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She’d roll over in her grave if she knew I’d given up.

Straightening in my seat, I say to Odessa, “I don’t suppose you’ll tell me where we’re going.”

She doesn’t look up at me, still wholly engrossed in her scrolls across the room. “You suppose correctly.”

“Or how much longer it’ll take to get there?”

“I fail to see how it matters.” My gaze narrows at her clipped tone. She’s right, of course. Whether we sail for another five minutes or another five hours, I cannot hope to escape until we reachland. As if sensing my thoughts, Odessa arches a sardonic brow. “You’ve developed the dangerous air of desperation and stupidity that always precedes an escape attempt. It reeks of failure.”

I lift my chin. “You don’t know that it’ll fail.”

“I do.”

“What are you reading?”

With a barely discernible roll of her eyes, she returns her attention to the scrolls, effectively ending the conversation. I resist the urge to ask again, if only because I have little—no,zero—idea how to escape this ship after we dock. I know nothing of these creatures except for a vague, nagging sensation in the back of my mind.Have I told you the story of Les Éternels?When I tug on the memory, it unravels slowly into silver brushes and golden freckles and snow-white scarves. Into Evangeline’s voice on a crisp October night.They’re born in the ground—cold as bone, and just as strong—without heart or soul or mind. Only impulse. Onlylust.

I twist the fraying ribbon around my wrist, thinking of Michal’s black eyes, his adamantine skin, and resist the urge to scowl.

When the ship at last slows, dropping anchor, Odessa takes my elbow in her cold hand. “Where are we?” I ask again, but she merely sighs and leads me above deck once more.

Gray touches the horizon as we step from the gangway, and a truly sordid portrait stretches before us: an isle made of rock, wholly isolated from the rest of the world. On either side of us, dark water churns against sea stacks and a rugged beach. I focus on the waves, on the foam of each crest, to remain calm. Tothink. Because Evangeline had more to say that night in our nursery. The notes of her lullaby still linger in my ears, but I cannot quite hear them.

Not in this onslaught of noise.

My eyes widen at the absolute pandemonium around us.

Just ahead, the sailors dart throughout the harbor, their eyes mysteriously clear, shouting orders and calling to loved ones. Even the man with the stake envelops a small boy in a bone-crushing hug. Relief trickles through me at the sight—that this man has lived to see another day, that he hasn’t met a watery grave—but then Odessa pushes me forward, her presence too cold. Too inhuman. Evangeline continues to whisper in my memory.

The first one came to our kingdom from a faraway land, living in the shadows, spreading her sickness to the people here. Infecting them with her magic.

At least Michal has vanished.

Swallowing hard, I track another child as she slips through the adults, nicking the watch from a sailor’s wrist. Her skin and hair gleam silver in the pale light, and she—

My mouth falls open.

She has gills.

“Get back here!” Though the sailor lunges for her, she giggles and ducks beneath his outstretched arms, diving into the sea. Beneath her skirt, her legs ripple and shimmer, transforming into two fins, and she flicks them playfully before diving deeper. With a scowl, the man tries to pursue but instead plows into an enormous white wolf, who snaps at his heels in displeasure. “Fucking werewolves,” he curses under his breath, lifting his hands and backing away slowly. “Fucking melusines.”

I stare after him in disbelief before whirling to face Odessa. “Whatisthis place?”

“Rather persistent, aren’t you?” Agitated, she prods me past theman as he disappears into a seedy pub. “Fine. Welcome to L’ile de Requiem, aptly christened by Michal, who thinks he’s enormously clever. Try not to draw attention to yourself. The locals enjoy fresh blood.”

The Isle of Requiem.

Though part of me shudders at the macabre name, the larger part cannot help but turn and wonder at the werewolf, at the woman behind who heals a sailor’s throat with the flick of her wrist.A witch.My mouth parts incredulously. Witches and werewolves and mermaids, all inhabiting the same isle. I’ve never heard of such a thing.

My father often visited faraway lands as vicomte, of course, but he never allowed Pippa or me to join him. I pored over each map in his study instead—of Cesarine, of Belterra, of the entire continent—and memorized each landmark, each body of water.

There should be nothing but ocean off the eastern coast of Belterra.

“This is impossible.” I crane my neck in each direction, determined to see everything, momentarily distracted by this isle that shouldn’t exist. “I—I’ve studied geography. My father practically papered our walls with maps, and I’ve never—”

“Of course you haven’t. This place does not existon mapsandin studies.” Though Odessa strives to sound indifferent, an edge sharpens her voice as we enter the crush. A bite of tension. Her hand is steel on my elbow. “Honestly, darling, be difficult if you’d like, but never be dense. And for the love of all things holy, stopstaring.”

She glances swiftly over her shoulder, nodding as two men step into place behind us. No, not men at all.Les Éternels.Judging fromtheir hard physiques and the black insignias on their cloaks, they must be some sort of... guard. But that can’t be right. I can personally attest to Odessa’s strength and speed, so why would she need additional protection?