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When the Shark returns in the morning, his footsteps do not drag.

“Miss me?” he asks with a smile tipped like a sinking schooner.

From his pocket, he produces a small bowl with a long black stem that he places in his mouth. His other hand flicks open a little case, and a small flame sparks to life, which throws my heart back into my nightmares like tinder. I make fists of my hands to stay my fins as he ignites the kindling within, and smoke begins to rise.

“I see your accommodations have greatly improved since I’ve been away. You’ve a proper aquaterrarium now, not that you’ve earned it,” he says, puffing dirty vapor into the air. “Benny says the improvements to your tank were a product of his own initiative.”

Though tremors threaten, I smother them at the mention of Benigno’s name lest losing command of myself invite the Shark onto new prey.

“In the wake of so many improvements to your accommodations, one can’t help but wonder where his motivation is coming from.”

He begins walking his usual path around my cage. “The selkies of Scotland. The ningyo of Japan. The Iara of Brazil. La sirène and Mami Wata. So many varied accounts of sea-dwelling mimics and shapeshifters, and yet they all share a particularly powerful feature in common: a voice so mystical in its properties it can induce insanity. Infatuation. Even death,” he murmurs. “Personally, I no longer have any delusions of dying from the sound of your voice, but it is a downright mystery to me that I’ve never heard you use it again since the night we collected you.”

He turns and heads back the other way. “Benny claims you haven’t said a word to him. But I’ve deceived enough people in my life to know a second-rate liar when I see one.”

The Shark pauses by the shadow where I sit, but I do not meet his eye. “So, try me. You have no problem seething at me, so why not shout? Howl watery profanities? Punish me with a shriek to burst my ear drums? I know you can do it,” he hisses softly.

I remain silent as a trench.

“No? Well. There’s still time.” He draws another breath of smoke from the pipe. “It doesn’t matter what delusions you tell yourself; your voice, along with the rest of you, belongs to me.”

He leaves, and my jaw aches with restraining myself from doing exactly as he asks. Far from punishment, what he truly wants from my voice is command over it—a power I would sooner die than give him.

The Shark must never know Benigno has heard me sing. The revelation would surely bring an end to Benigno’s life.

And if anything were to happen to him, neither pride nor dignity nor the condemnation of my ancestors could prevent me from using my voice to beg for death.