Chapter 52 Ghost
I stood at the prow of the Obsidian Star, the iron railing freezing against my palms. Below us, the water didn't churn with the life I remembered. There were no jumping silver-fins, no bioluminescent glows from the kelp forests. There was only a thick, oily stillness that swallowed the moonlight. The sea looked like a sheet of hammered lead.
"We are directly above the Palace," Klaus said.
He stood behind me, a shadow draped in silver-braided wool. The wind caught his heavy black cape, making it snap like the wings of a scavenger bird. I didn't turn around. I couldn't look at him, not while the iron diving bells were being lowered into the water.
"It shouldn't be this quiet," I whispered. My voice was a dry rasp, catching on the black silt that had settled in my throat. I pressed a handkerchief to my mouth, and when I pulled it away, the stain was larger than it had been an hour ago. A dark, viscous blotch that refused to dry.
"The Blight has reached the Abyssal Gates," Klaus said. He stepped closer, the scent of ozone and cold rain cutting through the stagnant salt air. "They aren't singing, Nerissa. If they were singing, the water would be vibrating. They’re hiding. Or they’re already gone."
"They aren't gone," I snapped, turning to face him.
The movement made my head swim. The black lines on my neck pulsed with a dull, throbbing heat. Through the mesh of my black pearl veil, Klaus looked like a fractured memory. He looked strong. The life I had poured into him with that desperate kiss had made him a titan again, while I was becoming a hollow shell.
"My father would never leave the throne," I said, clutching the railing for support. "He would let the oil fill his lungs before he abandoned the Rift."
Klaus looked down at my hands. He saw the way my fingers were shaking. He saw the dark smears on my charcoal silk skirts. He reached out, his gloved hand hovering near my arm, but he didn't touch me. He hadn't touched me since he saw the map on his desk. The distance between us was no longer just about rank; it was about blood and betrayal.
"The bells are ready," he said, his voice turning to stone. "If you want to see him, you have to come down now. Once the harvest starts, I cannot guarantee your safety in the lower chambers."
"Harvest," I spat the word at him. "Say what it is, Klaus. You’re going down there to cut the hearts out of people who look like me so your Emperor can live another century."
Klaus’s sapphire eyes flared with a jagged, pained light. "I am going down there to secure the pure oil before the Scourge turns it into poison. If I don't, everyone in this ocean becomes a Starving One. Is that what you want? To see your father turn into a mindless beast in a storage room?"
I flinched. The memory of the feral vampire whimpering under my hand flashed through my mind. I looked back at the water. The first diving bell broke the surface, disappearing into the dark indigo depths with a hiss of pressurized air.
"Take me down," I said.
The diving bell was a cramped, iron lung.
It smelled of grease, cold sweat, and the stale, recycled breath of the four vampire commandos standing in the corners. They were silent, their red eyes fixed on the small portholes, their hands resting on the hilts of their harpoon-rifles. They didn't look at me. To them, I was just the Sapphire Witch, a dangerous curiosity the Admiral insisted on bringing into a war zone.
Klaus stood opposite me. The flickering amber light of the internal lamps cast deep shadows across his face. As the bell descended, the pressure began to build. My ears popped, and the weight in my chest intensified. The black fluid in my lungs felt like it was being squeezed, forcing me to take shallow, jagged sips of air.
"Nearly there," Klaus murmured.
I leaned against the thick glass of the porthole.
The darkness of the water gave way to a ghostly, flickering light. At first, I thought it was the palace, but as we sank lower, I realized it was the rot. The coral reefs, once vibrant with every color of the rainbow, were now covered in a glowing, fungal fuzz. It looked like frost, but it moved with the current, reaching out with white, spindly threads.
And then, I saw the Palace of the Southern Rift.
It was carved from a single, massive spire of blue coral. It used to glow with a soft, inner light that pulsed like a heartbeat. Now, it was dim. The spiraling towers were choked with black vines of the Scourge. The grand plaza, where I used to race with my sisters, was littered with debris—broken shells, discarded spears, and the pale, still shapes of fish that had choked on the oil.
The bell hit the docking platform.
The airlock hissed. The smell hit me instantly. It was so thick I could almost taste it.
Klaus stepped out first, his boots echoing on the coral floor. He signaled to the commandos, who fanned out, their rifles raised.
I stepped out behind him, my charcoal silk skirts billowing in the pressurized air of the palace dome. I felt the vibration in the floor. A low, rhythmic thrum.
It was a song.
But it wasn't the song of my childhood. It was a dirge, a slow, dragging melody that felt like it was being pulled through mud. It was coming from the Throne Room.
"Nerissa, stay behind the line," Klaus ordered, his hand going to his sword.
I ignored him. I ran.
My legs were weak, and every step was a battle against the crushing pressure of the deep, but I ran through the halls I knew by heart. I passed the statues of my ancestors, now covered in black slime. I passed the empty barracks.
I burst through the high pearl doors of the Throne Room.
"Father!" I cried out.
The room was vast, a cathedral of bone and glass. At the far end, sitting on the throne of leviathan ribs, was my father, King Thalor.
He looked like the dream.
His skin was grey, flaking away in the slow current that moved through the room. His hair, once a vibrant silver, hung in matted, oily clumps. He wasn't wearing his crown. He was clutching a scepter made of whalebone, his knuckles looking like white stones under his translucent skin.
He wasn't alone. A dozen sirens—the remnants of his court—were huddled at the base of the throne. They were thin, their scales dull and peeling. They were the ones singing, their voices thin and reedy, a desperate attempt to keep the darkness at bay.