Father, with his manuscript growing like a monster, was too busy to notice anything amiss.

There was no issue, then, in Pearl feigning illness the next day, sore and hungover. Surely, the maid spooning broth into her mouth must have noticed the scent of rum that clung to her tongue, but no comment was made. The woman’s face was flat and smooth as a surface of a lake; sandy hair sensibly pulled back, with two bottle-gray eyes. Pearl dreamed about fucking her, too.

By sundown, Pearl managed to rise and pull on her dressing gown. She circled the room, unknotting her hair with her fingers, and sat down at her desk. She pulled out the book of poetry. She opened it to where Ianthe had addressed Pearl, to where the salt of her hand had most certainly lain. She pressed the page to her lips.

Time became a finicky thing— a mere barrier between meetings with Ianthe. How she wanted to visit her, alone! The days went by with only a single letter, one that spelt doom for her dreams to soon be realized. Among the rambling pleasantries of Ianthe’s messy, imprecise scrawl, she’d written: 

We must Never speak of that day again. When the Time is right, I will come Calling.

Pearl’s visits from the vampire continued without delay. It came to her in dreams: glorious, rapturous dreams that left her begging for release. At the end, always she woke and made haste to her mirror— and always her skin remained unmarked.

One night, she dreamt she was a sailor: a heavy fellow of five and forty who had lived the life of an ascetic. She felt herself too large, too dumb and cumbersome to intrude upon the lives of others, and especially of the female sex; she had no living family, and thusly she had dedicated her days to fighting monsters, so that others may continue their happy lives without delay.

At the start, she was in the darkness of her cabin. She had the luxury of a private space, a small wash basin and cot, and even a rust-tinged mirror— though she kept a cloth over it at all times. She had become quite advanced at dressing without glimpsing her own body, and did so now. She was in the midst of a journey, a long and arduous task and, as first mate, it was her duty to keep the crew in line.

This was easier said than done— not with Robert Morgan aboard.

“Bet it’s nice and comfy in that cabin o’yours.”

As Pearl returned to the deck, Morgan was there. He was a poor man in steep debt, a laborer by trade, who had come aboard by following the scent of mythical treasure.

There was an infernal mist in the air, and the boat had been sitting stagnant for several days. Morgan had evidently been waiting for her to appear; in his overlarge hands he held three ship’s biscuits, more than double the ration of the day.

Coolly, said she, “Where did you get those?”

“Oh, piss off, Shackley,” Morgan said. “I found ‘em. Dropped on th’floor after a game of Hazard.”

“Does the captain know?”

Morgan took a crack at his biscuit between his teeth. “What does a cold bastard like you do in there all day?”

Shackley said nothing.

“It’s queer,” said Morgan, “and bad energy for the crew. We make bets on it. Because, see, we have’ta get along and not strangle one another in our bunks, and then we’re expected to take orders from the likes of you, who clearly can’t stand the sight of us! It’s a load of hogwash, I’d say.”

“You must take it up with the captain, then.”

“You know what I think it is?” Morgan leered. “Quiet guy like you— never married, probably never even felt the touch of a woman…” He drew close to Shackley, so that he may speak under his breath. “I bet it’s hard for you, isn’t it? Hard not to get distracted surrounded by all these young—”

Shackley yanked Morgan by the collar, choking off his words. “Finish that sentence, and I cast you overboard.”

She should have not reacted so strongly— she was only giving Morgan precisely what he sought, and Shackley should have been above such petty things. But anger had moved her before logic did, and now was not the time to back down.

Morgan squirmed in the grapple. “Struck a nerve, did I? Say, if you toss me a couple coins, I might keep mum to the others about it.”

“And who is the one that is bad energy?”

“The water! The water’s movin’! Everyone— everyone, look!”

