Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 106107 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 531(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106107 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 531(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
“But you haven’t once tried to beg for your life. At least, not really.”
“Perhaps this is me begging.” Perhaps I’ve been through worse before and lived to tell the tale. You don’t get to roam the seas alone as a female Syren without running into trouble.
“No,” he says dismissively. “I know what begging looks like. I know it very well. You aren’t afraid of me, at least not as much as you should be. Tell me, where were you before you showed up in these harbors? Does your kind not live in colonies? Why were you alone?”
“Who says I was alone?” I ask, my voice growing hard.
“You were alone,” he says after a moment. “I can tell when someone is running away from something—or running to something. It’s my calling to take those in, no matter which direction they’re running.”
I can’t help but curl my lip at him. Again with this pious talk. He should know it doesn’t have any weight with me. “You have a strange calling, kidnapping Syrens and bringing them into your church to torture them in secret.”
He gives me a sharp look, black brows knitting together. “I am not torturing you.”
I nearly laugh. This man is terribly delusional.
“Oh, so I suppose tying me to a plank and putting holes in my wrists isn’t torture? Biting me and drinking my blood isn’t torture? Gagging me with a chain isn’t torture?”
The sharpness in his eyes doesn’t dissipate. “It isn’t a plank.”
Now I laugh, the sound acidic. “My sincerest apologies for not knowing your terminology.”
“It’s a cross,” he says, though his voice is softer now. “A crucifix. To symbolize the death of Jesus, who died for our sins.”
“Then he died for your sins, not mine,” I tell him snidely. “So what are you trying to do? Make an example of me?”
“I’m trying to remind myself not to get carried away,” he says, his gaze searching the cross I’m tied to.
“Is that so? And what does getting carried away look like?”
He doesn’t answer at first; he just rubs his lips together in thought. “I need reminders to keep myself in line. I fought so very long and hard to become the human I am today. I can’t afford to slip up and throw it all away just because I…because I lost control. I need a reminder of who I need to keep being.”
“And who is that?”
His eyes darken. “A man looking for salvation. A man who might deserve it.”
I snort. “If you think you’re going to find salvation, you best look harder. I may not know a lot about your religion, but I’m sure this isn’t how you find it.”
“I’m not torturing you,” he says again. “I’m not trying to cause you pain. I am doing this because I need you to survive. You have no idea what it’s like to be a creature like me.”
“I think I might.”
He shakes his head. “No. You are from a world where your monstrous side can freely exist. I live in a world where it cannot. This world doesn’t know what I truly am, doesn’t know my kind even exists. Not yet, anyway. And if they ever do, we’ll be the ones put in a cage in an exhibition to suffer for all eternity.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel sorry for you?”
“No,” he says quietly, his gaze flitting over my features. “I don’t want your pity. None of us do. It is the way God made us. Well, the way he made everyone else.” He pauses. “God didn’t make me.”
“Who made you, then? Why are you so special?”
He doesn’t say anything to that. “I suppose I better go get another bucket of water before the day gets away from me.”
“If you gave me legs, you wouldn’t have to worry about that,” I quickly tell him.
He gives me a bitter smile. “No. My worries would only grow.”
And then, he’s gone.
Chapter Seven
PRIEST
Dearest Abe,
It’s nearly been a month since you’ve gone. Knowing you, you’re probably thinking of me at this moment, keeping track of how much time I have until I run out of supplies. You’re probably worrying about me, about my psyche, how I will deal with being alone, how I will deal with having to kill again.
If only you’d known what was about to be thrown my way.
Would you have still left me to my own devices?
Would you still have picked those poor souls over my own?
It is hard to say.
And by the time you read this letter, I’m not sure if you’ll be regretting your choice or not.
A few days ago, local fishermen were attacked by a Syren. I heard their cries and swam out across the strait to help. I saw the remains of two, or at least what was left of them—it was gruesome, no doubt ripped apart by this creature. The fact that we now had a dangerous Syren swimming in our waters, no longer out by the icebergs, was a problem for this village, but it also provided a solution for me.