Coral

by Sara Ella

  The old merwoman approached her, smoothed her hair back, then cupped Coral’s face between her palms. “Oh, I have waited for this day, my special girl. The day I could reveal the truth of who you are. And who I am.”

  Coral couldn’t speak. Or breathe. With the Abyss looming in the background, she wasn’t sure if she wanted to know what came next. But deep inside she could sense it. She thought of the dark tunnel she swam through to get to her secret place in the rocks. Coral had never feared that darkness.

  Light always waits on the other end.

  “What is beyond the Abyss, Grandmother?”

  The merwoman’s face lit up. Had she been waiting for Coral to ask this very question? “The only way to know that, my darling, is to swim through it. For it is only in darkness that one is forced to seek the light. Many Diseased before you have been offered the chance. Now I will ask you—will you trust me enough to follow me through this darkness?” She offered her hand.

  Coral blinked. Swim through the Abyss? How? It was said to be never-ending. They could get lost for an eternity. “Grandmother, we should turn back. What you’re asking me to do . . .” It sounded like a trick. It sounded like—

  Coral gasped.

  Her grandmother nodded.

  Only one in all the ocean was said to be powerful enough to survive the Abyss.

  Coral’s pulse throttled.

  Her grandmother leaned near. Whispered, “Indeed. Now you will either believe what others have said, or trust me. The choice is yours.” She retrieved Coral’s trunk and floated away until she vanished into the shadows.

  The merwoman who helped raise Coral was more than even Father knew. Her grandmother was the Sorceress of the Sea.

  If Father were here, he’d forbid Coral from going anywhere near her presence.

  Which is precisely why I have to see it through.

  With all her courage plus a splash of defiance, the little mermaid followed the Sorceress into the Abyss.

  Interstitial

  Seventeen

  Brooke

  After

  When the boy’s fs stone, he hoists himself onto the ledge without my help.

  For several seconds he stares at me, mouth open. When I ignore him and attempt to retrieve the raft, he assists. Together we draw it up in silence, drag it into the cave at our rear.

  I stagger and hold on to the rock wall for support, my body catching up to my mind. The shivers come full and harsh and battering. I’m shaking uncontrollably and ack! Why can’t I stop?

  “Hi.” His voice sounds like that of a classic movie star. Cary Grant or Rock Hudson. It’s a recordable voice. One you’d want to narrate audiobooks so you could listen to it all day.

  I wish I could cover my ears and drown out the sound.

  He shuffles, his flashlight bouncing with each movement.

  My vision blurs. I might throw up. Or pass out. I vote for the second. At least then I’d escape this misery.

  When he nears, I stiffen and recoil.

  But then something that feels like a blanket wraps my shoulders. His hands rub against my arms over the material. I’m chattering and shivering and unable to stop when my body falls against his. He wraps me, then removes his coat and helps me put my arms into the sleeves. It’s damp but warm. Next he’s leading me to the raft and helping me sit, tucking the blanket around my legs like a burrito.

  “Th-th-thanks,” I say between chatters.

  “I should be the one thanking you.” He stands his flashlight straight up, then riffles through what appears to be an emergency supply kit attached to the raft. “All this high-end survival stuff and not a single cheese pizza in here.”

  The joke catches me off guard and I release a clipped laugh.

  My vision may not be the best right now, but his satisfied half smile does not escape my notice. I blink and focus. Close the distance between us with my gaze.

  There’s something so . . . What’s the word? . . . intriguing about watching a person who doesn’t realize they’re being watched. I consider him across the space. Face pale when he arrived, the color has begun to return to his cheeks. He’s angular, every point of his elbows and bow of his knees revealing a purpose, a destination, a plan.

  “Wh-what were you d-doing out th-there?” Curiosity wins against my will.

  “It’s complicated.” He exhales and his shoulders quake. When he looks up, eyes locking with mine, I retreat into myself. “What were you doing?”

  “Looking for you. Or wasn’t that obvious?”

  Lightning flashes over the water, thunder rolling and echoing around the cave. “I h-have t-to g-go.” Even as I speak, the idea sounds absurd.