All eyes turned towards the edge of the ship. Beneath the surface, which had remained tranquil as glass for hours on end, something large and sinewy was stirring beneath. Shackley could not take her eyes off of it; a glittering serpent, with scales white as snow, surfaced for a moment. The ship grew silent as the sailors followed it with their gaze, in slow, slithering circles.

All agreed to follow.

Oars were mounted. The creature waited for their slow pursuit, and led them through a narrow tributary to its home. Between steep, yawning cliffs they passed through in darkness; dusk overwhelmed the sky. When they found the island, it was a patch of shadow dotted with dim fires.

Fires… something lived there.

The crew had been chasing a fanciful legend, a tale of an isle hidden from time and filled with snake monsters that burst from the mouths of fair maidens. None seemed to understand, truly, what they had found.

There, on the beach, they were greeted by the natives. The crew was enraptured at once: they were, all of them, beautiful women. Captain Spice, ever suspicious, slipped beneath their notice and fled with two men. For the rest, there was no hope.

How to describe such a place? No matter how many times she saw it in dreams, it wavered. Rising from the edge of the white beach was a line of unbroken, black trees, as deep as a forbidden wood of fairytales old. Their branches seemed to dance for the crew, to beckon such poor souls into their gentle embrace. This the crew was invited to— where, it was said, the women’s “sisters” waited.

Shackley was as enraptured as all the others. She was brought to a Greek agora, bleeding out from the foliage of the jungle. Wide and flat, stones cooling underfoot. A firepit burned in the center, and their guide— who called herself Thisbe— led them like a shepherd leading lost sheep to sit around it.

And the women… in flowing chitons of sheer fabric they came, gold in their hair and around their wrists and ankles, toting baskets of fruit and flagons of wine. They had red-lipped smiles and voices like bells, not a one of them alike in color and shape— but all entirely, unthinkingly beautiful.

The men ate ravenously, juices staining their fingers and mouths. Their teeth tore straight through the soft flesh of black figs, their mouths dripping with juice. The women sat between them around the firepit; even inches away, Shackley half-expected them to blow into nothing, like smoke in the wind.

“Is there any meat on this island?” Morgan groused, after his fifth pear.

“Oh, no! We keep…” Thisbe shared a look with her sister. “We keep our blood sweet.”

“Hah? What does that mean?”

Thisbe giggled, and pushed a cup into his bulbous nose. “Eat your fill, sir.”

The men made some rude indications of where these ladies ought to find “meat”— Shackley, though, was distraught.

“You mean to tell me,” she asked one, “that you eat nothing but fruit and wine?”

She giggled. “Yes, of course!”

“And who grows the trees?”

“Oh, they grow on their own.”

“But what about in winter?”

“They always bear fruit,” another woman said. “Master makes sure of it.”

Master…

“And who is…?”

Thisbe took Shackley’s hand. “Come with me. I will show you.”

She should not go— it was dangerous, it was foolish. And yet… and yet, the sensation of this delicate hand against hers, Thisbe’s wide, pleading eyes… 

Shackley rose, and followed.

Further in the darkness emerged a natural spring that appeared to glow from within. There were bathers there— so, so many bathers, laughing. They had thrown their robes aside, and rested both in and out of the waters nude. Shackley saw their naked flesh, and looked away in haste. Thisbe laughed.

“Oh, no shame in looking,” said she. “That is what we are here for.”

“You are sirens, are you not? Luring men to their graves?”

“Nothing like that! We’re slaves.”

“Whose?”

“Master’s!” A woman in the spring splashed Shackley with water.

“Well, yes…” She stared down at the water now soaking her boots. “So I could surmise.”

“You should bathe with us!”

No one had seen her body since she was a boy, and she intended to keep it as such. “How may I meet him? This master of yours?”

The woman dipped below the water for a moment; her hair splayed across the surface. Hot water dripped from her breasts as she pushed herself up from the edge of the spring, bringing her gaze to meet Shackley’s.

“I’ll tell you…” said she, “come closer.”

