Margrete slipped and stumbled as she ran, the rain obscuring her vision. She was close, Bash’s cries growing louder, drowning out the hissing wind and hail.
Lightning struck again.
This time, it hit its target.
The mast above Margrete cracked and splintered, the smell of burnt wood mixing with the overwhelming scent of despair. The wood creaked and groaned, and before she could react, it all came crashing down.
Bash screamed her name.
She swiveled toward him just before a fierce wind swept her up, sending her tumbling over the railing and into the churning waters. She plummeted like a rock, her body striking the waves with force, her scream cut off by the ruthless sea.
The current stole her strength and pulled at the loose threads of her will, but she refused to give up so easily.
Push! she screamed at herself. Fight!
But the current was strong, the sea chaotic.
Margrete did push, though. She did fight.
But her determination to live wasn’t enough to guide her inexperienced limbs.
She was sinking. Fast.
The sea lit up briefly, a striking flash of lightning illuminating the waters that held her firm. Another bolt. And another. Deeper she sank, her arms growing heavy, her feet stilling.
Margrete had always imagined Death and the sea to be the closest of friends and the most bitter of enemies. The line between the two had long ago blurred, just as loathing and love tend to combine and combust, turning vengeful strangers into hesitant lovers.
The current was wild and, while vicious, it handled Margrete almost reverently. It swept her further down until the bottom of the wooden ship became nothing but a cobalt dream on a moonless night.
Falling, falling, falling.
A ripple of electricity pulsated, so fierce and sudden that it forced her eyes to open in the darkness. A violent energy surged, the waters seeming to tremble as a spark of light erupted.
She heard the voice. This time, it wasn’t gentle, nor muffled. It sounded close, as if murmured into her ear.
Shana, the ocean sang.
The voice belonged to an entity she couldn’t see, and it rose into a commanding echo, repeating the foreign name like a prayer. She felt the waves calming, like they were eager to hear what the voice had to say.
I sense you, even from my prison. You call to me from the dark.
Amidst the rushing waves, Margrete could just make out the sound of dripping water. The noise reminded her of the cavern beneath the palace.
Malum? she asked, her thoughts drifting to a place far away.
You call to me, as I call to you, he replied. I will be free soon. My time is nearing. It is then that I will need you, my dear Shana. But danger looms on the horizon. It is closer than you think.
What danger? she asked.
But Malum didn’t answer.
Find my Heart. Keep the beasts contained. Don’t let him win. Do not answer him when he calls out to you. I sense him in your mind already.
Him? But she knew. The knowledge was sudden and sweeping.
Darius.
The last bubbles of air left her, floating toward the surface where shadows of chaos reigned, and her heart pushed out a final, thundering beat. The last thing she heard was the enraged sea, whispering commands she wouldn’t live to heed.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Bash
Fear.
Bash believed he’d experienced it before. The night his father was murdered. The day he assumed the throne. The first time the island shook as the sea’s children fought their prison.
But he realized that, all those times, he’d been consumed by anger and guilt.
Not fear.
Not the true kind of terror that he suffered watching Margrete tumble over the side of his ship, the tumultuous waters yanking her to certain death.
The men heaved and, thanks to a tilting swell, the cannon dislodged and went careening toward the opposite end of the ship until it crashed into the railing. Bash cradled his arm, the pain blinding. A jagged gash opened his flesh from elbow to shoulder, but the wound was already knitting itself back together, thanks to his Azantian blood. It would scar, but he would survive.
He struggled to his feet. Gius, who’d taken the brunt of the blow, screamed at him. “Go! Help her!”
Bash needn’t be told twice.
He raced across the deck, the image of her falling into the storm still knife-sharp in his mind as he dove into the thunderous waves. He sliced through the water as the sea raged around him. The muffled screams of his bewildered crew reached him as he fought harder against the current. He knew they counted on him to save them all. If he died, then—
No. Dying wasn’t an option.
And neither was losing Margrete.
The sea trembled as he pushed down, and a sense of foreboding filled his chest. It was almost as if there was something else down here with him, and Bash couldn’t shake the sensation of foreign, yet familiar, power that surged through the waves.
Bubbles of air escaped through his lips, but he didn’t lose his rhythm, not even as a vicious bolt of lightning struck the skies overhead. The blaze of light sank below the waters, illuminating a dark form and a flash of silver shining twenty or so feet away.
It had to be her.
He couldn’t fathom otherwise.
With renewed strength, Bash propelled himself deeper to where he’d seen the glimmer of metallic light. There wasn’t time to think about how far they’d drifted from the ship, or what they would do should the Phaedra go down. Bash had to get to her first, and whatever happened after would have to wait—if they even made it out of this alive.
The deeper he swam and the longer he held his breath, the more grateful he felt that he wasn’t human. His body was made for this. His sight crafted to see through the enveloping gloom of the depths.
Finally, Bash drew near. He reached into the dim and grabbed hold of Margrete’s hand, the one attached to the silver that had guided him—her ring. The one she’d taken to wearing after her trip to the market.
