Page 15 of Slayer

I check every inch of my skin, arms, sides, stomach, throat. I expect to find claw marks, gashes, something torn open, but see nothing, not even a single scratch.

My hands tremble as I stare down at myself, confusion slowly curdling into dread. Where did it come from? I lift my head, vision still blurred, and glance at the mirror propped against the wall beside the bed, the one I keep angled toward the windows. A precaution.

Slowly, I turn my back to it. The movement pulls at the place where the siren’s claws raked through my flesh in my dream. I twist to see the damage, trying to find whatever new mark my skin has decided to betray me with.

The room is still dim, the night barely loosening its grip. The first thin blade of sunlight slips through the window and strikes the mirror, catching the raven. The tattoo gleams at the base of my neck, dark wings spreading, and raised just enough to look as though it might take flight.

For a moment, the light makes the ink seem alive, but the lines are the same. Unbroken and untouched. The siren’s claws have left no trace. So where the fuck did all this blood come from?

The nightmares have been getting worse. Deeper, louder, more realistic. Death has started to take notice of me again. I press my palms into my scalp as pain detonates behind my eyes like needles driving straight through my skull, stabbing behind my brows.

“Fuck,” I mutter, voice raw with sleep as I force myself upright. “This isn’t good.” I steady myself, scanning the room, half-expecting to find something out of place, evidence that the dream followed me into reality. But everything is exactly as I left it. The room is quiet, untouched.

I need a witch. Only witches understand dreams like this, the kind that bleed into waking, the kind that leave literal blood behind. They’d know how to still my mind, brew something strong enough to drag me into dreamless sleep. These dreams used to come sparingly, but now they’re frequent, leaving salt on my tongue, pain in my bones, the memory of drowning clinging to me like rot.

It feels like I’m trapped in a siren’s body without the mercy of the sea. Something is terribly, catastrophically wrong.

The islands of Pike would know, but Pike might as well be another world. There’s no reaching it for me. The huts only reveal themselves when approached by ship, rising out of the fog like ghosts answering a summons. Each one floats above the most cursed waters in all the lands — waters so poisoned with old magic they eat away at compasses, sanity, and flesh alike. But it doesn't matter what curses lie within their waters; it's still a claimed part of the sea. One I can’t touch.

So Pike is a dream I can’t afford. I need to find a witch elsewhere and I need to do it soon, before my dreams kill me. Unfortunately, witches aren’t the most beloved of beings. They don’t just walk aimlessly around the streets of Magda.

I slip back into the clothes crumpled on the floor beside my bed. The leathers hug my body, cool and familiar. The night had been restless, but there’s little time to dwell on how exhausted I am. Leaving the empty house, I head for the heart of town to see Nyra and Zorren.

As promised, I arrive at first light, golden streaks bleeding across the sky and spilling over Magda’s crooked streets. Fog curls low, thinning under the sun’s slow rise.

From open windows drifts the smell of breakfast, bread frying in oil, herbs crushed beneath practiced hands. The grandmothers always cook best; they’ve been feeding this town for generations. Children dart barefoot through alleys, all laughter and wild naivety. Pirates lie passed out beside empty barrels, mouths open and reeking of last night’s rum, their bruises darkening as they sleep off the fights they’ve lost.

Morning is the only time Magda feels almost clean, falling under the brief illusion of fresh beginnings. Pebble’s Pub comes into view, my perfect little tavern.

Inside it’s quiet, the air still heavy with last night’s smoke, broken bottles littering the floor. Sunlight cuts through the cracked windows, catching on the shards of glass, each one winking like tiny diamonds. Men are slumped in corners, dead to the world, with women draped over them like discarded silks.

Behind the bar, the morning tender scrubs at the mess without looking up until he senses me. Our eyes meet. I give him one sharp look. I’m not here. You didn’t see me. He goes back to scrubbing as though he saw nothing. I move toward the back, senses strung tight as I start down into the Underground with my guard up.

The dim burn of lanterns marks the long descent. Step after step, the air grows heavier, thicker, until I reach the locked door at the bottom. Two knocks. The same bloodshot eyes as before meet mine, and the door swings open without a word.

The scent of blood hits me first. The Underground is still alive, dealings and dice and card games humming in the shadows. But that smell lingers beneath it all, stubborn and unmasked, even by the sweet smoke of pipes. The Underground doesn’t see daylight, so they never know when to stop. My black cloak hides me from head to toe, a silhouette that could pass for a witch fresh from the gallows. I keep my head down, moving toward my lair.

A cold hand catches my arm. I turn, but I know him by presence alone. Zorren. Looks like he found me first.

Zorren lives in a small apartment above Pebble’s Pub, cramped and plain, but safe. Safety is all that matters. I taught him to live in the shadows, never let anyone see where you enter, where you sleep, who you’re with. If they see him with me, he disappears. There are a lot of people who wish to see me dead, one of them being Silas.

He’s free to go whenever he chooses, but he sticks around. I think he just isn’t ready to leave the nest. He talks about wanting to be a pirate, to sail the seas and slay sea beasts, fight in different lands. I have no doubt he could. With hands as fast as his, he could be anything he wanted.

Bleu already offered to take him aboard and watch over him like his own. But the thought of him out at sea, somewhere I can’t reach, ties knots of unease in my gut. Not to mention, Bleu is one of the most selfish pirates I have ever known. It wasn’t always that way, but as he grew older, his heart changed. After he lost Sirena, everything changed.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I hiss, sharp enough to cut him down where he stands.

“I need to talk to you,” he says. I turn and nearly recoil at the sight of him. His face is split open, a gash carved down the right side. Blood drips to the floor in a steady rhythm. His golden-brown eyes burn hotter when they find mine, completely unfazed by the wound, like he hasn’t even felt it. Worry rushes through me. Did Silas go after him?

“What happened to your face?” The question comes out in a flat mutter as I run through every possible scenario in my mind.

“Got into a fight last night. Nothing new. It’s not from… him.” The gash is fresh, like it happened only moments ago. I hate that he’s lying to me, but I’m thankful that Silas didn’t do this. This seems like another one of his street brawls.

I pull my arm from his grip, tensing my jaw. “You are not to be seen speaking with me. Do you understand what you’re risking?”

He exhales and rolls his eyes. “I do. But if you want to remind me for the thousand-and-first time, go ahead.” I’m tempted to smack the teenage attitude right out of him.

“I’ll meet you later,” I murmur. “I’m in the middle of something.” I step to pass him, but he blocks me, quick, almost frantic. I scoff and roll my eyes. “One to ten?” I ask, arching a brow.