Page 19 of Daughter of the Dark Sea

Erick had informed Kora that Hell’s Serpent would be repaired within two weeks.

Two weeks away from the vast ocean seas, from the winds blasting her face with the sheer freedom sailing offered her. She was stuck behind the towering fortress wall, with nowhere to go, nowhere to discover, nowhere to plunder, and no pirates to hunt. Two weeks of pretending to be indifferent to Blake, struggling to capture moments alone together, unable to let their desires run rampant.

It had driven her to the nearest tavern. Her sex life may be as dry as the desert, but her throat didn’t need to be.

The Abandoned Barnacle was rife with noise and bodies, as sailors from various ships filled the room. Kora perched on a high stool by the bar, a hooded cloak draped over her, obscuring her infamous white hair. Finlay had wanted to visit a tavern with her once they docked, and her heart ached as she glanced at the empty stool beside her.

She recognised many faces, clustered around high tables and booths. People from her crew, other fleets, and the trials. She refused to meet the lingering gazes of those from the trials, their memory a shadowing darkness lurking in the corners of the tavern.

Her slender hands gripped a stein full of golden ale, and she slowly sipped, ears pricking at the sounds of cheering and jokes from the sea of males around her. The tavern reeked of stale ale, followed by a bitter, smoky scent that clung to the furnishings.

Low wooden beams cut across the ceiling, and a set of rickety stairs in the far-left corner circled behind the bar, leading to an assorted taste of service. Netting lined the walls, with clams and shells woven throughout, and splotches of dried seaweed coated the crevices, filling cracks and holes from previous brawls.

A large bloodhound peacefully snored behind the counter of the bar, a thin chain collared around his thick neck. Kora admired his gossamer black fur, as his two-pronged tail gently wagged in his sleep, creating a steady soft drumbeat against the tiled floor. Drool leaked from his jowls and pooled on the floor as his droopy red eyes suddenly sprang open at a resounding crash.

“Oi!”

the barkeep shouted, waving his thin hand at the commotion.

Two sailors brawled with two soldiers over a pot of silver bits in the middle of their table. Their glass steins of grog plummeted to the tiled floor, smashing to pieces as they swung for each other.

Kora quickly picked up her stein, nimbly shifting off the stool as one sailor sprawled into the bar, the wind knocked out of him. Bottles of grog and numerous glass steins rattled from the impact, teetering on the edge of the shelves.

“They started it!”

he wheezed to the barkeep.

“I don’t care who started it. I’ll finish it if the lot of you don’t get outta here now!”

The bloodhound emerged from the bar and snarled at the group, his maw drawn back to reveal a set of huge, sharp canine teeth. His drool splashed on his oversized paws, lined with extended claws. The brawlers paled at the beast and scarpered, falling through the porch entrance and abandoning their money.

A barmaid scurried from a door near the stairs, and swept up the mess as the barkeep pocketed the bits and coins. He ruffled the bloodhound’s ears, patting him on the back, before returning to polishing the glass steins behind the counter. The formidable hound happily trotted to his owner’s side, lapping water from a small bowl.

“You keep interesting company,”

Kora mused as she settled, legs dangling around the foot of the stool.

“Ah, Conan’s a softie at heart.”

He smiled at the bloodhound, who snorted in return.

“He’s good at keeping the vermin out.”

The barkeep was gangly, with pale skin and slicked-back hair matching Conan’s colouring. When he smiled, his own teeth were as sharp as the hound’s.

“I’ve never seen one that colour before.”

“Aye, poor Conan was cast out of his litter for it. The breeder thought he’d turn out to be a runt.”

The male chuckled.

“Look at you now, boy.”

Bloodhounds were unique dogs, used within armies for seeking out enemies. The empire had bred them so that they were now the size of mountain wolves—with sharper fangs, and retractable claws. The red eyes were the telling sign of noble houses breeding them, resulting in a premier breed with heightened vision and senses, so they could hunt in the dark. Those exact red eyes were drawn to Kora now, capturing her gaze unblinkingly. Conan sniffed, letting out a small, low whine.

“What’s the matter, boy?”

The barkeep leaned towards Conan, stroking his long back.

“Are you hungry?”

As he pottered about, fetching Conan food, a foreboding sense overwhelmed her to leave as those red eyes bored into her. His large snout rapidly snuffled, absorbing her scent, and he whined again.

