Lady

Ophelia stood on the precipice, her toes dangling off the edge, loose hair whipping about her face and obscuring the branding on her pretty little neck. She smiled into that black nothingness of the ocean beyond her, and halfheartedly wondered if there was a darkness buried deep that smiled back. Ophelia only saw herself reflected in that dark mass. She inched closer to the edge of the dock, her toes curled around the sea-slicked wood.

Lady Ophelia never saw herself beyond the curse she was born with: a temptress that beckoned men forward and made them feel all so entitled to her body, her mind, and her heart. She scoffed to herself, her midnight eyes twinkling with mirth. As if they even believed a slave could have a heart. Ophelia knew who she was; an object of flesh worth a purse of coin for whomever deemed themselves her keeper. Too many times has her hair been wrenched into the fists of men, too many times has she been forced onto her knees, taking, and taking. Ophelia had been contorted like a doll; a lifeless thing masquerading as a wanton creature desiring only the fantasies of men; a blank slate made to be written on; a story only to come to life when commandeered. But no longer.

The yellow light, a mere speck of glowing fire, twinkled. It was a beacon for her, for what awaited. Ophelia raised her heavy hood, careful to tuck in the long ebony strands that reached restlessly for the wind. The mournful howl quaked in her bones, and she shivered against the cool sea brine air. Ophelia welcomed that icy chill, feeling something awaken in her, something feral and frenetic. Reluctantly, Ophelia shoved her bare feet into the worn leather boots lying beside her. She discarded them an hour ago, eager to feel the wood beneath her feet, the sprays of water teasing the smooth flesh of her legs. Ophelia dropped her skirt over her ugly shoes and looked out again at the sea, a fresh wave of determination steeling her spine and squaring her shoulders. A small boat, barely held aloft above the waves, inched closer, shrouded in a thin blanket of fog. Ophelia watched the approaching clouds hover over the water's surface, as if clinging to it. The wrinkled hunch of a man oared closer, so close she could make out the blue shine to his round eyes, even in the dark.

He held out a hand for the canvas bag Ophelia gripped tightly against her chest. “Half is inside,” Ophelia said, only loud enough to be heard over the gentle crash of waves. “The other half is on my person. Touch me and try to take it, I’ll throw myself overboard.”

The man tried and failed to peer beneath her hood. His scowl made her skin crawl.

If this didn’t work. If she had to find another way…

“Fine,” he gritted out, again lifting his hand to her.

Ophelia tossed the bag, watching it arc into the open air. Her gut twisted as the man snatched it into his hands. His yellow smile was an unwanted recompense. In a blur, Ophelia swiped the length of the rope from the man and tied it around the piling before hopping down onto the boat’s wet floor. She slipped, falling right into the arms of her assailant, his breath reeking of something sour. Ophelia scrambled away from his grasp and inched as far as she possibly could without falling right into the water. He stood easily, balanced and sure as he tugged the rope free. Ophelia remained cloaked in the darkness of her hood, hidden, despite his constant efforts to peer up into the shadows as he oared faster than she would have imagined him capable. At first glance, Ophelia deemed him a scrawny and feeble sort.

She should have known better.

They had one mutual contact, a man, a customer of hers who professed his love for Ophelia and wanted her out of this life. He made no guarantees that she would make it. He explained the danger. But Ophelia did not care. She did not believe that the man really loved her, not when he bought several other women in the same household. She did feel, however, that he was young, besotted, bespelled, and mostly thinking with his over-romantic cock. He would not have planned for an old and feeble skeleton of a man to take her across the sea in the cover of darkness. Perhaps she should have trusted him that much. Slowly, the yellow, flickering glow became stronger and grew wider, casting the dark waves a shade brighter—a soft pastel. The sheer size of the ship inked out the sky.

“And the men are gone?” The silence as they oared closer was ghostly.

His reply was grave like stone. “Most of ‘em. A few remain guarding.”

“And how will I board unseen?” Did he believe she had powers of apparition?

“You’ll climb onto the ladder. Another man will take you below.”

“And if we’re caught?”

He didn’t skip a beat. “He’ll shoot you and say he found you sneaking aboard.”

Ophelia had the sensibility to be deeply unnerved.

The man didn’t have to make a sound for the rope ladder to fall, as if someone was waiting for their arrival and watching. He oared closer to that fallen ladder drifting in the breeze. It lay against the side of the boat, only secured by the whim of some stranger far above.

“You’ll need to pay me the rest.”

Ophelia narrowed her eyes. “I only have enough for you. Not two men.”

