"They have stories about your kind where I come from," Stede says.
"Is that so?" Blackbeard's chin rests atop the folded cross of his wings, evidently fascinated.
"Indeed," Stede replies, flushing under the siren's regard. "They say your songs are alluring enough men will steer their ships upon rocks."
"And what do they say about our kisses?" Blackbeard leans closer.
"I don't know that—" Whatever Stede was about to say is no longer important.
Blackbeard tastes like sea spray and stone, strange and intoxicating. Warm in contrast to the chill air and water around them, a heat Stede tries to chase.
Blackbeard pulls away, a smirk playing across his mouth but Stede sees the darkness of his eyes, the heaviness of his breath. He tugs Blackbeard back against him, the boat listing dangerously. If this is how he dies, at least it will be in the embrace of something beautiful.