by Kate Ristau
“Okay,” Ciaran said. “We escaped. Why are we still here?”
“Keva,” Áine said. “She needs time without them. To see more of the world. To feel the water on her skin.”
“And her own thoughts in her head,” Ciaran mumbled.
“Stop it, Ciaran. We need time to talk.”
“So talk,” Ciaran said.
“Why are you being so moody?” Áine asked.
“I hate being wet,” Ciaran said.
“And?”
“And we’re wasting time, Áine. We need to get to Minka and Rashkeen. Saroo is probably freaking out. We need to be above the water.”
Ondine sliced between them again. “You need to be here.”
Ciaran brushed Ondine aside, but she snapped her teeth at him.
“Come on!” he said. “That’s not fair.”
“Who said anything about playing fair?” Ondine whispered.
“We need to ask for help,” Áine said, her voice louder than she intended. “We’ll never make it above the water.”
“They won’t give it,” Ciaran said, eyebrows raised at Ondine. “Why would they?”
“We’re here,” Áine said. “We might as well ask.”
Ondine spun around and swam ahead again.
“I hate this.”
“Cra, Ciaran. I don’t want to be here either. But what are we going to do when we get back up top? The Eta are everywhere. They will find us the second we break the surface. Tiddy will find us. The queene will find us. We’re not safe. We can’t do this on our own.”
Keva touched her shoulder. “You do not need to worry. The queene is going to help us. And the Eta will not harm you.”
“Seriously, Keva,” Ciaran said. “Have you been paying attention? Do you even know the queene?”
“Do you?” Keva asked.
Áine shook her head in frustration. “Don’t you remember what she did to you? It wasn’t just Creed. She told him to. She used you. Hurt you. How can you forget?”
“I do not forget,” Keva snapped. Her hands cut through the water. “I remember. I can still feel the fire on my wrists and in my mind. The years of agony.” The river swirled around her. Her eyes gleamed, and her face glowed, then turned to flame. The Eta were still inside her, pulsing against her arms, spinning just inside her skin. The water sizzled, wrapping her in a cloak of bubbles and foam and light. She reached out her hand, then ran it back through the dark streak in her hair. All at once, the Eta faded, the light went out, and she lowered her hands. “But her reign is done. She is a relic—a shell. She’s all used up. The Eta will not have her anymore.”
Ciaran laughed, but Keva turned toward him, and the sound died. He shook his head. “We’ll see what Titania has to say about that,” he mumbled.
“Yes,” Keva said, eyes flashing. “We will see. But will you?”
Keva swam ahead, and Ciaran stared at the flurry she left behind. The bubbles rose to the surface, but the water behind was murky and dark.
“See what I mean?” he said. “Super creepy.”
“Ciaran,” Áine began, but he swam forward too.
She wanted to swim faster until she caught up to him, to grab his hands and make him listen, but she held her breath until the feeling passed. Slowly, it drifted away in the current.
She couldn’t save everyone—she wasn’t sure she could save anyone. Really, she just made everything worse. Everyone she tried to help ended up hurt, empty, or lost.
She took a deep breath and shot the bubbles out of her mouth until none were left. Then she breathed in again. Let it pass. Drift away. Already enough lay in front of her, not to even mention what was above the water.
She remembered what Eri used to say: “Bake your bread today and gather your wheat for tomorrow.”
Eri made good bread. And she planned for the days ahead. She was warm and thoughtful and smart. But she lied like every day was Midsummer’s Night.
Áine didn’t know who to trust, who to listen to, or who to ask for help.
Every plan she made fell apart. The world changed around her every moment like an ashray in the sun. What was the point?
She wasn’t baking anymore Oberon-forsaken bread. Who knew if they would live to eat it in the morning? She needed to stay in this moment—right here, right now—and work with what she had. That meant Ciaran and her sister and following Ondine into the deeps. That meant she would have to trust what she could see—what was right in front of her face—and brace herself for the coming days.
She wasn’t alone. She had help. And if she didn’t, at least she had a place beneath the waves where she could hide.