His laugh skittered along her weary bones. “I’m sure you’ll find a way to pay him for his service.”

Ophelia glared, never mind that he could not see her face. She reached beneath her cloak for the small bag of coins shoved between her breasts, and then flung it at his feet.

“Thank you, lady.” His eyes nearly glowed. “Now climb.”

Terror was that first step; she felt her body bend back towards the boat behind her, but Ophelia tightened her core, pulled every muscle in her body, and clung to that rope against the hull of the ship. Ophelia knew without looking that the little rowboat behind her was too far gone now. If she fell, there would be nothing to save her, nothing to hold on to.

She was on her own.

Once the ladder steadied enough and she no longer felt like hurling her guts up, she began to ascend. Her whole body shook, whether it be from the excitement, the terror, or the physical toll, she didn’t know. Ophelia only dared to look at the next rung; she did not lift her gaze beyond it until calloused hands grabbed her forearms and lifted her and dragged her over the edge. The air left her lungs in a great whoosh when her feet finally planted firmly on the deck. She looked up then, her hood peeled back, and locked eyes with the young man in front of her.

“I don’t have any more money,” Ophelia gasped, still trying to catch her breath.

His dark eyes lowered to the burn on her neck. The Ouroboros, Ophelia knew, stood out starkly against the ivory of her skin. The black snake that consumed itself into eternity. The creature was branded with iron into her flesh when she was sold as a child. Ophelia resisted the urge to touch it, to be called back to that harrowing nightmare of a memory. Low-lit lanterns glowed from wooden posts, making his tan skin glow like caramel. When his eyes flicked up to hers, Ophelia lifted her chin, daring the boy to ask. But he only lifted a finger against his lips. Ophelia nodded.

They’d discuss business later.

He moved like a wraith, near silent as he guided the way across the deck, keeping close to the sides of the ship where the light was faintest. They walked until making an abrupt turn towards the ship's center. Slowly, quietly, they descended a flight of steps, now hastily crossing another barren part of the ship, and down another flight of stairs. Ophelia knew she would not be able to retrace her steps. There were too many turns, too many stairs, and everything was cast in long black shadows. The sailor stopped abruptly; his muscled back was an iron wall that Ophelia rammed into. He grabbed her gloved hand, dragging her forward until finally they reached a door beneath the steps. Ophelia didn’t have time to hesitate or reconsider as he tugged her into the bowels of the ship, not when the gravely voices of men became clear. Their gait was unrushed as they spoke animatedly to each other, just on the other side of those steps. Ophelia summoned her courage with a silent prayer to the moon and stars as she said goodbye to the life she knew and the world she recognized. And then Lady Ophelia, a prized and coveted whore of Port Royal, peeled away into the shadows below.

—

Ophelia could no longer discern night from day, not so deep inside the ship's confinements. Her hideaway was a wooden box big enough for her to stretch out her legs, sit down, but never stand. Barrels of rum stood sentry outside her box, piled high, shielding her from the view of any passing sailors. The man who brought her aboard the ship, Jamey, delivered her food once a day: scraps of meat and bread, or any small scraps he could shove into his pockets before strolling down into the damp hold of the ship. Ophelia drank from a leathered flask—sometimes it was water, sometimes it was rum. It didn’t matter what it was, so long as it quenched the burn in her throat. When Jamey was gone, Ophelia began naming the rats that scurried into her box and brushed against her legs, creating stories—tragic epics—to keep her mind sound. When days turned into weeks, Ophelia began to wonder if she’d ever see light again. She pissed and shit in a small bucket that Jamey would replace weekly. Ophelia had no desire to know how she smelled, or how horrible she must look; this was the only instance in which she was grateful for the terrible dark. Sometimes, when Ophelia felt like her spirit was truly eroding, she suspected that Jamey sensed it somehow. It was those days he’d toss her a damp cloth to clean herself, when he’d linger outside her box to tell her about the drama onboard. Sometimes his woven tales were more exciting than her rat epics, so she’d listen with her eyes shut, imagining these men Jamey tried his best to describe in great detail. She knew of his captain, Fernando, and how his second mate drank him under the table after losing a game of Cribbage. She learned that Fernando had a fragile ego and took his revenge by tossing his second mate’s prized knife into the ocean, an ornately carved piece of whalebone with his name on it. The crew had to separate the men once they dived for each other's throats. The stories spun, tale after tale, and Ophelia began to realize, throughout the weeks, that this may be the first time Ophelia had ever received any story from a man without having first to fuck his mouth open.

