Creature Chronicles

April 10th, 1912

It’s been ten years since I’ve smelt the burning melanin and heard the bad men and their stinky, evil magic ravage my old village.

It’s been ten years since the Tygoni and their hatred decimated a part of me I can never take back from their dirty, thieving fingers. Ma and Po and Yohan are forever a memory, wispy dreams within another dream. Forever chunks of who I was supposed to be, skidding along the horizon before the Tygoni crash through and smear the blood of my people across their proud chests.

It’s been a decade since Big Mimi wrapped her scratchy shawl around me and whisked me away to the realm of the mortals. These strange people have ways all their own. I can’t decide if I’m relieved or mortified to have become indistinguishable amongst them. If Ma and Po were to come find me, impossibly, would they even recognize me as their own? Would Yohan, now forever a young boy, see his twin sister in me? I’d hazard a guess and say most likely not. The mortal smell is too thick. It’s caked underneath my fingernails. Smeared all over my palms. Curled like a feline around the shells of my ears. I reek of human. The sad part is even I’m finding it more difficult by the day to pick the stench away.

Mimi’s snoring from her bed in the adjacent room is the first thing I hear as I’m rousing out of a nightmare. I have them often. So often I can scarcely even call them nightmares. I used to wake from them feeling nauseated and damp in all of my tight crevices, petrified. Now they’re more reminiscent of a bite into bitter fruit, leaving behind a sour taste on my tongue that fades in minutes. I’m not quite sure if I should be grateful or unsettled by it.

I roll over in the dark and stick my arm underneath one of the pillows, searching for my pocket watch. My fingers close over the trinket and I immediately hold it up to a porthole to check the time, thumbing the silver gadget with frenzied thoughts. Half-past five in the morning. Mimi isn’t due to wake for another two hours. All of our attendants know not to disturb her a minute before or…well, let’s just say the last one who tried had a good, long think of her mistake from the unemployment office.

Peeling back the velvet blanket and satin sheets, I scoot to the edge of the bed and slide off the side, right into some slippers. The sting of cold on my bare legs where my satin nightgown falls just short of my calves doesn’t deter me one bit as I cross the cabin floor, wincing every time my feet find a creaky floorboard. With the stealth and speed of a Chesire, I slip into the sitting room and close the door as gently as I can behind me. Once I’m sure it’s tightly shut I finally release a sigh of relief. I glance momentarily at the closed door next to mine, where Mimi is inside sleeping soundly. If she wakes before she usually does and decides to poke her head in my room where I should be snoozing like a little lamb (but won’t be) she’ll box my ears off.

With light, ginger steps, I make my way to the door of the wardrobe. I steal away inside. A lamp from the night prior is still lit, the flame dancing weakly and barely throwing enough light to see past my outstretched fingertips as I pat the wall for the switch. When I finally am able to trace the shape of it, I turn it on and kill the flame. The wooden walls are lined with garments for every occasion: dresses for promenades during the day, beaded gowns for nightly dinners, a select number of riding suits, and even a few circus tent-looking frocks I hope Mimi has no intention of squeezing me into.

Wasting no time mulling over colors or patterns, I pull myself into a chemise, drawers, and a pair of stockings, forgo the corset altogether, and throw on a pea-green cotton dress. I switch my slippers for satin shoes of a matching color. I’m almost tempted to run out without gloves, but I think better of it. I spare a glance in the standing mirror as I situate my sprawling, coarse curls into something like an updo, using a couple of jade pins to secure it. I survey my entire ensemble with a careless eye. It’s not exactly how Mimi would have me prepared for the day. Which is more than fine, seeing as I only need it to last for the next hour or so.

