The Golden Voyage of Sanchez

by futagogo

Môrt is a merboy searching for his missing sister. Captain Rick Sanchez is a washed-up pirate on the verge of abandoning the treasure hunt of his life. The two form a tenuous alliance when they realize that what they both seek can be found within the Devil's Brooch, a legendary hoard that contains the greatest treasures in the world.

3. Chapter 3 - Understanding

Someone was singing.

The song was delicate yet strong, intricate yet effortless. A love song, the answer came immediately to Môrt. Although there were no words he could make out, its message was unquestionably clear: the thrill of new beginnings, the passion of desire, and the sting of loss.

The notes rose and fell in waves, making the tips of Môrt's fingers tingle and the hairs on his scalp stand at attention. They glided, slippery as eels, past his ears. When he looked around in search of their origin, however, he found himself alone, suspended in the center of a vast, empty sea floor. The sand was flat and undisturbed. Too barren to be from the Atlantis he knew, the only break from the tomb-like stillness were the quivering honeycombs of refracted light that scrawled themselves spastically across the sandy surface.

In the near distance, he could make out a sudden drop-off, as sharp as if the ocean floor had been cut with a blade. The water beyond it gradated into inky hues as the ground plummeted to a depth that even Atlantians dared not go—the Midnight Zone. It was an abyss from which no light could escape, home to creatures so horrific, few knew whether they were real or merely the stuff of nightmares.

Seated at the very edge of this abyss was Summyr.

Summyr! Môrt's heart lurched with a brackish mix of alarm and relief. Somehow, it felt like it'd been a long time since he'd seen her. He was compelled to go to her, had every intention of doing so, but something kept him rooted to the spot, as if demanding that he only play audience to her song instead. At least, he thought it was her song. The melody was omnipresent with no clear source. It could only be Summyr, however; such beauty was beyond Môrt's abilities.

Atop a rocky perch and with her back to him, Summyr gazed into the black gullet with such focus that Môrt wondered if she was possibly singing to someone within it.

Summyr had always been a skilled songstress—their mother was right to call her their greatest treasure—but the melody Môrt heard was exquisite beyond compare. A flawlessly composed cadenza, it reverberated through his chest and squeezed his very heart.

Môrt wasn't the only one moved by the music. Something else crawled out from over the edge of the shadowy precipice to listen—a single shadowy wisp. Then another. And another.

Summyr's song had reached its next refrain, a steady rising of pitch that churned something in Môrt's heart, eloquent and grand. It was the feeling of self-empowerment, of every inadequacy forgiven without even needing to ask. There was beauty in excess within the song, as though the mere act of listening to it could lend grace to a flat like himself.

As if a manifestation of that beauty, a film of light began to glow along Summyr's outline. At first faint, it grew with the song into a radiant second skin before lifting from her entirely. Drawing together, it formed a spiral of golden thread that coiled loosely around her like a translucent and shining ward.

Around and around it spun, unspooling until it had moved off of Summyr completely and began to head in Môrt's direction. Infused with a blush of pink that it seemed to draw straight from Summyr's coda, the ribbon swam across the open distance.

Môrt felt no fear, no compulsion to flee from this strange presence—a living light, for lack of a better description—and he gave an awed smile as it circled his arms and torso like a curious dolphin. As fascinated as Môrt was by its beauty, a niggling sense of familiarity hooked his attention. He knew this light. He had seen it somewhere before, somewhere from a long-ago dream. There was a bed of pearls, low, gonging knells, and—the funeral. Summyr's funeral.

There was a faint, trembling vibrato in the song.

Funeral? But that was ridiculous. After all, Summyr was perfectly alive and well right before his eyes! There had been no memorial services or plangent wailing throughout the court. No, he had simply dreamed the whole thing up. A nightmare more than a dream, but a dream all the same. What mattered was that his sister was here and everything would be all right. Everything would be all right.

With a pang of longing so profound that it hurt, Môrt opened his mouth to call out to her. Please, let's just go home.

Instead, a large air bubble belched up into his line of sight.

The song abruptly went dead.

He stared at the bubble, mystified, as it made its silent, wobbly ascent. While he watched it disappear into the shafts of light that penetrated the faraway surface, the ocean water around him took on a sudden frigidity, its usually comforting embrace turning treacherous. Môrt curled over, wrapping his arms around his middle to fend off the chill—when his body began to rise straight upward. He had become buoyant.

Môrt's next shout of confusion dissolved into a harmless effervescence, and he snapped his mouth shut, clamping his hands over it.

Summyr, meanwhile, remained content where she sat, hands folded mildly on her lap. In place of her song, a crushing silence echoed throughout the empty space, making the skin on Môrt's nape bristle, the sheer incompleteness of the aria stabbing at his ears.

Near the tip of Summyr's coda, the black wisps had now gathered en masse, reaching up for her from the edge of the abyss. No longer faint, little things, they had grown as full and sturdy as tentacles, squirming up her coda. Still more spilled over from the darkness, sweeping across the sandy sea floor, an octopus in search of prey. They writhed and twisted around each other, binding twice, thrice, four times their size until each was as thick around as a tree trunk. The tentacles began to rise up in a high arch.

Straight above Summyr's head.

Keeping his eyes locked on Summyr as if the intensity of his gaze could somehow warn her, Môrt bucked and kicked but remained in place. When he looked down at himself, he found that instead of the reliable fluke of his coda, a pathetic pair of human legs jerked in uncoordinated flails. No matter how hard he writhed, trying to right himself, buoyancy lifted his rump and legs upward before the rest of him could catch up.

Pressure lay like a boulder on his chest and thrummed in his ears as he floated upside down. His lungs demanded oxygen, and Môrt realized with horror that this was what it meant to drown. It was a cruel and unnatural concept; he'd never known anything but safety in the water, but now his very home was threatening to become his grave.

Just when all seemed lost, the rose-gold tendril from before floated into his periphery. It had coiled itself loosely about Môrt's body, the far end of it continuing its journey up through the water toward the surface. Sensing that it was his one and only lifeline, Môrt grabbed the golden thread, surprised when it felt solid in his grasp. Immediately, it began to carry him upwards.

But Summyr! He needed to warn her, he kept thinking. Didn't she see what was happening? By this point, the black tentacles had formed a rippling wall around her. The undulating ridges slowed then stopped.

As Môrt's body continued its relentless climb, he was able to see the entirety of the thing: a giant clamshell scooping over and under, with Summyr as its pearl.

Summyr, watch out!

However, no matter how much he wanted to, Môrt couldn't bring himself to let go of the line; to do so would mean certain death. Every inch he ascended, the water grew warmer, sunlight dazzled his face, and he was lulled by a promise of sanctuary. It was impossible to resist.

Far below him, Môrt watched Summyr turn to look up at him, unhurried and untroubled. Her hair billowed its radiant red against the ebony assailant, and there was a soft smile on her lips. Go on, she seemed to be saying.I'll be just fine.

Then the two halves of the shell at last reached their apex and fused, forming a nacre sphere of oily black. And Summyr disappeared from sight.

Môrt closed his eyes, the pain in his heart equal parts grief and guilt. He'd failed his sister again. He had seen the danger but could do little else than watch on helplessly. With a wretched sob that claimed the last of his breath, he turned his face skywards and broke through the water—

From dream into waking.

For a moment, there was nothing, just the perfect emptiness of the in-between. Môrt lay with his eyes closed, feeling the tightness in his chest swiftly unravel around an exhalation. It disappeared altogether into the air as though it had never been. With its departure, the memory of—well, now he couldn't quite remember what had been batting about in his mind, but whatever it was scattered like a school of fish and faded. Gone. In its place was only a serene and comforting warmth.

Every inch of him was swaddled in it, and Môrt shifted on his side, feeling the soft caress of cloth against his skin beneath—these are sheets—and when he tucked his chin, a—mm, blanket—cuddled his cheek.

The one remnant from his dream was the song. Only it had changed; its pitch was dipped low into a meaty humming that vibrated straight through Môrt's frame. But even stripped of its polyphony, the sound was just as lovely. For reasons he couldn't explain, it plucked at something inside him, clear and delightful, and he let out a contented sigh.

The humming stopped, and a soothing rumble came from behind him. "You awake?"

Sleep still lay thick between Môrt's ears, and although a tiny corner of his brain suddenly blared with a discordant note of alarm, the rest of him simply couldn't be bothered by it.

"Mm," he hummed in reply. Something warm blazed deliciously against his backside, and he wriggled back into it in search of more. There was a chuckle, or perhaps the playful lapping of waves on the shore. Môrt couldn't be sure, and in all honesty he was too drunk with sleep to really care. He was happy right here, safe in this haven of tranquility. It was cozy and so blessedly peaceful, for once without the constant banter of Meeseeks.

There was something about that last thought that sent a ripple of disturbance through his half-slumber. Just a moment earlier, the call of unconsciousness had murmured seductions in Môrt's ear, but now it was readying to take its leave. Sleep extracted itself from him in increments, stubbornly slipping free from his grasp, until at last he was bullied fully into the waking world. Ever so slowly, Môrt cracked open an eye.

Gold.

The world was bathed in gold. He blinked against the honey-yellow glare of light until, gradually, the world took shape around him. The first sight to greet him was, of all things, the regal profile of a rooster.

From the tip of its crest down to its arching tail, the rooster was aglow with pleated, aurous feathers. Its long legs, as gold as the rest of it, were affixed to an ornate metal pole encircled by the letters N, W, S, and E. Môrt followed the golden arrow beneath the rooster's feet, blinking the blur from his eyes to bring the rest of the room into focus.

