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Miles shrugs. “Then leave them. The sea will take care of it.”
He always does this. If there’s a change of plan, Miles would rather run it over than bend to adapt to new circumstances. I swear he’s started doing it solely to undermine me. If I say we go north, he starts arguing that south is a better route. Every. Single. Time.
To his view, allowing the sea to take this person instead of bringing them on board and triggering the decision between death and joining the crew would be less of a headache. There are others among the Cwn Annwn who would agree with him and continue sailing.
But I am captain of this ship and that’s not how we do things on the Crimson Hag. I have enough blood on my hands to last lifetimes. I try to avoid adding more whenever possible.
I pass over the spear. “We’re not leaving them to the sea. They might be a local.”
“No local is going to be out here.” He shakes his head, the move too sharp to be strictly human. “We haven’t seen another ship in days, and there’s been no storms to sweep one down, let alone to bring a survivor into our path. They’re a Threshold trespasser.”
Probably. Likely, even.
That doesn’t mean I’m going to let the sea take them without checking, and then offering them their choice. The whole purpose of the Cwn Annwn is to protect Threshold and all the realms connected to it by portals on the islands scattered across the vast sea. Not all the islands contain portals, though, and there are citizens of the realm who are supposed to fall under our protection as well.
Not that all of our people remember that. At least, not when it doesn’t suit them.
I wait for the Crimson Hag to sail a little closer to the person. I could dive in and retrieve them, but there’s no reason to go through those theatrics. Instead, I focus my power and extend it, scooping the person out of the water and bringing them carefully over to the deck.
The crew eyes these goings-on with some interest. It’s not every day we haul people out of the sea, and it’s even rarer that they’re still alive when we do.
I crouch next to our catch and take a better look at them. A woman, human or from one of the realms where they’re more humanoid than not. She’s wearing clothing that looks unfamiliar, a bag strapped to her back, so it takes me a moment to place the pants. Denim. Jeans. That narrows down the options of her origin considerably. They cling to a body that’s lush: thick thighs, broad hips, soft stomach. Her black shirt hugs her torso, hinting at small breasts.
I jerk my gaze up to her face, determined not to stand here ogling an unconscious woman, but there’s no relief to be found. She has round cheeks, a full mouth, and wide-set eyes. Her skin is pale enough that I want to get her under cover before the sun has its way with her, and her hair color is hard to determine while wet, but I think it is a few shades lighter than my own.
A spear flashes into view. I throw out my hand to stop it, but I’m too slow. “Fuck!” I tense, but it hovers in the air, its point a mere inch from her chest. A flare of violet magic surges and then disappears and the spear clatters to the deck.
I spin on Miles. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“My job,” he says flatly. “She’s not one of ours.”
No, she certainly isn’t. I don’t recognize the magic, but based on her human looks, I’d wager she’s a witch. No reason for that to intrigue me. It just means she’d be an asset if we turn her. “Our job is to offer a choice.”
“The Cwn Annwn have no use for women like her.”
I open my mouth to tell him where he can fuck right off to, but her eyes fly open, stalling me. She takes us in with a single look and then slams her hand to her chest. Magic rises in a wave that pushes me back a full yard before I get my magic up in a shield. Several of my people aren’t so lucky. Splashes sound, quickly followed by the call, “Man overboard!”
Miles goes for the spear, but she flicks it away before he can get his hands on it. “Where the hell am I?” Her voice is hoarse, as if she had been in the sea longer than I realized.
“You, don’t move.” I point at her and then turn my glare on Miles. “Get our people out of the water. Now.”
For a moment, I think he might argue, but he finally gives a sharp nod and starts snapping commands to the crew. Within a few minutes, we’ve fished out the fallen crew and ensured there was no permanent damage done to the ship itself.
While I’ve been dealing with this, the woman has done some looking of her own. She surveys my ship in a way that makes my skin tight, like she’s assessing every inch visible for value. I know what that look means.
Thief.
Sure enough, she has something in her hand that she’s fiddling with. I recognize it instantly, and my hand goes to my hip where my flask usually is. Gone now, taken by her quick hands while I assumed she was unconscious.
Maybe Miles is right about her.
I shake my head sharply. That’s dangerous thinking. A choice. We always offer a choice. It’s the very essence of what separates us from the monsters we hunt. Their victims are not offered anything resembling mercy.
She catches me watching her play with the flask and grins, completely unrepentant. “Should I call you Captain?” Her voice is throaty, and she puts enough innuendo into the question to sink the Hag.
I take a step toward her before I catch myself. This woman is no siren—they’re all but extinct, thank the gods—but she has a pull all her own. “You’re aboard the Crimson Hag, a vessel of the Cwn Annwn.”
Interest sharpens her eyes. I belatedly realize they’re a green that makes me think of magic and lush forests. She leans closer and makes a show of looking me up and down. “Funny, but you don’t look like a hound.”