By the time the sun hits the sky with its blinding twinkle, I’ll be drug to and fro. Shoved in countless faces and introduced to so-and-so from wherever and paraded around as Pearl Harland’s woeful niece, the sole survivor of a tragic fire at the family estate back in Cavan over ten years ago. I’ll curtsy and twirl like a prized goat. I’ll delight the sons and daughters of the affluent lot with stories of running barefoot through crumbling, smoke-filled hallways to reach the entrance and shove my way through the front door just before the building came crashing down. They’ll gasp and shiver and stare in awe of my bravery. I’ve regurgitated the same lie so many times over it’s begun to sound like the truth.

It makes my skin crawl.

Slipping out of the cabin is much easier than it should have been. Mimi snores like a bear and I’ve become a master of tiptoeing around, a dangerous combination. The hall outside of our room is quiet. Most of the guests are probably still sleeping. I exchange polite greetings with passing attendants as I make my way past the enquiry office, which is still closed so early in the morning. When I reach the grand staircase, I take a moment to gaze upward. The skylight exposes a slice of slow-moving indigo. The sun has yet to make an appearance. I revel in that fact as I make my way up to the top deck, past the restaurant, cafe, and various reception rooms on the lower decks.

I nearly knock over a potted plant in my haste to scurry past the smoking lounge to reach the promenade deck. I push the hatch open with little effort. The sea air is bracing. Its brininess bombards my nostrils. I know the day will be hot, so I relish the nipping chill. Once the sun rises and the deck packs with chittering people, I’ll be left with stifling heat.

The sea stretches on for miles in every direction. We must still be far from Cherbourg.

The deck is gloriously empty. A few attendants are down near the bow setting up chairs and other accommodations in the distance, but no passengers are milling about yet. I’m more than grateful. Walking along the starboard side toward the stern of the ship, I slide my gloved hand down the rail and marvel at the quiet. Once reaching the first well deck, I hunker right down on a wooden bench and let my eyes fall shut. I’m swaying in pleasant silence for a few minutes before I hear it.

The strange call of a bird I don’t recognize eerily resembles the noises the Tygoni made to each other as they slinked through our village so many years ago and plunged their cursed spears into Imani flesh. My nightmare finds me again. It’s so sudden that my stomach lurches. It’s found me while awake and I want to scream. The same blood-curdling noises in my dream, where I’m lost in a forest and then stumble into a clearing. The sky is an unearthly crimson, boasting a gathering of black clouds that shroud the sun and send the world into a grey mist. Battered all around by that throaty, resounding jumble of Tygoni tongue, I’m fumbling through the trees again, driven by terror and in search of a nook I can squeeze into that frees me from their beastly calls.

With no sense of direction, I somehow find my way back to my village. The carnage is unbearable. Broken bodies litter the ground. A metallic smell wafts on the dank breeze.

I burst through a random cottage door and slam it behind me. Pulse thrumming against my chest like a woodpecker’s beak against an old oak, I shrink to the ground and curl into a fetal position, nauseous and unable to catch a proper breath.

There’s screaming. Children screaming. Men and women begging for mercy.

Then the cottage’s door swings open and I look up, squinting through a haze. The intruder’s face is a mystery, framed in a red mist. I only make out Ma’s beaded green bracelet, Po’s prized staff, and Yohan’s beloved lavender blanket dangling from their belt. An empty space in the middle is usually the last of what I see before I’m waking, damp where I’ve sweated through my nightgown and my heart aching for people I’ll never know again.

My eyes snap open when I feel something like ice touch the sliver of my arm not covered by gloves. That something turns out to be a cold hand belonging to the young man hovering over me. I jerk away and stand in a flurry. My pulse is still jackhammering high in my throat, but I’m lucid enough to take note of his appearance. He looks about six-foot-something with chocolate hair gelled away from his face. He has a wide, smooth forehead, straight eyebrows, almond-shaped brown eyes, a strong nose, and plush lips.

He’s…handsome.

I stand straighter and tilt my chin higher so he doesn’t assume his looks will disarm me.