Amidst a smattering of timeworn furniture—a cracked standing mirror, water-damaged wooden chairs, and a work desk buried beneath tarnished maps—a mess of paraphernalia littered every surface and crowded every wall. There were elegant clocks with gilded hour hands, quivers of arrows fletched with amber feathers, sculptures of chubby babies striking dashing poses with their gold-tipped darts, and gilt weathervanes of every shape and size.

The collection had the markings of a crazed hoarder. Even the ceiling was thick with a canopy of what looked like gold stars that twinkled above Môrt's head. A quiet noise of wonder escaped his lips, and he was about to turn onto his back to look at them more fully when the humming stopped again.

"Now I know you're definitely awake."

Môrt immediately froze, his mind shaking off the muck of sleep in its hurry to place the voice. Whoever it was sounded awfully close, almost as though right beside him. It was a deep, masculine voice, roughened by age and vice—

Captain Sanchez!

His heartbeat ticked up to twice its speed, and the comforting warmth around him suddenly took on a more sinister meaning as his bizarre surroundings revealed themselves for what they were: the captain's cabin. This wasn't the home of some whimsical collection; it was a pirate's booty!

There was the same chair the captain had been dining in just the night prior, one finial topped with his tricorn hat. And there, laid carelessly across a writing desk, that hateful, white long coat. Môrt quickly shut his eyes, willing himself to return to the blissful void of sleep where there were no pirates or tricorns or long coats.

"Come off, lad. You're not fooling anyone." There was the sound of fabric sliding across itself and paper rustling, a book being laid to rest.

All the peace of Môrt's first wakeful moments soured in an instant, hardening into primal panic. With a surge of adrenaline, Môrt pushed himself away, straining against the comforter that now choked him across the neck. He'd just managed to lift his torso from the mattress, when an overwhelming vertigo seized him. Every muscle spasmed, as if trying to wrench itself straight off his bones, and he flopped down with a garbled shout.

"Oi! Hold up now!" The captain was already grabbing at him, a sturdy fist locking around Môrt's upper arm. It branded him like a hot iron as Môrt was dragged with frightful ease back into the bed.

"Doʊnt yo͞o deər—!" Môrt threw out his free arm, trying to land a punch, but it swung horribly off-target and fell harmlessly on the pillow. He willed his legs to kick, but the message got lost somewhere around his waist, and he only managed a wanton roll of his hips.

Why wasn't his body cooperating? Everything seemed to move as if through mud, sluggish and slow, his every attack falling short and leaving him winded. Inside, however, the fire of defiance still roared: He had to fight back! He had to get away! After what had happened last night, the captain was going to finish what he'd started! He was going to thrash him! Kill him!

A prisoner in his own body, Môrt was suddenly smooshed against the captain who lay atop the covers. His chest was as solid as stone, those strong hands holding Môrt firmly in place while they threatened to—gently stroke down his back?

This wasn't the thrashing Môrt had expected.

Blunt fingers probed nimbly here and there along his spine in what Môrt was convinced had to be some kind of insidious human torture technique. How else could a bloodthirsty pirate touch him in a way that simultaneously left him breathless and dizzy with relief?

When an especially sore muscle twinged beneath the beguiling touch, Môrt hissed through gritted teeth.

Captain Sanchez echoed the sound, tutting gruffly about rigors and hypothermia, but continued, undaunted. "Relax. I'm not gonna hurt you."

And for once, the captain wasn't lying. His hands burned against Môrt's back, but it was a pleasant heat that bled into him, as healing as salve to a wound, as he kneaded the cold, stiff muscles. Paranoia first kept Môrt tightly wound in the captain's grasp, sharp with the anticipation of an attack. However, the more time passed and the longer the captain worked him, the weaker Môrt's will to fight became.

When Môrt's limbs finally loosened again, this time it was in relaxation rather than outright fatigue. With a shameful sigh, he sank deeper into the captain's embrace where he was ravaged by those scents he'd once associated with danger—acrid smoke and stinging wine—but now also found inexplicably pleasing.

Strange that he could feel anything other than fear for the pirate captain; but, yet again, his body chose to make the decision for him. Against Môrt's better judgment, it was convinced that he should feel safe and completely at ease. Its proof? The intoxicating sensation of the captain's massage.

It was frightfully akin to the way the captain had touched him the night before. The memory alone sparked something in the pit of Môrt's belly, and he squirmed in place, trying to quell that peculiar, gnawing itch. The captain had simply placed his hand on him, yet Môrt had never felt anything quite like it.

He inadvertently reawakened that feeling again, and a different kind of heat came to his cheeks, emerging from somewhere deep inside him rather than out. His efforts to bat it down only urged it to come back up stronger, ebbing and swelling, up and down with his every breath like the subtle rocking of the bed beneath him, rocking like the—

"Better?"

Môrt gave an unhappy grunt, not liking being pulled from the safehold of his mind, before mustering together the words on his tongue. They were as boneless as the rest of him, made heavy by the hypnotizing effect of the captain's ministrations. "Wī ər yo͞o duɪŋ ðɪs?"

"In a language I can understand."

"I-I said—" Môrt wriggled out of the captain's hold, his hands fisted in his tunic, ready to repel him if he tried anything funny. He put on his most spiteful glare as he looked up at him. "—why are y-you doing this?"

It was the second time Môrt had seen the captain in broad daylight, and he swallowed as those obnoxiously virile features spellbound him once again. This up close, he could make out every salt-and-pepper whisker on his square chin, every wrinkle that framed his terra-dark eyes. There was still the confident charisma that emanated from them, only now it was half-hidden behind a veil of concern.

Môrt automatically hunched beneath the probing gaze, realizing only then that he had accidentally pressed himself closer into the captain's arms. Heat radiated off the captain with the fierceness of a deep-sea vent, and Môrt's pride rallied in protest as he acknowledged the bit of comfort to be found there.

"After that stunt you pulled, it's no wonder your muscles are shot. Lactic acid and cold don't mix well," the captain rumbled in answer. Another stroke of that broad palm up his nape, and Môrt barely suppressed a moan.

"N-no." Môrt lolled his head from side to side in a pathetic attempt to shake off the unwelcome touch. "I mean, w-why are you being n-nice to me?"

Suddenly, the surface beneath Môrt's cheek shifted, and just when he was starting to feel comfortable, he was roughly dumped like a sack of wet sand onto his back. The bed's four posts rattled in their dowel joints. Still cocooned within the sheets, he found the captain looming over him, long arms braced on either side. But Môrt realized that he was pinned down more by the force of that piercing gaze than by any physical restraint.

The look in the captain's eyes was, for lack of a better word, ravenous. Stern and intense yet nearly shaking with unspoken intention, Môrt felt small beneath it. He sucked in a breath as the captain gave him a long, slow once-over that seemed to pass straight through the comforter and drag invisible nails along his skin.

"Nice?" The captain purred. His eyes fell to half-mast as he placed a hand against Môrt's chest, the pressure as comforting as a lion's paw. It grew heavier as he leaned in close, his breath sending hot puffs against Môrt's neck which jumped in time with his pulse. The whirlpool of fear and excitement was short-lived, however. With a derisive snort, the captain lifted himself away. "Don't flatter yourself."

"Wha—?" The captain leaned his full weight on Môrt's torn chest as he moved off the bed to stand, and Môrt saw stars. His thin layer of muscles felt like a sheet of brittle ice being punched through with a mallet, and it was only the pillow tossed playfully over Môrt's face that kept his shriek from reaching the level of ear-splitting.

Chest burning, Môrt clawed at the pillow to cast it off. Bastard! By the time he'd wrestled it off and looked up, the captain had sauntered away from the bed, his arms swinging carefree at his sides before arching over his head in a languid stretch. Môrt glowered at his back, futile as it was.

"H-hey!" He called out after him, a winded protest. Trying to rise from the bed was out of the question, but Môrt refused to lie down without some kind of retaliation. Pushing aside the cold that snaked its way over his arms—after all, ire could warm as effectively as any blanket—Môrt wrangled himself up high enough to yell at the captain across the room. "Y-you said you wouldn't h-hurt me! And that—that hurt!"

By the goddess, did he always sound so childish?

The captain had reached a cupboard against one wall of the cabin. Ornate pillars of wood framed the open shelves that brimmed with gold doubloons. They were stacked in precarious columns that rattled and toppled from their perch as the captain foraged amidst a collection of artifacts in an apparent search, tossing aside necklaces and goblets like unwanted rubbish. "You just scaled a 50-foot mast on nothing but noodle arms and adrenaline, kid. I could breathe on you, and you'd be smarting."

"N-not true! You were just—" But Môrt bit his tongue before he could continue. No point in admitting that the captain's massage had been—soothing, healing, pleasant—anything but downright violating.

"Here we are." From the top-most shelf and right alongside a queer-looking pistol, the captain retrieved a glass vial. He shook the small container, making the turquoise pebbles inside rattle, before turning to the cabin's hanging fire pit.

It was suspended from the ceiling by a trio of chains, a shallow metal bowl filled with smoldering coals. Bright orange fire flickered in the spaces between hunks of black. Using a pair of metal tongs, the captain set about poking the glowing embers as he spoke.

"That," he said without turning, "was just my checking that my goods weren't damaged beyond repair. After all the trouble you've given me, the least I can do is get what's owed me. Don't confuse it for anything else."

Evidently having found what he was after, the captain removed the tongs which now cradled a small sphere of red-hot iron between its teeth. Plucking a dinged-up tankard from where it had been set on the nearby table, the captain dropped the sphere inside. Instantly, the contents hissed like a disturbed serpent, bubbles sloshing over the rim, and Môrt recognized the sound of boiling water. As Captain Sanchez turned back toward the bed, drink in hand, he popped off the vial's cork and sprinkled some of the pebbles inside.