  The boy chuckles, echoing my thoughts. “Neither of us is going anywhere tonight. We’ll have to wait for morning. It’s too dark and the storm’s picking up again. And you are in no condition to move, let alone make the climb back.”

  He’s right, but the idea of staying here all night in a cave with him, even if we do know each other, amps my anxiety. What was I thinking? Why here? Why now?

  “If you’re worried about me hurting you, you should know I wouldn’t.” How does he read me so easily? Is that regret I hear in his tone?

  I hide the grin that threatens to betray my attempt to hate him. “You kn-know that’s exactly wh-what a c-creeper would say, r-r-right?”

  The amusement in his voice is evident when he replies, “I am definitely not a creeper.”

  An awkward silence ensues. The worst kind of torture.

  “What’s y-your n-name?” There. I said it. Now he can know for sure I’ve forgotten all about him.

  He doesn’t answer right away, then, “You don’t know?”

  Frustration flares. “Should I?” I peek at him through my lashes. We’re playing a childish game, but somehow it succeeds in making my cheeks burn in a nonchildish way. Ugh. Can I keep nothing to myself?

  He presses his lips, clearly considering his next move. Is he going to call me out?

  I stare back at him, our eye contact too easy.

  “I have an idea.”

  “Go for it.” My pulse speeds. What’s wrong with me? Why does he make me feel so comfortable? Make me act at ease and normal? Understood?

  “We’ll guess each other’s names.”

  The chatters die off one by one. “Excuse me?” My panting slows. I’m far from warm but at least the jacket, the blanket, the cave . . . all work together to ward off the cold.

  “Oh, c’mon.” He unwraps some kind of protein bar thing and hands it over, then grabs another for himself. After two bites he says, “Don’t tell me you’ve never done this ice-breaker exercise before.”

  I shrug. “Sorry.” I nibble at the fake-tasting chocolate. Best fake chocolate ever.

  He shoves the rest of his bar into his mouth, then jumps to his feet.

  I flinch.

  He makes no comment about my obvious jitters, or my refusal to acknowledge the past. Instead, he sits beside me. “We’re stuck here, at least for tonight. Might as well make the most out of it, eh, Katie?”

  My nose wrinkles. I bite another corner off the bar.

  He laughs again. Lifts both hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay. Not Katie. It was my first guess. Give a guy a break.”

  I glance at the rain falling in sheets. A curtain between cave and sea. My anxiety fails to win this one. We have no choice.

  We’ll stay.

  He must catch the surrender in my sunken expression because he says, “Welcome to my humble abode.” His voice projects and he sweeps a hand wide as if showing off a loaded bachelor pad. “Now, rules.” He rubs his hands together. Scoots closer.

  Must he insist on torturing me? I want to widen the gap between our shoulders. But his nearness adds warmth. The tension in my muscles, in my clenched fists, eases.

  “We get five guesses each.” He holds up a hand, all fingers displayed. “Whoever’s guess is closest gets to give the other person a nickname.”

  If he remembers
me, he knows I despise nicknames. Which is precisely the reason I say, “Sounds good.”

  “Let me see . . .” He taps his chin and stares up at the ceiling.

  “Not so fast. You had your first guess. It’s my turn.”

  “That was my practice guess.”

  “If you get a practice, isn’t it only fair to give me one too?”

  He shrugs. “I suppose.”

  “Good.” Except I have no idea what I’m going to say. I blurt the first name that comes to mind. “Caiden.”

  Not-Caiden shakes his head. “Nice try, but you’re way off. Now, for the real guesses. Five each. You look like an . . . Hmmm . . . Your hair is so long. And your eyes, what color is that exactly?”

  I look down at my lap. This conversation is way too familiar. “Blue.”

  “No. Not quite.” He nears me and I have nowhere to go except into the raft’s inflated side. “You’re quiet,” he says. “How about . . . Serene?”

  I scrunch my face and stick out my tongue. That’s his guess? What if . . . Maybe he doesn’t remember me? I don’t know if that would be better or worse.