Ophelia must have said just that bit aloud after Jamey finished one particularly petty tale about a missing scarf. His shy answer rumbled through the wood of her box. “My brother…he was your customer. Nicholas.” Ophelia opened an eye, though it didn’t do much good; everything was shadows and darkness. “He asked this of me, and I have never told him no.”

Her voice was a raspy whisper. “Why?”

“Brothers,” was his only reply. “I don’t care that youn’t have money to pay me. I’m not doing this for you,” he said a tad more forcefully.

That made Ophelia smile, because she knew it was a lie. Jamey did not have to care for her. He did not have to tell her stories when the air was damp with shit, or bring her rags and bottles of rum. She could bet all she had that Nicholas didn’t have the foresight to ask that much.

“I am forever in your debt, Jamey.”

He coughed, but gave no further reply.

—

They would be arriving in a fortnight in Nantes, France, where they would unload their cargo of rum. Jamey explained that getting Ophelia off the ship would be tricky business. “I’ll nail the box shut and have you delivered to an address. You’ll be in good hands.”

She sniffed her underarm. “How do you suppose…The smell.” She didn’t know how else to put it. She smelled like a corpse.

“I’ll bring more rags.” Spoken like a typical male. “Once the bucket is gone and the box sealed, you’ll be right as rain.”

Ophelia frowned into the darkness and asked possibly the most dangerous question she ever dared to voice aloud. “Will I see you again?”

The thin air went taut between them. “See me? Can you see me now?” he teased.

Ophelia almost grinned. “You know what I meant. And I have seen you once.” Weeks ago. The image was foggy, especially now that she knew Jamey and Nicholas were brothers. Over time, their physical characteristics had begun to melt together. They even had the same deep, hearty laugh. If Ophelia focused hard enough, she could recall Jamey’s dark brown eyes, his loose hair that curled at the nape of his neck, and that soft golden skin. She’d never seen him smile, but she thought he would have the same broad, mischievous smile that Nicholas always donned while admiring her.

“Do you want…to see me again, Ophelia?”

She liked the way he said her name. “Hmm.” She pretended to think about it. “After a bath, perhaps.”

His laugh was a gift. “Then I’ll see that it’s done before I leave for sea.”

She held onto that promise tighter than she knew she ought to. But flirting was a nice, innocent distraction. Ophelia never had any friendship with a man without the foundation of sex. She liked it, even if it wasn’t real. She would continue to pretend that it was until she couldn’t any longer.

—

Jamey said they were lucky not to have met a storm on their journey. Because of such smooth waters, they’ve traveled the Atlantic in less than seven weeks. To Ophelia, it had felt like a hellish eternity with no end in sight, but Jamey, sweet Jamey, had never abandoned Ophelia. Now with only three days left until they’ve shored in France, Ophelia had begun to hope again that there truly is a new beginning for her on the horizon, a life where she will never again be a slave to another.

“I’ve brought you something,” Jamey whispered into the dark. “But I don’t want it to startle you.” Those are words she’s never heard uttered before. “Close your eyes, Ophelia.”

She never opened them, but left them shut until a red glow began to burn the outside of her eyelids. Her gaze shot up above her to the low ceiling. Her gasp caught in her throat as she watched tall, dream-like shadows dance against the paneled wood. The yellow light was shining from outside her open box. She forced herself with gritted teeth to move towards that light. She lifted herself and peered over the side. Jamey knelt on the floor with an oil lantern resting beside him. First, she allowed herself to watch the dance of flame inside the domed glass. Then she studied Jamey; he had the dark curls she remembered, and those deep russet eyes, a straight nose, and a proud cleft chin. His small lips were smiling slightly, the dimples in his cheek carving small depressions just above that handsome jawline. She raced to think of something clever to say because she knew she was staring, but she couldn’t find any words bratty enough to dispel herself from him. She surprised herself by apologizing.

“Why are you sorry?” His dark brows lowered over his eyes. “You haven’t seen anything, not even a person, in weeks. I brought the light so you could see.”

“Thank you.”

His smile seemed genuine. She wanted to trust it. “Of course.”

—

She awoke to the sound of men speaking in hushed tones. Fear washed over Ophelia like a cold, biting slap of wind. The steps grew closer, and she knew instantly that neither gait belonged to Jamey. She would recognize the sound of his footfalls anywhere, anytime, forever.

Hazy shadows again appeared on the ceiling above her, dancing between every crack and crevice. The men stopped on the other side of the rum barrels. “What in God’s name is that smell?”