He held out the tankard. "Here, drink this. It's my own special brew." Something like pride twitched at the corner of his mouth. With a gruff ahem, he added, "Can't sell a half-frozen merchant's son at port and expect to get a full ransom."

Of course. The ransom.

Was that bitterness Môrt felt? Had he, in fact, been hoping the captain's touch meant something more, that the one person who held his life in his hands did so not out of selfishness but out of genuine concern?

Môrt hid his pout by chewing on the inside of his cheek and keeping his eyes on the drink. The pebbles—or seeds?—had apparently disintegrated in the hot water, and now steam rose from its oscillating surface. It ducked and heaved against the pewter walls, and it was then that Môrt finally registered what the captain had said. He sat up a little straighter as though pricked with a needle.

Port. Kingston. The water! In the still morning air, the creaking of the ship's sides formed a constant backdrop in rhythm with the see-sawing blue horizon beyond the cabin's bay window. They were at last down from that dreaded height and back in a realm where Môrt felt more at home.

Normally, Môrt would have answered the urgent call for him to move, to jump out of the bed that instant and make for the door. But just as quickly, the voice of reason lured him back down from his high. That and a timely tremor across a sore muscle.

He was in no shape to make his escape now. He'd get no farther than two steps before the captain was on him, and perhaps this time, he would be tied up until they reached their destination.

Obediently, he accepted the tankard from the captain, trying hard to keep his arms from quaking under its substantial weight. Besides, what was the hurry now? He knew he would be home-free the moment he touched the water, and the captain clearly had no intention of harming him, not if he still expected to demand a non-existent ransom from a non-existent merchant lord. Môrt could play the role of the helpless prisoner for just a little bit longer.

"I-if I may be so bold, my lord." He'd marshaled his repugnance into a passable display of deference. "Are we nearly at K-Kingston?" Ignoring the fetid stench of the brew, he scrunched his eyes shut and lifted the tankard to his lips. It tasted—not bad. It was earthy, a touch bitter, but far more palatable than he'd expected. The quick taste on his tongue awakened a hunger he didn't realize he'd been ignoring so far, and it now gave an angry rumble in the pit of his belly. Whispering a silent prayer of thanks, he downed a mouthful of the warm drink.

Captain Sanchez, meanwhile, had hopped back onto the bed, unaware of or simply unimpressed by Môrt's scowl shot over the tankard's rim. "Aye, we'll be in port by morning's end. And good riddance to yeh, I say."

After making himself comfortable against the wall and picking up his book from where it had been left on the duvet, he reached overhead, patting a hand along the small wooden shelf nailed into the wall.

"Royal pain in my side is what you've been," he added coolly as he returned the small, red book back to its place. "Now I remember why people are such lousy—ah, there you are, Shnookums."

Shnookums? Môrt was for once intrigued by rather than wary of the captain's actions. He also suddenly noticed that the tankard felt lighter in his hands, his arms steady and not nearly as sore as they'd been just a moment earlier. He rolled his shoulders, for the first time able to take a deep breath without it feeling like his ribs were being skewered. What on earth was in this tea?

He took another generous swig.

From between the shelf's titles, Captain Sanchez retrieved something that twittered in a series of high-pitched squeaks. It was the same small, blue creature, its short limbs scarcely visible beyond its thick coat.

Môrt remembered seeing it the first day aboard. A pet?

"Trust me, kid, you won't be missed," the captain said, flopping back down onto the mattress and tucking an arm behind his head. Shnookums was a feisty little thing, and Captain Sanchez made soft claws with his curled fingers to play-attack the wriggling furball. "I'm too old to be babysitting ungrateful blue bloods like you. The sooner you're gone, the better."

Môrt felt indignation flare up inside him, and he took another sip. His thoughts stewed into his drink. The captain was no more traceable than a stormy sea, every act of kindness immediately offset by a stinging barb, and the result was leaving Môrt emotionally exhausted. It was as if the captain were purposefully trying to drive him away.

Well, two could play at that game.

Each gulp of the tea refueled Môrt's body temperature—as well as his audacity. With nothing left to lose, he felt the rigidity of manners temporarily loosen.

"W-well, the f-feeling's mutual. I-I've never met with the company of such a brute before."

"Like I said, ungrateful." The cockiness in the captain's words was tangible. "Is that any way to thank someone for rescuing you?"

"Rescue?" Just the memory of the crow's nest brought a fresh wave of goosebumps down his skin, and Môrt had to suppress a shiver at the phantom cold, retiring his now empty tankard to the bedside table. "I-I wouldn't have needed any r-rescuing if you hadn't ch-chased me up to the crow's nest in the first place," he seethed, crossing his arms.

The captain blinked his eyes wide. "You chased yourself up there."

"Only because you—" The nerve-racking dinner with its storm of emotions. The captain's pushiness followed quickly by his cold-hearted dismissal of Môrt's search for Summyr. Violence and blood had rounded out the evening, the crash of dinnerware deafening in his ears. "—you scared me so badly!"

"Scared you?" The captain splayed a hand across his own chest, feigning offense.

This had the unfortunate side-effect of not petting Shnookums. The critter immediately rallied for attention by scratching at the captain's tunic, its valiant efforts in vain.

"I was simply trying help you, ya lard-brained gobshite! A young lad like yourself has a bright future ahead of you, living in a grand abode, sitting on a cushy fortune under mummy and daddy, never having to lift a finger for anyone. Not a care in the world." He snorted. "Yet you're hellbent on throwing it away, and all for some dumb lass—"

"She's my sister!"

Môrt's fists shook where they were clenched in his lap, a thick silence falling over the room save for Shnookums' innocent chittering. The captain seemed uncharacteristically thrown by his outburst, but Môrt didn't think he had to explain himself. Surely, even a human would understand that what he had done—what he was still determined to do—was in the name of his blood kin and not merely some fanciful whim of a spoiled brat.

Mustering up his courage, Môrt flicked a glance at the captain, only to find him scowling into the middle distance. The old man puffed up his chest a few times, opened his mouth as though ready to throw out another dismissive remark, but then closed it again. When at last whatever internal tirade he was debating came to an end, he pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes while Shnookums batted at his chin, thinking it all a game. He gave a deep exhale. "Aye, aye. Say no more." There was a long silence as he scrubbed his hands down and seemed to take in the room anew, his eyes darting from one random object to the next. Finally, he dropped his gaze to the comfort in defeat. "I took leave of my senses," he admitted at last; and with the statement, his shoulders sagged like a sail emptied of its wind. "Wasn't my place to tell you to cut your losses and give up on her."

The apology hung undisturbed in the air, and for a full breath, neither Captain Sanchez nor Môrt moved. It was the kind of stillness that one feels when standing at a precipice.

Only Shnookums was unmoved by the significant shift that had taken place, and the spell was at last broken when the captain picked up his pet again. His tone was notably lighter, nowhere near as callous as it'd been before.

"Take it from me. I know a thing or two about hope. Once it's taken a hold of you, it's no easy thing to shake. And..." Môrt's ear perked up, surprised by how the captain's voice grew thick with sentiment. There was a raw vulnerability there he hadn't expected to ever see in the pirate. "I know a thing or two about loss." The captain swallowed. "If you've got a mind to go find your sister, who am I to tell you otherwise?"

Môrt pushed himself up, wanting to face the captain eye-to-eye. When the covers fell off of him, however, an unexpected chill swooped in, and he looked down at himself. Beneath the comforter, he was naked.

Having followed his gaze, the captain sputtered and lifted his right hand in placation. "D-don't worry, kid. Your clothes were just filthy, so I had to—I swear, I didn't touch you. I got the message loud and clear last night."

Môrt almost flinched at the raised hand, before noticing that it was wrapped shoddily with a strip of dirty cloth. Old blood had dried across the back of it, right where his teeth had sunk into the flesh.

You animal!

The shout echoed up from the abyss of Môrt's memories, and he ducked his head to hide from it. The tips of his ears burned with humiliation, not at whatever odd implication the captain was making but at the thought of what Môrt had done to him. He had lashed out like a wild animal, a slave to his fight-or-dive instincts.

Yet despite the way Môrt had acted, the captain had gone above and beyond to nurse him back to health. Judging by the exhaustion that tugged at his eyes and the unkempt state of his clothes, he'd kept vigil at Môrt's side throughout the night.

And if the wealth of treasures about them was any indication, Môrt got the sense that it was more than just the pursuit of lucre that had guided the pirate's gentle hand.

Môrt glanced at the tankard beside the bed then at the once savage pirate coddling and cooing at his pet.

Was this really the same man who had locked him in the storage room all those days? The same one who just last night had mocked him and flung dishes from the table out of rage? Now there wasn't a scrap of the same fearsomeness with which Captain Sanchez had reigned over him.

Like an abalone shell that appeared hard and unyielding on the outside yet was tender and contained treasures within, there was clearly more to the captain than Môrt had originally thought. He was a confounding creature, no doubt.

Confounding and yet begging to be discovered.

"Your hand…does it hurt?" Môrt bit his lip at how frustratingly stupid he sounded.

The captain held his hand up to examine the bandage, flexing and unflexing the fingers. "No permanent damage. But, boy, I didn't expect you to go all bear-trap on me. Don't think I've ever met an aristobrat with a bite like yours."

Just earlier, Môrt might have misconstrued the captain's statement as being scathing or hostile. But there was only good-natured humor in his words. As crazy as it sounded, Môrt had the sense that he was actually beginning to understand the captain. Or, at the very least, beginning to want to. There was something about this human that made Môrt want to sit up and take notice.

Môrt watched as the captain stroked Shnookums' soft fur. His fingers rounded the small head, scratched lightly at the back of its neck, and swept down its spine. Did he give such attention to everything he touched? Unbidden, the memory of the captain's electrifying touch from the night before came to life in his lap once again.

