Chapter 8 Echo of the Deep
I woke up screaming.
It wasn’t a scream of fear, exactly. It was a scream of rejection. In the dream, I was back in the Abyssal Hall. My father was sitting on his whalebone throne, but his face wasn't his face. It was a skull, picked clean by crabs. And when he opened his mouth to banish me, black sludge poured out, filling the ocean until I couldn't breathe.
"Nerissa."
The voice was sharp, cutting through the panic.
I sat up, gasping, my hands clawing at my throat. I wasn't underwater. I was in the tower. The sheets were tangled around my legs, damp with cold sweat.
"Breathe," the voice commanded. "In. Out. Do it."
I focused on the command. I inhaled the scent of old stone and... lavender? No, ozone.
I turned my head.
Klaus was sitting in the velvet armchair by the window, exactly where he had been when I fell asleep. But he wasn't reading. He wasn't working. He was watching me.
The room was dark, lit only by the faint, sickly glow of the city lights below and a single candle burning on the table next to him. The flame reflected in his eyes, turning the sapphire into something darker, like the deepest part of a trench.
"You were dreaming," he said. It wasn't a question.
"I..." My voice cracked. I touched my cheek. The skin felt tight, hot. The burns from Vespera's poisoned water. "I dreamt of the ocean."
"You were making noise," Klaus said. He stood up, his movement silent and fluid. He walked over to the bedside table and picked up a small jar made of dark glass. "A high-pitched keen. It cracked the water pitcher."
I looked at the pitcher on the vanity. A hairline fracture ran down the porcelain side, leaking a slow drip of water onto the wood.
"I didn't mean to," I whispered, shame curling in my gut. "I can't control it when I sleep."
"I know."
He sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight. He unscrewed the lid of the jar. The smell of medicinal herbs filled the air.
"Turn your face," he ordered.
I hesitated. "I can do it myself."
"Your hands are shaking," he pointed out bluntly. "And I don't trust you not to get it in your eyes. Turn."
I turned my head, exposing the burned side of my face to him.
He dipped two fingers into the salve. His touch was startlingly cold against my feverish skin, but as he spread the ointment over the angry red welts, the pain receded instantly, replaced by a numbing chill.
He worked in silence, his focus absolute. He wasn't gentle in a loving way; he was precise. Efficient. Like he was repairing a valuable instrument.
"Vespera will pay for this," he murmured, his thumb tracing the edge of my jawline. "The scars won't last. Vampire medicine is potent."
"Why didn't you kill her?" I asked, watching his face. Up close, I could see the fatigue etched around his eyes. He looked immortal, yes, but he also looked heavy. Burdened.
"Because killing a Duchess starts a civil war," Klaus said, not meeting my eyes. "And right now, I need the army focused on the ocean, not on each other."
He finished applying the salve and wiped his fingers on a handkerchief.
"Hungry?" he asked.
My stomach answered for me with a hollow growl.
He reached for a plate on the nightstand. It was simple fare. Bread, cheese, and more of that dried venison.
He picked up a piece of cheese. He put it in his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. He waited a beat, then picked up another piece and held it out to me.
"Eat."
I took the cheese. It was sharp and dry, but I ate it greedily. He fed me piece by piece, tasting everything first. The ritual was humiliating, intimate, and terrifyingly necessary.
"You didn't leave," I said after I finished the bread. "You stayed here all night."
"I told you," Klaus said, leaning back and crossing his arms. "I am your keeper. If I leave, the wolves come back."
"You never sleep," I observed. "Do you?"
"Sleep is for the living," he said dryly. "And for the innocent. I am neither."
He stood up and walked to the window, looking out at the smog. His back was rigid, the tension in his shoulders visible even through his shirt.
"There is news from the coast," he said, his voice changing. It lost the soft intimacy of the bedroom and became the voice of the General again.
I sat up straighter, clutching the sheet. "My father?"
"No." Klaus turned to look at me. "The Blight. It’s spreading. Dead whales have been washing up on the beaches for three days. Their skin is... grey. Rotting while they are still alive."
My heart stopped. "It’s accelerating."
"Yes."
He walked back to the chair and picked up something I hadn't noticed before. It was wrapped in a piece of black velvet.
"I went to the docks while you were sleeping," he said. "A smuggler brought this in from the Deep Trenches."
He handed me the bundle. It was heavy.
I unwrapped it carefully.
