Siren Ch. 09

GUYS! Last chapter!! I'm so excited to get this to you now, so do enjoy and I'll be back at the end.

Also a continuity note: I recently rewrote a bit at the beginning of the story and in doing so, defined Jasper and Tim a bit more as characters and decided to switch their roles for this next scene. So just pretend it was Tim who threw Kenna off the ship at the end of the last chapter, okay?

***

Roland ripped the sword from Dooley's body as the man crumpled to the deck. The fight around him, so chaotic when he was occupied with only the next strike or the next breath he'd take, ordered itself quickly into a clash all but finished.

Jasper was shouting from Osei's grip as he swore at Roland's back that the siren was real, that they were all doomed. Roland cursed at himself, remembering that moment he'd found the man pointing his finger at the buttoned-up widow. He should have known the man had gone fanatical at some point, unlike his other half Tim who had withdrawn from any discussion of the ship's siren. Munro held a badly-beaten Abbott at the end of his blade. The few men who had stood by him were dead or subdued. Three sailors took down the last man who slashed wildly at his former shipmates before his feet were swept from under him and one of his own knives entered his throat. The crew was anything but sentimental, making Kenna's success as surprising as it had been riveting.

At that thought Roland's eyes went up to the upper deck, seeking her red hair and finding none. Most of the men had left their posts above for the fight below, and the empty space he found there pitted his stomach. His head whipped around to the other railing. "Mr. Barnes!" he shouted. The navigator returned the call from under the gun deck, approaching with his own scraps evident from the fight.

"Well fought, Captain," the man grinned at him. "Never thought I'd see the day when those troublemaking boors lost their wits enough to attack. Not that I'm complaining at a bit of sp-."

"Where is Mrs. Bell?" Roland cut him off. The mood of the men was celebratory and he knew he would do well to encourage that sentiment, but this was more important.

Osei let out a warning whoop behind him, and Roland turned as Jasper threw himself at his back, letting the man sail past him, his attack left sprawled on the deck with the rest of him. Osei and another man dropped knees onto Jasper's back as they wrestled him down again.

"Mr. Barnes?" Roland said again, eyes fixed on the rapidly paling navigator.

"She left us to make her case, Captain. I thought it best to allow the lady to walk free and speak to the men as it were, allowing her space," he swallowed, "I lost sight of her in the fight, Captain, one can only keep eyes on so many things at once."

Roland turned and ran up the steps to the upper deck instead of acting on the desire to throttle his most important ally on the ship. There was no huddled form, hiding from the violence, no lone figure looking out to sea. He turned back around, trying to ignore the vice tightening in his chest. Beyond the main deck many of the crew still stood on the forecastle, jeering the few men held below, but no Kenna.

Perhaps she made it through the ring of men below? He skipped all but one stair in his flight back to the main deck. "Search below. Find Mrs. Bell." he snapped to Barnes who took two men with him and disappeared below deck. "Mr. Munro, Mr. Hansen, see to accommodating these men." He took a roll of line from under a cannon and tossed it to the cook. "The mizzen will do."

The crew cheered as the few mutineers left alive were marched to the upper deck and bound in place to the mizzen mast. Roland followed, waiting for Barnes to reappear with Kenna from below. He considered heading back to the cabin to check the crawl space she'd claimed as her own, but her safety rested on him finishing what she'd started. He had to maintain control of the crew so he stayed, watching Abbott's bloody face as the man was secured to his fellow conspirators.

The men quieted their shouts, and when he faced them he mirrored their expressions of triumph without feeling any of it in himself. His thoughts were running through the ship, thinking of every place she might be hiding, but he smiled to the men here, playing his part. He brought up his fist and they cheered. "It's been a long way," he said when the quieted.,"and it has not been easy." The men nodded in agreement. "We have been taken down a path we never should have followed, led by Dougray's thirst for revenge and his ever-loyal Master Gunner." The men hissed and booed at Abbott. For his part, the man didn't even glance their way. Roland continued.