Not wanting to give too much credit to the distracting thoughts clamoring around inside his head, Môrt turned his attention to his surroundings.

During last night's dinner, everything had been obscured by gloomy darkness beyond the short reach of the candles, as welcoming as a cave. Basked in the soft rays of sunlight, however, the captain's cabin actually looked...homey. If not a bit worn around the edges.

The four-poster bed he lay on was luxurious enough, but upon closer inspection, Môrt found that the curtains that hung from the canopy frame were faded with age. The thick cords that bound them to the posts were frayed; their tassels, unraveling. In a way, they mirrored the captain himself, whose rumpled appearance made Môrt wonder if he had seen better days and was now stuck in his own perpetual state of disrepair.

The only things that seemed to be properly maintained, in fact, were the golden disks hanging overhead. Môrt's eyes drifted up to them again, watching them sway with the steady side-to-side rocking of the ship. Behind each of their glass faces, a thin needle pointed to marks along a painted ring. The little golden arrows were all pointing in the same direction.

Compasses.

As he recalled it, humans relied on these crude tools to navigate, not being gifted with the natural ability to feel the earth's magnetic pull. He couldn't imagine why a human would need so many of them, however, or how they could be of any use while strung up on the ceiling by their chains like decorations.

"Are you—are you lost, captain?"

"What?" the captain snapped, his brow set in a hard line. He'd been play-wrestling with Shnookums, his long fingers digging into the creature's belly, and he paused to throw a wary glance at Môrt.

"I-I just meant, well—all these." Môrt pointed skyward, indicating the compasses, and immediately the tension eased from around the captain's eyes.

"Ah." He seemed to think Môrt's question over, looking off into the depths of his own thoughts before answering. "I guess I am. I'm a long way from home, that's for sure." He then shook his head. "I'm searching for something, and these arrows were supposed to lead me to it." Shnookums was now trying to bury itself between the side of the captain's neck and the pillow, and he scooped up the critter swiftly before adding, "But they're about as useful as a hole in my hull, without that final missing piece." He almost looked starstruck as he spoke, his eyes glazing over as if he were spying into some made-up future. "A mermaid."

Môrt threw his gaze to the side, his burgeoning interest in the captain withering at the sour reminder. How could he have forgotten this was still a coda-hunter that lay right beside him? He thought back to what the harpy had said shortly after he'd arrived on deck.

"I-is that why you needed a mermaid's—a mermaid's tail?" Just saying the words made his stomach churn at the thought of how—

"You bet. 'Course, I still have no idea what kind of story she had to tell me," the captain was saying, walking Shnookums between his hands in an endless loop.

Môrt blinked, his stream of dark thoughts dashed apart by the bizarre non sequitur. "P-pardon? What do you mean 's-story'?"

"A story, a legend, maybe even a real yarn." He chuckled and then looked straight at Môrt. "You know, a tale."

Tale?

He couldn't believe what he was hearing. All this time Captain Sanchez had been after a tale and not a tail?Môrt covered his eyes with his hands, as if he could hide from his own stupidity.

This changed everything. Here he'd been worrying about having his coda lopped off by some barbaric pirate in the name of money or superstition. But what he was after was so much simpler than that. To think one measly trick of the ear could have caused him so much grief.

"Whatever this mermaid has to say is supposed to help me get back what I want. But I ended up with you instead." The captain was still lamenting his poor luck, oblivious to the mental hurdle Môrt was tackling. "And now with Harpyperson out of the picture, I'll probably never find one."

That's what you think! Giddiness bubbled up in Môrt's chest, the feeling of secretly being the object of someone's desire but having to feign ignorance—or better yet, holding a hidden trump card in a dicey game of poker. The temptation to reveal himself just to see how the captain would react was strong. For once, Môrt felt like he had the upper hand in the conversation, one that gave him leverage over the captain.

But Môrt thought better than to spill the truth too soon. He couldn't count on his coda being safe for sure until he knew exactly where the captain stood. He cleared his throat.

"Say—say y-you had found the mermaid you were looking for. I-I know how huma—er, how men hunt them down to harvest their tails. Would you have..." He couldn't bring himself to say it.

"Of course not!" the captain guffawed. "Killing a mermaid's a cardinal sin! I may have my occasional flaws, but I'm a proper gentleman. Or couldn't you tell?"

Môrt arched his brows and tipped his head. "Oh, I don't know. L-locking me up in that dusty storage room wasn't what I'd call very genteel."

"Could've been the brig if I'd really been sore." His comeback was quick but lighthearted. "Next to my cabin, that room's the nicest accommodations I've got on the ship. Thought a young man of your breeding would fancy the forecastle." He winked. "YourHighness."

Fo'c'sle? Môrt was baffled by what the captain was talking about, until it finally hit him. Having only seen the word in writing before but never said aloud, it took a moment. As in forecastle?Is that supposed to be a joke? He shook his head and scoffed but couldn't keep the smile from his face. This was as good an acknowledgment of wrongdoing as Môrt could imagine getting from the old pirate, and his heart trembled its gratitude. In that moment, he could imagine them having become friends under different circumstances, the kind of easy rapport between them something that had always eluded Môrt in his life in Atlantis.

A disgraceful voice in the corner of Môrt's mind bemoaned the fact that he wouldn't be staying long enough to see where it went.

Tuckered out from its playtime, Shnookums had wandered out of its master's hands and found a spot on the bedding between them to curl up for a nap.

Môrt reached out to gently pet it. "So, captain, w-what is it you were searching for?"

The captain sighed, scratching a spot in the center of his chest. His voice grew soft. "Crazy as it sounds, I was trying to—well, I was in search of the greatest treasure in the world."

Môrt stopped mid-motion, his fingers suspended above Shnookums' fuzzy head.

The greatest treasure…

He'd heard those same words too many times not to feel them strike a bell within him. It sounded so similar to the way Summyr was described by those who loved her, he could almost imagine the captain holding a mirror to him, his yearning and drive reflecting Môrt's own.

Perhaps the two of them weren't so different after all.

Môrt felt a kinship with the captain in that moment that transcended the vast distance between their worlds: They were both in search of something they had lost and yet were equally without direction.

In Môrt's case, however, instead of compasses, a mysterious vision had been his only guide. The golden line from the night of Summyr's funeral came to the forefront of his mind again, otherworldly yet undeniably reassuring. It had been warm and beautiful, just like the wealth of gold around him.

Just then, the captain decided to peel himself away, jarring Môrt from his near-epiphany. He sighed. "Anyway, there are preparations to be made—"

"W-wait!" Môrt lunged forward, reaching out to curl a hand into the captain's sleeve. The comforter slid from his shoulders to reveal his bare torso, but he wasn't thinking about that. What was he thinking, for that matter?

They both froze, the captain just as unsure of what to make of Môrt's reaction as Môrt was. He had moved with an imperative to catch onto something before it slipped away. Not the captain, of course, but something he'd said—or rather not yet said. All this talk of arrows and gold and treasures and beyond that, just outside the captain's cabin, the sea. The sea! But what tied them all together? What was he missing?

It was hard to train his mind on it, his focus slipping past his thoughts as if trying to remember something from a dream. The here and now was too distracting. The captain was like a slice of the sun itself, and if he left, it would leave a void of cold in his absence too great to bear.

Come on, Môrt. This is no time to let your thoughts drift. There was something more important, something just on the horizon of his mind, brought closer by the treasure Captain Sanchez spoke of.

"Captain, I—"

Whatever Môrt was about to say, however, was shattered apart by a sudden, cracking boom. It sucked the air from the cabin and rattled the glass in the windows and the compasses overhead. Trinkets around the room chimed their abuse, some spilling over in a golden waterfall as the floor shook.

Môrt dropped to the mattress and covered the back of his neck with his hands. "W-what was that!?"

But by the time he looked up again, the captain was already sweeping his coat off from the top of the desk. Every movement was purposeful and well-oiled. Môrt would have almost thought Captain Sanchez was accustomed to whatever was happening, if not for the tirade of curses that spewed from his mouth.

"Fuck me, fuck me! Of all the duck-knee'd, dung-munching crap sacks! Take a shot across my bow? Oh, we'll see about that!" A holster of six pistols was slung over his chest followed quickly by his white long coat. From it, he withdrew a blue box and began rapid-fire pounding its top.

A flock of Meeseeks immediately poofed to life, filling the already cluttered room.

Môrt gasped. "Sweet mother of pearl!" Any complaints about the cold were abandoned as Môrt got up to stare at the crowd of Meeseeks. So that was how it worked! It was no wonder they could disappear and reappear without end, brought into being by the captain's magical contraption.

Another boom, much closer this time, resulted in a splintery explosion outside, and Môrt couldn't hold back a quivering shriek as the ship shuddered around him. He flattened himself against the bed, the stench of gunpowder beginning to permeate the air. Something was burning.

Meanwhile, the captain weathered the maelstrom with ease, kicking open the door and letting out his crew of Meeseeks. He belted out orders as they surged around him and out onto the deck in a screeching flood. "Make ready the guns! To your positions!" About to dash outside himself, he paused to turn to Môrt, one hand on the door's handle. "Stay here."

"But what—"

"Just stay here and out of sight!" He paused, his emotions cycling visibly on his face: rage, fear, and a desperate plea before returning to rage. "Trust me when I say this is the last thing I'll ask of you!" In the next instant, he was gone, the rabble of battle preparations dulling to a frantic buzz as the door slammed shut behind him.

In the empty room, Môrt scoffed. Stay here? Are you kidding me? Captain Sanchez was crazy if he thought Môrt was going to allow himself to be kept against his will again.