Bash yanked her lifeless body to his chest and wound his arm around her waist, the pressure encircling his heart contracting. He hated how helpless he felt. Her eyes were shut, and he wasn’t sure she was alive, or if she’d taken a final breath of water into her lungs and surrendered.
She better not have.
Margrete’s head bobbed as he kicked, her long chocolate curls floating around her wan face like a shadowy halo.
There wasn’t much time left. Bash’s lungs ached for air.
When they finally broke the surface, Bash gasped, filling his burning lungs. He whipped his head around, searching for his vessel, his crew. For a chance at survival.
He was terrified to look at Margrete, but he forced himself. She was so pale, so lifeless, her lips tinged blue.
Fuck. He tilted her head, praying to and cursing the gods all at once.
A giant wave crested and then fell, revealing the Phaedra no more than fifty yards away.
He shouted, waving his free arm, hoping his men were keeping their eyes peeled for their king.
Tugging Margrete with him, his grip firm around her small waist, he set off in the direction of salvation. Only when he heard his men’s returning shouts did he feel the sudden weight of his exhaustion and the pain of his still-healing injury.
He held on as the ship veered toward them, the waves growing less frenzied and wild. A rope ladder was tossed over the deck, and the joyous cries of his crew wafted to his ears. Bash stole one more look at Margrete’s still face. He knew, even then, with her limp body pressed against his chest, that he would have dove into the storm again and again if it meant seeing her face one more time.
The key to his people’s safety or not, Bash suddenly couldn’t fathom the idea of a world without her in it. Where she wasn’t rolling her eyes at him when she thought he wasn’t looking, or daintily wrinkling her nose when she was frustrated with him, which, apparently, was
quite often.
She made him feel something other than anger for the first time in over a decade.
And gods be damned, he refused to let her get rid of him this easily.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Margrete
A creaking groan, low and muffled, called to Margrete. She opened her eyes to what seemed like a blurry dream.
“Princess.”
She struggled to focus, searching for that familiar voice. The world swayed, and her body felt heavy as lead.
“Princess.”
The voice sounded once more, and the fuzzy edges of her sight sharpened. A tired face stared down at her, concern carving every distinct feature.
Again, Bash spoke her name, but this time he said, “Gods help us, Margrete, I thought I was imagining it. Your eyes, love.”
Her eyes?
She blinked, unsure what he meant. He looked…frightened. Or maybe confused.
He leaned closer, cautiously, and brushed her hair away as he studied her eyes. The rough feel of his touch and the smell of salt and sun and man enveloped her, his nearness more comforting—more intoxicating—than it had any right to be.
The entire world felt brighter, more intense, and her vision sharpened into something fierce.
Was this a dream? Or some middle-existence between life and death?
Images of spinning shadows and whooshing currents assaulted her, of how she’d struggled to push to the surface. And then there had been a voice—
Danger looms on the horizon. It is closer than you think.
The echo of the sea’s warning—of Malum’s warning—wafted to her ears, and for a second, she was back beneath the waves, fighting tooth and nail to remain alive. The only thing that confused her—well, not the only thing—was that she remembered taking that final precious breath, all of the life sucked from her body in a last push to fight.
Yet now, she inhaled the fresh sea breeze into her lungs and tasted salt on the tip of her tongue. She felt Bash’s warmth, his calloused fingertips skimming back and forth along her arm, sending goosebumps rising across her body. She touched his face, and after a sigh, he pressed a gentle kiss to the inside of her wrist.
She was most certainly alive. But how?
“Your eyes…” Bash said again, cocking his head to the side, auburn hair falling into his face. “They really are blue.”
She didn’t have blue eyes. They were hazel and gold.
“They’re not,” she said, her voice sounding as though she’d swallowed sand.
A coughing fit struck, and it took several minutes for it to pass. Bash helped her ease into a more comfortable position against the pillows, and then he handed her a glass of water.
Margrete shook her head at the sight of the full cup. The water sloshed about inside, looking about as appealing as a mouthful of glass. She’d had enough water for one day.
Bash placed the drink on the stool beside him and propped his head on his hands as he took her in. “Remarkable,” he breathed, transfixed by her eyes. He resembled an awestruck child.
Even still, Margrete didn’t believe him just yet, and he must’ve sensed her doubt. He left the room and, a moment later, returned with a mirrored compact.
He offered Margrete the brass compact and she clutched it with trembling fingers. She snapped open the lid and took herself in.
Blue.
Her eyes were blue.
But not any old blue—varying shades of turquoise, aquamarine, and hints of the sky all swirled inside her irises. She tilted her chin, and the dim lighting captured the specks of silver that glinted like tiny stars battling for attention. Her lips parted in shock.
Bash had been right—and she’d never seen anything quite like them before.
“Oh my.” She exhaled sharply and dropped the mirror to her lap. “What happened?” she finally asked, her throat still sore.
“You were knocked over the side.” Bash bit the inside of his cheek and glanced at the shadows clinging to the corners of the cabin. He couldn’t seem to look her in the eye. “You were down there for a long time. I dove in after you when my men were able to free me of that blasted cannon.”
“Are you okay?” She reached up, hands skimming over his chest and shoulders, only to pause when she saw the shredded and bloodied fabric of his sleeve. An image of him, imprisoned and screaming, came to mind, and she recalled the sense of helplessness she’d felt when she couldn’t get to him.