  “Yeah. You’re right. Not you at all.” His serious words don’t match his light tone. He rubs his chin and scoots closer.

  Guilt chafes. I’m wearing his coat while he has none. Could he need my warmth as much as I need his?

  “Your turn.” His shoulder rolls.

  His inability to sit still sends an unrecognizable sensation vibrating into my chest and up my neck and face. Why can’t I think straight? “Um . . .”

  “Ennnt, wrong. My name, most fortunately, is not ‘Um.’”

  I slap him on the arm and immediately regret the acquainted gesture. If I scoot away now, he’ll know he’s making me uncomfortable. If I don’t, I’ll be uncomfortable. Gah! Why is this so weird?

  “Sorry, sorry,” he says. “Go on.”

  I bite my lower lip, consider using his tactic to make an educated guess. “Alec,” I say, a foreign grin spreading across my face.

  “Why Alec?”

  I sit a little taller. “Because you’re kind of a smart Alec. Get it?”

  “Ha-ha. Touché.”

  That same blush from before returns. I only hope he can’t see it through the shadows.

  As if reading my mind, he leans forward and retrieves the flashlight, shines it on the cave wall. It bounces off the slick stone, reflecting back into his gaze.

  “Back to those eyes of yours.” He tilts his head to face me. “They actually remind me of these pearls my grandmother used to wear. You could be a Pearl.”

  My gut pinches at the word grandmother. I suddenly feel too tired for games. “Not Pearl.” How long can we keep this up? I don’t even bother trying on the next one. “Zach.”

  He lifts a brow. “With an h or a k?”

  “Either.”

  There’s that half smile again. “Nope.”

  Two guesses later each, we still haven’t said the other’s name. “What if we both lose?” I ask, because I do not intend to win.

  “Then we both get to give each other nicknames.” He seems excited at the notion, bouncing where he sits, his shoulder rubbing against mine.

  I ignore the butterflies taking flight in my stomach, make my final guess. “Peter.” Because I’m so tired I feel far away in Neverland. In that scene when Captain Hook has kidnapped Tiger Lily and Peter swoops in to save her. Except, I saved him. So why does it feel like he’s the one with the power here?

  “Not a Peter,” he says.

  “‘To die will be an awfully big adventure.’” The quote slips before I can stop it.

  “J. M. Barrie. Nice. You enjoy reading?”

  He knows I do. “I did. Once.”

  “No more of this ‘once’ business. We’re getting out of here and it’s my turn.” He faces me full-on. His features soften and his eyes search mine. “Brooke.”

  Why did he have to ruin it? “No.” I morph back into the me who is more familiar. The me I became after him. “Wrong.”

  He eyes me but doesn’t call me out. “I guess it’s nickname time. You first.”

  This feels too intimate. Still, I say, “Drifter.”

  “Good one, but a little cliché. You’re lucky I like it or I’d make you think of something else.”

  “If that were the case, we might be here forever.”

  “Is that such a bad thing?” He elbows my side.

  After some time, when he hasn’t spoken, I wonder if he’s fallen asleep. But a glance at his dimly lit expression reveals he’s putting some thought into this. I suddenly regret being so quick to choose my nickname for him.

  I don’t care. I don’t.

  “You saved my life,” he says, his words a thoughtful whisper. “You brought color back to me when everything seemed gray.”

  His profound statements open old wounds. Why do I get the notion he’s not referring to tonight alone?

  “I have a name,” he says, shifting where he sits. “But I’m not going to give it to you yet.”

  I frown. “Why?”

  “Because it’s not the right time.” His self-assurance is incredibly infuriating.

  “When is the right time?” What is it about him that makes me say all the words?

  “Trust me. You’ll know.”

  I have no idea what that means or why he’s acting this way. My heart wants to build walls, to block him at all entrances. I’d made myself forget him. But I’m so tired and cold I can’t think. Before I can press him further, my eyelids betray me.

