And then, the little mermaid’s attention snagged on a wayto drive in the knife even further. A way to hurt Evie the most.
Without a moment’s hesitation, she reached out through the distance, sending her magic snaking through the Nordic depths.
“Hvalr. Hvalr. Koma hvalr.”
In short order, the edges of her power hit upon success, and her plan began to unfurl, a fat pilot whale steaming toward her like a locomotive on new track.
When the whale arrived, it was glassy-eyed under her command. But the sailors wouldn’t see that. They couldn’t smell magic—they would only smell a chance at another catch for His Majesty.
She looked the great animal in the eye. Her lure. And promised it it’d be safe. Then, she gathered her magic anew.
“Rísa, hvalr. Rísa.”
The whale did as it was commanded, rising to the surface like a gift from the sea king himself.
The little mermaid skipped the whale across the water, dancing it across the surface.
Tantalize. Trick. Catch the big fish.
The commotion above was enough that she could pick up the sounds of men sprinting and shouting from her spot below. Smiling, she surfaced in the shadow of the portside bow, and saw that, yes, the fish had taken the bait.
The men scurried about, readying nets, spears, and, optimistically, a huge knife—a mønustingari—for severing the spinal cord. Amid it all, Evie’s father did exactly what the little mermaid expected.
He readied the harpoon gun. The innovation Evie had fashioned for a better kill. They’d discussed it that day on the dock. She was clearly so proud. And he of her.
Pride must suffer pain, Evie.
As the whale danced on the edge of her fingertips, the little mermaid called a storm with another tendril of her power.“Ve∂r.”
The storm gathered, wind gusting over the crew as they darted about, ignoring the lightning crackling on the horizon, their sights only on the catch.
The little mermaid got in position, watching and waiting as the father worked the dart gun, stuffing the harpoon into the barrel. Hauling it around, so that it might aim at the whale.
Aim right into the storm.
And in that moment, the father shot the dart gun. The harpoon exploded into the rough air, hurtling toward the whale as it crested another leap. A rope trailed the harpoon, attached to the gun stand, so that it might be easier to haul in, whale and all.
But it would spear no whale.
With a sweep of the little mermaid’s hand, the storm unleashed a gust of wind strong enough to change the harpoon’s course. It skipped off the rocking water, swinging around, past the whale, through the air, reversing course until it shot back toward the ship’s deck. Deadly end pointing back the way it came.
It was so surprising, so unnatural, that his reflexes failed Evie’s father.
He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t even cry before the harpoon speared him through the stomach.
Another wave of the little mermaid’s hand, and the harpoon bucked wildly, pulling itself and Evie’s father into the rumbling deep.
The little mermaid moved then, surging below the surface to catch him before his crew regained its wits and tried to haul its captain up by the gun’s rope.
She pulled him off the spear, blood flooding in the water, and as she did so, he opened his eyes. Not yet fully dead, despite the gaping wound.
In them flashed the slightest hint of recognition. That he was not only nearly dead, that he was not just seeing a mermaid, but that he was seeing his daughter’s dead friend before him.
“Anna... ,” he said, his voice but a whisper and a gurgle.
“Yes,” she replied.
The light in his eyes flickered, and the little mermaid reached into her hair, pulled out the coral knife she’d fashioned into a decorative comb, and plunged it into his chest, right in to the soft spot between his ribs and sternum where it would pierce his heart.
