Cast In Dark Waters

He presses himself against her and finds her backed up against her velvet pillows. Darkness twines as her misted breath rises to his face like smoke and breaks against his strong chin. His breath isn't frosted in the cold room. She cocks her head, staring at the hard cords and muscles of his throat. The veins there are black and unmoving as marble. He doesn't breathe at all.

"Tyree?" she asks again, and the name, though familiar, is almost difficult to form and say aloud.

He makes a plaintive sound. A sob perhaps, or a moan cracking distantly inside him.

"It's me," he says, and his voice, like the rest of him, doesn't seem to be entirely with her in this world anymore. "Don't be frightened, love. Here, take my hand. It's always me."

"Yes, I know that now."

She reaches but cannot find his hand. She remembers something else that she's been pushing away into the center of her mind. What's hidden beneath the bed, under the pillows. The well-sharpened sickle. Nine hoops of wrought iron. A pike also made of iron and twice blessed by two different bishops on the far sides of Europe, or so it's been told.

And also there, what she's carved from good solid mountain ash wood and rowan trees. Six stakes, a seventh only half-completed. Wood chips and splinters dapple the floor.

Far below at the base of the tower, the ocean rumbles an underscore to her heartbreak.

He had been taken by a raiding ship less than a week after their marriage. They said the ship was damned, and that those aboard didn't care about money or loot of any kind, only flesh. Men always cared about flesh: to love and hurt, to cook and eat. To drink. The stories were old and gathered power as they moved, on their own sails, from island to island, continent to continent. Those who were wise didn't dismiss such tales easily, if at all. On the sea, every superstition proved true. Each god eventually showed its face in the storm.

She can see his lips but not his eyes, as he shoves her back and begins to remove his clothing. His shirt snaps wickedly as if caught in a wind. She'd torn the buttons off many times before and re-sewed them back on. The broad muscles of his chest are comforting, smooth and intimate, although his touch is freezing. She doesn't need to feel his heart.

He speaks her name without affection or desire. It leaks listlessly from his mouth like slow-moving liquid. Her true name that only he and Welsh know anymore. "Cassandra."

Tyree repeats it, making the word more lyrical, drawing it out with his tongue as if he is lapping at it. "Cassssssandraaa."

A groan escapes her as she tries to draw aside and reach beneath the bed, knowing the time has come to do what she must do. She has to be fast. He can't help but hiss. It's because of all those new teeth that have suddenly grown in-too many of them to fit properly inside his mouth. They range all the way back into his jaw and deep down inside his throat, his gum line packed and overfilled, chewing anything that comes near.

"Cassssssssssssssaaaaandraaaaaa…"

"No, no, don't…"

"It's me, it's always me, love, and now it'ssssss yooou…"

As her hand tightens on a stake of ash, she squirms and knows she is too late, he's beguiled her and used her own love against her. She wants to scream but cannot, whispering, "Stay back."

Now he climbs upon her back creeping like a beast and shoves her deeper into the mattress, all those many curved teeth nibbling at her shoulder at first and then, sluggishly-so leisurely-moving along to rip out her throat and plunge his snout into the spouting blood.

~* ~

Crimson awoke in her room upstairs in the Hog's Head, holding onto the sharpened pieces of ash wood. The wrought iron hoops lay directly beside her on a night table.

Her face was wet with his kisses and she dabbed at them, wondering if she was insane or merely crying. Drops ran across her jaw.

At first she thought these were only tears on her chin, but as she drew the back of her hand against her mouth, it came away bloody. A scream worked halfway up her throat before she realized she'd only bitten her lip.

He hadn't come to her last night and drawn her into his hell.

Not yet.

~* ~

Crimson spent the morning of the Hopewell's arrival near the docks, watching galleons and other vessels anchor out beyond the reefs. Several skiffs were still making their way across the harbor, brushed back by the rising waves as the men rowing strained at their oars. She watched the many sailors landing, waiting for this Maycomb to make his appearance. If he was already dead, she'd be compensated by Dobbins one way or another.