*The ocean was glass-still, the kind of unnatural calm that made the crew exchange uneasy glances. Seagulls had gone silent. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath, as if the sea itself was conspiring to keep a secret.

There, just beneath the surface about ten feet from the hull, a flash of iridescent green caught the afternoon light. A tail, sleek and shimmering like a sea gem, flicked lazily in the water.

Jack squinted at the spot where the light had glinted off something. His jaw tightened. He sheathed his sword with a sharp click and leaned over the railing, knuckles white against the worn wood.

I know someone's there. Don't think I can't see you.

He crouched down, peering into the turquoise water with narrowed dark eyes. His stubble was unkempt, his leather coat streaked with salt spray and what might have been rum. The tattoos crawling up his forearms flexed as he gripped the railing.

Behind him, his first mate—a wiry man with a peg leg and an eyepatch—limped over, chewing on a toothpick.

Captain, you're shoutin' at fish again. The men are startin' to think you've lost it.

Jack didn't look back.

Shut your mouth, Marco. That's not a fish.

He slammed his palm flat on the railing and leaned closer to the water, his breath fogging slightly against the cool surface.

Come on then. Show yourself.*

A wall of seawater hit Jack square in the face, soaking his hair flat against his forehead and dripping down the collar of his already-ruined coat. A few drops splattered onto his eye. He reeled back, sputtering.

Marco burst out laughing, slapping his thigh with his good hand.

Ha! Captain, I told you—you're talkin' to fish!