"Abbott was right about one thing." The men quieted in surprise. "There was something rotten aboard this ship, poisoning our journey, driving wedges between the crew, stirring up trouble and shirking work to make the going worse." He paused as the men reacted against those men bound to the mast. "And so our Jonah is discovered by his own plots and planning, and he will not keep us from our home." From the corner of his eye, Roland saw Barnes appear on deck, alone, the look of fear unmistakable.

The men cheered his words as he turned to Abbott, watching as the man's stained teeth came into view behind a vicious grin. He spat a wad of blood and saliva onto the wood at Roland's feet.

"Where is she?" Roland approached the man, fists trembling with the need to meet flesh.

Abbott laughed. "A parting gift for my ship," he choked out through his bruised face. "I've freed you from the siren's grip."

Roland's eyes slid to Jasper, bound beside Abbott. The man was silent, in sharp contrast to his recent fanatical shouting. He followed the man's gaze across the pit of the main deck and over to the forecastle, where a lone man stood, eyes fixed on the sea. Two steps and he was up on the gunwale, looking over the blue expanse below. The vice tightened as he searched the empty sea.

"Captain!" Barnes said, calling his attention down to where he stood at his feet. Other men had joined them, leaning over to search for the missing woman. The navigator's hand stretched out, pointing towards the shore.

There it was, the tiny shock of red hair, barely visible in the rising swells as she swam closer to the beach. "Lower the skiff. Take Munro and fast," Roland said, jumping back onto the deck. He moved before any of the men could register his intent.

"Tim!" Jasper screamed. But it was too late. Roland was on the forecastle. Tim turned, sword in hand, to face the fury Roland had been tamping down for too long. The sword fell to the deck, the hand grasping it as well. Tim's scream was echoed by Jasper as Roland grabbed the man by the neck, crushing his windpipe with his thumb and forcing him to his knees. Roland looked into his face, relished the terror and pain he found there, and brought the tip of his sword to the man's stomach. He loosened his grip on Tim's neck just enough that the man wouldn't pass out before he sank his blade, inch by agonizing inch, into his gut.

The scream did not make it past Roland's thumb. He felt every vibrating second of the man's pain, and it birthed a savage joy in his chest. Blood colored Tim's face red and then blue, vessels bursting in his eyes, and Roland watched him die beneath his hand. His held him close, so he might see every moment of the man's anguish, feel every weakening twitch as the blood raced from his wounds and onto the ship.

His eyes went dark, too soon by far. Roland lifted the corpse up by the same grip on his neck. Pulling the sword from the body, he tossed it into the sea.

He looked back at the men who stared in silence. "Vote on the lives of the rest of them, but Abbott hangs."

He watched from his place on the forecastle as Munro and Barnes hit the water and began rowing at a pace that helped calm the urge he had to jump in and get her himself. The tiny point of red in the blue of the bay bobbed between the waves as they rose closer to shore and Roland lost sight of her for a long moment. Someone passed him a spyglass, and he kept vigil as the boat neared its target, barely pausing to watch as Abbott was pulled from the deck by his neck, his body jerking and writhing as he died slowly, shit and blood dripping from his corpse.

*

Kenna's arms burned, her body floundered in the water. The beach that had seemed so close from her perch on the ship was lost in swells she'd failed to take into consideration when she'd struck out from the ship. Another surge came, and in its wake she felt the pull of the current underneath her, trying to suck her back towards the ship.

She kicked hard, managing to stay above the water and spare herself another mouthful of seawater, but she was tiring and the finality of that complication was a greater impediment than any wave could have been. She struggled to reach the top of the next wave, telling herself the burgeoning cramp in her side was nothing more than a passing ache.

When Jasper had thrown her in her first instinct had been to call out, to find a way back to the safety of the ship or at least to hold on until someone came to find her. The clanging of metal rang out above her, and her recent brush with the tenuous nature of her status aboard brought her up short. Had she not been about to place herself in this position not long before?

There was no better opportunity she could hope for; Roland was distracted by the fight, and there'd been no call when she'd gone over.

Ever stubborn, despite the possible safety of the ship behind her, Kenna continued her weakening swim towards the sand. Another swell came unexpected and she was pushed under, the current beneath the waves sucking her downward. She kicked and clawed, unsure if she'd broken the grip of the undertow until her head broke the surface. She took in a deep gasp of air into burning lungs.

