Page 56 of Saved By the Selkie

Aramis shakes his head, then fishes around in his parka. He produces a tiny pouch at last, handing it over. Jans frowns at it, then opens it up and pulls out a shiny, round object.

I frown.

“That all?” Jans huffs. He seems offended.

I shove Blizz at Anna and head back down the gangplank.

Aramis holds his hands out. “It’s all we have right now, but once we reach New York, I can contact my patron and—”

“Oh, a patron!” Jans’s tone is mocking. “And what’s his name?”

Aramis huffs. “My patron is Lord de—”

I snatch the shiny thing out of Jans’s hand and hold it up, ignoring his protest. I turn it over a couple of times, peering at it. Finally, I hand it back to him. “You want more of these?”

Jans gives me a blank look.

“What are you doing?” Aramis all but hisses at me, his teeth tight against each other.

I glance at him, then Jans. “I can get more.”

Jans stares at me, then snorts with laughter. “Oh, you can, can you?”

“Lir,” Aramis whispers.

I ignore him. “Just tell me how many you want.”

Jans and his companion stare at me some more. Then Jans looks at Aramis. “Is this why you married the ugly broad?”

“What!” Aramis cries, and Porthos decks Jans before I can react. He stumbles away, clutching his cheek. I blink a few times.

“Ugly … broad?”

“Never mind!” Porthos barks, clapping a hand on my shoulder and gesturing for me to go back up the gangway. “We’re wasting time arguing like this; we need to get under sail, and I can’t imagine yer captain is gonna be pleased with us idling like this.”

“Negotiating our dues fer takin’ ye across the ocean ain’t idling,” protests the second sailor.

“Oh, and I imagine yer doin’ it out of concern fer yer cap’n, hm?” Anna chimes in. “And you’re not gonna put a single sovereign in your own pocket, him?”

The fellow colors up to his ears. “Well,” he huffs.

“Come on!” Porthos insists, herding me up the plank, “we’re wasting daylight.”

I want to point out that there isn’t any daylight—the sun hasn’t risen beyond the horizon in months. But one look at the severe expression on Porthos’s face tells me to keep my mouth shut.

“Finally!” enthuses a smooth tenor. “A sailor with good sense and a decent work ethic!”

We all glance up at the human alpha who has suddenly appeared at the top of the plank. He’s wearing a long coat trimmed with shimmering gold thread, and he has several layers of frills at his wrists and his neck. Perched on top of his head is a ridiculous contraption—Aramis calls them hats—with a bunch of feathers sticking out of it.

I nearly fall over when I look into his face—he could be Aramis’s twin. He has the same honey-brown eyes, the same nose. His curls are a little lighter in shade and a little shorter, and he has hair on his face, trimmed into a neat triangle beneath his bottom lip, and two longer wings that extend across his face above his upper lip. His skin is paler, and he has more wrinkles around his eyes, but it’s clear to me they’re related.

“A-athos,” Aramis stammers.

“Oy,” Jans protests.

The hat-wearing alpha glides down the gangplank, fists still on his hips, even as he squints at Aramis. “Ah,” he says when he gets close, his eyes widening, “Aramis.”

“Not wearing your glasses again, brother,” Aramis grumbles, and Athos scowls at him.