Vanished Sisters: The Lycan King's Slave Island

Natasha's POV

Westbay, Southwest England. 

"Natasha Hastings, get down from that mast this instant!"

My mother's voice carried clear across the harbor, shrill with that particular mix of exasperation and resignation I'd been hearing my whole life. I pretended not to hear, shinning up the last few feet to check the rigging. The view from up here was worth the lecture—all of Westbay spread below, the autumn sun turning the sea to molten copper.

"Let the girl be, Mary," Father called from the deck. "She's got a better eye for loose lines than half my crew."

"She's not a girl, she's a menace!" Mother stood on the dock, arms crossed, face red. "Look at her—dressed like a ragamuffin boy, climbing around like some monkey. She's seventeen, John! Seventeen! She should be learning to keep house, not—whatever this is!"

I slid down with practiced ease, landing soft on the deck. My worn sailor's trousers were tar-stained, my loose shirt two sizes too big—borrowed from my older brothers before they'd left for the merchant ships—and my short brown-black curls stuck out from under my cap at odd angles. I looked more like a scruffy twelve-year-old boy than a marriageable young woman.

Perfect.

"I was checking the forestay, Mother," I said cheerfully. "Another week and Father could've lost the whole sail in a storm."

"Your sister doesn't climb masts." Mother's anger was deflating slightly. "Your sister knows how to behave like a proper young lady."

"Davelina is perfect," I agreed, because it was true. At twenty, my older sister was everything I wasn't—graceful, beautiful, with golden-brown hair she kept in intricate braids. Half the young men in Westbay were in love with her. "But Davelina gets seasick just looking at boats, so somebody has to help Father."

"I don't get seasick," came my sister's voice from the dock. She'd appeared beside Mother, basket of mending on her hip, trying not to smile. "I just prefer solid ground."

"Like a sensible person," Mother said pointedly.

Father laughed, his weathered face crinkling. "If I'd had another son after the boys left, Mary, this is exactly what I'd want. Since God gave us only daughters, I'll take what I can get." He ruffled my hair. "My little sea beaver. Can climb anything, fix anything, not afraid of hard work."

"'Little sea beaver,'" Mother muttered. "That's what the whole village calls her now. Not 'Natasha,' not 'Miss Hastings,' but 'little sea beaver,' like she's some harbor mascot!"

"Could be worse," I said. "Old Thomas calls Jimmy 'the fish that walks.'"

"This isn't funny!" But Mother's lips were twitching. She could never stay angry long. "The baker's son asked after you last week. I had to explain my daughter was out hauling crab pots. He looked at me like I was mad."

"The baker's son is boring. All he talks about is flour grades."

"He's respectable. He has prospects."

"He has a face like an unbaked dumpling."

"Natasha!"

Davelina laughed outright, earning a glare. "Don't encourage her. You're supposed to be a good influence."

"Someone has to make sure she doesn't fall off any masts," Davelina said diplomatically. "Are you finished, or do you have more rigging to inspect?"

I glanced at the sky. The sun was dipping toward the horizon, painting everything amber and gold. "Finished. Why?"

"Because Father said we could have the evening free." Davelina's eyes sparkled with mischief. "I'm thinking about hitting the Dolphin's Song tonight."

"You want to go to a tavern?" I stared at my perfect, proper sister. "Mother will kill us both."

"Mother doesn't have to know," Davelina said serenely. "I'll say we're visiting the vicar's wife for a pattern book. You can say you're mending nets."

I grinned. This was why Davelina was my favorite person in the world.

"The Dolphin's Song it is," I said. "But I'm not changing clothes."

"I wouldn't dream of asking you to," Davelina said. "You'd probably scandalize everyone by actually looking like a girl for once."

The Dolphin's Song was already crowded when we arrived, thick with pipe smoke and ale. I kept my cap low and shoulders hunched, moving through the crowd with practiced ease. In these clothes, with my short hair and bound chest, I was just another young fisherman's son grabbing a drink after work.

Davelina attracted more attention. Several men turned as she entered, eyes lingering on her golden hair and pretty face. But she handled it with her usual grace, nodding politely but coolly as she made her way to the corner table I'd secured.

"You really should let your hair grow," she murmured, arranging her skirts. "It's such a lovely color—"

"It would look like I'm trying to be something I'm not," I interrupted, keeping my voice low and rough. "This is easier. This is me."

She sighed but didn't argue. We'd had this conversation a hundred times. Davelina understood, even if she didn't fully approve, that I was simply more comfortable this way.

"At least try to sit like a girl," she whispered.

I glanced down and realized I'd sprawled with my legs apart, one ankle crossed over my knee. Very much not ladylike. I adjusted slightly, earning an approving nod.

Old Thomas was already holding court near the hearth, his weathered face illuminated by firelight. At seventy-three, he'd survived more storms than most men had seen sunrises.

"Fifty years ago," Thomas began, his one good eye gleaming, "my father saw something that haunted him till his dying day."

I leaned forward, drawn in by his tone. Thomas was a master storyteller.

"A black ship," he continued, "no sails, no oars, moving against the wind like it was being pulled by invisible hands. The hull looked like charred timber, black as sin."

Young John—the real John, not me—snorted into his drink. "Come now, Thomas. You've had too much ale. What ship moves without sails?"

"My father," Thomas interrupted sharply, "watched three fishing boats follow that cursed vessel toward the western deep. None ever came back."

The tavern went quiet.

"Over the years, more boats vanished. Officials called it storms. Called it piracy. But my father knew better." His voice dropped. "Those men were taken to the Isle of the Vanished."

I'd heard versions of this story before, but something about Thomas's delivery made it feel different tonight.

I leaned close to Davelina. "These old codgers love their penny dreadful stories."

"Shh," she hissed, but her hand found my arm, fingers tightening. "Just listen."

Old William spoke up from his corner. "I heard tales from my grandfather too. Said that island's inhabited by monsters." His voice carried absolute belief. "They come in the darkest nights, when the fog rolls thick. They hunt for young women and strong men."

"Why young women?" someone called out.

William's face darkened. "Because of what they do to them."

The silence was absolute.

Thomas leaned forward, firelight turning his face ancient and terrible. "There's a fortress on that island. The Monster King's stronghold." He glanced around at the women present—his gaze lingered on Davelina, then skipped right over me. "They call it Girl's Hell."

My stomach clenched at the name.