“I best be off,”

she murmured, placing a silver bit on the counter.

Conan raised up on his haunches, placing his large, front paws on top of the counter as he eagerly leaned towards Kora, drool splashing into her stein. His head was a foot away from brushing the low-beamed ceiling. Almighty gods, he was massive.

“Conan! Get off there, you mutt.”

The barkeep gently swatted his paws with a cloth.

“We don’t need you drooling into people’s drinks.”

She stumbled back in surprise as Conan eventually dropped to the floor, his paws thudding on the tiles, followed by his chops smacking as he devoured his food.

“Sorry about that,”

he said sheepishly.

“I’m looking after Conan for someone else. Still getting used to him.”

His dark blue eyes flashed, and he scanned the crowd, his gaze lost in the endless males.

“Say, don’t suppose you know if a ship named—”

“Captain!”

a deep voice boomed from the crowd, and the barkeep startled as Samuel shouldered his way through the throng of males.

“Fancy seeing you here.”

The barkeep snapped his sharp gaze to her as she pulled down her hood to greet Samuel, and an impish Aryn lingering behind him. The barkeep’s eyes flared at her hair and scar, his mouth gaping, and he dropped his rag.

Several sailors’ eyes ogled at the mention of her title, and she quickly ushered Samuel and Aryn into an empty booth near the entrance of the tavern. She glanced back to the bar. The barkeep had vanished, leaving the barmaid in his stead to polish glass steins.

Samuel waved at the barmaid to bring a round of drinks to the table, and she hurried across the room, expertly holding three full, heavy steins in her tiny hands. Her simple grey dress clung to her body, accentuating her curves, with a burgundy, tied corset cinching her waist. It was low-cut, revealing a full bosom which bounced as she walked.

As she placed the steins on the table, Samuel shot her a dazzling smile that made her round cheeks blush. Her brown hair was braided, and curled on top of her head. Kora placed a couple silver bits before the barmaid on the table, her fingers hovering on the coins.

“Where’d the barkeep go?”

“Oh, John?”

The barmaid glimpsed round the thriving room and shrugged. The motion made Samuel suck in a breath.

“Said he’s gone to collect a brewery shipment from the harbour.”

“When will he be back?”

The barmaid’s tawny gaze narrowed at Kora, and then dipped to the shining silver coins under her fingers.

“I don’t know,”

she replied coolly.

“A capital ship arrived late today and delayed all the shipments to town. Funny how that happens.”

Her scrutinising stare slid over Aryn and Samuel, bruised and dishevelled, the former blandly observing the conversation, and the latter still attempting to dazzle the barmaid with his smile.

“How inconvenient, I was hoping to speak to him.”

Kora sipped from her replenished ale stein.

“I’m not sure when he’ll be back. He always disappears. Now I’m managing this place on my own. Surrounded by incompetence.”

“Any troubles, I’ll sort them out.”

Samuel winked at her, and Aryn ran a hand over his face as he shuffled further into the corner of the booth.

The barmaid appreciatively nodded and returned to the bar, her hips swishing in the thin dress. Samuel sighed after her, and Kora’s fingers brushed against the stained, wooden table, her metal bits absent.

“I’m going to marry that woman.”

Samuel beamed at her from across the room.

Kora suppressed roiling nausea. Calypso spare her.

“You want to marry every barmaid.”

“I have a lot of love to give.”

He waggled his blonde brows as she gulped her ale, wishing she could melt into the hazy, amber liquid. Aryn muttered a curse, rolling his eyes at his comrade.

Hours passed, and her steeled gaze on the entrance to the tavern was unwavering as she waited for John to return. As Samuel ordered another round from the watchful barmaid, the door to The Abandoned Barnacle swung open, and Kora rushed to her feet, wide-eyed at the figure before her.

“I should’ve known that you’d be in an establishment such as this. How cliché.”

Kora barked a laugh as the female glided towards her, encircling her long arms around Kora in a tight embrace.

“They have the best ale,”

Kora murmured into her friend’s shoulder.

Bree Hydrafort towered over her, and her dark cloak swished around them as they pulled apart, smiling. Her smile dropped as she wrinkled her nose, followed by waving her hand through the air.

“You stink!”

Bree clasped her nose dramatically.