“I’m so sorry.” He raises both hands in surrender, a meek and seemingly embarrassed frown crossing his features. His voice is soft and lilting, yet undoubtedly Irish. My heart pinches from homesickness. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I just wanted to know if you were alright. You’re shaking, Miss…”

He gestures to my arms and I follow his gaze to my tremoring elbows. Mortified, I stick them to my sides and clear my throat loudly.

“Harland. Yoana Grace Harland. Thank you for the concern,” I say. “But, I’m fine. It’s just a little cold is all, Mr…”

“Quin,” he says with a dazzling smile I have to force myself not to swoon over. “Ty Quin, Miss Yoana Grace Harland.”

April 11th, 1912

It’s just shy of noon.

I have the pleasure of joining some of the other ladies for some delicious gossip in the Cafe Parisian. We lounge in wicker chairs around the table, taking small bites of pale-colored tea cakes between fanning ourselves and sipping lemonade out of crystal glasses. I might have taken more care in admiring the viridescent vines snaking their way around the ivory pillars. Or better appreciated the wall-to-wall oak cabinet housing gorgeous, porcelain china. Maybe even relished in the slight sea breeze blowing in from the open windows. However, the weather is oppressive as ever, and fanning myself to fight the sweltering heat is all I can do not to melt.

To save myself from dropping dead out of heat and boredom I attempt to edge forth a topic outside of the usual realm of gentlemen callers. “I hear the Prime Minister introduced the third Home Rule Bill just yesterday. It hit the papers this morning. Apparently, Scotland Road is in a tizzy about it.”

The table is silent at my comment, warily sipping from their glasses and gaging each other for a reaction. Priscilla narrows her grey-blue eyes at me and manages to hide her scowl beneath a practiced smile. She twirls a jet-black curl around her perfectly manicured nail.

“Forgive us, Miss Harland. Politics aren’t typically conversation for the young ladies in London.” Her voice is sickly sweet. “Perhaps the Irishmen in the shipyards will take better to it. That is your family business, yes?”

“Yes, it is.” My lips pull back over my teeth in what I hope looks more like a smile than a snarl. “My aunt is James Harland’s widow, in fact. But, I’m sure you were already aware of the Irishmen who pieced together the very vessel we’re riding on in my late uncle’s shipyard. And what a marvel she is!”

Like an immature schoolgirl, I relish the way her perfectly painted smile dulls.

“A marvel indeed.” Priscilla all but sinks into her lemonade, bruised.

The conversation quickly turns back over to men, fabrics, and who’s being shunned out of high society this week. I deflate in my chair, eyes roaming. A little prickle of excitement rushes through me at the sight of Ty leaning against one of the far-away pillars. He looks dashing in tawny slacks, a cream, short-sleeve pullover, and those stupid suspenders. His hair is still slicked back, but a few of the front pieces on the right side curl past the tip of his eyebrow. I glance away from him to the table of chittering ladies and then back again. He cocks an eyebrow in what looks like expectance and pairs it with a smirk that has me racking my brain for all the ways I can escape.

“Excuse me, ladies.” I push myself away from the table and stand with a faux apologetic grin. “I have to go find the toilet.”

“Be our guest.” Priscilla flicks her wrist in my direction callously, barely sparing my exit a second glance. The other girls follow suit in their indifference. I don’t realize just how desperate I really was for a way out of that rich girl playdate until I’m scrambling out of my seat and nearly tripping over my peach dress, vaguely aware of how I must look like an animal being freed from a trap.

I’m at the door in record time, barely remembering to slow my steps past the restaurant directly across the cafe, where Mimi is sat in a circle of aristocrats, her bosom jiggling and hair bouncing in time with her laughter. She’s charming everyone, of course. If she sees a flash of coral in her peripheral and her special mischief senses tingle, she doesn’t let on.

Ty heads over, eyes on me as he walks and an easy, amiable smile on his face. Is it stupid that my stomach quivers? That my palms moisten?

