Chapter 73 Crimson
I shot upward through the freezing dark, my hand locked in Klaus’s. The pressure that used to crush my ribs was gone, replaced by a thrumming power that made the very water around me vibrate. Above us, the iron hulls of the secondary fleet looked like the bellies of starving whales, their silver harpoons cutting through the brine in shimmering, lethal streaks.
Klaus moved with a speed that was terrifying. He wasn't the weighed-down soldier I had known in the Citadel. He was a streak of sapphire lightning. His skin, stripped of the obsidian shell, felt hot—feverishly alive. Every kick of his legs sent a jolt through our joined hands, a reminder that the Anchor was broken, but the man was reborn.
"The flagship," he signaled, his voice vibrating through the water into my mind. He pointed a jagged, stolen harpoon toward a massive vessel with a hull painted the color of dried blood. "The Crimson Talon. That’s where the orders are coming from."
We breached the surface fifty yards from the ship.
The transition from the silent deep to the screaming surface was a physical blow. The air was thick with the smell of burning oil and the sulfurous stench of depth charges. The sky was a bruised, ugly purple, lit by the orange flares of the secondary fleet. Thousands of vampires stood on the decks of the surrounding ships, their red eyes scanning the water for the harvest that would never come.
I gulped in the air. It tasted of smoke and salt, but it was clear. No black fluid rose in my throat. I was empty of the rot, but full of a cold, crystalline fury.
"Stay behind me," Klaus said, his voice a jagged rasp as he hauled himself onto the iron ladder dangling from the Crimson Talon’s side.
"I'm done staying behind you, Klaus," I said, my voice ringing out over the roar of the waves.
I didn't use the ladder. I reached for the Song of the First King—the resonance I had found in the North. I hummed a single, sharp note, and the water beneath me surged. It lifted me like a pedestal, a pillar of salt and foam that deposited me onto the blood-red deck before the guards could even draw their swords.
Klaus vaulted over the railing a second later, his stolen harpoon-rifle leveled at the first line of silver-armored commandos.
"Drop them!" Klaus roared.
The commandos froze. They looked at his face—at the man they thought was a statue at the bottom of the sea. They looked at his clear skin and his sapphire eyes, which were glowing with a light that made the deck lanterns look dim.
"Admiral?" one of them stammered, his rifle shaking.
"I am no longer your Admiral," Klaus hissed. "I am the man who is going to sink this tub. Where is Malphas?"
The crowd of soldiers parted. From the shadows of the bridge stepped a man who looked like a nightmare carved from ivory. He was older than Klaus, his hair a shock of bone-white, his face a map of cruel, deep-set wrinkles. He wore the high-collared coat of a Grand Marshal, and his eyes weren't just red—they were the color of a fresh kill.
Duke Malphas. Vespera’s father.
"Peregrine," Malphas said, his voice a dry, cultivated purr. He didn't look surprised. He looked disappointed. "The Emperor told me you had a sentimental streak. I didn't believe him. I thought three centuries of drowning would have cured you of... hope."
"It cured me of obedience, Malphas," Klaus said, taking a step forward. The wood of the deck groaned beneath his boots.
Malphas looked at me. He looked at my charcoal silk dress, shredded and soaked, and the turquoise glow of my skin. A slow, predatory smile spread across his lips.
"And the little fish," he murmured. "The one who broke the Anchor. My daughter told me you were quite a performer, Nerissa. She said you made her bow. I suppose I should thank you. She needed a lesson in humility."
"I can teach you one, too," I said.
Malphas laughed. It was a cold, rattling sound that made the hair on my arms stand up. "You think because the water is clear, you’ve won? You’ve only delayed the inevitable. The Emperor doesn't need the Rift anymore. He has the maps. He has the coordinates. And he has me."
He raised a hand, and the commandos leveled their rifles.
"The Admiral is a traitor," Malphas proclaimed, his voice carrying to the surrounding ships. "The Siren is an escaped asset. Kill them both. Bring me the Siren’s head; the Emperor wants the throat for the archives."
"Klaus!" I shouted.
"Sing!" Klaus roared.
I didn't wait. I didn't reach for a lullaby. I reached for the memory of the obsidian. I reached for the weight of the three hundred years Klaus had carried for me.
I opened my mouth and let out a sound that wasn't a note. It was a physical wall of resonance.
"KNEEL."
The word hit the deck like a thunderclap.
The commandos didn't just kneel; they were crushed. The iron plates of the deck buckled beneath them. Their rifles shattered. Malphas stumbled, his face turning a shade of purple as he fought the command. He clawed at the air, his eyes bulging, his knees hitting the wood.
I felt the feedback. It wasn't the black rot this time; it was a pure, searing heat that radiated from my throat to my heart. My skin glowed brighter, the sapphire light blinding the vampires who were still standing.