Shackley leaned in— stupid, stupid!— and a rough hand at her back pushed her headfirst into the spring.

She gasped and struggled, and was convinced that she would drown. Countless hands grasped at her clothing. Her coat was tossed out of the water, and her shirt was torn by searching nails. Laughter surrounded her as the slaves tore off her boots, then her stockings. They pressed their naked bodies to hers, and— oh! Oh, how it terrified her!

Shackley surfaced, gasping for breath. A beautiful slave with dark umber hair kissed her on the mouth. With some hesitance, Shackley pushed her off, and clung to the edge of the spring. 

The slaves were much amused by her reaction. They circled around Shackley, no longer deigning to touch her, and spoke amongst themselves. They found her amusing, and bewildering— not a single male specimen had resisted before.

“Have not a one of you ever met a good man?” asked Shackley.

They had not, evidently.

Shackley pulled herself out of the water, and sat sodden on the stone floor. She began to redress herself. She felt, though she could not say why, great emotion stirring in her chest.

Thisbe came forward to speak to her. “I must apologize for my sisters’ behavior. They are fond of teasing, and they did not mean any—”

In the dim, flickering torchlight, Shackley saw, with clear certainty, the mark that rested on the woman’s fine neck. She did not ask after it— she simply knew.

“I am not upset,” she lied.

“They like you very much,” Thisbe said. “If they could, I suppose they would seek to keep you.”

“What is preventing them?”

“Nothing! Only…” Thisbe stalled. “Well, we would need your c-consent.”

She seemed bewildered by the concept.

“We would not take you against your will— that was only teasing, before. I assume, however, that you would not wish to stay.”

“Why would I not? It is a beautiful place full of beautiful women.”

“Oh, you flatter me so! It is a shame… such a shame…” Thisbe’s lashes fluttered. “How I would like to… but I cannot!”

“What can you not do?”

“If you are the same as the others… we will simply have to… have to do away with—”

“Ahhhh!”

A sudden shriek pierced the night. Shackley looked up sharply.

“Do not worry!” said Thisbe. “It is only an animal. Here— my sister Psyche needs help to braid her hair.”

“What sort of animal?”

The woman Psyche was bounding over with waves of long, silky hair. Though Shackley tried to pursue the conversation, she was thwarted at every turn. It was almost certainly something— or someone.

And yet, with her hands in that woman’s hair, surrounded by warmth and fire, Shackley found that she could not tear herself away. So what if the sailors had been frightened? It served them right, for behaving so beastly.

The slaves spoke of the outside world— that is, the world beyond their bottled island.

“It’s awful there,” said one.

“Outside,” Thisbe said, “you can’t look at pretty girls too long.”

“You can’t bathe naked in hot springs, or live off fruit from the branch.”

“We can’t even kiss each other!”

Psyche’s hair reached down to her waist. The strands were so silky, they slipped right off of Shackley’s fingers; it did not help that they were shaking. “And do you… kiss each other much?”

“We do more than that.”

“Of… what sort?”

Shackley did not learn. From the trees came a rollicking stomp, like a herd of elephants. A red figure burst through the foliage.

The girls screamed, and moved to cover themselves. Psyche hid behind the bulk of Shackley’s body.

It was Morgan. He stood with a frightened gaze, hands clasping at empty air. He was covered, from tip to toe, in blood.

Shackley leapt to his feet with a hand on his gun. “What is it?”

“They’re dead!”

“What? How?”

Morgan’s voice quaked. “I— I don’t know. It looked… it looked like a big snake… it… it swallowed them whole… bones and all…”

The dream flickered, and for a moment, she was adrift in darkness. She was not Shackley— what a silly thought! Of course she wasn’t. She had been crouching in the trees that night, watching the cute little shadows flee in circles below her.

It was three men: an old one, evidently the leader, and two others. Daphne caught their names as they spoke in fearful tones to one another. And what fear it was! Daphne could almost taste it on her tongue.

