Tides of Torment (Immortal Realms Book 2)

Travion sucked in a breath of precious air and flicked a hunk of shell from his torn shirt. He frowned as he glanced down at Sereia’s waist. “Are you okay to continue on, or should we bother Lefyr?”

“I’m okay to press on,” Sereia offered with ease, and Travion didn’t miss the way her eyes tightened, as if she expected him to call off the rest of the day and haul her back to Lefyr over his shoulder.

And maybe a part of him wanted to, but she was holding her own, and he respected that.

“How about you two?” He jerked his head toward Finn and Yon, who were just as breathless and caked in blood as him.

“I’m fine,” the two said in unison, then grinned at one another.

“A moment to catch our breaths then.” Travion grimaced and placed his hands on his hips. He chuckled as he tilted his head back. “I think this journey has aged me another millennia.”

Sereia teasingly reached out and flicked a strand of his bloodied hair out of his face. “Is that a gray I spy?”

He narrowed his eyes, catching her wrist. “Never.”

A strong wind blew off the water, sending grains of sand tumbling over the crabs. In a day’s time, the creatures would start to rot and attract more than just the gulls. The seabirds were already crowding the shore, and who knew what else would pick up the scent? Wild cats, wolves, and if hungry enough, possibly a feral griffin.

The crabs confirmed what Travion had suspected all along—the book had a part in the discord. In his youth, his father had summoned small dragons from their caves. They had been lizards, no larger than an alley cat, but with the book, he spelled them to grow, and grow they did. Until the dragons were the size of the palace.

But his father was dead. He and his brothers had killed him themselves. They’d scattered his body across the realms, ensuring no one could retrieve and attempt to resurrect him.

After they’d all recovered their breath, Travion gestured toward the fallen crustaceans. “We should bring the carcasses back to the tavern.” They were still standing beside the slain overgrown crabs, and knowing how destitute the locals were, he figured they could use the meat.

Finn lifted his pale blond brows.

Sereia shrugged. “It’s better for them to use it than have it go to waste.” The wind tousled her hair, whipping it across her face, and Travion knew he had never seen a more beautiful fae. Despite the flecks of meat clinging to her blood-soaked blouse and the sweat from battle dripping down her cheek, the sight of her still stole his breath away.

“This would feed plenty of patrons, and the owner doesn’t have to spend a coin.” Travion flicked a hunk of shell off his torn linen shirt.

“I know.” Sereia groaned, her shoulders sagging. “The townsfolk in general could desperately use a feed like this. Perhaps put a little meat on those starving bones. But by the sea, how will we get them back?”

Travion hadn’t thought that far. His eyes flicked to the water and the choppy waves. Buoys bobbed back and forth. “There are traps just off the shore. We can cut the lines from them.” He didn’t want to disturb someone else’s livelihood, but they hadn’t trekked out with ropes and lacked enough clothing to fashion into tethers.

Finn had already started toward the water, and Sereia joined him. Soon, Yon and Travion followed.

He dipped below the surface, spotted the trap, and yanked it up. Rather than leave it behind, he hauled it onto the shore and cut the line free.

They repeated the process until they had enough line to secure the crustaceans to each horse. Luckily, they didn’t have too far to travel.

Sereia leaned in close to him and wrinkled her nose. “Your Grace, you’re in dire need of a bath. You smell like a lukewarm tide pool.”

Travion leaned in closer, smoothed loose strands of hair from her face, and brushed his lips against hers. “And you, my heart, smell like you crawled out of a whale’s arse.” And yet, he’d still haul her off into the beach grass and show her how little he cared what she crawled out of. He winked, kissing her quickly, and pulled away. “Before we head back, let’s ensure there are no other beasties lingering, be it crustacean or other.”

“Let’s hope we can find something other than enormous crabs.” Sereia walked up beside him, focusing on the distance beyond the beach grass, where a line of tall trees formed a wall.

“Well, now you’ve done it. You dared to hope.”

“Oh, ye of little faith.”