“Miss Harland.” He offers his arm. “It would be an honor to escort you up to the promenade deck, if you fancy a little sun?”

“That sounds lovely.” I slip my arm through his. “Maybe the ocean breeze will muzzle this heat. And to think it’s just April.”

“We’ll all be puddles by June.”

April 13th, 1912

A stunning creature peers back at me from the mirror. Her emerald skirt is fashionably full, a princess petticoat stuffed underneath. Her cleavage is beautifully decorated with white lace. Her typically unruly ginger curls are pinned away from her face, a few delicate spirals framing her jaw. Coffee brown eyes so gentle and mocking whisper echoes of lost love.

She’s me, but I despise the sight of her. Maybe this abhorrence will fade someday.

Or, maybe I’ll drag it with me to the grave.

“You’re too pretty to be pouting.” Mimi yanks me out of the wardrobe, tugging ivory gloves over my cold, clammy fingers. She looks absolutely brilliant in an aubergine evening gown with her umber ringlets tied up in a bun.

“I hate these dinners.” I might as well be stamping my feet like a child. “They’re all just sitting around bragging about how many boats they own.”

“Don’t forget about how big they are,” Mimi says as she fusses with the lace at my collar. “Men love to compare boat sizes. If it were appropriate, they’d whip it out right there on the dining table. They may just be compensating for something.”

I can’t help my giggle.

“Right there.” Mimi catches my chin in her nimble fingers and taps my nose. “That’s what I was looking for. We’re ready.”

The dining hall is massive, and teeming with lavishly dressed men and women chattering over dainty flutes. We find our seats. Mimi sets to conversing with the women beside us. It’s hot. My corset itches. Suddenly, the thought of sitting through another dinner with these people is unbearable. I excuse myself under the guise of (what else?) needing the bathroom.

I’m roaming the corridor, picking my way through more well-dressed patricians trying to find the entrance to the promenade deck. Along the way, uniformed men offer me flutes of alcohol. I don’t decline. It’s bitter and I hate it, but I’ve had four by the time I’m ambling along the promenade to the well decks, the edges of my world going fuzzy.

“Miss Harland.”

Oh, that voice.

“Mr. Quin!” He looks a sight in a cobalt suit with red suspenders. I take his hand and drag him onto an empty spot of the deck, tripping and falling like a log on top. I can only manage an embarrassed snicker.

“Someone has had one too many glasses of the good stuff.”

I don’t anticipate the way Ty looks at me and doesn’t stop looking. There is no way I could’ve foreseen him raising one hand to caress the base of my neck, sparking the baby inferno that crackles quietly in my stomach at the slight touch. His fingers scratch my scalp softly, sweetly, so unexpectedly that I can only stare, jaw unhinged, and uncomprehending for long moments. I must look like a vacant home as I’m gazing down at Ty’s loose smile, full of mirth as smooth and strong as warm waves lapping against a sun-kissed beach, dislodging all reason.

Ty is nosing against my cheek and tickling me so I can’t stop the giggles bubbling from my lips, suddenly drunker on delighted suspense than champagne. The last sight I see before my eyelids slip shut, heavy, is Ty’s face closing in on mine, and the heat licking proudly in his deep, brown eyes, so warm it fills me with some of its undying splendor.

It’s an odd sensation.

I’m not sure if it’s my lips that are soft, or Ty’s, but something is supple and pressing against me in ways that are so new and exhilarating I sigh into the feeling, a sentiment that stirs something in me. It’s a tingly feeling, a cross between prickling nervousness and unbridled pleasure. I absorb it so deep into my bloodstream that I figure I could get high off just the thought of it.

My intoxicated mind is swimming with thoughts. Some are solid as stone and others are barely tangible, slipping through my fingers like sand. I spare a few for how much trouble I’m going to be in when Mimi figures out I’m not coming back. Therefore, I also won’t be attending after-dinner tea with the other ladies, engaging in riveting conversations about the latest fabrics from Paris or Italy or wherever the hell else.

