They couldn’t escape now. The harpies had already seen them, there in their ship, huddled for protection as those sweeping women came down with taloned feet and grasped at them. They picked them like apples, one by one. Skin here, a limb there, and dropped each gift into to the ocean. Those whose pieces were lucky enough to make it to land were dropped in a boiling cauldron that the harpies had prepared earlier. A monumental feast was planned for this night, the evening that the colonizers were promised to come. And they did, and one by one they were slayed, because the harpies presence was unknown and unspoken of. They knew it had to stay that way, and they did what they had to do to protect their land.

That night, they feasted wonderfully then went back to their normal business.

“Order, order, we have a full agenda here and I need to get out of here on time to pickup Allie from basketball practice. First welcome to the Harkford Island Town Council meeting. I need a motion to approve last meeting’s minutes,” Mayor Stan Caldwell said. A flurry of grumblings and a few hoots accompanied the motion. Every seat was taken in the large hall and the overflow stood in the back. Harkford was a rough hewn fishing town that had moved from cod to tourism. Only one in three residents were supernaturals, mostly harpys but screeching bird women could be a very vocal minority. “Quiet, now first on the agenda is the new crosswalks by Pennlock Park,” Stan said. Now the groans were deafening. Someone released a death shriek from the back row of Saint Gall’s parish hall. “Tank, you’d better move this along before I kill this mayor my damn self,” Agent Tess Morganna whispered to her teammate. “Mayor Caldwell could we skip one or twenty agenda items? My team was flying home from the UK when we got diverted here to Canada. Let’s get to work. We received a report that there has been a series of acts of vandalism.”

“The humans put my stapler in jello!” Said a harpy with a pink buzz cut and matching pink-tipped wings. “Stapler my ass, Swiftfoot, one of you myths signed me up for the Barry Manilow fan club at my job, not cool,” the hipster human with chunky glasses and a suede fedora said. “Cry me a river Derek some dirty human broke into my perch and pasted photos of Steve Buscemi over my face in all my photos.” A heavily pregnant harpy shouted. “Buscemi, dammit.” She twitched her satiny black wings in agitation. Her partner rubbed her back in sympathy.
“Take it easy babe. Don’t let this get to you DarkWing think of our egg.” “I know I’ve been sheltered but Manilow is pretty mellow,” Dr. Lee Tabitha whispered. “Mos def and I love Steve Buscemi. He made Air Con,” Teddi said. The parish hall, full of shouting and pin feathers, was in chaos. Mayor Caldwell banged his gravel until a rush of russet feather stormed the podium and whisked it away. Sheriff Aldophus gave his sergeant a nod. Sgt. Jimmy Thunderbird stood and laid a soothing bass line over the bickering crowd. Soon Derek broke into a heartfelt rendition of “I Write the Songs” and the crowd of angry residents joined it. Tess gaped in amazement. Music spells encourage calm not singalongs. Either this was the most susceptible group of humans and mythological creatures in North America or they have already been cursed. Who would do this and why?, Tess thought. Tess and Tank exchanged worried looks. Lee jumped up and shouted, “Encore!”

This new land was supposed to promise hope.

But as their ship neared the harbor, the circling harpies painted a different picture entirely.

They wore their finery and precious gems, as though to remind all those entering the grand harbor that they were only here because of charity.

The whispers and rumors about the kingdom of peacekeepers were false. He could see it in the gawking masses. The only reason there was any sort of peace in this blasted kingdom was frivolous dinner parties and unspoken threats.

The vultures and harpies flocked, pointed noses and beady eyes searching for a sign of weakness.

Oh, he’d give them some thing to look at.

His father’s grip tightened on his arm, warning. “Do not act rashly, boy. There will be no place to hide.”

Gritting his teeth, he allowed his father to pull him away from the edge of the deck.

If they were to get a position on the palace staff, he’d need to hold his tongue.

Stepping into the cradle of the eastern empire brought him no sense of hope.

Aristocrats sniffed disdainfully as they passed, not even bothering to offer them any sort of work. None of these harpies would want a servant with only one working hand.