Yon and Finn followed behind them but offered enough privacy that they could talk. Although, if Travion was honest with himself, he didn’t know what to say to Sereia. Their moments together were typically rushed, and he never wanted to taint it with anything heavier than light-hearted bickering and heated kisses, knowing all the while that she’d leave.

Sadly, he didn’t have Zryan’s gift for weaving eloquent words together. He couldn’t fashion a declaration that would make a poet weep.

And rather than sound like a complete fool, he kept his mouth shut.

Sereia moved forward, squinting as she surveyed the woodline. “We could spend hours, days even, searching for this phantom.”

“She’s right, Your Grace,” Finn chimed in as he jogged up the path. “Yon and I haven’t even detected disturbances in the land. No footprints, and we would have seen them since the tide is just coming in.”

Travion frowned. Were they being run around on purpose? Naya Damaris had duped Draven, had set plans in motion with her minions, distracting himself and Travion from what she was truly doing in Midniva—trying to kill him.

He sighed and jammed his fingers through his hair. In his experience, uncertainty was dangerous. Doubt crept in, clouded one’s judgment, and accidents happened.

“Why not look a little longer and then head back?” Sereia interrupted his thoughts.

Every time he felt as though they were making strides, it seemed as though they stalled. “Whoever they are knows we are here. I find it strange that the moment we arrive, cow-sized crabs appear.”

Finn and Yon had spread out ahead again. Yon hugged the trees, peering down to inspect the lesser-traveled area. Finn stuck to the higher-traffic pathway, ducking down to check on mud prints. Sereia waded into the water and dove beneath its surface, searching for other signs as he’d requested earlier.

“No horses have been this way. All the prints in the mud are geese or gulls,” Finn grumbled, looking as forlorn as everyone else.

“I see no broken stems in the brush to suggest someone has been traveling through the woods,” Yon announced as she returned.

“Anchor marks!” Sereia shouted from the water as she popped back up to the surface. Soon she was back on the beach with the rest of them. “I can see where the rocks have been recently disturbed by an anchor. I think whoever was here came by boat to this beach.”

“By the sea!” Travion ground out. “And yet there is no boat.” Neither dolphin nor hippocampus had signaled the Speedwell indicating they’d found anything.

Sereia sighed. “Let’s head back and get some food in our bellies.”

When they arrived back at the horses, gulls were squabbling over the slain crustaceans. Travion grunted and mounted his horse, urging it forward. Initially, the palfrey didn’t get far as it met the tug of the rope. The crab’s heavy body was enough weight to give it pause, but when Travion drove his heels into its sides, it bolted forward, yanking the cargo behind it.

The small party set off, back to the inn, but along the way, they stopped at nearby homes. The state of them twisted Travion’s heart. If they’d been citizens of Midniva, there was no way he would have allowed these shacks to remain in such condition.

At least some good came of the fight with the crabs, and these people would eat better for it.

By the time they reached the inn, they were down to one crab. Finn hopped down from his horse and ventured inside to grab one of the inn’s workers, while Travion and Sereia returned the horses to the stable.

She poured fresh water into its trough, and Travion did the same. All the while, he couldn’t stop fussing over the thought that the book wielder was one step ahead of them.

“We will figure it out,” Sereia said, attempting to soothe his aggravation.

“Before or after the surrounding islands are destroyed?”

Sereia placed a hand on his cheek and turned his face toward her. She lifted a brow as her eyes drank in his features. What she saw, he didn’t know, and he wasn’t certain that he even wanted to.

Travion gently pulled her hand down. Navigating his way around Sereia was much like exploring the darkest abyss. While she may have been the brightest spot in thousands of years, there were so many unknown and unexplored territories in their relationship.

Everything they had seemed to skim the surface, driven by physical need. Yet, he wanted more from her. Yearned for emotional depth that ventured beyond the physical. But Travion knew it was he who was at fault. Unwilling to offer that same depth to her.

If she knew about the darkest parts of him, would she still seek his gaze out? Would she still press her lips to his scarred flesh so tenderly?

Sereia turned away from him, impeding whatever tender moment had been about to unfold. It was his own damn fault, but it stung nonetheless.