Maybe he can feel the agitation blowing off my skin in waves, because Ty makes a disgruntled noise and shakes his head.

“The point of drinking,” he says between little playful nips at my lips, “isn’t to hold on. So, tell your head to let go.”

Ty’s hands are brazen and eager down my sides. My fingernails dig in his bicep if only to stay anchored and keep himself from getting lost in his endless caverns, so vast and heaping that my skin is burning from an emotion I can only describe as suffocating and strange and beautiful.

When something pokes against my thigh, my eyes fly open. Blinking up at Ty through heavy lashes, my breaths come in short puffs against my effort to steady them.

“What brought you here? Where are you going?” I ask, dazed and winded.

Ty tilts his head in what looks like contemplation. He takes a moment to lick his lips and lets out a quiet, thoughtful noise. “I’m not quite sure where I’m going. Only where I’ve been. You could say I’m running from the inevitable. I would like to get as far as I can before it catches up.”

“And you believe the Titanic will get you there? Wherever it is?”

“It is the ship of dreams.”

And then he’s kissing me again, void of any froth. A kiss that sucks the breath from my lungs and makes my joints go loose. When we come up for air, eventually, Ty props himself up on an elbow and smiles at me like he’s confused about something, but pleased regardless.

The feeling is mutual.

How much time passes as we’re wrapped up in each other? I can’t be sure.

Bringing my gloved hand up to Ty’s face carefully, I swipe my thumb along his bottom lip in lazy appraisal. I resist the urge to flinch when he grabs it and turns it, palm up, tracing little circles.

The next moments pass so quickly that my brain struggles to keep up. Ty is slipping my glove from my right hand and exposing the skin to the humid breeze. My good senses are still warped from the liquor and I make a poor, noncommittal attempt to yank my arm back. I watch on with hooded eyes as he unbuttons his shirt and lets the collar fall away from his shoulders. My pulse skips at the bottom of my throat and I become acutely aware of the moisture collecting in the crevices of my knees, feverish. He guides my hand to a small cut just beneath his collarbone and presses my fingers over the clammy skin there.

I barely think.

My Imani instincts wake all on their own before I can control them. I watch in horror as the marred skin fuses back together, leaving nothing behind but a lingering heat from fresh magic.

“I knew it,” is all Ty says.

My heart drops to my knees. My head spins. I force myself to find his eyes. Something dark flashes across his expression and all of a sudden I’m back in my old village, crowded in that small hut while the Tygoni hunt my family and slice their way through my home.

I’m up on my feet in an instant, stumbling across the deck. I slam into the railing with just enough time to get to my tippy-toes and lean over it, vomiting into the black ocean waves below. I’m shaking and vomiting and heaving until my stomach is empty and I have nothing to toss up but acid. It stings the back of my throat.

A sudden hand on the small of my back has me rearing backward and stumbling over my own feet.

“Whoa, be careful.” Ty catches the crook of my elbow and steadies me.

“Don’t tell me what to do.” I snatch my arm away.

“I’m sorry. Just…-” He hands me my glove back and I damn near rip it out of his grip, hurriedly slipping it back on before he tries to steal it again. My blood is boiling in my veins. I’m drunk and terrified and pissed.

“What are you?” I ask in frustration. “Where do you come from? Who are you really?”

“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I just-” Ty is babbling like an idiot.

“How much do you know?” I gesture to my gloved hands.

“If you’d just let me explain-” He takes a step closer, and I take several steps back, throwing a hand out.

“Explain.” I huff. “From a distance.”

Ty nods and recoils. “My name is Matthias Quin. Prince Matthias Quin II of Ilyaia. A proud Imani nation.”

My whole world does a twirl on its axis. Am I losing my mind?