Inside lay a conch shell.
But it wasn't like the ones tourists found on the beach. This was an Abyssal Conch. It was huge, the size of a human head, its surface a swirling vortex of iridescent purple and black pearl. It was cold to the touch, retaining the temperature of the deep ocean.
I gasped, my fingers trembling as I traced the ridges. "This... this is from the capital. From the sunken gardens."
"I thought," Klaus said, looking uncomfortable, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, "that if you could hear something familiar... maybe you wouldn't scream in your sleep."
He gestured to the shell. "Put it to your ear."
I lifted the heavy shell. I pressed the smooth, cold opening against my ear.
I expected the soothing rush of the tide. I expected the white noise of the ocean currents, the sound of home.
What I heard made me drop the shell.
It landed on the bed with a muffled thud.
"No," I whispered, backing away until my back hit the headboard.
"What?" Klaus took a step forward, alarmed. "What is it?"
"It’s screaming," I choked out, tears stinging my eyes. "The ocean... it’s screaming."
It wasn't a roar. It was a high, thin wail of agony. The sound of a million dying things. The sound of coral turning to dust and water turning to poison.
Klaus stared at the shell. He reached out and picked it up. He hesitated, then held it to his own ear.
He frowned. "I hear nothing. Just the wind."
"Because you're not connected to it!" I cried. "It’s my fault. It’s all my fault. Every time I use my voice, it gets worse, doesn't it?"
I looked at him, desperate for him to lie to me. To tell me I was crazy.
But Klaus didn't lie.
He set the shell down on the table gently. He looked at me with a profound, terrifying sadness.
"Yes," he said. "It does."
The truth hung in the air like a guillotine blade.
"Then I won't speak," I whispered. "I won't sing. I'll sew my mouth shut if I have to."
"You don't have a choice," Klaus said harshly. "The Emperor demands a weapon. If you don't sing, he kills you. And if he kills you..."
He stopped. He turned away, coughing into his fist. It was a wet, heavy sound that rattled in his chest.
When he lowered his hand, he clenched it into a fist immediately, hiding his palm. But I saw it. Just a glimpse.
A smear of black fluid. Not red blood. Black.
"Klaus?" I asked, the fear for my kingdom suddenly eclipsed by a sharp, confusing spike of fear for him. "Are you sick?"
"I am fine," he snapped, his voice raspy. "Just the smog. It affects everyone."
He grabbed the pitcher of water and drank straight from it, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Get dressed," he ordered, his tone closing the door on the subject. "Rook is bringing a dress. We have a rehearsal in the music room in one hour."
"Rehearsal?" I stared at him. "You just told me my voice is killing the world, and you want me to rehearse?"
"We have to fake it," Klaus said, turning back to me. His eyes were hard again, the General back in control. "You have to learn to sing without using the magic. You have to learn to mimic the power without drawing from the source."
"That's impossible. A siren's voice is magic."
"Nothing is impossible," Klaus said. He walked to the door. "Adapt, Nerissa. Or we both die."
He opened the door, and Rook tumbled in, holding a pile of grey silk that looked less like a dress and more like a shroud.
"One hour," Klaus repeated.
He stepped into the hallway. But before he closed the door, he looked back at the shell sitting on the table.
"Keep it," he said softly. "Even a scream is better than silence. At least it reminds you what you're fighting for."
The door clicked shut.
I sat there, staring at the iridescent shell. I reached out and touched it again, bracing myself against the faint vibration of pain it emitted.
He had gone to the docks for me. He had found a piece of my home, thinking it would comfort me. He had tasted my food to keep me from being poisoned.
And he was coughing black blood.
I looked at the spot on the floor where he had stood.
We both die.
Why did he include himself? If I failed, I died. Why would the great Lord Falkenstein fall with me?
I touched the burns on my face. They were numb now, the pain gone.
I stood up, my legs stronger than they had been yesterday. I let the sheet fall.
"Rook," I said, my voice steady.
The goblin jumped. "Yes, mistress?"
"Help me with the dress."
I walked to the vanity and looked at myself in the cracked mirror. My eyes were shadowed, my skin pale, a patch of angry red skin on my cheek. I didn't look like a princess. I looked like a survivor.
I would learn to sing without magic. I would learn to fake it.
Because I needed to stay alive long enough to figure out why the monster who held my leash was slowly dying every time I opened my mouth.