An Island of Women, Means remembers thinking. If Isabella is anywhere, she is there.
Without much effort, they found the island. They discovered the women. But what happened after was very far from what the crew had envisioned upon hearing the barkeep’s tale.
What they had found there was death.
Means shakes away the haunted memory of their visit. If he wants to survive, he needs to focus on just that, not past tribulations. He pushes himself to his feet and scrambles toward the edge of the ship. He looks down into the turbulent waters, eyeing the majority of his cowardly crew. They’re swimming in the water. No, not swimming. Thrashing.
They’re not alone.
The women are with them.
Feeding on them.
Their screams echo across the sea. The encroaching fog envelops them. All that’s left of them are their final cries for mercy.
Means turns back to the deck. The fire is out of control now, spreading down the masts, conquering most of the boom and the roof of the captain’s quarters. His materials, most importantly the portrait of his Isabella and the diamond intended for her finger only, are most likely on their way to becoming char and ash. A tower of fire stands tall over the bow. There are minutes left before the flames will travel to the deck and burn away the last remaining lumber of the sinking ship.
There’s no rescuing King’s Folly. They say a captain should always go down with his ship, but that’s not for him. He has a reason to live—he has Isabella. She’s out there somewhere. Among the women. Among the chaos.
Maybe if I can convince her, he thinks. Maybe if I can show her how much I love her?
He hasn’t yet, which is why she left in the first place, why she joined this secretive commune.
He thinks about hurling himself over the edge when he hears a voice call his name. It’s soft and familiar, somewhat comforting despite the anxiety lacing his nerves.
“Garrett?” she says, and Means turns to her.
“Isabella?”
She’s standing in the center of the deck, Her Majesty’s torn sails ablaze above her.
“Isabella,” he confirms. She doesn’t look the same as she had seven months ago, before her disappearance. She still has her slender appearance, her gaunt face, the features prevalent in the poor and homeless, but there is something different. Maybe it’s her gown, the stark white garment that covers every inch of her flesh, making her look more angel than woman. Maybe it’s the blotches of blood around her mouth, the remnants of her last meal. Maybe it’s the teeth, those sharpened twigs of calcium, those tools of carnage. Maybe it’s her nails, long and curled like hawk talons. It’s the combination of these atrocities that contribute to her altered visage.
The woman he loves is no longer the woman he loves.
“What… what happened to you?”
She smiles, her bloody lips curling at the ends. “I’ve been reborn.”
“You’ve become a devil.”
“No, Garrett.” Her face grows with concern as she steps toward him. “No, not at all. I’ve found a new way of life. That old life wasn’t for me. You know that.”
“We would have been happy together. You and I.”
She shakes her head. “No, you would have been happy together.” She nods her head to the side and bends her knee, a courteous gesture that comes off more like a warning. “I told you the married life wasn’t meant for me.”
“Your father… he promised you to me.”
Her posture stiffens; her features constrict. “I am promised to nobody.”
“We had an accord.”
“I am not property!” she spits, flecks of blood sent airborne. “I am not his to pawn! Like some basic treasure!”
The venom in her voice nudges him backward. He feels the deck’s rails against his back.
“Isabella, I’m sorry.”
“You men,” she continues, pointing at him as if he’s every man that ever lived. “You men take and you take, and you don’t consider us. Our feelings. Our wants and needs. You make us live like slaves.”
“No, Isabella,” he says. His mouth is dry and cottony, and the words almost don’t come out correctly. “I love you. You know I do. You have to know that.”
“You smother us with your love.”
Three shapes form in his periphery. Three women, all of them clad in the same white material, all of their faces stained the same red.
“You smother us with your affection, your ideas of the perfect life.” The closer she gets to him, the tighter his throat becomes. “But you don’t know perfection like I know perfection. You’ve never tasted the flesh and blood of men, of God’s so-called greatest creation.”
“Now hold on just a minute,” he says, barely. Feels like someone is squeezing his vocal cords. “You’re sick. I can help you. I can nurse you back to—”
“I don’t need your help,” she says, lunging for him.
Before he can react, her mouth is on his throat. A wave crashes against the ship, and a salty spray dots the back of his neck. The next thing he feels is his blood leaving his body via the gaping hole Isabella has created near his jugular. Squirts of hot blood run down his neck, underneath his attire, coating his chest and stomach.
“Good-bye, my love,” she says with such disdain.
His heart breaks in two as he’s flung overboard, and into the stormy waters below.
Means clasped his hands around his throat, feeling his way around every inch of flesh. His heart sank when his fingers danced over the open area where flesh and muscle should have been. The cavity was dry and deep. The crusty nature of the wound suggested his body had recovered from Isabella’s bite and was on the mend. But the depth and size of the cavity concerned him. It was deeper than an ordinary bite, at least by an inch or two, and about the size of a clenched fist. It wasn’t exactly the kind of trauma one recovers from, even with proper medical attention.
“Mirror,” Means demanded hoarsely.
The barkeep had one handy behind the bar and brought it to him promptly.
Means discovered his reflection. His vision was immediately drawn to the missing flesh on his neck. His breath caught in his throat upon witnessing his disfigurement. Bruised flesh surrounded the crater in his throat, the same purple-black marking that covered most of his arms and legs. He gently patted the wound and found it numb, probably why he hadn’t noticed it earlier.
The strength ran out of his fingers and he let the mirror fall on the bar top.
“Quite the wound, sailor,” the barkeep said with certain admiration. “Injury like that could kill a man.”
He’d thought about that. It was miraculous that he had survived.
“What were they?” Means asked, though he already knew the answer.