Chapter 21: A Growing Problem
The world returned in stages. First was the warmth—the solid, living heat of Leona pressed along his back, an arm thrown heavy over his waist. Then the sound: the gentle creak of the ship at anchor, the distant cry of gulls, Leona’s deep, even breaths puffing against the back of his neck. Last was the light, a relentless spear of sun cutting through the stern window to paint a blazing stripe across the rumpled sheets.
Vil lay perfectly still, cataloging his body. No ache. No pull. The deep, cellular whisper that usually called him back to the sea by dawn was silent. He felt… human. Truly, completely. The potion had held through the night.
A slow, fierce satisfaction spread through him. He had slept. Really slept, curled against another person, for the first time in his life. No vigilant half-dreams listening for predators. No need to be ready to slip into the waves at a moment’s notice. Just peace.
He shifted minutely, testing. Leona’s arm tightened, a possessive grunt escaping him even in sleep. Vil smiled, a private, unguarded thing he’d never let anyone see. He let his hand drift down, smoothing over the linen of his borrowed sleep shirt. It caught on a new curve.
His breath hitched. He pressed his palm flat. There it was. Unmistakable. Overnight, the subtle firmness had rounded into a definite swell, a gentle slope rising from his pelvis. It was no longer just a sensation he could feel; it was a shape he could see. His body was no longer solely his own.
The thought should have been terrifying. For a creature of vanity and control, it was. But beneath the tremor of fear was a current of something else, something ferocious and warm.
Then, the warmth turned.
It began as a deep, oily roll in his gut. A lurch that had nothing to do with the sea. His mouth flooded with saliva. He clenched his jaw, swallowing hard. It passed, leaving a cold sweat in its wake. False alarm.
He tried to settle back against Leona’s warmth. The smell of him—salt, leather, sleep—usually a comfort, suddenly seemed too strong. The residual scent of rum from a forgotten cup on the desk curdled in the air. The oil in the lantern. The must of old paper.
The nausea returned, not as a wave but as a rising tide, relentless and choking. He pushed Leona’s arm off and sat up, the world tilting. He scanned the room, vision swimming. The copper tub. The water jug. The—
His gaze landed on a spare bucket in the corner, meant for swabbing decks. He was out of the bed in a stumbling rush, hitting his knees on the hard wood just in time. The violence of it shocked him. His whole body convulsed, expelling nothing but bitter acid and panic. He gripped the bucket’s rim, knuckles white, shaking with the aftershocks.
Behind him, the bed creaked. “Vil?”
Leona’s voice was thick with sleep, then instantly clear. Footsteps. A hand, large and warm, settled between his shoulder blades. Vil tried to shrug it off, humiliated by the weakness, by the ugly, mortal reality of it. Another dry heave wracked him.
“Easy,” Leona murmured. His hand didn’t move. He crouched beside him, his own hair a mess, his brow furrowed. “Okay. This is okay.”
“It is… profoundly not okay,” Vil managed to gasp, spitting into the bucket. His skin felt clammy. “It’s vile.”
“Yeah, well.” Leona reached for a clean rag from a basin, dampened it with water from the jug, and offered it. “Here.”
Vil took it, wiping his mouth with a trembling hand. The cool cloth helped. The nausea subsided to a low, grumbling threat. He stayed on his knees, forehead resting against the cool metal of the bucket, trying to breathe.
Leona didn’t force him up. He just stayed there, a solid, silent presence. After a minute, he spoke, his voice low. “The potion wore off about an hour ago. Felt it go. You’re back on the clock.”
Of course. The grace period was over. The six-hour countdown had begun with the dawn he’d slept through. The reminder was like a bucket of cold water. The vulnerability of his position—kneeling, sick, trapped in a form with an expiration date—crashed over him. He pushed himself upright, ignoring the fresh dizziness.
“I need the tub,” he said, his voice rough.
Leona just nodded. He stood, offering a hand. Vil ignored it and got to his feet on his own, though the room swayed. He walked stiffly to the copper tub, the layers of blankets from last night still piled inside. He climbed in, clothes and all, and sat down, drawing his knees up. He looked up at Leona, a challenge in his exhausted eyes. “The water.”
Leona poured the first jug. The cold water hit his feet and calves, a shock that grounded him. As it rose, the change began, a familiar melting and reshaping. His legs fused, the skin shimmering into scales of brilliant lilac. The weight of his tail settled into the padded tub, a relief and a prison all at once. The physical nausea faded, replaced by the deeper, spiritual pull of the ocean. He was himself again, and yet more trapped than ever.
Leona watched the transformation, his expression unreadable. He set the empty jug down. “You should eat something.”
“The thought is repulsive.”
“You still have to.” Leona ran a hand through his tangled hair. “Stay here. I’ll get Ruggie. He’ll know what to do.”
“I don’t need your weaselly first mate’s advice on my constitution.”
“He stole a merchant’s entire pantry last month, including some weird health tonics for the merchant’s pregnant wife. He knows what’s on this ship that won’t make you puke.” Leona was already pulling on his boots and coat. “Just… sit. Don’t sing anybody to their doom while I’m gone.”
He left, barring the door from the outside. Vil slumped against the back of the tub, letting his tail fins droop over the edge. He stared at the ceiling, the triumph of the night before utterly evaporated. He was a sick, pregnant siren in a bucket, waiting for a pirate to bring him gruel. He closed his eyes, a laugh that was almost a sob catching in his throat.