He had no more reason to heed the captain, now that he was no longer under threat of becoming prey. What the captain had said about his treasure hunt resonated strongly with Môrt's own journey, but his temporary curiosity was fading as quickly as the once peaceful morning. All that remained was his promise to himself and to Summyr.

It was time to go.

Môrt swung his legs over the side of the bed, surprised when the movement came easily. He flexed his toes, twisted his torso. Everything seemed to be in working order, but he'd only taken one step before a shiver raced down the center of his chest.

Damn this infernal cold!

He hunched over, looking around automatically for his clothing. Luckily, he didn't have to look far. His yellow tunic and slacks were drying on a metal rod beneath the hanging fire pit, and he threw them on quickly, pleased to find them toasty and warm.

On the bed, Shnookums was still sleeping peacefully. How the creature could sleep through all this ruckus made Môrt wonder what it would possibly take to rouse it.

"You might belong here, but I don't," he said aloud, knowing he'd get no response but nevertheless finding courage in his own words. Even when another shuddering blast sounded on the other side of the door, Môrt could still recognize opportunity when it presented itself: The captain and crew would be too distracted to notice one pint-sized kid slip outside and over the railing.

Clutching a hand to his chest where his necklace had once hung, Môrt put his hand on the door's latch and pushed.

Sunlight blinded him, and sound roared to life. Dozens of feet stamped across the deck as Meeseeks ran in every direction, wheeling cannons to their stations or climbing up the ratlines, all the while trumpeting their inane medley. The full extent of the Shrieking Siren's armaments became known as iron filled the gundeck.

Captain Sanchez worked right alongside them, passing out linstocks to his crew as if they were mere twigs, while he summoned more Meeseeks wherever extra hands were needed. Môrt caught the look of determination on his face between the throng of Meeseeks: He was a leader just as willing to get his hands dirty as deliver orders.

The crew, too occupied by their duties and without having been given the order to attend to Môrt, ignored him entirely as he stole between them like a fish among blue reeds.

It wasn't until he'd made it to the portside railing that he let out the breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. Burning wood laced the air, but nothing was more cleansing than the smell of the sea through his sinuses. He looked down and grinned, taking in the sight of surf brushing up against the side of the ship. The spray of seawater on his cheeks made his heart flutter, and he could already imagine himself slipping between the waves and darting off with a few flicks of his coda.

He'd be done with the Dry and its cockamamie rules and sweat and uncultured brutes. The past few days had been hellish, and it was only through the grace of the goddesses that he'd survived it. Getting caught up in distractions had led him into this mess, but he wouldn't make the same mistake again. He grabbed onto a rope beside him and lifted himself onto the balls of his feet, readying to take the leap.

But his fingers refused to relinquish their hold.

No! No more waiting! This is my chance! He scolded himself, making ready to jump again. But still something wouldn't allow him let go of the line.

Line...?

Déjà vu whispered in his ears, as though carried by the very wind. Môrt stared at the water just beneath, trying to ignore the voice of dissent that bayed at him.

The blue waves lapped to and fro in blatant invitation, interrupted only by an incongruous swatch of pink that wobbled into view. He scrunched his brows as a shadow fell across it. Slowly, he lifted his gaze, his eyes gliding along the length of the Siren's hull before landing on something just a few dozen yards off her port bow.

It was a ship.

At half the size of the Shrieking Siren, the schooner's sails were stretched full by wind, and she cut through the waves at a clipped pace—heading straight for them. On her masts, a flock of black flags flapped in the wind, each one marked with a circled, red V.

Amidst puffs of smoke that accompanied the crack of cannon fire, a burly crew crowded her deck, their shouts audible even from this distance. The way they brandished their cutlasses in the air made it clear their visit was anything but friendly.

"Pirates," Môrt breathed.

As if in reply, a spiked grappling hook suddenly lodged itself into the railing right by Môrt's hand, its sharp tips stabbing the wood with a thunk. In the next moment, two more hooks joined the first, the ropes at each of their bases trembling. Môrt didn't have to look to know that he'd soon have company.

He stumbled back, the shout of alarm already high in his throat. A quick glance around confirmed that the stealth invasion had so far gone unnoticed. The captain and his crew were too focused on the schooner's approach from the front, leaving their flank unguarded. Twoscore Meeseeks were busy firing back with the first wave of loaded guns, all their attention on offense rather than defense. Môrt had been the only one to notice the advance attack.

"Everyone, they're—" Before he could get out the words, however, a gloved hand clamped down over his mouth. Môrt was lifted into the air, his feet connecting with a broad, muscled abdomen when he kicked his legs.

"No fuss, no mess, lad," said a husky voice by Môrt's ear. It reeked of dead teeth and decaying matter, the stench enough to make Môrt nauseous.

There was the click of a hammer being pulled back, and a second pirate appeared beside Môrt, one arm outstretched with a rusted pistol aimed straight at Captain Sanchez. His target was still busy replenishing Meeseeks from his magic box, his white long coat making him stand out from the crew.

No!

Unsure what spurred him to act, Môrt threw out his leg, managing to catch the pirate on the shoulder. It wasn't much, but it was enough to knock him off balance just as he fired. The shot pitched wildly to the side, taking down an innocent Meeseeks with a squeaked gurgle.

Captain Sanchez immediately spun around at the sound of the blast, a pistol already in his free hand. While Môrt's captor readjusted his hold on him, a well-aimed shot felled the pirate by their side, a smoking hole between his eyes.

Crossing the deck in just a few strides, Captain Sanchez glared daggers at the pirate holding Môrt, but a raised cutlass by Môrt's cheek stopped him in his tracks.

"Stay your hand, or the kid gets it."

There was a second's pause. Then, much to Môrt's surprise, Captain Sanchez obliged, dropping the spent pistol, his other hand tucked behind his back.

"C'mon, Alan," the captain said. "There's no need to get the kid involved. It's me you want."

"And the Box. Slowly now."

The captain grimaced but did as he was told.

Around them, the Meeseeks continued to hustle, going about their tasks with unwavering dedication, even as their master knelt in place, pulling the patterned box out from behind him. He set it on the deck floor where the Meeseeks stepped around it, seemingly oblivious to the fact that it was the very source of their creation.

"Back away from it." Alan gestured forward with his cutlass, making small stabbing motions.

Môrt was jostled like a ragdoll with each movement, and the slightest attempt to fight back was promptly derailed. It was like the man was built from solid iron.

"Now stay right where you are." He stepped to the side as another pair from his crew boarded right next to him.

The first was curled over in a perpetual hunch, and Môrt realized that he was terribly deformed. Scaly skin covered his body, and missing limbs were replaced by crudely hewn metal parts. Beside him, a lanky and bare-chested man slipped effortlessly onto the deck. Every inch of the pirate's body was caked thick with what looked like red mud top to bottom, with a smell that revealed he hadn't bathed in decades. It had formed a shell around him, blurring his features and sprinkling to the floor whenever he moved.

"O'Bott, Mants," Alan ordered. "Relieve the captain of his personal effects and detain him."

The two pirates hustled over to where the captain stood. Mants held a rusted cutlass to his throat as he skillfully unholstered the array of weapons from Captain Sanchez's person, far more than what should have been possible to hide beneath his long coat. Daggers, flintlocks, and even a full-length pike appeared from seemingly bottomless pockets.

The captain only rolled his eyes.

Meanwhile, O'Bott stooped to pick up the box with a metal hook where his hand would have been. His pegleg scraped against the wooden planks as he thumped his way toward the bow where their ship was now floating abreast of the Shrieking Siren.

Môrt hooked his fingers around the hand on his mouth and lifted his eyes, trying to get a look at his captor.

He was a tall and impressively built man. His skin was the color of wet earth, and sea-hardened muscles bulged along his arms as he crushed Môrt to him. Thick coils of rusted chain hung around his neck, the bulky links digging into Môrt's back and making him whimper.

"This is no way for a proper boatswain to behave, Alan," the captain said. He tried taking a half-step in Môrt's direction, but Mants's cutlass dug deeper against his throat. Dirt sloughed from his arms to pepper his boots like an army of little ants. "You came for me, so here I am."

Alan laughed—a deep, gruff sound—before pulling free a large whistle from between his pecs. "Aye, you might have evaded the Vindicator so far, but today it seems luck is on our side." He turned, addressing the waiting ship with a loud "All aboard!" before blowing a long, ear-piercing note on his whistle.

The crew of the Vindicator whooped, punching their fists into the air while others toppled wooden beams with cross-rungs over the edge of the ship. Their ends latched onto the Shrieking Siren's railing, tethering the two ships together. No sooner were the gangplanks in place, than the unruly brigands began to make their way over in a kind of crawling dash.

They poured over onto the Shrieking Siren like a red tide, drawing their weapons on the Meeseeks.

Those Meeseeks who were caught mid-errand failed to cooperate, and they were swiftly run through. Môrt looked away, expecting a bloody spectacle, but when he peeked his eyes open again, he saw the Meeseeks spilling what looked like white stuffing, no different than seafoam.

Any Meeseeks who had been left on standby stood patiently in place on the deck, hardly flinching as the Vindicator's crew swooped in, all snarls and threats. Despite having blades held to their necks, they remained their regular, oblivious selves.

"I'M MR. MEESEEKS!" they shrieked proudly, much to the annoyance of the invaders. Môrt imagined the men were not used to such cheerful hostages, and his theory was proved when a few disemboweled their charges purely out of spite.

"Conduct yourselves, ya bilge rats! Remember we want to take them alive!" Alan yelled.

"You're honestly trying to take my crew?" Captain Sanchez arched his brow as he crossed his arms over his chest. "If you think that's happening, you're dumber than I thought."