He sighed as she disappeared around the bend. “You idiot,” Travion murmured before following after her, which seemed to be a theme of his.

Once inside the tavern, he unlaced the top of his linen shirt and headed toward the stairs leading to the rooms above. But before he could get there, Lefyr barred his path.

“Tra-ask,” he stuttered, which gave Travion pause. The first half of his farce name sounded closer to Travion than the moniker Sereia had given him.

“Were you just keen on saying my name, or was there a pressing matter?” His words caused Lefyr to swallow roughly—not in fear but rather interest, and in turn, Travion’s lips twitched into a small grin. Had they met over a hundred years ago, he would’ve explored what the other male could offer and showed him what three thousand years of experience could give him. But gone was Travion’s desire to take the first smiling face he saw to bed. “Well?”

“There is a man from Sahille upstairs. He came in quite injured. I’ve done my best to heal him, and he’s resting now.” Lefyr paused, and there was a grand but in his tone. “I thought you’d be interested to know that his home port was destroyed by giant sea creatures. And he was muttering something about a book.”

It did, in fact, interest Travion. He ran a hand down his face and shook his head. Three days’ worth of sailing along the coast, farther away from Saventi, away from Midniva. None of it added up. “Is he awake?”

Lefyr shook his head. “No. If I hadn’t tended to him, he would’ve succumbed to his injuries within the hour. He’s in room four.”

“I wish we could let him rest, but waking him is our best potential lead right now.” Travion brushed past Lefyr and jogged up the stairs. Lanterns lit the hallway, illuminating his way. Shadows leaped and stretched, no different from the monsters he’d seen at sea.

When he arrived at Sereia’s room, he rapped his knuckles against it. When no reply came, he opened the door. She’d lit the lamps already, but there was no sign of her save for the pile of clothing on the floor. His eyes flicked to the privacy screen as a shadow moved across it.

Beautiful.

“Sereia, as much as I’d prefer to watch your little show, there is a man down the hall that possibly has information regarding the book wielder.”

Sereia poked around the privacy screen. “What?”

“Lefyr said he was nearly dead. I don’t know how much we’ll get out of him, but it’s all we have right now.”

Her eyes widened, and she rushed across the room to grab her clothes and yank them on. “So much for ridding myself of dead crab,” Sereia huffed as she pulled her boots on.

Travion stepped into the hall, waiting for Sereia to follow him. As she fell behind him, he headed down the creaking hallway. Each door was black with a golden number painted on it.

When he reached the fourth room, he knocked. There was no answer. He shifted the door knob—it wasn’t locked, so he pushed in. “Hello?” Travion called out. “Are you awake?”

Sereia crept up behind him, then brushed past and into the darkened room. There was only one lamp on the side table next to the bed, and the flame burned dangerously low to the wick mount.

The man lay still, and it took a moment for Travion to notice the rising of his chest. The movement was so minimal, that he feared they were too late. That this man had also succumbed to the terrors he suffered.

Sereia must have read his expression, because after she glanced back at him, she advanced on the bed. She placed her fingers to the man’s pulse. “He’s alive still.”

Relief washed through him as he took another step forward. “Wake him, it’ll be less terrifying seeing a beautiful face looming over him than my mug.”

She nodded. “Sir, can you hear me?” She gently rocked his shoulder, then stepped back as he came alert and nearly leaped out of the bed.

The sheet hung from his body as one foot planted on the floor and the other sat tucked beneath him. His eyes were wide as he scanned the room, confusion scrunching his features. “Where . . .” The man touched his head, and Travion could almost see the pieces clicking together in his mind. “Who are you?” the question came roughly.

Lefyr had performed wonders on this man. If he’d been at death’s doorstep when he started healing him, this was a stark contrast to that. Although the wounded man’s face was drawn in discomfort, a touch too pale still, his eyes were alert—bright, even. His salt and pepper hair hung loosely around his shoulders, and a fresh scar puckered the skin near his shoulder.