Another one came, lifting her with the tide as she struggled to stay aloft. She could see it there, as the surge peaked around her; the shore her eyes told her was so close and her body declared impossible to reach. Down she went with the next wave, her struggles the same but her mind slowing incrementally as her chest screamed for relief.

The promise of freedom, the dream of the new world her sister had written to her about, it waited for her on that shore. Would she give up now? She kicked again, a burst of movement to send her back to the light. The look on her husband's face as he'd succumbed appeared unwelcome in her mind as she brought her weary arms to battle the wake again. Vivid details came back, the way his skin had reddened, his eyes black as he stumbled and clutched his chest. She'd helped him to the ground then, watching as his body shook, his hands grasping at his heart as it killed him.

There was a moment there, right after his last breath left him, which had been pure, sweet relief. She was finally free from his hard hands, from the constant grating fear that had worn her down so. Before the fears of being found out came rushing in, the guilt at taking the life of another, or the true mourning she would do for her empty body, she held that perfect moment of reprieve to her bosom and delighted in her freedom.

Water struck her face, her eyes stinging from the salt. She coughed wetly as it slid down her throat. Dougray had drowned. The gurgling sounds she would make would be lost under the waves but she had heard every one of his sputtering breaths. Perhaps this was justice, that thing she'd insisted must exist in this world. Perhaps this was the penalty for her crimes. Her body screamed as her top was pushed forward, her legs dragged back, pulling her head under once more. The tide continued its ceaseless ebb and flow, indifferent to its passenger.

Again, she told herself. This is not the end, not these lazy currents. She would not allow it. Her next breath, her next stroke, that was all that mattered. Each one led her closer, each one kept her alive.

Almost there, she repeated, believing her own lies. Even when the hands grabbed her and pulled her from the water, even as she felt the hard wood beneath her instead of the bottomless sea, she couldn't stop. Almost there, she said into the blackness.

*

The creaking of the ship, the familiar smells of his cabin, the feeling of the berth beneath her, pieces assembling into a perfect painting of her failure.

Slowly the rest of it filtered in behind her closed lids, the sensation of the long boat climbing the side of the galleon, vomiting on deck as sea water came through her mouth and nose, the smell of him mixed with the sharp metallic scent of blood. She had raged against him, or tried to, but the memories were too fractured to be sure.

Footsteps finally convinced her that opening her eyes was worth the effort. Her vision couldn't focus, but there was little need. She knew who it was, and even in the heartbreak of her circumstances she felt better knowing he was there. She closed her eyes and tried to speak only to find him lifting her upright and pouring warm broth into her mouth. The motion felt familiar, as though he'd done this before.

She finished and leaned back into him feeling heavy and strangely removed.

"Wake up, Kenna." The order moving such a short distance from his pressed lips to her ear. Again, she pried her eyes open, but the light hurt and her head felt strange. Instead she turned so she might press her cheek against his chest, too weak to be frustrated by how calming it was to have him so near. With him there would be no pain, and there would be no sorrow if she could only give up that which she had never had. That moment of freedom seemed a distant concern and so she nestled closer as she fell back asleep.

Her next awakening was not so peaceful.

Her vision was clear; her head no longer punishing her stupidity with its throbbing censure. Sunlight kissed the cabin, falling across the sheet that covered her. It warmed her skin until the rock of the ship shifted the shadows. Kenna pushed herself to sitting, her eyes falling on the long table now cleared from the clutter it had accumulated during their weeks of travel. It felt strangely vacant, as if they'd left without her.

The room felt clean, almost unlived-in. Trucks were closed, everything locked up in its proper place, bucket tucked next to the bed.

The thought froze her as the ship eased back so that the sun found her again. The shackle on the bed did not glint, rusted as it was, but it menaced her all the same with its dull reflecting of the sun. The sheet was drawn back; her eyes followed each link of the chain, mounting disbelief with every confirmation until she saw the metal band around her ankle, leaden and cruel as its twin.

