Send Me Their Souls (Bring Me Their Hearts #3) - Sara Wolf Page 0,82

ease along the gentle waves, their tentacles drifting behind them like banners of the finest Avellish lace. The whole sea a dark emerald, but aglow with rainbow light.

“I’ve—I’ve read about them,” I whisper, grinning over at Lucien. “But I’ve never seen them!”

His laugh rings as he snakes his hand into mine. “Me neither.”

“Huh.” The watchman puffs his pipe. “It’s good luck, you know. ’Specially for lovers.”

“Oh?” Lucien’s eyebrow quirks.

“Ach, the usual. Together forever in bliss, etcetera etcetera.”

“Look at that one!” I gasp, pointing at the water. A light a hundred times the size of the others rises up from the depths, its massive circular head an awe-inspiring umbrella of vivid color and soft light. It’s nearly the size of the dinghy attached to the ship, and Lucien makes a choked noise when it floats closer and the massive tentacles prod at the ship’s hull, the gelatinous lace reaching curiously up toward us. I squeeze Lucien’s hand, wide-eyed and grinning huge at him.

“Oy!” The watchman barks down at it. “Leave ’em alone! They’re havin’ a romantic moment up here, you know!” Blithely unaware of the irony of his words, he picks up a nearby broom and bats at the tentacles with it. “Back! Back, you!”

Lucien and I glance at each other and devolve into laughter. Despite its titanic size, the moon jelly is so slow, it’s all comedy and no threat, and at some point the broom gets stuck to the jelly’s tentacle and the watchman fumbles it and the cleaning tool goes crashing into the water.

“Ach, fine! Keep it, then, you scoundrel!” He shakes his fist at the giant moon jelly as it floats away, dragging the broom behind it in its nest of lace. He turns to look at us. “Back to bed with you two, afore the gods send another one for ya.”

I make a facetious little salute before bouncing off, pulling Lucien along with me. The lingering heat in my veins from his kiss radiates, burning my cheeks even as we settle in our respective hammocks again. Hammocks are impossible for two people. I know that. Still. Still, I want him now more than ever. And I know he feels the same, because he decides to sleep facing me, a knowing smirk on his face.

“They’ll have real beds in the Black Archives,” he murmurs. A promise.

“Maybe.” I feign impartiality. “Or maybe there will only be beach.”

“Then”—his smirk grows—“there will only be beach.”

“You—!” My face blisters red as I roll over and hiss. “Go to sleep.”

His laugh is so gentle and deep, it sends a prickle up and down my spine.

“Reluctantly, I assure you.”

18

A REST

Considering the emotionally exhausting mess we’ve been through since the Bone Tree on the mountain, the four days on the Lady Terrible feel like unreal bliss. Like a break of grass between the hard, thorny thicket that’s been our lives of late. Nowhere to go, nothing to do but sit and wait and work and eat. And while my mind certainly still churns around itself like a farm child’s first attempt at making butter, there are distractions. In the form of a handsome prince, mostly. And his friend-slash-bodyguard who won’t leave us alone.

“I know how this works,” Malachite insists, trailing behind Lucien and me as we walk the halls hand in hand. “I’ve seen way too many hormonal nobles’ kids sneak off for a quick one and come back pregnant.” His ruby eyes glower at my navel. “Does that thing work?”

I shrug. “Not entirely sure. I haven’t had my cycle since I was turned, so…”

“Good,” the beneather breathes out. “Because two Zeras running around is a nightmare I’ve had before, and I’d rather eat horseshit than have it again. Or in real life.”

“What about two of me?” Lucien offers mildly. “That wouldn’t be so bad.”

“Are you kidding?” Malachite throws his hands out. “Do I look like I can babysit two deluded princes at once? I have four stomachs, not ten arms!”

“Mal, please.” I sigh. “If we reproduce, I promise you will be the first to know. Okay?”

“Please don’t,” he groans.

“We weren’t planning to,” Lucien drawls. “But now that you seem so invested, we might have to. Just to spite you.”

“Good.” The beneather throws his hands up. “Great. I’ll be updeck whittling a crib if you need me.” He whirls on the stairs and points menacingly. “Don’t need me.”

He storms up, his boots practically shaking the hull with every angry step.

“Bye!” I wave sweetly. “Have a nice time!” When he’s gone, I turn