She watched Ondine swim through a low archway of kelp and seaweed. Ondine turned and beckoned toward Áine. Her gesture pulled Áine through the water.
If she wanted, she could stay with the sirens and hide in the deeps. She could leave the world above to its worries, and find a place to rest.
But it was never that easy. There was Ciaran and Keva. Minka, Rashkeen, and Saroo. Ratrael. And her father, and Hennessy.
Hennessy.
All Hennessy had wanted to do was escape into a world of stories, the place she had dreamt about since she was a kid. She wanted a path out of the darkness and into the world of light. The world of the fey—the Aetherlands.
Instead, she was trapped in the dark, fighting against who knows what, and they were powerless to save her.
No.
No. Áine wasn’t powerless. Not anymore.
She had power. She knew the shift of the Eta and the slither of shadows. She could fight them, and she could win.
She was not darkness. She was not light. She was her own.
She couldn’t save them all, but she could find her way back to Hennessy, and together they would find Áine’s father.
“Come,” Ondine repeated, and this time, Áine listened. Not because she had to, but because she wanted to.
She followed in Ciaran’s wake through the archway toward her sister.
“We are here,” Ondine said, and she bowed down, her face in the sand.
Áine looked out over a field of clams. “Where?”
The clams shifted and opened, and then in a surge of motion and a swirl of water, the clams rose up into the river, twirling and twisting into a cyclone, whipping the mud around them, darkening the water. Then they slowed, the mud settling into the river bottom while the clams stayed suspended in the water, gathering together, shifting and forming into a shape she knew.
A face.
The face of the sea goddess.
Thirteen
Hennessy didn’t punch. She pulled back and swung her foot toward the creature’s knee as hard as she could, but it twisted suddenly, and her foot collided with its hip. It stumbled to the side, and she tripped and landed hard on her ankle. Again. The same damn spot. Sharp, twisting fire. She rolled onto her side, grinding through the pain, and rose to her knees.
The creature’s head whipped back around, and it dove at her. She grabbed for whatever she could find, locking her fingers around a curved bone. The creature slammed into her, and she crashed to the ground. A sharp pain shot through her back. She rolled to the side, onto the heavysack, and jammed the bone into the creature’s face. It screeched in anger, scrambling to get off her, but she jerked the bone back and slammed it in again and again, crushing, breaking, until the creature finally collapsed, half on top of her.
It stank like an open sewer or a festering wound, and she could hear the rattle of its breath inside its chest.
Breathing. It was alive.
Still alive.
She pushed it off her and rolled to the side, heavysack scraping her shoulders, the bone clenched in her fist and her phone in her other hand. What the hell was it? Her heart pounded as she held up the light.
Black, hardened skin. Like a beetle, shiny and black. And those red eyes—closed, for now. It didn’t seem possible. How was it possible? The beast was huge. Her breath rushed in and out, and pain gathered i
n her back. She reached her hand around and ran it over the small of her back. It felt sticky and wet. And it hurt like hell.
“Jesus,” she whispered. “I mean seriously. What the hell?”
She sat up, pulling her foot up to the light. It hurt too. A lot. More than a sprain. Definitely broken. Stupid ankle. She had sprained it in gym class last year. She had stretched like a tree and fallen into downward dog.
Stupid yoga. It wasn’t even a sport.
But sprains were easy. No casts, no surgery. This was worse. A lot worse.
She just had to keep her weight off of it.
Yep. Sit on the couch for a week, binge watching sci-fi shows and sketching dragons and pixies. It would be easy. Quiet. Relaxing.
The creature jerked beside her, and she whipped the bone into the air, but as she stared at its broken face, she slowly lowered the bone back down.
What was she doing? A shadow slipped over her leg, and she flashed the light at it. The shadow slid away. Broken, the beast lay crumpled beside her. She didn’t need to kill it. All she needed was to get away from it. She raised the phone over the bone clenched in her fist. It was long and hard, with one end covered in sticky blackness. It was small enough to wrap her hand around, but large enough to cause more than a little damage. If she got close enough. Hopefully, she wouldn’t have to.
