home in the forest. Terrible things can happen at sea.
If you stay by my side, you’ll be safe. No harm shall come to you, not so long as
I protect you.’
‘In return for what?’ Whitley
growled, the bear still rushing to her aid.
‘A partnership,’ he replied.
‘Marriage,’ he clarified, before darting forward with his other hand. Both
of them were around her throat in an instant, and for a moment Whitley was convinced he
meant to throttle her. Instead she felt something cold against her skin; then she heard
a sharp snap and a crunching sound as a metal collar was fastened around her neck.
She couldn’t breathe, her airway shut
off even as he let go and she collapsed to the deck. She scrabbled across the cabin,
clawed fingers raking at the floorboards as she gasped for air. It wasn’t just the
collar that strangled her.
Marriage? To this gruesome beast?
Her skin crawled
with horror, and ripples of fur raced across her body.
‘Relax, my lady,’ said Deadeye.
‘Relax and you may yet live. Control the beast.’ The captain watched as she
writhed along the floor in agony.
‘Come, little princess, you should be
able to control this creature by now,’ he said, his crooked smile revealing those
terrible teeth. ‘How silly to run away from the safety of Brackenholme without
first mastering control of your therianthropy. Prove your worth, not just to me, but to
yourself, Lady Whitley. Only the strong survive the White Sea.’
Whitley bucked and squirmed, her eyes
bulging as shefought to control the Werebear. She tried to imagine
her home, her room in Brackenholme Hall, curled up beside her mother, head in her lap.
She imagined Duchess Rainier’s gentle hands caressing her face, brushing her hair.
Gradually she felt the beast recede, the coat of dark fur replaced by her pale,
sweat-slicked skin.
‘There,’ said Deadeye.
‘I’m impressed. You’ll make a worthy addition to the
Hellhound.
I sense we’ll achieve great things together, Werelords of
both land and sea brought together.’
The captain set off towards the door, his
heavy feet making the floorboards rattle beneath Whitley’s face.
The door slammed shut. The Werelady
struggled to her knees, crawling across the cabin floor until she came to the base of
the dressing table. She gripped the table’s edge, her claws having vanished, and
hauled herself to her feet. A dishevelled face stared back from the mirror. Whitley
pulled her bedraggled hair to one side, examining her neck.
A silver chain encircled her throat, the
skin scored and scratched by her struggle. She leaned closer towards the fractured,
polished glass, running a finger along the collar’s thick, solid links. She turned
it around her throat, drawing and dragging it where it sat flush against her skin. A
padlock held it together, the ugly thing fastened tight. She stifled a sob. Drew was
gone, murdered by the crew of the
Hellhound
, his body tossed to the deep. She
shivered at the touch of the silver against her fingertips. She belonged to Deadeye
now.
6
Foul-Hooked
Drew let out a cry. His body screamed with
the memory of the battle aboard the
Lucky Shot
, each and every wound on fire,
awakening him from his troubled sleep. Initially he imagined he was still dreaming,
trapped in an awful nightmare. As he bucked and writhed, he felt the attacks anew: two
sword blows to the chest, a crushed right shoulder blade and a searing pain through the
guts where a harpoon had skewered him. His eyes flew open, but his vision remained
flooded by the blinding, bright light. He flung his arm out, reaching for something,
anything, that might tell him where he was. The world was no longer rocking: he was on
dry land,
but where
? He heard something move close by, his fingers reaching in
the direction of the sound. Warm flesh – a wrist? He grabbed it as the owner
tried to pull free from his feeble hold.
‘He’s awake!’
It was a child’s voice, raised high in
alarm. Something hard – a boot,
If you stay by my side, you’ll be safe. No harm shall come to you, not so long as
I protect you.’
‘In return for what?’ Whitley
growled, the bear still rushing to her aid.
‘A partnership,’ he replied.
‘Marriage,’ he clarified, before darting forward with his other hand. Both
of them were around her throat in an instant, and for a moment Whitley was convinced he
meant to throttle her. Instead she felt something cold against her skin; then she heard
a sharp snap and a crunching sound as a metal collar was fastened around her neck.
She couldn’t breathe, her airway shut
off even as he let go and she collapsed to the deck. She scrabbled across the cabin,
clawed fingers raking at the floorboards as she gasped for air. It wasn’t just the
collar that strangled her.
Marriage? To this gruesome beast?
Her skin crawled
with horror, and ripples of fur raced across her body.
‘Relax, my lady,’ said Deadeye.
‘Relax and you may yet live. Control the beast.’ The captain watched as she
writhed along the floor in agony.
‘Come, little princess, you should be
able to control this creature by now,’ he said, his crooked smile revealing those
terrible teeth. ‘How silly to run away from the safety of Brackenholme without
first mastering control of your therianthropy. Prove your worth, not just to me, but to
yourself, Lady Whitley. Only the strong survive the White Sea.’
Whitley bucked and squirmed, her eyes
bulging as shefought to control the Werebear. She tried to imagine
her home, her room in Brackenholme Hall, curled up beside her mother, head in her lap.
She imagined Duchess Rainier’s gentle hands caressing her face, brushing her hair.
Gradually she felt the beast recede, the coat of dark fur replaced by her pale,
sweat-slicked skin.
‘There,’ said Deadeye.
‘I’m impressed. You’ll make a worthy addition to the
Hellhound.
I sense we’ll achieve great things together, Werelords of
both land and sea brought together.’
The captain set off towards the door, his
heavy feet making the floorboards rattle beneath Whitley’s face.
The door slammed shut. The Werelady
struggled to her knees, crawling across the cabin floor until she came to the base of
the dressing table. She gripped the table’s edge, her claws having vanished, and
hauled herself to her feet. A dishevelled face stared back from the mirror. Whitley
pulled her bedraggled hair to one side, examining her neck.
A silver chain encircled her throat, the
skin scored and scratched by her struggle. She leaned closer towards the fractured,
polished glass, running a finger along the collar’s thick, solid links. She turned
it around her throat, drawing and dragging it where it sat flush against her skin. A
padlock held it together, the ugly thing fastened tight. She stifled a sob. Drew was
gone, murdered by the crew of the
Hellhound
, his body tossed to the deep. She
shivered at the touch of the silver against her fingertips. She belonged to Deadeye
now.
6
Foul-Hooked
Drew let out a cry. His body screamed with
the memory of the battle aboard the
Lucky Shot
, each and every wound on fire,
awakening him from his troubled sleep. Initially he imagined he was still dreaming,
trapped in an awful nightmare. As he bucked and writhed, he felt the attacks anew: two
sword blows to the chest, a crushed right shoulder blade and a searing pain through the
guts where a harpoon had skewered him. His eyes flew open, but his vision remained
flooded by the blinding, bright light. He flung his arm out, reaching for something,
anything, that might tell him where he was. The world was no longer rocking: he was on
dry land,
but where
? He heard something move close by, his fingers reaching in
the direction of the sound. Warm flesh – a wrist? He grabbed it as the owner
tried to pull free from his feeble hold.
‘He’s awake!’
It was a child’s voice, raised high in
alarm. Something hard – a boot,
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