“Dead rats, I s’pose.”

“Aye. Well, count ‘em so we can get the fuck.”

Ophelia stopped breathing. They were counting the barrels? Why?

“They look fine to me. None of ‘em tampered with.”

“Check like yer s’pose to.”

A grumbled curse. “Smells like shit.”

“Well, then. Yer right at home. Aren’t ye?”

A laugh. “So, so.”

The barrels are touched, shoved apart. So close now that the light from their lanterns glowed inside the walls of her own box. Ophelia pressed her head down into the corner, her boot scuffing the edge of a rat as she tried to make herself invisible. She risked a glance up at the wall her box pressed against, and fear wrested her heart. A tall shadow of a man stood behind her, ominous and damning. “Er- I dunno if the smell is dead rats, John.” The sounds of the sailor kicking the shit bucket reverberated through Ophelia’s skull. “We’ve got ourselves a stowaway.”

Another shadow emerged beside the first. A larger, broader shadow that Ophelia knew instantly she hated. “A woman.” A hand pulled Ophelia onto her back as the glow of a lantern was suddenly in her face, blinding her. “A whoring woman.”

Ophelia spat, wishing for all the world that she had venom like a viper.

—

She stood. For the first time in weeks, she stood. Ophelia had to lean against a wooden pillar to stay upright, but she stood with her chin held high as the entire ship was in an uproar. Fortunately, it was night, so the sun was not blinding her, but even so, the glow from every lantern felt like too much for Ophelia. She wondered if she hissed at the lanterns, the men would get on with it and kill her. Ophelia knew that she was about to die. They had her bound with a rope—her wrists knotted behind her. The captain, she found easily because of Jamey’s detailed stories, was a stout man with knotted pale hair and green eyes that reminded Ophelia of the shallow waters in the Caribbean.

He looked at Ophelia as if she were a blasphemous horror. “Who stowed you? Who brought you aboard, Lady?” Ophelia refused to answer. She brought her chin up a notch higher and kept her gaze on those stars. Like hell would the last thing she ever see be this cruel, bitter man. Captain Fernando gripped her chin, forcing her eyes to meet his. “Tell me, or you're dead.”

Her smile was cruel. “I’m already dead, Captain.”

He spat at her feet. “You’ve cursed my ship, you heathen whore!”

Remembering his fragile ego, Ophelia couldn’t help but ask, “Because I’m a woman? I bet the Ocean Gods would agree my balls are still bigger than yours.”

His weathered face turned a pretty shade of purple, like a fat bruise. “If we were on land,” he whispered against her throat, “I’d hang you for that.”

“This mouth has uttered far more wicked things in the presence of men.”

“Aye,” he gritted out, releasing her chin with a grimace. “Ladies are not to be brought aboard, because it is a curse!” The captain shouted, turning back to his riled crew. “This woman must be removed from the ship. Now. Or it is we who will pay the price.”

Ophelia allowed herself one additional moment to survey the assembled crowd of men. They were filthy, though not as grimy as she. They glowered and spat in her direction. Some looked on with expressions of profound anger, while others looked on with lust. Ophelia would recognize that glossed-over gaze of hunger anywhere. The slime of it coated her skin like a suffocating smoke, choking her from the inside. Her cloak was left inside her box, far below her feet. There was no disguising the soft, feminine edges to her face, the beckoning call of her dark-set eyes, or the supple, yet lithe contours of her body, never mind that she was thinner and far paler than she was when she first boarded the ship. Ophelia knew she was still beautiful. The men knew it, too. Ophelia’s gaze almost skipped over him, not recognizing the young man to the side of the gathered sailors. Jamey was frowning at her, his arms folded over his chest. She allowed herself another moment to study the blue color of his coat, the dark shade of his eyes, and the scruff of a beard just barely beginning to grow on his cheeks. Was it only yesterday he smiled at her in the lamplight? Only yesterday, when Ophelia smiled back?

He was the only man who did not gawk, or sneer, or shout some filthy curse as she was dragged away from the post. He was the only man who did not lift a fist into the air as the captain smacked her across the cheek so hard the stars glittered behind her eyelids. He was the only man who looked at her with any sense of empathy or compassion, and yet he did nothing. He stood there complicit in every jeer and every harsh blow. When a man ripped Ophelia’s dress down the front and began to piss on the floorboards beside her, on her, he did nothing.

