Chapter 2

I can clearly remember the day my father died. Or at least, the day we received the news.

It was a beautiful day. We lived on a very small farm on the outskirts of town and springtime blossoms had just begun to bloom, decorating our little world in a swirl of color. Birds were singing through the trees and the sun was slanting at a soft, golden angle as it warmed my cheeks.

I remember thinking it was strange for the world to look so perfect while my mother sobbed in our doorway.

My father was a fisherman, and at the age of three I could count on one hand the number of times he had been home since my birth. He spent long months at sea and often traveled to neighboring villages to sell his fish before returning to his awaiting family. Our plot of land was just large enough to sustain us while he was away but still small enough that my mother could manage on her own.

When I think back on that day, I should've been more upset. My father was dead. But if I'm honest, I was more disturbed by mother's weeping than anything else. She was my world, and seeing her in pain had always distressed me to a breaking point.

It was midday when we received the news. A young man with stringy black hair and waxy skin arrived at our doorstep carrying a small bundle beneath his arm. I was playing happily beneath our oak tree, enacting a small battle between my wooden knights and a nasty green dragon.

But I stopped the moment my mother's pained wail pierced my ears.

Standing cautiously, I tottered my way across the grass, watching as my mother gripped the wood frame at the entrance to our home, slumping against it in defeat.

"Mama?"

Her watery eyes found mine. She reached a hand out, beckoning me to her breast. I obliged without question, concerned as to what this man had said to make my mother so distraught.

Falling to her knees, she hugged me tightly to her breast. One hand ran a soothing circle along my back as the other rested against the my head.

"My little darling," she whispered hoarsely, "my brave boy. Your father...you know your father loves you, very much. Don't you dear?"

"Yes...is papa coming home soon?"

A strangled sound escaped her throat as she gripped me tighter.

"No, honey. Your Papa...he's had an accident, my darling."

"An...accident?"

"Yes, sweetie. He...he won't be coming home anymore."

I tried to digest what this meant exactly. He wouldn't be coming home? But that didn't make sense. I may not have known my father well, but he always came home.

"Why?"

For a moment, she didn't speak and I was worried she hadn't heard me. But before I could repeat my question, she took a deep breath and loosened her grip, holding me at arm's length. Her glassy eyes found mine as her fingers traced my cheek lovingly.

"Do you remember the little bird you found last month? The little robin?"

Frowning, I cast my gaze downwards, kicking the ground with my toe.

"Yes."

How could I forget? I had found the little bird, barely old enough to leave the nest, in a broken pile beneath our window. It was clinging to life and I had tried my hardest to nurse it back to health. But it was no use. The poor thing died within three days and I cried for a week.

"Your Papa, he's...he's with your robin now."

I stared at her for a long moment. It was a simple explanation, but it was enough.

In one step, I was back in her arms, wrapping my little ones about her neck as she wept silently into the crook of my neck.

"I'm terribly sorry about all this."

Starting at the interruption, I turned to stare at the source of the foreign voice. I had forgotten about the messenger. He had made my mother cry. I was immediately suspicious of him.

Standing, Mama wiped clinging drops from her lashes as she offered a sad smile that didn't reach her eyes.

"It isn't your fault. Thank you. For letting me know, I mean. It's better that we know what happened."

"He was a fine fisherman. I was honored he hired me on, even if only to swab the deck." Thrusting his arms forward, he handed my mother the small bundle. "These are the possessions I was able to save after the storm."

She took it from him reverently, one hand hovering over the contents as if they might explode at any moment. As if it could hurt her.

While my only family was occupied, I took a moment to examine the harbinger of our misfortune. He was tall and lean, with jet black hair that fell into his eyes messily. His skin was ghostly pale, jaw long and pointed, and he stood stiffly as he addressed us like an audience. There was something strange about his voice. I had never heard a sailor who spoke like that. He sounded...he sounded like the important rich people I had encountered on rare occasions. But it didn't sound normal. It sounded like he was pretending. Like he was forcing himself to sound important. I didn't like it.

And then there were his eyes. They were the oddest color I had ever seen. A strange, sickly yellow that reminded me of vomit. Despite his curled lips and the false sweetness in his words, his eyes were cold and I felt anything but comfort when looking into them.

"What was your name again?" My mother's voice was soft and raspy as she stared at the items in her arms.

"Peter, ma'am. Peter Black."

"Peter -"

...

"You can stop this silly tale, boy. If you're going to tell me some sob story about your whore mother and how I ruined your life with some bad news, you're wasting your time. I don't give two shits."

Jack stares at him, gaze hard as the injured man snarls, leg muscles spasming violently.

"You will sit and listen and if you dare call my mother a whore again, I'll rip out your tongue," his cobalt blue eyes glitter with something dangerous. "Are we clear?"

There is a pause, the only sound the sloshing of the sludgy seawater against the ruined remnants of the whale's former victims.

"Crystal."

...

"What's your name again?"

"Peter, ma'am. Peter Black."

"Peter. You seem so young to be a sailor."

"Not so young, ma'am. My 18th name day passed but six months ago."

"18...yes, I suppose that would be old enough."

Her voice was too quiet and fragile. It wasn't right. Reaching for her hand, I drew my body close to her side, clinging to her skirts as I tried not to stare at those harsh, yellow eyes.

My mother absently took my hand, attention still focused on the stranger before her.

"I'm sorry for my...emotional display earlier. I didn't mean-"

"Ma'am, please. Don't apologize. It is I who should apologize, to have to deliver such terrible news. I'm sorry, I shouldn't still be here. I'll leave you are your son in private."

Good. I didn't want him to stay.

"No, please. Let me offer you a hot meal. You traveled all this way, it's the least we could do."

He paused for a moment before offering her a sickeningly sweet smile, all sharp teeth and distorted sympathy.

"Thank you, Mrs. Frost. That would be most kind."

"Please, call me Clara." She stepped aside, allowing him entrance before following into our modest home.

I stared after them, rooted to my spot in the doorway as their voices drifted to my ears. My stomach flipped and it felt as if ice was slowly seeping into my heart, freezing it in my chest.

My mother had invited him inside. She had let him in.

That was her first mistake.

.

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A/N: Thanks to anyone who has decided to read this little tale! There hasn't been much traffic so far, but my fingers are crossed it picks up steam. I know the action is starting a bit slow, but it will pick up I promise.

As I am venturing into this new genre (I honestly feel more comfortable writing fluffy romance so this is a big step) I would really love some feedback. Any reviews, even if they are criticism, would be amazing. I am totally open to editing and changing the piece if it's not working for people.

I will be out of the country in Israel June 17th-29th, so I'll try to get another chapter up before I leave, but I'll likely start updates again in July.

As always, thanks for reading!