  When his arms fall around me, I don’t fight it. This boy—this drifter—smells of summer. When the sun hits the rocks just so at about midday in July and everything feels yellow. A poppied hue that complements the blue of the sea in a way that makes their duet sing. Warmth envelops my body despite the chill.

  In my sleep, the nightmares never come.

  And this, I realize, is even more terrifying than the darkness.

  Eighteen

  Merrick

  The drive back to the city took them less than two hours the next morning. They’d left early enough to beat the rush-hour traffic. So much faster than the bus with all its stops.

  “Thanks for coming with, man. You didn’t have to.” What else could Merrick say? Grim hadn’t heard from him since middle school and now he was dropping everything to help Amaya.

  “Think nothing of it, my friend.” Grim slowed the car as he pulled into the hospital’s parking lot.

  Merrick dialed his sister’s cell. He tried to call her back last night, but it went straight to voice mail. When the same thing happened now, he hung up without leaving a message and looked up the hospital’s main line. He pressed Call and waited.

  “UCSF Benioff Children’s, how may I direct your call?”

  “Can you transfer me to room 301, please?”

  “One moment.”

  That moment lasted way too long and Merrick’s morning coffee quickly turned to acid in his gut. Maybe she was sleeping. Or eating. Or having her vitals checked again. When the call was sent back to the operator, he asked for the nurses’ station on the third floor.

  “This is Jana.”

  Merrick cleared his throat. “Hi, Jana. This is Merrick. I don’t know if you remember me, but my sister, Amaya, is there in room 301. I’m trying to get ahold of her.”

  “Of course I remember you,” the overly chipper pregnant woman said. “How are you holding up?”

  “I’m good. No complaints. Can I speak to Amaya?”

  “Oh, sorry.” She laughed. “She was discharged this morning. I believe your father came to pick her up.”

  Or his chauffeur. Merrick rolled his eyes. If his father could send someone else to do his work for him, he would.

  “Okay, thanks.”

  “Anytime.”

  Merrick hung up and stared at his phone’s still-lit screen.

  “Everything all right?” Grim’s car had been idling. He put it in park and turned off the ignition. �
�Are we staying? Going?”

  “Do you mind taking me to my house?” It took everything in Merrick not to call Amaya’s number again. “I’m sure my sister’s there.”

  “I am at your service, my liege.” Grim turned the key and backed out.

  Merrick entered the route into his GPS and a female voice led the way. The morning fog stayed low until they reached the city limits, as if issuing a warning of what lay ahead. When Grim pulled up to the curb across the street from the home where Merrick grew up, the place looked different. Empty. He inhaled, closed his eyes, and set one foot on the pavement. But then the front door of his house opened and he ducked back into the car.

  “What’s up?” Grim asked.

  “That’s my father.” Merrick squinted, keeping his head low so his father wouldn’t see.

  Hiroshi descended the steps and slid into the back seat of a black luxury sedan. Harold drove the car onto the road and they were gone.

  “Keep the car running.”

  “Sure thing, buddy.”

  This time when Merrick got out, he sprinted across the street, nearly getting hit by a car he failed to notice. The driver honked and Merrick waved a halfhearted apology. When he entered the house, classic rock met him where he stood.

  It was Tuesday. Of course. The maids were here.

  It had been this way every Tuesday for years. Three women—a grandmother, her daughter, and her daughter—came to clean their house from floor to ceiling fan. His father could afford it, of course, and his mom said the house was too big to clean by herself. When the oldest of the three stepped from the dining room into the foyer, where Merrick stood, she screamed.

  “Goodness gracious, Mr. Merrick. You about gave this old woman a heart attack.”

  He slumped against the wall. “Sorry, Mrs. H. I’m looking for Amaya.”

  “She’s upstairs in her room. I’m sure she’ll be happy to see you before she leaves.”

  Before she leaves? Merrick took the stairs two at a time and found his sister exactly where Mrs. H said she was. A rolling suitcase lay open on her bed, and Maya was tossing unfolded pieces of clothing from her dresser into the bag. The bed was stripped bare and a shudder ran up Merrick’s spine.