POV RUBY
The Siren’s Wake cut through the choppy black waters of the Irish Sea like a blade. Behind us, the fiery orange glow of the Docklands was nothing more than a bleeding scar on the horizon. The roar of the engine was a constant, low-frequency thrum that vibrated through the floorboards and up into my very bones. Silas was at the helm, his silhouette a grim statue against the spray-flecked glass of the cabin, leaving Nevan and me alone in the cramped, dimly lit quarters below deck.
The air in the cabin was thick with the scent of diesel, sea salt, and the metallic tang of drying blood. I sat on a narrow bench, my fingers still white-knuckled around the rolled canvas of my grandmother’s portrait. The "Old Guest" in my head was no longer screaming; it was humming a low, dark melody o
