“Something’s coming in fast,” Rust murmured, shifting his rifle in his grip.
“Stand down.” The alpha remained seated, feet still dangling in the sea. “The Gibil Anzû is our ride.”
“The what?” Rust asked.
“The Fiery Stormbird,” he translated, as if that were a clarification.
As I watched, the shape resolved into a terrifying vessel that raced toward us like a predator locked on wounded prey. Three enormous masts pierced the sky, their sails billowing despite the current lack of wind. Raucous singing carried across the water as at least a dozen voices belted out a shanty I couldn’t understand.
The figurehead jutting from the bow turned my blood cold. It was some sort of monstrous bird-beast, carved from blackened wood and iron, its beaked maw gaping wide to reveal a throat of living flame. Fire also blazed behind its eyes, casting an orange glow across the water. A twisted iron lance protruded from its forehead like a narwhal’s tusk, aimed directly at the dock.
At us.
The hull gleamed like obsidian, slick and black as if freshly tarred. Centuries-old craftsmanship showed in every line of the galleon that should have rotted to driftwood generations ago. Yet here it sailed, fully rigged and impossibly intact, as if someone had dredged it up from the ocean floor, resurrected it through elbow grease and magic, and powered it through nightmares.
The singing cut off abruptly.
Silence crashed down, broken only by the slap of waves against the dock. The sails furled with practiced precision, and the ship slowed, its momentum bleeding away until it drifted the final yards into port, the galleon turning broadside to the dock with eerie grace.
I nearly jumped out of my skin as an anchor sailed from the bow, chain screaming as it plummeted into the sea with a splash that splattered brackish water droplets against my boots. The ship settled, timbers groaning. A spiked iron ribcage encircled the hull, protecting the ship’s innards like armor. Only the gun ports were left unobstructed, dark mouths gaping at regular intervals along the waterline.
Shouts broke out from the deck, and ropes flew over theside, hooking around the mooring rings and securing the ship to the dock. Then a gangplank rattled into place, emerging through an opening in the deck rail until it stretched across the gap between the pier and deck.
The alpha put his socks and boots back on, rose, and brushed sand from his pants. “Lower your weapons, but keep them close.”
Movement flickered on the deck, and I felt eyes on me as I holstered my Glock and rested my hands over the hilts of my daggers.
“Stay sharp,” Rust said quietly. “Don’t speak unless spoken to.”
Mack’s head dipped in a quick nod, and I followed suit, my body strung as tight as my crossbow.
The alpha and Rust boarded first. Mackiel stuck so close to my back that I worried he might step on my heels, but I said nothing. Boarding the ship of nightmares into who knew what, I preferred him close.
We marched up the gangplank to find a ship crewed by cerulean-skinned fish-people. Bare-chested with their webbed feet exposed, the sailors were dressed in ragged, cropped pants. Colorful bandanas snapped around their skulls like banners in the breeze, and every one of them was armed with a cutlass at their waist and a short-necked, primitive stringed instrument strapped around their torso.
As we neared, I realized their head coverings actually ended at their temples, and what hung below were vibrant fins that flared from their cheeks and jaws. The thin slits of fish gills marred the darker blue flesh of their necks, and fins hung from their forearms and distended from their calves.
One sailor caught me staring and winked. I startled, and he grinned, revealing rows of serrated teeth. Suppressing a shudder, I pressed against Mackiel’s side, leeching comfort from his presence.
The captain approached, distinguished by a tricorn hat embellished with barnacles and iron bars that caged a small ironkey. It smelled like rotten fish. Or maybe that god-awful stench was coming from the captain himself. It was impossible to tell.
He extended a hand to my father and introduced himself as Captain Oannes with a whimsical baritone that carried a heavy Middle Eastern accent. “Welcome aboard the Gibil Anzû.”
The alpha shook the captain’s hand. “Alpha Chaz McCarthy of the Evergreen Wolf Pack.”
“You have our conch?” Captain Oannes asked.
The alpha flashed the conch he’d used to call the ship, and the attention of every sailor on the ship snapped to the shell as if it were a favorite dessert. Eyes full of reverence, the captain reached for it, but my father retracted his hand, pressing the shell against his chest.
“After we reach our destination,” he said.
The captain scowled at him. “There is no need for such distrust. The sons of Oannes do not go back on our word, wolf. Regardless of when you hand it over, the deal has been struck. The conch in exchange for one sea passage to anywhere in the Red Sea, as promised.”
The alpha held the captain’s glare. “Including the Gulf of Aden.”
The captain inclined his head. “It is as you say.”
“And what about the return voyage?”