Someone lifted her by her hair, and she couldn’t help but yowl like a cat, reaching up to pry away that terrible hand. Ophelia didn’t have another opportunity to look back at Jamey because, in the next breath, she was thrust over the edge, and she plummeted into the icy black waters of the sea.

—

Jamey tried not to think of Ophelia. He tried desperately to forget the sounds she made when his mates beat her to the brink, only to discard her in the ocean. Of course, they’d let the sea finish her off; it was bad luck to kill a woman on board. The day was a blur of grueling work on deck, the sun scorching. Everywhere he went, the men whispered about Ophelia, some even claiming they had paid for her services back in Jamaica. Jamey knew that was a lie, because none of these poor fools had the coin for Lady Ophelia. Even Jamey knew she was a prized piece of ass, heavily sought out by many men lucky enough to afford a minute of her time. Nicholas was a besotted, love-sick child, never mind that he was ten years his senior. He should never have led Ophelia to believe she had a chance. He never should have arranged this. He never should have asked Jamey to stow her away.

She was a slave.

And she died a slave.

The sun soon sank lazily into the sea, the wispy clouds burning as soft and brilliant shades of blood. When the yellow moon rose high above the ship, a preternatural breeze brushed back Jamey’s hair, like a lover’s caress. There was a melodic call, a sensation that raised the hair on his arms and dried his mouth. As if pulled by the tide, the moon herself, his gaze wandered off towards the sea. Jamey had not observed that his mates were doing the same. He had not noticed, as he stood and stalked closer to the hull of the boat, that even Captain Fernando abandoned the wheel far above, and moved closer to that daunting edge. Jamey peered down into those blackened depths, smiling as the sea-kissed wind pelted him with little bites. Jamey loved the ocean, for she was a mesmeric, dream-like spell that called to his very soul. And Jamey, he was so thirsty that he did not consider the absurdity of diving into that depthless oblivion for a mere taste. He was not the first to dive below, nor was he the last man to be overcome with a thirst only the ocean could quench. Jamey did not see, nor could he be bothered to notice, his mates falling into the ocean after him, many of them not surviving the drop. Jamey swam deeper into those blackened depths until he felt hands brush against his calves, his chest, and below his waist. Delicate and explorative fingers that reached, and rubbed, and whispered promises of more. Stronger hands than the rest clutched him by the lapels of his coat and dragged him forward until the wind blasted him in the face like a blow.

Ophelia was the first thing Jamey saw when he blinked his eyes open. Ophelia, with long dark hair that lay flat against her heart-shaped face. Ophelia with bright golden eyes, like the light of the moon. Ophelia, with ruby lips, smiled wickedly at his panic. Ophelia with fresh scars on the flesh of her neck—not scars, but gills. They flapped under his scrutiny, a small puff of water and air spouting as if in defiance. Her cursed branding was gone.

Jamey stared at her, and Ophelia stared at him.

She was radiant.

Ophelia held him up by his jacket, her long opaque hands webbed, and her nails sharp like talons. It was then that Jamey saw the scales below her bare chest, the pearly scales that seemed to reflect every shade of light; slick and shiny like cracked open abalone. Her hips moved back and forth as she used the muscles in her tail to hold her upright.

He watched with sick fascination, finally seeing man after man throw themselves off the edge of the ship and into the sea. He saw in the moon-lit waters the lengthy tails of other creatures that resembled women, but were not. He saw plainly how one blonde with a much smaller body than Ophelia grasped the head of Captain Fernando and kissed him. When she pulled away, there was a dazed smile on his face. A sickening feeling pooled in Jamey’s stomach, like curdled milk. He watched helplessly as the girl lifted a familiar knife, carved from a whale bone, and used it to slit Captain Fernando’s throat. Dark blood pooled from his neck like a crimson scarf. He still wore that ugly smile on his face as he was dragged beneath the surface. He watched on in horror as every sailor’s face slackened with that dreamy, faraway look before drowning beneath. He couldn’t help but realize that it was still a kinder death than what any man aboard would have bestowed upon these women.

Jamey looked at her again, and he saw the hungry, distant way she watched him. Ophelia treated him differently from the other creatures. Ophelia was holding onto him, keeping him aloft, staring into his eyes as if searching for something. He knew the moment she was done with him. A darkness seemed to cloud over her bright eyes; her face turned unearthly, serene, and magnetic. Jamey felt himself being lulled by it, swept in like a pebble in the tide.

“Lady, Ophelia,” Jamey begged. “Please.”

Her voice was an aphrodisiac. Pure and ambrosial; a final bewitchment. A flash of fangs.

“I am no lady.”