The first notion that it was some kind of mistake lasted a long while. Perhaps it served some other purpose, somehow here for her protection. But when her mind could not rationalize any call for the chain, she had to wonder if the tides had turned against Roland. What if another faction rose up in Abbott's wake? But Roland had been here, she remembered his touch, his smell. And would someone else lock her to the bed instead of in the brig?

No, realization burned her throat. The bandages wrapped around her ankle to protect her skin confirmed it. She was clothed only in the ripped shirt he'd first gifted her, the sailor's clothing she'd worn so she could leave the cabin tucked away. Some deep emotion, furious and consuming, rose up inside her. It sat painful and sharp in her chest, murderous and violent in the curl of her fingers. She shifted her leg and the clink of the chain sent crawling chills down her back. The last weeks vanished, and with them the slow seduction of this life as well. She was only his prisoner again; not an ally and not the woman who saved him from a vote all but lost. She was nothing. Again.

She did not lift her eyes when the door opened. Anger colored her vision, betrayal fisted her hands. The sound of a tray sliding against the grain of the table, followed by the thud of his belt and sword, would not sway her to look up to him. He would not want to speak first but she could not imagine giving him the satisfaction.

After a long moment his boots approached the berth; the slosh of liquid in the offered cup so close to her though she did not reach for it. The cup hit the wood of the table with a thud. She did not flinch when his footstep came back to her, louder and more insistent than before.

"You ran from me." The condemnation in his voice inspired a shrieking incredulity inside her head as he declared his grievance with her, a woman chained to an impossible fate.

For a long moment the storm of hurt raged against his unrelenting claim on her. She could not take her eyes from her imprisoned limb, as though she might lose sight of his crime by meeting his eye. This would not be borne.

"I saved us," she whispered, her throat dry from sleep. She swallowed and continued. "I helped you for weeks to keep the men on your side. I submitted to your passions, fulfilled every request." Her voice failed when it came time to admonish him for his crime.

He had no such qualms at rebuking her. "And the first opportunity you had, you ran."

Furious eyes met his steely amber glare.

"I was dumped over the side against my will. I ran from a ship ripping itself apart with violence, away from many men who would have me killed. Does that warrant a shackle?" her voice climbed as she spoke.

Roland's face betrayed nearly nothing. Even the tilt in the corner of his mouth felt fabricated, a distraction for her from his real meaning. "I do not fault you the attempt, though I don't believe you ran from the fight. You fled from me, and that I cannot allow." His voice lowered, the hard tone of his anger apparent. "My prerogative is to keep you. I'd prefer to do it without the chain, but you've proven it is necessary."

"Am I so little to you? Simply your possession? After all I have done?" Why did those questions rip at her chest? Why, when he betrayed no softening to her, did it pain her more? He leaned against the support beam at the corner of the berth, ease insinuating itself on his form.

Roland nodded once. "You have been a most essential part to our mutual survival. The issue is more complex when our paths diverge. I will not simply let you go, this I've made increasingly evident over our time together."

"You can't do this." Her voice was a hiss of anger, her body burning with it. "I do not belong to you."

The small smile on his lips was no more genuine this time. He was furious; she was sure of it. "When have you ever not belonged to someone else? When you were unwed? Your father sold you off without another thought. Your husband owned you in a most terrible way. And when he died—when you killed him—did those scant weeks of freedom bring you peace before I claimed you?"

Kenna closed her eyes, reaching back to that perfect moment, hunched over her husband's body in the street, rain trickling down her collar and onto her back. "Yes," she whispered.

"You are a very fine liar, Kenna." Her eyes flew open. "But you have yet to fool me. Do you know why that is?" She did not. It was a source of endless frustration for her. "Because I am the only one who looked closely enough to see it." His voice lost some of the feigned patience. "I am the one who knows you, to the depths of your pain, your crimes, and all you are capable of. Do you think those moments of joy at his death would carry you to the New World where everything would be set right? Has the constant dread of being found out by proper folks as an accused witch and murderer not faded with your time here amongst those who don't fault you for it? Would your sister react as these men did to the maiming of your flesh, with acceptance instead of derision?"