Other passengers gave them a wide berth, having learned on the voyage just how easy it was to rile the young one handed man into a fight. They hadn’t come looking for trouble.

He certainly had, but a life of flavor wasn’t meant for the weak of heart.

A loud clattering of hooves on stone drew every eye on the harbor, each harpy straightening and preening.

The royal carriage was decorated lavishly, but the king and queen outshone it by far.

“I welcome you to Argal, and offer my deepest sympathies for your people.” Voice carrying like a battle drum, King Elvarte stood before the sea of refugees and aristocrats like a commander. His midnight black hair marked him as the heir to his parent’s throne, and made him the spitting image of his slimy father. The crown of Verrin heritage rested on his brow, as though the circlet belonged to his people.

Then the Queen of Argal stood. “People of Verris.” The harbor fell silent. “Our people have suffered much under cruel tyranny, but here in our sister nation you are promised protection.” Queen Enthri spoke with the Verrin accent, her golden eyes a testament of her bloodline. She was beautiful.

His father pulled him away, out of the watchful eyes of guards and nobles. “Come, Daven.”

But he couldn’t put much thought into his father’s directions as he locked gazes with Queen Enthri.

And then she was gone, the sounds and smells of the harbor lingering still after them even as they made their way through twisting streets.

The crown of Verris was their mission.

Daven just worried that the queen had gotten there first.

“I’ve got bad news, Capn,” the First Mate, Stubb, said.

Captain Bloodspoor bit into a lemon and spat a seed on the deck, which had just been freshly swabbed.

“It’s about those circling seagulls, isn’t it.”

Stubb coughed. “Upon closer inspection, Sir, they are most definitely not seagulls.”

The lemon worked its way about in the old pirate’s mouth as he thought. “Harpies, ain’t they.”

The First Mate sighed.

“Is it worth fighting for, Mr. Stubb?”

“Well, if we can bury the treasure there, chances are pretty good no one else will be able to get to it.”

The Captain nodded. The flying creatures seemed to be circling closer. They had long claws and hungry, angry faces with fanged teeth.

Bloodspoor thought a bit.

“Let’s skip this one,” he said.

The shipmates sighed collectively in relief.

The ship was soon out of sight, and the harpies went to their nests hungry that night.

They had seemed like birds from far away, and at first had been a welcome sign of land - for where there are birds, there must be somewhere for them to nest. But as we sailed nearer, and the distant shore appeared on the horizon, green and brown and beautiful after so many days surrounded by nothing but blue and white, the "birds" continued to grow in our vision until they were larger than any bird, and taller, and more muscular.

"Harpies, ma'am!" My first mate, Tal, echoed the call from our crow's nest, putting a hand on the ship's railing. "Shall I tell the crew to load the cannons?"

I put my spyglass to my eye, considering what I saw there - feathered torsos, knife-like talons, wide human eyes over curved beaks.

"No," I said. "Not yet."

"We can't afford to be caught off guard. The legends say harpies are cruel."

"Legends are legends." I lowered my spyglass. "And I see no cruelty in those faces, Tal. I see fear."

"Fear?" Tal looked out over the railing at the harpies. "Of what? Surely not of us."

"Perhaps. Hoist the white flag. Let's see how they respond."

Tal hesitated, but they obeyed, barking orders to the crew and making sure they were followed. The white flag ran up the mast - a sign of surrender we never wanted to use, but hopefully now it would be taken as a sign of "we mean you no harm." If we were the source of the harpies' fear, hopefully they would allow us the chance to prove otherwise. But if there was something else - if their flight was an attempt to warn us away for our own safety - we needed to know that, too. We needed to know if our journey to a free new world had been in vain.

“What did I say?” Chas said in a hushed voice, “Stay away from him!” He pulled his younger brother away and yanked on his elbow to sit back down on the wet wooden floorboards.

“Peyton? But why? He seems harmless enough,” Peter said, rubbing his nose with his dirty sleeve, “and he’s got bread. Look!”

The bearded man sat only a few feet away from them, keeping to himself as he had done the entire trip. Leaning against a barrel, he bit a chunk out of the stale chunk of bread in his hand, breadcrumbs tangling into his wiry ash-grey beard.