A subtle stench of sweat, dirt, and salty ocean encased them. Kora’s fingernails were cracked and filthy, her clothes rumpled with splattering’s of dried blood hidden by her cloak. Her face was coated with grime, and her hair coiled around her ears, crusty from weeks of ocean spray. She supposed she was a little bit dirty.

“A few weeks at sea will do that,”

Kora said bashfully. A pointed cough sounded behind her, and she turned to an equally grimy Samuel staring at Bree in awe.

She was tall, and slender, her skin like deep, rich chocolate, and eyes as piercing blue as the sky. Individual gold loops wove throughout Bree’s long, braided hair, matching the jewellery sweeping across her chest and wrists. She adorned an exquisite billowing purple dress, with subtle gold and black embellishments lining the folds of her skirt and sleeves.

“Lads, this is Bree Hydrafort. Bree, meet Samuel, my sailing master. Aryn, head of archers on Hell’s Serpent.”

Aryn stifled a choke on his ale.

“Hydrafort?”

“Well . . . I’ll be damned.”

Samuel stroked his braided beard.

“Don’t see many of you anymore.”

Bree pursed her thick, plump lips.

“My family have taken permanent residency in the Citadel. We no longer need to be in Aldara.”

Kora gestured for Bree to settle into the booth, away from the eyes pinned on her voluptuous figure, and the riches that garnished it. Aryn warily marked her, and the scrutinous barmaid returned, placing another stein of ale down on the table. Her tawny eyes tried to capture Samuel’s, whose grey gaze was now enamoured with the royal noble before him.

“A Hydrafort out in the wild.”

Samuel let out a low whistle, and Kora glared at him.

Bree shrugged and cringed at the stein of ale.

“The lengths I go to see my best friend.”

“Best friend?”

Aryn squeaked, and he and Samuel gawked at Kora in astoundment.

“Bree’s been my friend for a long time,”

Kora nudged her elbow as Bree sipped the ale, and grimaced. She’d always been more favourable of wine over any grog, since they’d first met ten years ago—shortly after Kora arrived in Aldara with Erick. After her accident.

They’d met at a gawdy noble’s ball. Kora had been pulling and pinching at the gown Erick’s servants had stuffed her into, scowling at strangers twirling around her on the dancefloor. Many eyes had been trained on her that evening, whispers circling the ballroom about the lost girl and her fresh, ugly scar.

Until Kora tripped on her skirts and fell during a dance, bringing down the daughter of the prestigious noble house with her onto the marble floor, and shattering Bree’s elbow in front of the entire noble society. Bree had been grateful for the excuse to leave the ball and hide from society for weeks whilst she recovered, and Kora had visited her every week at Erick’s behest to make amends with the Hydraforts.

They’d been best friends ever since. Bonded over their disdain for balls and uppity nobles.

“Don’t make me sound old,”

Bree quipped.

“You mean to say you’re friends—best friends—with the heiress of the House of Hydrafort?”

Samuel leaned forward curiously.

“I wouldn’t say the heiress . . .”

Kora hummed, arching a brow at Bree.

“No, no,”

Bree waved her hands.

“I’d say I’m governess of the house already.”

They both chuckled at the silently stunned males, and Aryn’s eyes darted between them, wide like saucers. The Hydrafort family were the closest relations to the royal family in Azaria. They’d been one of the first to venture with Admiral Darkon during the two-hundred-year war, resulting in becoming the wealthiest and most noble of all the houses.

In the eyes of citizens, Bree Hydrafort was a princess.

Who was sat, in a brawly sailor tavern in the port town of Stormkeep Fortress, drinking ale—almost.

“As much as I adore your company, why are you here?”

Kora asked.

“I received news that you hadn’t returned from Scarlet Bay. There were speculations that you’d shipwrecked in the Shaurock Sea when silence persisted.”

Bree’s face was taut with the worry she’d experienced, and Kora placed her hand on her friend’s. Aryn’s stare narrowed on their clasped hands, his jaw ticking.

“I wouldn’t believe it. Captain Kora Cadell shipwrecked?”

She let out a single, sharp laugh.

“Aye, no one can best Hell’s Serpent!”

Samuel thumped the table.

Bree nodded.

“I left the Citadel at the first mention you’d gone missing. I refused to accept that you, of all people, would be defeated by pirates. Or worse. Not with your amazing crew. I arrived a few hours ago and have been checking every tavern since.”

“That’s a long way to sail alone, Bree,”

Kora reprimanded gently as she squeezed her friend’s hand.