But if there was one, there were probably more.
Suddenly, she felt a lot less lonely.
She laughed, a short bark of sound, then pulled herself up, wincing at the pain lancing through her, and tested her ankle. It held her up. For now. “Okay,” she said. “Not broken.”
She wasn’t broken.
But she would be. She limped forward, dragging her foot across the ground. Everything hurt. She would have to do something about her back too. Not now though. Priority one: get away from that thing. Then she would wrap her back. Stop the bleeding. Look in the heavysack. Maybe something was in there? Like a spell to stop the bleeding or turn her skin to stone? What a terrible idea. Maybe she could tear up her shirt? Rip up her hoodie? It was not like it was cold in the Hetherlands. Or hot. It was just awful.
Something rustled in the darkness. She flashed her light around her again, the bone clutched in her hand. The shadows dissipated. Nothing. Or not. Her fingers loosened around the bone. She would need a better weapon. “A knife? No. A machete. A big one. No—that’s stupid. What would I do with a machete? I would probably just cut off my own arm. And then what?”
She twirled the light in front of her and checked the battery again: 10 percent. She missed the internet. And soda. And lightbulbs. She missed the sun. What would she do when the light went out?
“Stupid mobile. What’s the point of a phone if you can’t even tweet? Hashtag death monsters. Hashtag bones. Hashtag what the hell is going on and why am I walking through a goddamn graveyard?”
Limping, she pushed her feet forward, trying to land gently on her right foot, but failing every single time. She winced and checked the phone again: 9 percent.
“Hashtag suck.”
Fourteen
“Children,” the goddess said.
Áine and Ciaran bowed as well as they could, slicing through the water. Keva stared with uncertainty, then lowered her head slightly before looking back up.
“This is Lir,” Ondine announced. “God and goddess and all. The maker, the protector of the sea. You may call upon the waters now.”
“Grandmother,” Keva said.
The clams shifted into a smile. “They have told you much, but you have understood little.”
“Grandmother?” Áine asked.
“Áine,” Lir said. “I have been calling for you. Pulling you with my tide and my waves. I am glad you have finally joined us. You may remove the lily if you wish—your blood protects you here, even though you bring fire and flame.” The clam eyes shifted to look at Ciaran. He smirked and sparked his fingers, but they immediately sizzled. He snapped and sizzled again. “Keep your lily, little fire. Your blood does not protect you.”
“Never has,” Ciaran said.
Áine touched the lily, and it instantly recoiled. It zipped out of her nose, broke free of her mouth, and settled back around her neck—all in the flit of a pixie’s wing. Áine gasped and nearly choked, but then the skin split on her neck, and she felt the air flow in, pulsing and beating along with her heart.
The shadows swirled inside her, then slid out of the slit in her neck. She watched them sink down and slither away. Gone.
For a moment, she missed their power, their dark possibility. But then the water swirled around her, and suddenly she felt as if she could fly. Every inch of her body was covered by delicious possibility. The water—it fled down streams and into the river. It would make its way out into the ocean and into forever. It was inside her and all around her. So much endless possibility.
She touched the slits on her neck. Grandmother. The clams lifted and settled. All those years—she should have known. The feel of the water. The way it filled her up. When she stood on the ferry with Hennessy, she had heard it calling, pulling her. She didn’t understand the words. But she felt them, deep inside her bones.
She glanced at her sister. The lily stayed in Keva’s mouth; her eyes were unreadable. Áine swam up to Lir and motioned for Keva to join her. “We’ve come to ask for your help.”
“We’ve already given it.”
“And thank you for that. I have no idea what we would have done without you.” The clams shifted and slid but said nothing. “We need more,” Áine said. “We need help to get to the Cedar Crossing.”
“That crossing is gone.”
“It can’t be,” Áine said.
