“In the morning, lass,” he told her. “Now, get yerself some sleep, and blessed be that ye don’t dream tonight.”
But she does. She dreams of a snow-covered tower built by a father who adores her, and the love of a husband who was once sunburned a golden copper and now flits about the room as white as the wings of a moth. Perhaps there are mermaids down in the ocean, or maybe those swimming there are only more murdered sailors kicked about in Neptune’s surf.
Mama calls from the tide, where she reaches up with her broken fingers.
This, however, isn’t real, she knows. This is only dream. He can kill her a thousand times in this place and it won’t matter at all, really. He’s done it dozens of times already, and still she awakens and does her duty. He is down below at ten or twenty fathoms, buried in the silt and seaweed, awaiting her arrival for when she’ll finally set him free.
The shipwrecks creak and crumble on the reefs, rotting timbers tumbling aside. Dead men lay strewn across the rocks, eyes still open and mouths working. Snow begins to fall as he presses his icy body against hers.
He hungers, but she does as well. This, perhaps, is how it’s always been meant to be, with one desire played against the other. She tries to hold on but as he moves to her throat, she knows he only wants blood and companionship. Even the dead…especially the dead…can be beset by loneliness.
“Soon, Tyree. Be on the lookout for me. We’ll have an end to it, one way or another.”
She is a pirate, and she’s not afraid of blood.
Reaching, as his lips skim the veins of her throat, she pulls open the shutters and looks down below at all the writhing shadows and souls cast in these dark waters.