It wasn’t long before the door unbarred and opened. Leona returned, followed by Ruggie. The first mate’s sharp eyes took in the scene in a single, comprehensive sweep: the bucket by the bed, Vil’s pale face in the tub, the new, soft curve visible even through the wet linen of his shirt.
Ruggie didn’t comment. He carried a small wooden tray. On it was a plain clay bowl steaming with a thin, clear broth, a dry ship’s biscuit, and a cup of what smelled like weak, minty tea. He also had a folded piece of sailcloth under his arm.
“Alright,” Ruggie said, his tone breezy and practical, as if attending to a queasy siren was a normal Tuesday task. “Broth first. Sip it. It’s just fish stock and seaweed, nothing fancy. The biscuit you can try after. The tea’s got some ginger root mashed in. It’ll settle the riot.”
He set the tray on the edge of the desk within Vil’s reach. Then he shook out the sailcloth—it was a makeshift hammock, cleverly knotted. He strung it up quickly between two strong beams near the tub, creating a sling. “For later,” he explained to Leona. “When he needs to be out of the water but can’t stand for long. Takes the pressure off.”
Leona gave a curt nod of approval. “Good.”
Vil looked from the broth to Ruggie. “You’re surprisingly competent.”
Ruggie flashed his hyena grin. “Ain’t just for pickpocketing, your highness. A sick crew’s a dead crew. Gotta keep the assets functional.” His gaze flicked again, very briefly, to Vil’s midsection. “All the assets.”
The casual acknowledgement of his condition, devoid of either awe or disgust, was oddly relieving. Vil reached for the broth. He sipped. It was bland, salty, warm. It stayed down.
Leona watched him swallow, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. “How many days of that stuff do we have?” he asked Ruggie.
“The ginger? Not much. The seaweed broth, we can make. But he’s gonna need real food.” Ruggie leaned against the desk, crossing his arms. “The potion worked, then?”
“Lasted the night,” Leona said. “We’ve got two vials left.”
“Twelve hours a day ain’t a life, boss. It’s a visiting schedule.” Ruggie stated it plainly, voicing the fear they all felt. “And it ain’t just about legs anymore.” He jerked his chin toward Vil. “That’s going to keep happening. Getting bigger. Changing. What happens when he’s too big to fit in the tub comfortably? What happens when the… the event… gets close? He can’t very well pop it out on the deck during his six human hours.”
Vil’s hand, holding the broth, went still. He hadn’t thought that far ahead. The immediate survival had consumed him. But Ruggie was right. The tub was already cramped. His body was transforming on a schedule he didn’t control.
Leona’s jaw tightened. “We find the cove. Soon.”
“And if we don’t find it in the next few weeks?” Ruggie pressed. “We need a better plan than a bathtub and hope.”
Silence hung in the cabin, thick with the unspoken future. Vil set the bowl down, his appetite gone. “What is your suggestion?” he asked, his voice cold.
Ruggie met his gaze. “We need to modify the ship. Now. While we’re looking. Carve out a section below deck, near the hull. Seal it, make it watertight. A proper tank. A place you can be, in your form, that isn’t a fucking washtub. A place you can move. A place that can be… prepared. For anything.”
It was a radical idea. Structurally altering the Savanaclaw. It was weeks of hard, noisy work. It would weaken the hull if done wrong. It was a permanent mark on Leona’s ship, acknowledging a permanent change in their lives.
Leona didn’t hesitate. “Do it.”
Ruggie’s eyebrows shot up. “Just like that?”
“You heard me. Take Jack and Epel. Start drawing plans. Use the forward starboard hold. It’s mostly spare canvas and tar there. Move it. Start today.” Leona’s voice was captain-steady, leaving no room for debate.
A slow smile spread over Ruggie’s face, a look of pure, predatory relish. A big, complicated, slightly insane project. He was already mentally calculating the timber and pitch they’d need to steal. “Aye, Captain.” He pushed off the desk and headed for the door, pausing only to glance back at Vil. “Finish the tea. The ginger helps.”
The door closed behind him.
Vil looked at Leona, who was staring at the wall as if he could already see the construction through it. “You would cut a hole in your ship?”
Leona turned those fierce green eyes on him. “It’s not just my ship anymore. It’s our ship. It’s his ship.” He walked over to the tub and knelt, his gaze dropping to the gentle curve of Vil’s belly beneath the water’s surface. “We build a life, remember? Even if we have to carve it out of the fucking hull with our own hands.”
He reached into the water, not touching Vil’s stomach, but resting his broad palm on the curve of the tub beside it, a guardian. “The cove is the dream. This,” he tapped the copper side, “this is the reality, right now. And I’m not letting the reality be a bucket you get sick in.”
From above, through the deck, came the first, distant sounds of movement. The scrape of heavy crates being dragged. Ruggie’s voice, shouting orders to Jack. The ship, their home, was being remade.
Vil looked down at Leona’s hand, so close to his skin. He felt the baby shift, a tiny, bubbling flutter deep inside, as if in response to the noise, to the decision, to the sheer, stubborn will of the man kneeling before him. It wasn’t terror he felt now. It was the first, faint echo of something like safety.
He picked up the tea and took a long, slow sip. The warmth of it spread through him, fighting back the chill of the deep.