Môrt blanched at the captain's absolute brazenness. With a blade against his throat, no less! Rather than scared, the captain just looked annoyed, and he shrugged off Mants's hold with a roll of his eyes.

"Just one second, my gross man." He took a deep breath, shouting loudly enough to be heard all across the ship. "Mr. Meeseeks, your attention, please!"

Every blue head on deck, below deck, and high in the masts turned to him, impervious to the pirates' attempts to restrain them.

"Blink."

The sound of the Meeseeks blinking in unison was almost audible. With their task completed, they then erupted like a string of fireworks, evaporating into puffs of white smoke right on the spot. In the literal blink of an eye, the entire ship was emptied of its crew, leaving only Captain Sanchez, Môrt, and their attackers.

The pirates who had been holding the Meeseeks captive were caught off guard, some slicing into their own arms as their blades suddenly met with empty air. There was an outcry of confusion. Feeling cheated of their bloodlust, many of the pirates charged the captain, blades drawn. Alan bellowed out orders for them to stand down, but even he was having difficulty keeping his men in order.

Suddenly a solemn clapping pierced the air, silencing the riotous mob as swiftly as a guillotine.

Everyone turned in the direction of the Vindicator.

One of their number was just finishing his walk across the makeshift bridge, his steps so dainty that the gangplank barely rocked. When he boarded the ship, his crew fell away from him, eyes averted and heads bowed in reverence. The newcomer looked around with an approving smile, evidently very pleased with what he saw.

"Clever, clever. I knew you couldn't stand sharingthem. You always were the jealous type," he cooed, his voice carrying easily over the tense silence. His haughty grin only broadened when his gaze landed on Captain Sanchez, and with a cocky swagger of his hips, he began his trek across the deck toward him. "Come, Neaux'Va, let's not keep the good captain waiting."

An elegant female pirate followed closely behind him, her eyes steely where they peeked out from beneath her wide-brimmed, plumed hat. Long locks of hair, every shade of a raven's wing, tumbled over her shoulders, bouncing in time with her strides. Her plum-dyed long coat was fashioned out of crushed velvet that shifted hues in the sunlight.

As Neaux'Va and her leader approached, Môrt could see the way her eyes were constantly roaming the crowd. One hand remained on the handle of her rapier, ready to draw it at a moment's notice.

Môrt swallowed as the man stepped up to them, his rank among the crew clear in the way he carried himself with unquestionable authority. He was the venerable captain of the Vindicator.

Unlike Captain Sanchez, this man still looked to be rather young. Few wrinkles interrupted his roguish looks, and his lashes were as thick and vibrant as the hair on his head. He too sported a stubbled chin, but it looked far more well-manicured, topped off with trimmed mutton chops that framed his square jaw.

In fact, everything about the man was polished—from his copper hair that flounced gaily in the breeze, to his close-fitting blue tunic and vest, to his tall leather boots. Standing toe to toe with Captain Sanchez only emphasized the contrast between them, and for the first time, Môrt sensed that his captain perhaps wasn't as intimidating as he'd once thought.

"Well, well, well," the man said to the captain, a chummy twinkle in his eye. "If it isn't the great Captain Bluebeard."

...

Bluebeard.

Rick hated that name. Even after a decade of laying low, he'd still been unable to shake it, stubborn as a thorn in his ass. He'd made a point of losing the beard years ago, but it'd made no difference.

The name far preceded any reputation Rick could hope to make for himself, however, and he did have to appreciate the advantages it offered.

On the one hand, it struck fear into the hearts of any who uttered it, whether on land or at sea. Just saying "Bluebeard" was believed to bring misfortune and foul weather and had the power to spoil one's victuals. Known as the most ruthless marauder this side of the Orient, his name made merchants dump their loads and empty their coffers at the first sight of Rick's sails.

But the name was as much a curse as it was a blessing.

The title, as well as the legend behind it, had painted a bull's eye on Rick's back. Bluebeard might have been a fearsome household name for the locals, but it carried a different promise for those in the piratehood. The notorious pirate captain was said to have amassed a tremendous fortune during his exploits throughout the West Indies, and word of it had spread far and wide.

Now, Rick's personal treasure hunt had added to the authenticity of the legend. On a galleon as sturdy as the Shrieking Siren, his orlops were stuffed to the brim with years' worth of precious items. And all that gold didn't sit unnoticed. Now every rival pirate crew on the high seas was willing to cross swords with him for a chance to claim it.

Including one Captain Vance Maximus.

"Captain Bluebeard, as I live and breathe!" Vance spread his arms wide, palms up.

God, he still has that same jackass smirk.

Rick sneered as Vance circled him slowly, the sway of his hips no accident. Get-in-Your-Pants Vance was notorious for his sex tourism, always willing to pick up both friend and foe to engage in a little shaking of the sheets. He'd made a fair number of passes at Rick in the past as well, not all of them entirely unsuccessful.

That, of course, was before Vance had decided to fall in with the wrong crowd and mark Rick a personal enemy. A surge of disdain for the cocky bastard made Rick clench his fists until the knuckles bleached. Before he could take another breath, however, a rapier met his chest just over his heart.

"N'avance plus, salaud. That's far enough."

He looked down the long, thin blade to its owner—Vance's own personal bodyguard. "Neaux'Va," he acknowledged her with a slight nod. "Enchanté."

The French bitch almost never left Vance's side, especially not when it came to run-ins with Rick. Considering what happened to Vance's legs the last time their paths crossed, though, he couldn't blame her.

Pushing the tip away with a finger, Rick glared at Vance. "Great seeing you too, Vance. Hey, how'd that position as Her Ladyship's 'Renegade Seasoldier' ever work out for you?" There was an imperceptible slip in Vance's step. Sucker. "That bad, huh?"

Hiding any flaws was another skill of Vance's, and with a hummed chuckle, he smoothed a hand over his already impeccable hair. "Oh, that tongue of yours," he crooned. "If only you'd learn to put it to some good—well, hello there."

Rick looked up sharply, recognizing that purr anywhere: the sound of Vance closing in on new prey.

Shit.

Môrt stood directly in Vance's line of sight. Alan had dragged him forward, putting him on full display like the catch of the day. And here, he'd hoped to spare the kid Vance's depraved tastes.

Damn the whelp for not listening to him!

Vance was appraising Môrt with a lurid look up and down the short length of him. "You must be new around here. I don't remember Bluebeard taking on a kid for his crew." He slunk closer to pinch a lock of Môrt's hair between his fingers. "And I never forget a kid."

Before Môrt could open his mouth and potentially stick his foot in it, Rick piped up with an exaggerated shrug. "He's just my new cabin boy. Picked him up in Tortuga."

"Is that right?" Vance hadn't turned his steady gaze away from Môrt. "Didn't know they carried such exotic wares. Otherwise, I would've made a quick stop-off on the way here. He's a fine prize you've found." He crooked a finger under Môrt's chin, forcing him to look up as he analyzed his face. "A very fine prize."

Afraid that Vance would figure out Môrt was clearly of higher breeding, Rick coughed loudly and spoke up again. "Sad story, really. Orphaned just this past year. No living relatives. He was on the roster for a crew faster than you can say press gang."

"And he was planning on turning you into his powder monkey, wasn't he? My poor boy," Vance tutted, shaking his head. "Life's going to chew you up and spit you out." His voice dropped to sultry depths as he ran a thumb over Môrt's bottom lip. "But I'd be more than happy to lick your wounds."

"Hands off the goods, Maxi-pad. I paid for him, fair and square."

Vance slid his gaze to Rick, eyes flat with disinterest. "Like I said, you were never good at sharing. Very well, then. If you insist." He twisted his lips in a pout, fingers lingering before he finally pulled away from Môrt. "In any case, to what do we owe the pleasure of your presence, Bluebeard? Last we'd heard, you'd sailed out of the port of Barcelona, never to be seen again. And yet here we are, reunited, in this good year of our Lord 1715. What are you doing out here anyway? You know these waters belong to Lady Tamara."

"If she wants these waters, she can have 'em," Rick spat. "What I'm looking for is none of her business."

Vance crossed an arm over his chest, resting the elbow in the cup of his hand, and tapped his cheek with his fingertips. "Don't tell me," he started slowly. "Is the great Bluebeard still chasing after a fairy tale?"

Rick only shuffled in place and looked away, not willing to give Vance the satisfaction that his little barb had stung.

"That's it, isn't it?" A serpent's grin curled his lips. Then to his crew, he raised his arms, a priest addressing his parishioners. "That's right, gents! The rumors are true! Our Bluebeard is no more!"

This confused many of his crew who murmured among themselves, unsure of what to make of their captain's announcement. Only Neaux'Va seemed annoyed, having played audience to Vance's theatrics countless times already. She lowered her gaze beneath the brim of her hat, letting her captain lead the show.

"Oh, you've all heard the rumors. The fearsome Bluebeard, scourge of the seven seas. He lost no battles and took no prisoners. Sewed the very fingers of his victims into his beard!" Vance crowed, grabbing an unwitting crew member by the wrist and pretending to bite off his fingers. He shoved him away as he continued. "With his infinitely loyal crew of blue devils and a flintlock that never misses a shot, he was the pirate king who sat upon a great heap of treasure!"

A tentative cheer erupted from the crew. Treasure, they could understand. Treasure, they liked.

"B-Bluebeard?" Rick turned at the sound of Môrt's voice and found him looking at him. "Captain, wh-who is he talking about?"

