’s something more, and it makes me too curious for my own good.