BECCA, HIDING IN a thicket of kelp, watched the dead sailors gathered around the wreck of the Achilles. She put her traveling case down. A silvery, sullen-faced codfish circled it.
“There must be hundreds of them,” Becca whispered. The ghosts were all wearing the clothing of their various times and singing an old naval ballad. Brass lanterns full of moon jellies illuminated them.
Some sported leather doublets laced across their chests. Others wore white tunics with squared collars. Peacoats. Yellow raincoats and rubber boots. Many had single gold hoops in their left earlobes—a badge of honor indicating that the bearer had survived an eastbound run around Cape Horn.
They were shipwreck ghosts. The Williwaw, a wind spirit who lived in a sea cave at the cape, had sent them to their deaths, whipping up fierce storms that destroyed their ships. Yet the sailors bore the spirit no ill will and in fact served him by guarding the underwater entrance to his lair. They’d known the risks of a seaman’s life, and the alternative to a watery grave—being buried topside in the cold, hard ground—held no appeal.
They spent their deaths much as they’d spent their lives—telling stories of seas they’d sailed and ships they’d loved. They played cards. Threw dice. Laughed and fought. They made music with accordions and fiddles. Danced hornpipes. The ghosts were merry, loud—and lethal to any mer who came too close.
Becca had been sternly warned to stay well away from them—and the Williwaw—by the owner of a bubble tea shop in a nearby village.
“The Williwaw’s deadly,” the merman had said, after Becca had asked him how to find the spirit’s lair. “It’s like a giant bird of prey, vicious and territorial. It spends a good deal of time building up its nest. That’s why it sinks ships, so it can carry off their rigging and timber and bring it back to its cave. Few have gotten close to it. If it doesn’t kill you, its shipwreck ghosts will. Best to give up this foolish idea.”
“I take your point,” Becca had said, “but giving up’s not an option. The Williwaw has something I need.”
Once the merman saw that he couldn’t dissuade her, he had told her more.
“The creature lives in a sea cave inside a rock formation off the cape. Half the cave’s submerged, half of it’s dry. It flies in and out through an opening above the waterline. Its nest sits on a broad ledge.”
Becca’s heart had sunk at that. “I can’t fly,” she had said. “Is there any other way to get inside the cave?”
“There is—for any mer brave enough to attempt it. Through the Achilles.”
“What is it and how do I get to it?” Becca had asked excitedly.
“It’s a brigantine that went down in 1793. The captain’s name was Maffeio Aermore,” the merman had explained. “Stories about him persist to this day. Mer who saw his ship go down said he must’ve been insane, because he steered for the rocks that shelter the Williwaw’s cave. The spirit saw the ship coming and sank it. The crew was lost, though some say the captain survived. Hard to believe, if you ask me.”
“Why would a captain sail straight into rocks?” Becca had asked, mystified.
“Ask his crew. You’ll be swimming right by them,” the merman had joked.
“What do I do when I find the Achilles?”
“You have to swim through the wreck, then through a crack in the base of the rock. It leads to a tunnel. Follow it and you’ll find yourself inside the cave,” the merman had said. “Only a handful have managed it. They all cast transparensea pearls to get past the ghosts. That’s the only way. But it’s no guarantee. Even if you’re invisible, you still make vibrations in the water and the ghosts can feel them. That’s about all I can tell you. Good luck.”
The bubble tea seller had given Becca good directions, and she’d found the Achilles without much trouble.
As she peered out of the kelp thicket now, she could even see a way into the wreck—through a jagged hole in its hull.
“First thing I have to do,” she whispered, “is sneak past the ghosts.”
She shuddered to think what would happen if she didn’t succeed. The ghosts were jolly with one another, but if they sensed a soul nearby—mer or human—they instantly turned savage. They craved the rush of blood through the veins, the beating of a brave heart. Becca knew they would converge on her, and the touch of so many would drain the life from her body in an instant.
But hopefully that wouldn’t happen.
Because Becca, as usual, had a plan.
“ALL THE SQUID. NOW,” the codfish said.
“No. I’ve explained the deal,” Becca said firmly. “Half of the squid now, half when you get me back out.”
The cod shook his head stubbornly.
“Okay, then. No squid. Ever. Does that work for you?” Becca asked huffily.
The cod glowered. He jutted his jaw.
Becca opened her traveling case and pulled out one of two bags of fresh squid she’d bought in the village. She popped a squid into her mouth and ate it.
“Mmm. So good,” she said, savoring it. “Sweet and chewy.”