"Ah, but hold fast and heed what I'm about to tell you." Vance twirled back around, looping an arm over Môrt's shoulders. One hand slipped beneath the collar of his tunic. With his legs crossed and a pompous fist on his hip, he trumpeted, "The once great pirate king traded in his bloodlust, traded in his wealth, and even traded in his seat at the head of the syndicate. For…"

His face lit up with glee as he let his crew hang on his every word. The deck boards creaked as they leaned forward en masse. Môrt couldn't hide the curiosity from his face either, his eyes locked on Rick. When a full three seconds of silence held, Vance singsonged:

"For the myth of the golden arrow!"

At this, his entire crew burst into raucous laughter. They slapped each other hard on the backs, cackling and wheezing. If it weren't for Mants's dirty blade at his neck, Rick would have gladly throttled them himself.

"Golden arrow," Môrt whispered half to himself. "A golden…arrow?" His eyes were full of confusion and pity as he looked up at Rick.

Christ, even the kid thought he had lost his marbles.

Once the laughter died down, Vance shoved himself off of Môrt, sending the dazed kid stumbling back into Alan's grasp. He sauntered to Rick, cruel delight shining in his eyes.

"Every pirate worth his salt has heard the tale: The golden arrow of the seas that leads one lucky bastard—" Here, he dropped his voice and cupped a hand around his mouth to whisper in Rick's ear. "—to the Devil's Brooch."

Vance may have said it mockingly, but to Rick, it was the honest truth.

The Devil's Brooch was a legend among legends, a hoard said to contain countless treasures gathered from every corner of the globe. It was a trove of wealth beyond imagination, infinite in breadth and older than time itself. And as with all great legends, it was only spoken of in the mad ravings of heat-stroked fools and drunken sailors.

Those who claimed they'd seen it said it resided in the South Sea. Others, the Orient. Still others pointed to the Mediterranean or the Indian Sea or the Gulf of Mexico as its home. It could be found on no map, and no evidence of it existed.

But one thing was never questioned: The Devil's Brooch held whatever a man desired.

Rick had spent nearly the past ten years of his life searching for it.

"Oh, how you've fallen," Vance was saying, his voice dripping with what would have sounded like genuine pity had it been from anyone else. He was so close that Rick could smell the dick on his breath. "All your sailing about, and what do you have to show for it? A tugboat full of knickknacks and a brain that's been cooked in the sun." He drilled his finger into the side of Rick's temple before pushing it away. "You're all washed up."

The corner of Rick's lip lifted in a growl, but the press of Mants's blade was a quiet reminder for him to behave. It was amazing how the scrawny pirate had what felt like the strength of a million men.

"Only the rumors of your former glory have kept you alive this long, Bluebeard, but you were bound to slip up one day. Looks like today is that day." Vance straightened, holding out one hand to the side. Wordlessly, O'Bott scuttled over and placed the Meeseeks Box into his palm. "Thank you, Mr. O'Bott," he said, dismissing his minion without a second look.

Rick licked his lips. "All right. Bravo. Job done. You got what you came for, so leave."

"Without even using your clever little device? I think not." Vance was busy rotating the box in his hands. He twisted and flipped it to look at it from every angle as he sashayed away. "Ah, yes. This is how it works, right?" With a grin, he tapped the top button, and a Meeseeks appeared right beside him.

"I'M MR. MEESEEKS! LOOK AT MEEE!" the Meeseeks exclaimed, both arms raised in jubilation.

"Excellent." Vance couldn't have looked happier if he'd been given a reach-around. He grabbed a cutlass from a nearby crewmember and shoved the handle into the Meeseeks' hand. "Now, then, my good sir." He whirled around, finger pointed straight at Rick. "Dispose of him."

The crowd ooh'ed liked eager spectators, pressing forward and elbowing each other in anticipation. A captain being done in by his own crew was a rare treat to behold.

"No!" Môrt cried out, trying to tug his way free of Alan's grasp. "Don't do it, Mr. Meeseeks!"

His shout, while appreciated, was ultimately futile. Nothing could dissuade a Meeseeks once given its order.

Rick braced himself as the Meeseeks approached, cursing himself for having dropped his guard and let the Meeseeks Box fall into the Vindicator's hands.

"So much for infinitely loyal crew, hm? Guess not all the rumors are true." Vance's gibe carried over the cheering crowd. "You know, Bluebeard, I suspected something was amiss the moment your sails were in our sights. But now I'm certain of it." He lifted a hand. "And just one moment, Mr. Meeseeks."

Rick let out a gush of air as the Meeseeks held, blade raised, just a few feet from him. Thank God for Vance's insatiable ego. He could always count on him to run his mouth like it was going out of fashion.

"It's not like you to simply let someone get the jump on you, is it?" Vance had begun to fuss with the cuffs of his tunic, taking the time to unbutton them. With a snap of his fingers, a pair of lackeys came up to yank the white coat off of Rick's shoulders.

To strip a captain of his gear was to strip him of his very rank and title, and Vance relished his new souvenir as it was slipped over his vest.

Vance was still talking, adjusting the lapels with sharp tugs. "I thought to myself, 'Vance, something's new. Something's different.' But what. Could. It. Be?" He tapped his chin with each word, smirking at Rick before sliding his gaze toward—

Môrt.

"I believe that your precious cabin boy has become a bit of a distraction. You can never trust the pretty ones. He'll be in good hands, though, don't you worry." At his captain's signal, the Vindicator's boatswain threw Môrt over his shoulder.

"Don't you even think about—" Rick started to shout, but it was hard to speak around the blade digging into his jugular. He couldn't let himself be done in just like that. If he could only buy Môrt a bit more time. Sputtering around a laugh, Rick tried an alternative. "What? Th-that's it? You're just gonna run me through? Booooriiiiing. I thought Vance Maximus had a little more show in him than that! Maybe something to impress the kid?"

This seemed to catch Vance's attention. Rick knew he couldn't resist a challenge. Alan also stopped mid-step, mindful of just how fickle his captain's mood could be.

Vance turned from where he had been walking away and narrowed his eyes with mischief. "You know what, you're right. Forget the sword. Let's make a real splash. Men," he shouted to his crew. "Ready the plank!"

His gang burst into action, an organized chaos that had them pulling long, thin boards from the Vindicator as though they had been prepared for such an occasion. In all likelihood, they had. An execution was always the highlight of any raid, and the men were clearly hungry for some entertainment.

Mr. Meeseeks retired his sword in favor of pinning Rick's hands behind his back and marching him after his new master. Harsh jeers and more than a few cutlasses jabbed Rick in the back as he was led to the starboard side, where his blue escort promptly disappeared.

Off in the distance, a sliver of land shimmered like an emerald on the water. The island of Jamaica. He'd nearly forgotten. This would likely be the last time he would ever see it; and, ignoring the preparations for his untimely end that were underway around him, he let his eyes linger on the view.

For how much he cursed the sea, he couldn't deny that it could be breathtaking.

A sound drew his attention from the seascape, and he turned around to see Môrt cowering in place behind him. Vance, with his twisted sense of showmanship, was going to force the lad to watch. He'd draped himself over the small boy, making his hands at home along Môrt's sides and swaying his hips against his to the rhythm of some unheard tune.

Vance was close enough that Rick could hear every wet smack of his lips as he left a trail of kisses up Môrt's neck. He flashed a smug smile at Rick. "And don't worry, chum. I won't let slip your little secret. It'll just be between us," he said with a wink, nodding to Rick's bound wrists.

Rick knew better than to watch, but he couldn't bring himself to take his eyes off of Môrt. After all, he had to get his fill of breathtaking views while he could. Môrt, meanwhile, refused to meet his gaze, his eyes fixed on the choppy waves instead. It was comforting to imagine the boy simply couldn't stomach the sight of Rick's demise rather than feeling ashamed to see a pathetic pirate meet such a pathetic end.

Besides, what was more pathetic than a pirate who couldn't swim?

Resting his chin atop Môrt's head, Vance gave the signal to hurry things along. No doubt, he was looking forward to sampling his new plaything in the privacy of his quarters. The entirety of the crew rushed toward Rick, eager to be the one whose cutlass made the great Bluebeard bleed before he departed for his watery grave.

Cursing, Rick boarded the plank. It bounced with every step, and he had to twist and curl just to keep his balance. This got an even bigger kick out of the crew, and they jeered at him for being a landlubber.

"Bluebeard! Commandeered!" they taunted, drumming the pommels of their cutlasses on barrels in time with their chant. "Bluebeard! Commandeered!"

He inched forward, watching the waves swell and crash against the hull like eager hands, ready to grab him.

"Captain Sanchez!" A voice cried out above the rest.

Rick looked over his shoulder and was surprised to find Môrt looking straight at him. His face was stoic with focus, his mouth opening and shutting like there was more he had to say. Like he held the answer to some question Rick didn't know he'd asked.

But by then, Rick had reached the end of the plank.

He fell like a rock, having just enough time to marvel at the whistle of air past his ears, before he hit the water. The splash was swallowed up by the rush of water closing in on him from every direction. He bucked and flailed on instinct, but it was useless. Fully submerged, he squinted his eyes against the stinging seawater and looked up.

The inverted surface of the ocean shimmered with refracted sunlight. It was surprisingly...beautiful. To his right, the massive hull of the Shrieking Siren loomed like a great, dark thundercloud, the one blemish in an otherwise pristine view.

Despite its frequent aerial escapes, the ship's underside was still riddled with barnacle clusters. Try as he might, Rick had never been able to fully rid himself of the ravages of the sea, the way it devoured everything it touched with its voracious appetite.

The sea had taken so much from him, and now it would take his very life. It was only fitting. He'd been running on borrowed time—and a borrowed name—for so long, it made sense that it would finally catch up with him.

Pressure built in his ears, a maddening squeal that seared through his head as he descended into the depths. The light faded, and cold tightened its grip around his chest. He didn't bother kicking, his willpower seeping out of him along with the air bubbles that left his lips.