Chas tightened his grip on his brother’s arm. “He’s dangerous. He’s the one who killed his wife and kids - four little girls - all found dead in their beds, throats slit. And they say it’s he who done it.”

“Who do?” Peter asked with a frown.

Chas nodded to the other men on deck. “They do.”

A group of men towards the far end of the ship started shouting raucously. One whooped and threw his hat in the air. Others cheered. “Land ahoy!” shouted someone from up above them.

The boys ran to the railings, along with everyone else on deck, to behold the most beautiful sight they thought they may never see again. Land. Land!

Chas put his arm around his brother’s shoulders. “We made it, Peter! We…” Chas began, but his sense of relief was cut short.

An enormous shadow suddenly loomed over them as something large swooped over their heads.

Chas pushed Peter to the ground as shouts of panic broke out on board. Lying over his brother, who was prone on the floor, Chas dared to lift his head to see what was happening. He sucked in a stifled cry and froze in place.

There before him was a winged beast hovering in mid-air. It was huge - human-sized, with the body of a bird. But its face - well, its pale face spoke of terror and evil. It was the stuff of nightmares.

The beast sneered as its huge, razor-like claws dug into the Peyton’s shoulders and dragged him up and away towards the shore. Chas’s breath shuddered as his mind fought to make sense of what he’s just witnessed.

“Harpies!” one of the men screamed as he ran past them, hands covering his head. “Save yourselves! Harpies!”

Indeed, Chas could now see three other Harpies attacking others on deck. They all seemed hell-bent on grabbing only specific people though. And each speared their prey with their huge talons through the shoulders, before carrying them off across the sea to the island in the distance.

Chas waited until the beasts had gone before he rolled off his brother. “It’s ok," he said, taking his brother’s hand, “they’re gone now. They’re gone.”

Chas looked around him. Everywhere, men were lying on the ground and moaning. At the very best, they were injured, but many were dead. He rose to his feet and leaned on the railing, focusing his eyes on the harbor on the horizon.

The harbor had held such hope, not just for the boys, but for all on board. And there it finally was, in all its glory. But it wasn’t the tropical bustling harbor they had expected.

No, this harbor was shrouded in gloom. Grey storm clouds hung overhead. And circling just below those clouds were at least a hundred harpies. An army of them.

“Wh - What are they?” Peter asked through stifled sobs, clutching at Chas’ sleeve.

“The men called them ‘Harpies’. Whatever they are.” Chas replied, his tone sober. He had no idea what these so-called Harpies were.

For one, they seemed to be harbingers of doom. For it was then that Chas realized, that their arduous journey had only just begun. The countless weeks at sea had been a cakewalk. Now, the challenge to surpass the impossible had begun.

Chas gripped his little brother’s hand even more tightly. They’d gotten this far. They could get past the beasts. Who notices a couple of ragged, scrawny little boys anyway?

At least, that’s what he would have to bank on. Because Chas had no choice but to gamble their lives away on that very hope. They had to survive.

Captain Murphy steadied his hands, his fingers angled around the brass of his spyglass. The curve of the ocean was far from view as he stared into the sky.

A slight breeze roused the ship's white sails, and the sun’s touch slicked his body, tightening his tailcoat around him like a second skin. Deep, admiral blue had brushed away the clouds and settled the sea to a mirror shine, yet as Murphy twisted the spyglass, he couldn't deny the unmistakable swooping black forms.

The new land had promised hope, safety and freedom from the kingdom. But as Murphy's ship guided them to the nearing harbour, the circling harpies painted a different picture entirely.

A weight pressed against Murphy's shoulder, and on his right, Xander's tall frame leaned over the railing, squinting towards the horizon. Jewels of sweat beaded his black skin, and he straightened the flat cap on his head. "Albatrosses, Phy?"

"Harpies." Murphy corrected.

"Who?"

Murphy handed him the spyglass and angled his first mate's head up to the sky.

"By the gods," Xander breathed, "they're damn ugly." He lowered the brass scope. "How'd you know they're Harpies?"