“You’re an Imani prince.” I shake my head, gaze tearing between my gloved hands and his earnest expression. “I don’t understand. But the Tygoni-”

“The Tygoni spared some of us, as a testament to their mercy,” his voice hisses the word, “ and as a warning to others who had ambitions higher than the Shadow King and his soldiers. We’ve been in hiding ever since, growing our numbers and biding our days. But, a revolution is coming, Yoana.”

I bristle at the sound of my name on his lips.

“And we need as many brothers and sisters of the healing arts to stand with us when it’s time.”

Something of a commotion breaks out near the bow of the ship and is spilling quickly this way. Ty...uh, the prince and I exchange looks. I nearly trip over my skirt in my haste to follow him to the railing. Throngs of people are flocking to the sides, hovering near the rising lifeboats, frenzied, panicked.

Shouts and cries drown out the sound of angry waves.

“I’ve got to find Mimi.” I rush to the door and nearly get swept up in the flood of passengers crowding their way to lower decks. The only thing that keeps me anchored is the prince’s grip on my wrist as he throws his weight to nudge our way through the herd of people. My heart sinks further and further with every big-bodied woman in purple we pass who isn’t my Mimi.

“Yoana, my darling!”

That voice has me careening my neck around like a turkey, eyes darting every which way until I find her shoving her way through the crowd. When she has my face suffocating in her chest, the knot in my throat loosens. People shove past us roughly, but I can’t summon anything other than relief.

Which is very short-lived.

“We’ve hit an iceberg and the ship’s going down,” she shouts over the noise of children crying and women squawking and feet pounding so loud I’m afraid the floor might just give out from underneath us.

“An iceberg?”

“You’re alive.” I feel the breath hitch in her as she passes a strange look towards the prince. “In all my days…”

“We must go.” Ty tugs both of us along. We pour out onto the deck where men are directing women and children to board the bobbing lifeboats.

We find a vacated corner and the prince drops my hand unceremoniously. He pulls a small shell out of his pocket and blows on it. No sound comes out. Or maybe it’s lost to the clamor. Something that looks like a mirror trembling with liquid materializes in front of us. I have no time to question it before the prince is tugging on my wrist again, urging me through it.

“You’re just gonna whisk me away?” I’m barely breathing, so flustered and panicked. “You have magic. More than my silly little parlor trick of a gift. You can help them!”

“I hate that you think that!” Ty’s eyes flash an unearthly crimson. He takes my hands and lifts them to my face, tone softening, eyes settling back to a warm brown. “These are miracles, perfect in every way. Meant to heal the sick. Cure the inflicted. Any mortal “parlor trick” pales in comparison.”

“Then help me use them.” I implore him. “So many of these people will be lost to the sea. And you and I both know which will be cast out first.”

Ty sighs, heavy. “Something is amiss back home. This iceberg looks less of the mortal world and more of frost magic. I’m afraid the revolution might have already begun. And if that is the case, I need to aid my people. Our people. Will you accompany me?”

My gaze travels from the grip he has on my hands to Mimi’s timid, taut smile. I know she won’t hold me if I go. She only wants the best for me. She always has.

“I’m sorry, Prince Matthias.” I shake his hands away and step back. His hopeful grin falls.

“There’s nothing for me there. My home is destroyed. My family is dead. Mimi is all I have.” I feel her hand slip into mine and squeeze it tight. “I won’t leave her. And these mortals have not always been kind to a stupid, naive girl like me. But, I’ll use these perfect miracles of mine to help however I can. What good are they for if not…to heal the sick or cure the inflicted?”

“If I were a lesser man, I’d throw you over my shoulder and take you with me any means necessary. Good thing a prince never would.” His face breaks out into a devious grin. I clear my throat loudly and flit my eyes away, all to keep from blushing.

“Good thing.”

“I will give you this.” Ty reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out a different shell, still tiny. He hands it to me and I take it, allowing my fingers to linger a few moments in his palm, wistful.

“A portal shell,” he says. “Should you ever need it.”