Somewhere overhead was the dull rumble of a splash, and Rick saw that something else had fallen into the water after him in a mass of bubbles. He blinked, trying to make out what or who else had joined him off Vance's plank. But when he opened his eyes again, nothing but an empty yellow tunic floated in the open water.

It hovered like a guardian angel high above him.

Rick's sight began to fail him, darkness creeping in from the edges of his vision, and his eyes fluttered as he grew lightheaded. His lungs convulsed behind his stubborn throat, demanding air. In another instant, he knew he wouldn't be able to resist opening his mouth and letting in the water.

Maybe then it would at last extinguish that incessant, burning regret that kept him up at night.

Just before his lids closed for good, something glistened in the corner of his eye. It shone like a sliver of moonlight then darted out of view. Just perfect, he thought, mind fuzzy with delirium. First I'll be eaten by a shark before I drown.

He felt the shark circle around him, a current of flowing water caressing him across the back and torso where it passed. It nibbled at the bindings around his wrists before freeing his hands. His arms floated loosely away from his sides until something slipped between his fingers to clasp them, mindful of the bandage across his palm. Feeling a comforting pressure, almost like a hand, against his lower back, his descent stopped as he was suspended gently in place.

"Kaptən..."

The muddled word reached Rick's ears, coming to him like a disembodied echo. With his last ounce of willpower, he opened his eyes—and looked into a pair of tropical pools. Long, chestnut hair billowed on either side, framing a cherubic face.

It was Môrt.

What was he doing down here? Had he come to drown with him? He really was such a sweet kid. Such a thoughtful, considerate kid.

Rick reached out weakly, running his fingers through Môrt's long hair. "Môrt…" He made the mistake of trying to say his name aloud, only succeeding in losing his last reserve of air that died in a curtain of bubbles.

In the next second, Môrt tugged Rick close and pressed his lips to his. Rick's mouth fell open beneath the unexpected kiss, which seemed to be exactly what Môrt had been intending, because with their lips sealed together, he breathed into him.

Life-giving air flooded Rick's aching lungs, and with it came a burst of alertness and vigor. Rick blinked, clarity filling him like sunlight fills a dark room. Through the stinging saltwater, he looked in amazement at Môrt.

But it wasn't the Môrt he knew.

Behind that pale face and dip of his bare back, a long, scaled fish tail trailed out behind him. It shone a brilliant silver, the fluke at its end vibrant with iridescence as light passed through the thin membrane. A bracelet of pearls ringed its base.

When Môrt drew back, his long hair floated freely around him, forming a jasper cloud. Its gentle arcs gave Môrt an aura of grace that he'd been without above water, adding a feminine mystique that didn't look entirely out of place on him.

Rick's eyes were drawn downward.

Below Môrt's bare chest, thin, red lines expanded and contracted along his ribs, and the skin of his slim hips disappeared beneath a sheet of glistening scales. Sunbeams danced across them, and by the time Rick looked about himself, he realized that the two of them had floated close to the surface. They'd created a helix of bubbles as they slowly ascended.

The ride up had been so tranquil and mesmerizing, Rick didn't know it was possible to feel anything other than fear within the water. Now he couldn't imagine leaving it.

With Môrt's gentle guidance, they breached the surface. Rick squinted. Had the world above water always been so blinding? And loud? The squawking of gulls punctuated the soughing sea breeze and swash of the waves beating against the ship. Higher above, the rowdy shouts of the Vindicators on board came as a distant clamor.

Rick paid them no mind, however, as he stared unabashedly at Môrt. For a moment, their silence held, the two of them bobbing comfortably in the water, Môrt's steady hands keeping Rick afloat.

Môrt watched Rick intently, only his eyes visible while the rest of him remained hidden beneath the waves. His tail flicked nervously back and forth, prepared to flee if given half a reason.

"You're—you're a—" Rick started, but Môrt nodded quickly, sparing Rick the need to state the obvious. Awe warmed his heart, and Rick smiled through the droplets of water that dripped down his face. "Y-you're amazing."

Môrt blinked, his cheeks peoning where they peeked just above the water.

"Incredible." Then an idea flashed through Rick like a struck match. He grinned wider. "Fantastic. Good boy! Such a good boy!"

Now the sound of the pirates carousing beyond the railing of the ship—his ship—came louder. Their premature victory celebration deteriorated into an angry riot. They'd evidently realized their would-be victim was not lost to the sea after all.

The bastards had no idea what was in store for them.

Excitement gradually crept into Rick's words as he raised his voice to be heard above the rabble. "Who's a good boy? Daddy's little boy!"

What had started as an expression of pride for Rick's adulations slowly fell away as Môrt's bashful smile turned into a frown. A look of unease replaced it, as Rick turned to shout up at the ship.

"You see the bad men in front of you!? You're gonna get 'em!" Rick kicked spastically to gain even one more inch above the water, his voice shrill. "Get those bad men! Do it, Shnookuuuuums!" The final syllable hung loud and tremulous until the muscles in his neck bulged and his jaw threatened to lock.

From somewhere up above came the sound of splitting wood that drowned out the tail-end of Rick's cry, followed by an inhuman roar.

Good boy, Shnookums.

Rick could already picture Shnookums barrelling out of his cabin in full form—its petite size now large and menacing; the six magenta eyes, blood red as their targeted their prey.

"My god, what is that!?"

"Blow me down, it's a monster!"

Flashes of black fur peeked into view from over the railing as blood-curdling screams joined the beastly snarls. Members of the Vindicator's crew began jumping overboard to escape Shnookums' talons—a few dismembered arms sailing over Rick's and Môrt's heads—as they swam straight for their ship.

They were the lucky ones.

Anyone who failed to get away fell beneath the beast's fangs, torn to shreds and devoured on the spot. It would be a gruesome spectacle, but at least it saved on clean-up duty.

Most of the pirates who had managed to abandon ship and scurry back to the Vindicator cradled severed limbs or dragged a limp leg behind them. Alan Rails got away with a mean-looking cut across one arm, and O'Bott's pegleg had been hacked short. Mants was nowhere to be seen.

Among the retreating forces was Vance, although whether he suffered any injuries from the battle, Rick couldn't be sure. He was carried princess-style in Neaux'Va's arms like a pitiful damsel in distress as they scampered over the gangplank and back to safety.

As the Vindicator set sail and began its hurried escape, the sounds of destruction and bloodshed died down, replaced by a chilling silence. Soon the Shrieking Siren was empty once more, bobbing calmly in the middle of the open sea.

Only when he was sure that the pirate raid was over once and for all did Rick hoist himself up the side of the hull by way of the ladder rungs carved into it. He flopped over the railing and collapsed flat on this back onto the deck, his chest heaving with exertion.

As expected, the deck was cleared, only a few traces of blood hinting at the carnage that had just passed. The doors to his cabin hung open on broken hinges, and at the base of the mainmast was the Meeseeks Box, tumbled over on its side but intact.

Beside it, the perpetrator of the bloodbath was still reverting back to its original form. Black fur paled, claws retracted, and within a few seconds, Shnookums was a palm-sized furball once again. Beside it was Rick's long coat, abandoned by Vance in his hasty retreat, yet left miraculously unscathed in the shuffle. Shnookums was burrowing its head into the collar of Rick's long coat, desperate for a familiar scent to calm its nerves.

At last catching sight of its master, Shnookums gave a happy squeak and scampered over to nuzzle Rick's fingertips like a playful kitten.

"There's a good—" Rick huffed before catching himself. "Aw, fuck it. Just get over here." He picked up Shnookums and held it to his chest, rubbing its head with his thumb. The creature twittered happily, kneading the worn and wet fabric of Rick's tunic in its tiny paws.

Still dizzy from his near-drowning and the effort of climbing on board, Rick let his eyelids slump closed. "Oh, boy. What's the opposite of 'wubba lubba dub dub,' amirite, Shnookums?" he drawled.

Seawater splashed at his boots, and Rick groggily lifted his head to look up. A shadow fell over him. Blinking against the glare of sunlight, he saw Môrt seated gracefully atop the railing.

His glistening tail swept down onto the deck, and locks of his long hair curtained down his front. Water dripped from its tips, the same water that sparkled on his skin like jewels. A wave crashed up against the side of the ship, and white foam reached up to create an ephemeral throne of surf behind him.

He looked every inch a vision from a storybook, his delicate boyish features paired with a sleek, scaled tail. Rick would've mistaken him for a lovely maiden if he hadn't already seen what lay beneath.

Môrt was a merboy. An honest-to-god merboy.

Rick shuffled to his elbows, raising a hand to block the sun as he stared, enraptured.

With his hands braced on the wood railing, Môrt puffed out his chest, his eyes steely with confidence. "I am Prince Môrt, son of Queen Bethel, brother to Princess Summyr—heiress to the kingdom of Atlantis!" A tremor rippled through his voice, not the usual stutter of before, but one born of unbridled passion. Môrt's voice rang clear through the air, and Rick almost didn't recognize the kid for a moment. "My sister has gone missing, and I am in search of her. I have seen the golden arrow, the same one that you seek. It will lead me to the greatest treasure, where I will find my sister. And you are going to take me there." He jabbed a finger at Rick, everything about his carriage making it clear that he would accept nothing short of a yes.

Dignity radiated from him, majestic and poised. Rick lay there, stunned by the dramatic transformation in Môrt—in far more ways than one.

Slowly, a smile lifted his lips as he looked at this boy, this mythical creature made real, this prince, this image of magnificence.

This pluperfect answer.

Too tired to lift himself from the deck, Rick only touched his hand to his temple in a shoddy rendition of a salute.

"Whatever you say, Your Highness."