“I’m Lord Trask.” Travion stepped around the bed, and confusion rumpled the man’s brow. “This is Captain Ferox.” He motioned to Sereia but didn’t move any closer to the bed, in case the man felt surrounded. “We’re here to help and to hunt down these creatures. But we need information about what you saw in Sahille.”

Suspicion swirled in the man’s eyes. “No.” Every muscle visibly tensed, making him look more like a cornered rabbit.

“We can help you,” Sereia offered, shifting forward, but she quickly halted as the man recoiled.

“Tell us your name and what you saw.” Travion’s tone was gentle, but it still held a king’s command in it.

“Jonathan,” he rasped, then darted from the bed, grabbing something he’d hidden beneath the mattress. “You’re fae.” His voice dripped with contempt. “So was he. You cannot have the page back.”

Another fae?

Travion held out his hands as Jonathan put space between them. He squinted, catching the words on the paper. His pulse roared in his ears. “Where did you get that?” A page from The Creaturae. The yellowed, thick parchment teased him, laughing in defiance because it should have been locked up or buried so deeply, none would ever find it.

“From him,” the man rasped, his knees buckling, but he caught himself and lowered into an awkward sitting position.

Travion lurched forward, readying to catch him, but as Jonathan sank down, he stopped. His skin prickled. He gritted his teeth, but rather than prod, both he and Sereia waited until the stranger continued.

“A man with hair the shade of blood and eyes so black . . . ” He stammered, then paused to collect himself before he continued. “He was holding a book, reading from it, and I knew I had to stop him. Every time he murmured something, the beasts grew.” Jonathan shook his head, and his eyes grew unfocused, like he was reliving the moment. “So, I lunged for him with my sword in hand. I struck him once in the shoulder and ran him through another. I managed to tear this from him before he fled.” Jonathan lifted the page and crumpled it against his chest. “I wounded him, but he still got away.” His shoulders heaved as a silent sob racked his body. “Sahille is in ruins because of him. I won’t let you take it from me.” Jonathan’s eyes darted to a small table, where a plate of rolls and a butter knife lay.

“Jonathan, listen. We are here to stop that male. While we’ve been in port, we’ve already slain crabs before they had time to reach town. We’ve stopped them.”

The man’s gaze flicked to Sereia, as if weighing out his options and whether he could manage taking on two fae. Fear trickled into his expression, but exhaustion seemed to win out. He lifted his hand, offering the paper to Travion.

“You have?” Jonathan whimpered. “I’ve never seen a crab so . . . enormous.” He trembled and shook his head, as if trying to rid himself of the image.

“What else can you tell us about the male?” Travion pressed.

Jonathan closed his eyes. “Narrow face, thin lips . . . He looked young. Around your ages.”

Travion highly doubted that, but to a human, he looked as though he were barely in his mid-thirties. He nodded, easing forward to slowly take the paper away. He unfolded it, the lines smoothing out at once as it restored itself. A power hummed through it, one he hadn’t felt in centuries.

“Is it . . . ?” Sereia’s brows rose in question.

Unfortunately, it was every bit a part of that damnable book. Travion folded the page and sighed. “It is.” But there was one good thing to come from Sahille’s destruction, and it was this man wounding the treacherous person who wielded the book. “You did well because now we can hunt the bastard down. If he’s wounded as you say, we may be able to catch him before he sets sail again.”

“With how much he was bleeding, I don’t think he’s capable of sailing,” Jonathan muttered.

With the book wielder injured, there was hope they’d find him, but would he be alive? By the sea, Travion prayed to the blasted depths that he would be. “You did well, Jonathan. Let me help you back into bed.”

The man waved off his offer and hobbled back to the bed. “If you truly are here to help” —Jonathan sucked in a breath, winded from his earlier efforts—“avenge Sahille for me—for us.”

Sereia glanced at Travion, and she was the first to speak. “We vow it, Jonathan.”

“For now, rest well, and thank you for everything.”

Travion quietly crossed the room and didn’t utter a word until both he and Sereia were on the other side of the door. “We need a sketch.”

She focused on the page, as if in a trance. “And where do you propose that we find an artist at this hour?”

