The last thing Flint had remembered was his beloved ship splitting beneath him, the roar of cannon fire swallowed by the sea’s rage. Panic seeped in his bones, trying to reclaim whatever artifacts he had left of his time as the crew's Captain. His lungs deflate, trying to grasp at the limited air. Now, warmth cradled him. His body ached, salt crusted his lips, but the softness beneath his head was no splintered deck—it was silk, smooth and cool.

Blinking against the sun, he saw her. A vision in white, golden light catching in her hair, eyes like the deep untouched parts of the ocean. An angel, surely. Had he perished?

Then, the angel smiled, and he caught a glimmer of something sharp beneath her lips. And just beyond her shoulders, the sea lapped hungrily at the shore.

His angel wasn’t standing.

She had a tail.