“It is.” The water swirled around her. “You can’t change the world with your words, little one. The crossing is no more. It slipped beyond memory, and while no one remembered, the forest did. The wood could not forget. The branches loathed the face of man. The cedars consumed the passage. They released its pain and swallowed its rage.”
“Why is everything so impossible?” Ciaran asked. “What are we supposed to do now?”
“Two choices left,” Keva said.
“Three,” Lir said.
Keva turned away from Lir. “You can go to the World Tree,” Keva said. Her eyes landed on Áine, intense and unrelenting. “But you won’t break the wards. Your power grows weaker above the waves. And mine grows stronger. I will protect the Aetherlands. I will not let you pass.”
“Remain with us,” Lir replied, clams stretching toward Áine. “The waters welcome you.”
“No!” Keva snapped, and the naiads hissed, reaching for their tridents. Áine swam between them, her eyes locked on Ondine. Ondine showed her teeth, and the light from Keva’s skin sparked, blazing and burning in the pale-green light. “She will not swim with you again. Your time is done.”
Lir laughed and waved away the naiads’ weapons. “Shhh, child. Keep your little monsters inside. Áine is one of us. The water flows in her veins. Not the Eta.”
Áine felt the water slide in and out of her neck. It felt warm and right and good. But it didn’t feel like forever.
“You let the water in,” Keva said softly. “You can let it out. Stop struggling with the darkness and let the Eta in again.”
Áine clenched her fist, the water swishing through her fingers. “And you could take a breath and think for yourself for an Oberon-forsaken moment. Stop doing everything the Eta say. You are more than what they make you.”
“And you are less than what you could be,” Keva said, eyes glowing. She reached out her shining palm. “The world is changing. The old gods are dying. They hide in the bottom of the sea. The new gods are rising.”
The clams snapped, all at once, a burst of sound and a blast of water. “We do not die,” Lir said, her voice everywhere. “We live. Just as we always have. But we do not live for battle like you murderers. With your fire. Your swords. Your shields. Your kind are all the same.” The clams rustled in a cloud of
dirt, then nestled into the muddy bed.
“It’s easy, right?” Áine said, biting back the anger, her nails cutting into her hand. “To stay beneath the water.”
“Yes,” Ciaran said, swimming up to Áine's side. “Everything is really damp. But honestly, it’s a bit of a downer, Lir. You should come with us. Get some fresh air. Help us kick some pixie wings.”
“Why would we rise above the surface, little flame? Fey, Shadows, things with wings—it doesn’t matter. Your people bring excess, death, and decay. Or worse yet, apathy. You laugh as they destroy it all. You tell your little jokes, even as your own fire flickers and sputters. Pollution. Destruction.” The clams snapped and rose, shooting toward Áine and turning into a fist. She loosened her fingers, but the anger didn’t go away. “So much rage. I can feel it on the waves. Niamh, your mother, she was the best of them. She was mine—cool waters. She moved them along like the current and brought them through to the other side of the Balor Wars.
“And you know what they did to her? They killed her. Fey and Shadows both. They burned her brightly and threw her body into the sea. She came back to me.” The clams swirled and shifted, forming a new face.
Her hair like rain, her face soft. Her lips parted, her eyes crinkling, on the edge of a laugh or a song.
Áine’s mother.
Áine remembered the feeling of her arms, the way she pulled her in, held her close, and always smelled like the sea.
Áine reached out her hand. The clams spun away, twirling into the shape of flames, trapping her mother inside. Her fiery mouth broke into a silent scream, and Áine cried out.
The clams snapped and dissolved back to the ground. The face of Lir rose from the ashes. “Shadows kill what they do not understand. Fey murder for power and control. The bodies wash back into the sea, and the sea forms life from the blood of all your victories.” Lir looked at Ciaran. “You burn,” she said, then spun toward Keva. “You all burn so brightly. But then your light goes out like a forgotten sun, you wither and die or you explode, and life continues beneath the waves.”
“You hide here,” Áine said, “while the world falls apart up there. There is a war above the waves. The Eta are seizing control—”
