Asta

Daily life aboard a pirate ship isn’t boring. But I find myself longing for the days where me and Piper were in Duran, planning how to get aboard the Morning Glory. It’s only been a month since I last set foot on the Scarecrow, but it’s felt like years.

And Rover’s threat isn’t making anything easier.

Going up to the barrels that collect rainwater on the poop deck, I scoop up a medium sized bucket of water and fill it. After that, I grab two loaves of maggot-infested bread, and head down to the brig.

Like all Corsair Draking ships, the brig is in the aft, right below the cabins sitting on deck, the galley, and the private cabins where the weavers stay.

Except me.

Pulling open the rickety wood door that separates the room I now share with three people, I walk in and close it behind me. Built into the wall to my left is the cage, sticking out from the wall by a few inches. All three prisoners are inside. The boy who claimed he was the captain of the Morning glory is pacing. The girl and the other boy are sitting huddled on the bench along the far wall of the cage. I open the cell door, place the bucket and one of the loaves on the ground.

Close the door made out of steel bars.

Relock it.

Simple. The rest of the room is in major need of repair. My hammock sways with the movement of the Scarecrow in the corner. The empty chest beneath it. The even emptier bookcase nailed down next to it. The bench across from the cell. The pile of blankets dumped in the corner near the door. The bucket that served as a toilet. The pair of manacles hanging from the ceiling. In other words, home. My home.

“This is all of it?” The boy caught with the girl growls. He bends over to pick the bread up, examining it.

“It’s barely enough for one person, let alone three!” He says, gesturing to me with the bread.

I don’t respond. The girl looks up at me, brown hair in a curtain covering her face. She flips her bangs out of her eyes, then smiles at me. My gut twists into a knot.

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“Who are you? I’m Mary.” Her voice is lithe, like Ven’s, and bored, like Isabeth’s. I don’t answer.

“Leave him be, Mary. For all we know, Rover might have cut out his tongue.” The blond haired boy says. Mary shoots him a look.

“We don’t know that. Maybe he’s just shy.” She says. I growl, the go over to the bench. Sitting down, I take a large mouthful out of my loaf, devouring it in several gulps.

“You’re hungry.” Brown hair notes. Heavy footfalls thump from the doorway, and I look up to see Piper standing there.

“Want to do it now, or wait?” He asks.

“Now.” I say. He nods, then turns and stomps away. I stand and follow him.

Piper goes to the galley. It’s a wide, closed room with a low ceiling. In other ships, it would be one place to store Drake parts after a kill, but Piper had turned it into his lab.

Gemstones in every shade of red covered the walls. Three tables were jumbled at the far corner, covered with paper and broken chunks of stone. Against one wall was a mirror. I went over to the mirror. Piper came up behind me. In the reflection, he was a tall man. Not as tall as Rover, but tall. Long curly white hair pulled back into a tail at his nape. Before the mission, his beard had been long enough to tuck into his belt. Now, it clung to his jaw in pale gray fuzz. I swallow, then lean over the barrel set under the mirror, gripping the edge of the wooden tray nailed into it. Piper places two fingers at my nape, brushing aside stray hairs. I shiver.

“Asta, deep breaths.” Piper says. I realize I’m shaking, so I stop, closing my eyes closed. I feel Piper reach under my arms to my chest, unbuttoning my shirt. He removes his hands, then places them on my shoulders. I flinch.

“You can do the next step.” He says. Taking my hands off the improvised counter, I slip my arms out of the shirt sleeves. The canvas shirt falls off, landing in a pile around my ankles.

Before we left, Isabeth worked her magic, and dyed my hair, changed the color of my eyes, hid the tattoo on my left shoulder and bicep, and the most obvious scars on my back, neck and face. When I Shifted, all her magic in my hair and eyes went away, but not the magic hiding the rest. With Piper’s magic, he could remove the magic Isabeth put on my scars and tattoos.

“Ready?”

“Yes.” I whisper. I go back to the position I was in before. Piper places his rough, calloused hands on my hips, then works from there. I feel his fingers work a well planned route across the small of my back, my spine, and shoulder blades. He stops when his hands are on my shoulders. Then he twists his hands around my throat, down to my chest and midriff. Up over my arms. Through the mirror, I see the cobalt blue tattoo appear almost out of thin air. The tattoo is a filled-in diamond right below the hump of my shoulder, with angular vines coming off it, going all the way to my collarbone and down to the soft inside of my elbow.

Piper places his palm over my right eye, the whole right side of my world going dark red. I feel the magic taking hold, removing the mask put over that . . . scar. Piper drops his hand, and I look at myself.

Shaggy, messy black hair that goes to my shoulders. Pale, icy blue eyes with a haunted look in them. Narrow face. High cheekbones. Then there’s the scar. The one from the iron poker smashed vertically in my face, right over my right eye. The scar tissue was silvery gray. I could still see out of that eye, but the scar was still there, pale and ashy.

No matter what form I take.