“Come, stop your ship so you may hear us.”
The men scatter across the deck as we approach. This ship, with only two masts, isn’t the largest that we’ve seen, but it has plenty of ears to meet our needs.
“We know all that happens on this bountiful earth . . .”
A few sailors who have yet to hear our notes on the wind are trying desperately to keep the vessel afloat. They work the ropes and sails to steer it through the squall as best they can, but large waves send seawater crashing over the deck and make simply standing a struggle. But once our song, and its promise, reaches them, their frantic efforts cease. Ropes fall from slackened hands; open-mouthed faces peek out from the portholes. All are rendered still. Lightning reveals our forms, but the cover of night obscures our haggard, aging bodies, the danger of our talons. To them, we’re winged women dancing among the thunderheads—a sight to marvel at, not to inspire dread. Surely nothing dangerous could sing so beautifully.
I land on the deck first, followed by Pisinoe. Raidne remains in the air, uninterested in taunting them. Now they’re close enough to see our ghastly bodies, but the sailors aren’t frightened—our song has given them glimpses of the futures they crave most, and a glimpse is never enough. The man closest to me clutches his chest, devotion pooling in his dark eyes, as if he’s gazing upon Venus herself. When I take a step closer, he falls to his knees, his clasped hands raised to me in desperation. He’s not dead yet, but already, I feel myself standing taller.
Tell me, his expression begs. I reach to stroke his bearded cheek. As soon as my fingers connect with his skin, his hands rush to his chest. Then he crashes to the ground. This wouldn’t be the first time a sailor died overwhelmed by his own anticipation. But this man twists his body closer to me even as his heart begins to fail. I take a step back, and then another, and all the while, he claws desperately to close the gap I create between us. My wings spread wide, and I take to the air, hovering just over the ship’s edge. The wooden deck tears at his fingers as he pulls himself along, leaving scarlet stains in his wake. Good. What bloody trails of mine would he create if given the chance?
“Come,” Pisinoe sings, and another, larger sailor steps on the fallen man’s hands with a sickening crack as he rushes for her. But the sailor on the ground doesn’t scream—he still drags his broken body forward, his mouth open in awe. I can’t understand the words he says, but the meaning is clear from the desperation in his tone: Tell me my fate.
I have to swallow the violent smile that threatens to consume my features as I open my arms to him.
“Come, and I’ll tell you everything.”
Excerpted from THOSE FATAL FLOWERS copyright © 2025 by Shannon Ives. Used by permission of Ballantine Books, an imprint and division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
