Meraki: A Syren Story

Chapter Two

The "secure hold" I am placed in is little more than a storage area in the cabin of the vessel. Frayed rope, rusted cannonballs, and the old wooden barrel I sit upon make up the contents of the room.

Two of the King's sailors have been guarding me for hours. They remain by the open door, one facing me, the other watching the deck. They rotate their positions like clockwork, without prompt or conversation, and they have not slipped up once. They are better trained than I anticipated and it's infuriating.

The man facing me is staring. Staring at my windswept hair that has snared shells and sand. Staring at my bare legs and hands, the only parts of me visible under this comedically large cloak acting like a poorly fitted dress on me. He stares not from a lack of manners, but sheer curiosity. I doubt he has ever seen a girl with skin that always holds a blue tinge no matter how dry or warm. Granted, I was not like other girls, but like all women, syren or mortal alike, I knew how to play the damsel card when needed. And it was time to play.

The barrel wobbles as waves crash into the side of the boat. I wait for a large wave to rock the barrel, and then 'fall' to the ground. I lay splayed out in an inelegant fashion, with my back curled to the door and arms flung in the corner. Although my wrists are bound with a segment of the net, my hands are free. I inch my fingers towards the cannonball in the nest of rope before me.

"Ma'am?" the guard calls as he rushes in. I stay down and even close my eyes for dramatic effect.

As the sailor rolls me over to help me up, I swing my weighted fist towards his face. The cannonball meets his nose and releases an unholy crunch. He falls back, howling and burying his face in his hands. Blood runs down the inside of his sleeve. I stagger to my feet, but the other guard is already blocking the doorway.

He remains in place. Unsure whether to aid his comrade, launch at me or call for backup. I use his hesitation to throw another cannonball in his direction.

I aim for his face, but my arms are too weak, the weight too heavy. It misses and instead lances his shoulder. Not my desired target but it does unsteady him enough to wobble him out of the doorway.

"Your Majesty!" The guard bellows.

I bolt.

All around me, sailors on the deck abandon their tasks. Sails flack as sheets and ropes are dropped. Fletcher frees his hands of the large wooden wheel and uses them to nab me instead, but I rip away from his clawing grasp. Wind catches the sail and whips the boom across the deck. Two men duck to avoid the soaring pole of wood as it swings back and forth, but I do not take cover. Instead, I turn sideways and skirt the ledge, moving as quickly as I can towards the stern.

I need to get back to the sea. My weary lungs, barely reacquainted with the notion of breathing, are now labouring hard. The inability to breathe through my mouth because of the damn octopus strapped to my face leaves my flared nostrils to do all the work.

My legs burn and ache as I force them to carry me the last few feet. Even though my frame is painfully bony in parts, I feel entirely too heavy. Had gravity always weighed so much?

I scramble to climb the waist-high edge of the stern, but with restrained wrists it proves too difficult to pull myself up. I'll have to throw myself overboard from where I am. I would prefer to dive in, to break the water feetfirst, but I'll take what I can get.

"Wait!" King Kellan roars from behind me, but I do not turn around.

Pacing back a few steps to give myself room to run and vault, I then-

"Look at me," he thunders, his voice louder than the sea and somehow more menacing, "Look. At. Me."

I pause. I hate that I do, but it's instinctual. Obeying stern royalty is a hard habit to break. Looking over my shoulder to see six sailors stand in a row. The guard I hit in the shoulder and the man with the bleeding nose are on either side of the line-up.