“I have it on good authority that the first mate on Speedwell is an adequate artist.”

Sereia cocked her head. “How do you know?”

“Because he was showing off his naked portraits when I checked on them last.”

Outside the inn, the wind howled through the streets, sounding like a siren wailing a warning of impending doom. By the sea, it felt like it. Not knowing what invisible foe they chased, just that they needed to obtain the book, was exhausting. Sailing for days on end was one matter, but fighting one gigantic beast off after another was purely exhausting.

Between the moon and the lit lamps, the street was bright enough to see where the dirt road ended and the dock began.

“This better be it, Sereia. I don’t know how much more senseless chasing I can do.”

“I know.” She looped her arm around his waist, squeezing gently. “Believe me, I want this to end. We all do.”

He remained silent for the rest of the walk down the dock until they reached Speedwell. The ship bobbed as much as it could given that it was moored, but she still strained against the ropes as the waves rose and fell quickly.

Sereia crossed onto the ship’s deck first, and Travion followed closely behind.

Captain Darragh sat perched on a barrel, smoking a pipe. When he realized who approached, he stood abruptly and bowed at the waist. “Your Grace, what can we do for you?”

Travion ran a hand down his face. “I need your first mate’s drawing abilities.”

It was clear that whatever Captain Darragh thought Travion had been about to ask for, it wasn’t that. His brow furrowed, and his lips twisted to the side. “Beg your pardon?”

“We need a sketch done. Is your first mate aboard the ship?” Sereia’s tone was crisp but straight to the point.

Darragh used his pipe to indicate the bow of the ship. “Callum! We need your drawing skills, but I don’t think they have naked females in mind.”

Travion chuckled darkly. “No,” he bit out and turned his gaze to the approaching male. “We’re in need of a sketch of the one who is behind all of this.”

“By the sea,” Callum murmured as he approached. “Follow me, Your Grace.” The male crossed the deck to the steps leading to the belly of the ship. Lamps swayed as they walked through the small hallway and into the crew’s quarters. “Let me grab my things.”

Sereia sighed, and he knew what she was thinking: every moment that ticked by was a moment they lost.

Callum lifted his gaze from his sketch pad and looked up at them. “Now, tell me what the person looked like, as best as you can.”

Travion reiterated the missing fae’s appearance and as he did, Callum’s adept fingers brought the figure to life, line by line, angle by angle. Soon, a narrow face appeared, boasting thin lips and pointed ears. Then came the hair and eyes. Familiarity nagged at Travion, but he couldn’t place the face.

“I was hoping I knew who it was,” he said with a frown. “But this is good, it gives us something to go off of.” Travion turned at the sound of boots scuffing, and Darragh’s bright eyes connected with his. “We set sail for Sahille tomorrow. Gather any extra supplies if you have need, and collect whatever missing crew there is.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” Darragh said with a nod, then disappeared down the hall once more.

Sereia grabbed Travion’s elbow, pulling hard enough that he spun to face her. “We’re not taking this useless ship.”

Travion sighed. He hadn’t the energy to argue at this point. “Your crew is beyond exhausted. They have gone out straight, Sereia.”

She rocked back on her heels, arms folded and head tilted back. “Fine. We’ll take Speedwell.”

On the deck once more, Travion heard a familiar trill. He made his way to the rail of the ship, and Sereia joined him. Below, Velox bobbed in the turbulent water. “Have you seen anything, you rascal?”

Velox clicked and whirled around in a circle, sounding dismayed as he let out a rush of air.

Neither he nor his pod had seen anything.

“What did he say?” Sereia asked softly. “He seems rather upset.”

“He is, because he hasn’t found anything yet.” Travion frowned. “It’s all right. Keep looking, and spread the word to the dolphins too. But when you do, look for a man who looks like this . . .” Travion pushed the image of the sketch to Velox’s mind, and he nodded vigorously, then flicked his tail in renewed excitement.

Velox enjoyed being helpful, but more than that, enjoyed being right. But who didn’t?

“Well, to Sahille it is.” And he hoped this lead wasn’t a bloody dead end.