Acheron had made it to his chamber. and washed off the filthy from his body before changing into fresh linen. But as he glanced down, his gaze settled on the claw marks etched across his chest, still raw and slow to mend. The memory of being dragged beneath the sea returned raw and unbidden. The surface being so far from reach had been a different kind of nightmare for him.
Not to mention the black water.
It had spawned from nowhere. It hadn't been part of the sea, or at least, nowhere near this sea for all he knew. It appeared like a curse, thick and vile.
Disgust twisted in his gut at the memory of him helplessly swallowing it. He'd been so frantic to purge it, he'd driven his fist into his own stomach, hoping to wrench it out. Whatever the siren was, it wasn't of any legend he'd heard.
Gods, it had been grotesque.