Murphy wiped his brow with a handkerchief. "Billie's been reading to me,” he said, and a brush of shame’s cruel touch reddened his cheeks. His word blindness was no secret. The crew knew, said they understood, said they didn't reprimand him or view him any less for it. Yet his inability to read always made him feel just a little bit smaller.

“She informed me that she considers herself a cryptozoologist."

Xander snorted. "I consider Billie to be many things, but a crypto-blah-blah is not one of them. A sadist, maybe," He returned the spyglass, and Murphy tucked it into his coat. "A crackpot, definitely. Or— Billie!"

Boot's had pounded up the steps to the quarter-deck, and a shock of blonde hair bobbed over the railings. Billie clutched her side; her white skin pinched a blotchy pink. She held up a gloved finger, and after a deep breath, a beam of a smile sparked the features of her face.

"Harpies, Captain!" She cried. "Real, sky-flying Harpies. Can you believe it? I told you, didn't I! I said they was real. I said it!"

Respectfully, Murphy bowed his head. "You did indeed."

“Ah, sorry to interrupt dork fest, but what would happen if one—or all—of those Harpies were to plummet towards the ship?”

Murphy eyed Xander, then followed the point of his finger. The black forms had advanced, and Murphy no longer needed his spyglass to see the gaunt pull of their humanoid faces. Strands of slick, oily hair whipped around the creature's heads, their vast black wings folded tightly to their sides. Murphy counted thirteen, and he didn't like the sound of those odds.

“Uh, how much trouble are we in?” Xander asked.

“Billie?”

Billie turned to the both of them, her eyes wide, not with fear, Murphy worryingly noted, but with admiration. She was enjoying this. “Not much. They could just wanna chat.”

“Billie,” Murphy warned.

“Fine. A smidge. But they can't be that bad. My book says they bring forth a storm.” She gestured to the sky with a broad sweep of her arm. “I see no storm.”

A shout from the Crowsnest drew Murphy's attention back toward the nearing beast. Grey clouds began to form around them, the clear blue sky straining black as though foul tar-like ink had bled from their wings.

A sudden wind whipped across the ship in an icy gale. The rigging began to thump against the mast as the bitter breeze tangled its claws into the sails. The ship rocked, and a wave of water crashed over the starboard side, soaking the deck and spitting yellowed foam into up the air. Murphy staggered against the wheel, his crew sounding like beached fish as they flopped and fell onto the deck.

“Phy!” Xander called, his body folded but unbroken against the railing.

A torrent of rain had started to fall, and Murphy held out his hand, his brown skin and coat already sodden through. Xander grabbed his hand, and Murphy hauled him up, the weight of his friend enough to topple.

“This is getting ridiculous!” Xander shouted, and Murphy nodded. As much as he admired the unknown, the unusual, he valued the life of his crew far more.

“Ready the cannons!” He ordered. Another wave struck the ship, but through the haze of rain and the howl of the wind, Murphy heard the courageous call of his crew.

“No!” Billie shone through the dark like a flame. A red welt cut a line across her cheek, and the rain washed the blood, dripping it down her skin like a tear.“Captain, you can't!”

“Billie, we have to.”

“You can't just open fire! They could be innocent!”

“Says the former assassin!” Xander shouted.

“Billie,” Murphy said calmly, and he grabbed her arms. “I know you mean well, but we can't risk the argument that they ‘might’ be harmless. Look at this storm. Look. They did this.”

“Just give them a chance.” Her face softened, and she flicked a soaking strand of hair from her face. “Please.”

“One chance.” Murphy nudged her backwards. “Go get your book. It might help.” Her head bobbed and she dashed towards the cabin.

“What do we do?” Xander asked.

He didn't want to say it, but he had to. He had to. “Make sure she stays down there. Tie her up.”

“Seriously?”

“When we have to open fire, I don't want her to open fire on us. Do it!”

“Aye, Captain.”

Rain battered Murphy's skin as he steadied his hands on the wheel. He cleared his throat and then called the cannons to fire.

Their new land was supposed to have promised hope and safety, and he was damn well sure he would make so.