“Yes, yes,”

Bree squeezed back.

“I disguised myself on the ship and sent word to Erick of my arrival by hawk. His guards are outside the tavern as we speak.”

“Please say you told your father you’re here,”

Kora groaned.

She didn’t need Otto Hydrafort, the governor of the house, condemning her. Not with her goals of advancement to admiral. Erick would be furious. Weeks of shamefully visiting their old manor in the upper district, bestowing gifts to Bree’s family for ruining her debut in society, wasted. Bree had laughed it off, claiming she despised the restraints of nobility, but Kora knew, deep down, Bree thrived on it.

“Of course, I did,”

she gibed.

“Wouldn’t want you to get into trouble.”

The two friends smiled warmly at each other, and Bree patted Kora’s arm, her bright sky-blue gaze sparkling as she relaxed, knowing her friend was safe—and alive. Silence shrouded the group, and Bree attempted another sip of her ale.

“I can order you some wine, if you prefer,”

Kora offered.

“When in Aldara!”

Bree raised her stein, shaking her head at Kora’s offer, and took a hearty gulp.

Amber liquid spilled from the lip of the stein, trickling down her chin and splashing onto the table. Bree shyly wiped her mouth and grinned at Samuel and Aryn, who launched into a series of questions about her family, the Citadel, and her connections to the royal family.

Kora sat back, comfortably easing into the flow of conversation, whilst keeping her gaze fixed on the entrance to The Abandoned Barnacle.

No one else entered the tavern after that.

The room tipped and swayed as Kora sagged into her bed at Cadell Manor.

Samuel, Aryn and Bree had convinced her to continue drinking at The Abandoned Barnacle, going as far as purchasing entire barrels of grog from the suspicious barmaid, named Circe Quinn.

What a funny name.

Kora’s super smart and amazing plan to question John had been foiled, as the male never returned by the time Circe shooed them out with a cloth, swatting Samuel’s wandering hands. Even Conan had disappeared—taking himself to bed so as not to be disturbed by their rowdiness.

What a moody mutt.

Kora placed a bare foot on the floor, using the cool, terracotta tiles to steady the dizzying torrents of her vision, and she blindly fumbled for the covers, hoisting them up to her chin. A chilling breeze wafted from the open window she’d dumbfoundedly climbed through to avoid the presumptuous eyes of servants, or risk awaking Erick.

What a spectacular idea. She was really, really, smart.

Dawn was in a matter of hours, and she groaned as her stomach threatened to heave up the contents of the evening. Kora reached out with her hand, seeking for a glass of water on her bedside table. Nothing but smooth, oak wood. Bile loomed in the back of her throat and she choked it down.

With one eye slitted open, she gauged the distance to her bathing chambers across the room. Nope. That was too far away. Nope, nope, nope. Not when her bed felt like a cloud, cushioning her sore limbs from falling through the window.

She giggled, but it croaked from her mouth, turning into a hacked cough.

Gods, she was thirsty.

She needed a drop of water, anything, to quench the burning within her chest. She’d jump into the fountain in the courtyard if she had to. The nausea churned and, as she nestled deeper into her plush white pillows, a droplet of cool liquid splashed onto her forehead.

Both eyes sprang open.

The room violently bucked and swayed once again, and Kora painfully peered at the white domed ceiling—where a small, rippling pool of water swirled. She flung back the covers with a shriek, and the circling water halted, then rained down. Straight onto her.

Oh. My. Gods.

She must be hallucinating. Had she been spiked at the tavern? She was so drunk that she was three sheets to the wind, imagining water floating in her chambers, soaring down onto her skin, coating her pores . . .

Actually . . . it felt divine.

Water filled her gaping mouth, drenched her hair, and soaked her clothes and bed in one mighty splash. Kora greedily swallowed, dampening the burning bile. The liquid was cool and crisp, with a hint of mint leaf. Her nausea settled and she fell back into the sodden covers, pushing her hair out of her eyes.

A chuckle caressed her ears, pebbling her skin. It coaxed down the edge of her jaw, to her chest, vibrating with laughter. Funny, she’d never heard the voice laugh before. Her toes curled, her legs entwining as an ember sizzled along her flesh.

The voice was so faint, so distant. The quietest, weakest of whispers, merely a breath fading in the air. The damp cocoon soothed her, and she gently hummed, as a faint caress of air brushed her hair until she fell asleep.