From above she followed them; every tinkle of her bracelets would cause one of them to start, and look about him, but never did they see anything. They held tight to their weapons. The two younger men— Gorman and Burke— held the line loosely. They did not believe their leader’s pronouncement that the women they saw on the beach intended them harm.

“What could they even do?” said Burke. “One of us is easily twice as strong as three of them!”

“Why should Morgan get to relax, and we go traipsing off into the woods?”

“Morgan is as good as dead,” said Captain Spice, “unless Shackley knocks some sense into him.”

“You’re mad,” Gorman said— and then jumped, as Daphne snapped a twig between her hands.

By the light of Spice’s lantern they came across a ruin. The captain stopped, a look of deep sorrow on his face. He stood beneath a statue, ravaged by time. Her stone face was half eaten away; her body was pockmarked and mossy. “What a waste…” said he.

Daphne pulled out her flute, and played a note. As the men examined the ruins— they really were nothing spectacular, her sister only kept them there for old time’s sake— she began to sing. Her voice, if she were to admit to such vanity, was quite beautiful— low and clear, a perfect pitch.

“Who is there?” the captain called.

Her voice echoed, though she finished singing. She let it dance through the trees, and slid to the stone floor, stifling laughter. She crept up behind the statue, the lantern flame dancing across her eyes. She leaned in close, close enough to nearly touch the men. “Greetings.”

Ooo, she must have looked so frightening! She wished she could have seen her own face; theirs would have to do. The younger ones sprang back and scrambled for their weapons. Even Spice was stricken.

“Oh no!” Daphne said. “Are you boys lost?”

“Was—” Gorman shook. “Was that you, singing?”

“Why, yes it was.”

“It was…” The man swallowed. “V-very good.”

“I know!”

Daphne knew she looked quite good, too. Her hair was down, draping over her shoulders in rich waves; she had a piece of fine cloth around her waist, and nothing above. Her arms and ankles tinkled with bells. Still, the men did not seem impressed.

Spice reached for his weapon. 

Daphne waggled her finger at him. “Ah, ah! None of that. Would you strike down a lady who only seeks to help you? Here I am, in my own home, and I see travelers in such dire condition! You are so out of place! Certainly you must be cold, and oh, so very hungry. Aren’t you, boys?”

Daphne climbed up the statue, and rested on the stone shoulder. She kicked her sandals against the surface as they dangled in the air.

She repeated, “Aren’t you, boys? So, so cold… you don’t want to be out here in the harsh, inhospitable wilderness. Won’t you let me help you? I am a kind lady, nothing more. And you must be hungry. What do you wish for? If you follow me, I will make it come true. Merely lay down your weapons— and watch me, you must keep your eyes on me. What if you turned away and I slashed your throats? Of course I would never do such a thing— I am a kind lady. Are you hungry? Are your stomachs wailing? And you must be cold, too, so, so—”

“Men!” shouted Spice. “Block your ears! Get away!”

“And so nervous, too! Your eyes are widened, and your limbs are shaking, and your blood… why, your blood is rushing so fast, I can hear it!”

The guns fell dumbly from the men’s fingers; they drew closer to her, like lost little ducklings. Daphne was glad these were not to the others’ tastes— she could feast all on her own.

“Control yourself! Did you learn nothing of what I taught you?”

Unbeknownst to the captain, he was not immune. He shouted, sure, but he also drew forward. The men, for a moment resisting, jerked like marionettes. They fought their own limbs. And still they came closer.

Daphne sang a tuneless song. “Come along, now… yes, yes, come along now… it will not hurt, no never, never…”

Burke went first, a swift blow to the chest. Gorman was cleaved in half. Daphne was so proud of her work, and so dizzy with thirst at the sight of their blood on the agora floor, that she fed on them at once— a frenzy, a Bacchanal, while elsewhere her brother swallowed men by the dozens, straight down the gullet.

Pearl woke with her hand between her legs.