His hand covered hers, and he met her eyes with a glassy stare. “I’m fine. Another crew member took the brunt of the weight, and Azantians heal faster than mortals.” He moved his arm just so, revealing an angry red wound zigzagging across his biceps. Angry, but not open. Healing. “It’s you I’m concerned about,” he added. Bash brushed the backs of his fingers along her cheek and swallowed hard, his face stark with memory. “I swear, you were dead.”
Margrete recalled how the numbness greeted her, the overwhelming feeling of tranquil nothingness. Death had swum up to her from the depths. But then…here she was, breathing thick air and gazing at the most captivating man she’d ever seen.
She touched his face. “I should have told you,” she began cautiously, “but I was ashamed to admit it.”
“Admit what?” He scrunched his face.
“I never learned how to swim,” she admitted. “My father always forbade me from going anywhere near the water.”
Bash’s hand flinched on her cheek, but he didn’t remove it. “You can’t swim? Yes, that’s something you should’ve told me.” His eyes were hard. “I would have made certain you were protected. I would’ve never left you alone had I known.” He clenched his teeth. “And the fact that you put yourself in danger, for me—”
“I’m fine.” She cut him off as he began to spiral, and placed her free hand over his. “I heard you scream, and I couldn’t stop myself. Nothing could have stopped me.”
Bash shook his head, his brow pinched. “But you almost weren’t fine, Margrete. You were dead at the bottom of the sea. I’m Azantian. If I fell in, I would’ve survived, but you…You shouldn’t have come for me at all.”
His voice held a sharp tone, but beneath his ire, there was pain.
“If the roles were reversed, would you have come for me?” she asked.
Turmoil twisted his features for only a second before he ground out his reply. “I think you know the answer to that.” Bash’s nostrils flared as he glanced at his lap.
“I’ve never felt like that before. That crushing fear. Even when I pulled you out, you didn’t have a damn heartbeat, princess. Nothing. It took me minutes to revive you, and still, you were so pale, so…”
His eyes lifted to her chest like he was making sure she was still breathing.
The guilt on his face was tangible. Bash tensed when she threaded her fingers through his, but he didn’t pull away. A part of her wanted to tell him what she heard, of the voice she knew belonged to Malum, but she stopped herself. She’d only sound mad, and after what she’d endured, Bash might attribute the encounter to shock.
Instead of what she so desperately wanted to share, she asked, “And then what happened? After you pulled me on deck?”
“Then you finally opened your eyes.” He scrubbed at his face with his free hand. “It was half a second, but I saw the blue, clear as day. It was as though I stared directly into the sea.” He looked at her, jaw tensing. “I know your eyes. I’d know them anywhere. Even in that sliver of a moment. But they changed. It took my breath away.”
A warm flush raced up her throat, and she couldn’t help but squeeze his hand. Bash glanced back to the shadows, and Margrete wanted to do anything to ease his guilt. She could sense him drowning beneath it all.
“I’ve never… I’ve never felt so damn helpless.” His admission was hardly above a whisper, and she wondered if he even meant to say the words out loud.
Bash absentmindedly rubbed small circles on her skin with his thumb, his touch grounding her when the world felt like it
was still tilting.
“The ocean saved you. Chose you,” Bash murmured, after some oppressing moments of silence. “You wouldn’t be alive if it hadn’t.”
She frowned. “Chose me?”
“That’s the only thing that can explain what happened.” Bash gave a mirthless laugh. “I should’ve known you had some connection with the sea. Especially when you told me you heard our sirens. Only those blessed by the sea can hear them.” His eyes held hers firmly. “Only Azantians should be able to hear them, I mean.”
The day of her wedding. When she’d asked him, Bash had brushed it off like it meant nothing.
Reading her thoughts, he said, “It appears as though I lie to myself quite a bit where you’re concerned. Everything about you seems impossible.”
Margrete let his words hang in the air. Bash had been wrong about her, but his admission, although framed by a forced smile, lifted a weight from her shoulders. And yet she couldn’t stop ruminating on the first half of what he’d said.
How she was connected to Azantian.
To the sea.
Margrete thought back to all the times the ocean sang to her, its sweet lullaby soothing her to sleep. The way it shushed and calmed after her father locked her inside the iron box. The day she was to marry Count Casbian—the day her life was forever altered—she had heard the sea’s voice calling out to her as if in warning.
“How would you know if I…if I were connected?”
“I—” He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t know,” he answered truthfully. “Margrete, are you sure about your mother? Where she came from?”
“Yes. Adina told me many times that my mother was a noblewoman my father met in the capital of Aelia. Why do you ask?”
Bash rubbed at his chin. “It seems...odd. Your father fled with an Azantian woman twenty-four years ago. You’re how old?”
No. What he was insinuating couldn’t possibly be true.
“I think I would know if I was half-Azantian, Bash,” she said, though she’d often wondered why her father refused to speak of his late wife. Almost as if the very mention of her brought him pain. “Surely you of all people would’ve been able to tell.”
The Girl Who Belonged to the Sea Page 21