Chapter One
I wake up in the sea.
The icy salt water sucks me under, and no matter how hard I claw for the surface, it remains just out of reach. Even as part of my body responds like a flower seeking the sun, soaking up the energy that only the ocean can bring, the rest of me screams for air that I no longer have access to.
A mermaid with no gills.
A mermaid who can drown.
Down and down I go, the pressure building against this weak body. I open my mouth, a desperate string of bubbles escaping. The last of my air.
It isn’t supposed to end like this. I’m not supposed to have the thing I love most in this broken world turned against me—morphed into the weapon I have no way to fight. Will my sisters sense my death? Will they wonder what happened to me?
Or will they just be relieved that it’s over?
I open my eyes against the pressing darkness. There, in front of me, is a bit of shadow deeper, darker than the inky blackness around it.
I’m not alone.
Something slides against my skin, identifiable even through the soul-deep cold of the water. Several somethings. They wrap around me again and again, covering my ankles, wind up my legs, around my hips, over my chest. Until that living noose tightens around my neck.
Soon, pretty.
The voice is darkness personified. Cold and knowing and more powerful than I’ll ever be.
I won’t let him have me. Death by drowning might be a disgrace, but it’s cleaner. I will not let him take me. I open my mouth and inhale the sea.
***
The beach is just as cold as the ocean. More so, with the wind whipping at my exposed skin. I lay there, half submerged by the incoming tide, and try to make sense of my new reality.
I’m alive.
I didn’t drown.
I don’t even know how I got in the water to begin with.
None of that matters right now. Without access to the full breadth of my powers, I’m just as liable to freeze to death as I am to drown. This new reality is shit. It takes everything I have to push myself onto my hands and knees and climb to my feet.
The world sways around me, or maybe it’s me swaying. I don’t know anymore. The only thing that matters is putting as much distance between my battered body and the instrument of pain at my back. One foot in front of the other. Rinse, repeat.
The lights of Trinidad wink on the other side of the beach. It might share its name with the island in the Caribbean, but Northern California couldn’t be more different. This Trinidad was far more fishing town than tropical paradise. Safety, but also a different kind of danger. The people there have no idea that the supernatural exists in this world—or that their world is just one of millions that are home to countless species, all a quick portal jump away.
Or it would be a quick portal jump if I was still capable of making portals.
I touch the hollow of my throat, my finger tracing the curve there were my necklace used to rest. Taking it shouldn’t have been enough to take the magic that ran through my veins, but combined with a spell that tied the two together…
No use thinking about it. I can’t go back and change the past any more than I can figure out how to change the trampled future before me. The only ones who could help me were the very sisters I couldn’t bear to admit the truth to. Better that they keep believing everything is fine, that I’m pursuing my own interests like the rest.
My house sits just outside of town, straddling the line between beach and forest. When I moved in, I wanted to be as far from the Pacific as I could manage, but reality isn’t that simple. The ocean calls to me. Going farther inland diminishes what little connection I maintain with my essence. It empties me out and leaves me as something even less than human.
Leagues less than the merfolk I actually am.
Or at least the one I used to be.
My door hangs open, creaking slightly in the breeze coming off the water. Even though I expected as much, I still curse under my breath. Sleepwalking again. It doesn’t seem to matter what precautions I take. Every night under the new moon, I wake in the water. It used to be that the first touch of ocean to my bare feet would jar me back to reality and undo whatever spell wrapped around my sleeping form. But in the last few months, things have become increasingly dire.
Cumulating tonight in my almost-drowning.
No. No almost about it. I did drown.
My chest hurts as if I’ve been rammed by a pod of dolphins and each breath rattles with liquid still residing in my lungs. I most definitely drowned. Though I normally don’t lock my door, I pause and flip the flimsy deadbolt. There are hours left until dawn, and even if I won’t be sleeping, putting every barrier I can between myself and the beach makes me feel the tiniest bit better.
It’s only when I pull my soaked oversized T-shirt over my head that the memories of being under roll through me. The shirt hits the ground with a wet plop and I abandon my plan to use the shower to coax some warmth back into my limbs. Water is a no-go. I don’t think it will call up whatever came to visit me in the dark, but because I can’t be sure, I climb into my bed and pull my pile of blankets around myself.
No matter how mild the Northern California winter is—or the summer for that matter—warmth escapes me. It never used to. Once upon a time, I could brave untold depths without so much as catching a chill…
I growl and roll over, pulling the blankets over my head. What is wrong with me? It’s been years. I might not be living my best life, but I haven’t rolled over and let sorrow drag me under yet. If there’s one rule I live by now, it’s not to spend time lamenting what I lost.
I lost it.
End of story.
But as I huddle beneath the covers and wait for warmth that will never arrive, I hear the voice again. It slithers through my memories, tainting everything it touches.
Soon, pretty.
Every muscle winds tighter and tighter, my body readying itself to spring into motion even though my mind hasn’t made the decision to move yet. Even thinking about that voice has me wanting to flee to high ground. Somewhere the sea can’t touch, because make no mistake—that voice calls from the sea. One of the monsters of the deep, though they come in so many shapes and sizes and specialties, it’s anyone’s guess what his flavor of awful is. My sister Amae would know, but I haven’t spoken to Amae in two long years and I can’t exactly call her up now to keep me company because I slept-walked into the ocean, mostly drowned, and hallucinated a nightmare.
I lay there as the minutes tick by and light steals across the sky visible through my bedroom window. With each paler shade of blue the sky reveals, I can breathe a little easier. Bad things can and will happen in the day, but at least I won’t be wandering into the ocean without anyone to stop me.
Not that I have anyone. I’m the very essence of a loner, cut off from everyone who might give a shit about me. The worst part is that I have no one to blame but myself.
With a growl, I stagger out of bed and go through the motions of getting ready for the day. Shower, clean clothes, a mug of coffee nearly as big as my head. Anything to make my day a little less hellish.
I trudge down the gravel path to the street and walk parallel to the beach toward town. Trinidad isn’t anywhere near as large as Eureka to the south, but it sees more than its fair share of tourists by virtue of squatting astride the 101 and having plenty of beach to ogle. Tourists like to stop here to stretch their legs and wander through town, to soak up the local atmosphere, or whatever they tell themselves as they ogle anything and everything.
One of those things being my bookstore.
My sisters would laugh their asses off if they saw me now—one of the merfolk who bought a used bookstore and spends her day surr
ounded by dusty paper and four thick walls that almost, almost, smother the distant sound of the tide’s endless dance between earth and moon. What can I say? I play against type.
The salt air has long since caused the wood of the front door to swell and bloat, meaning each morning I have to wrestle it into submission. The wind whips down the street, yanking my blond hair out of its haphazard bun and I curse a blue streak. I can taste salt and electricity on the air, the combination ripe with possibility. Once upon a time, I would have lived for what it portends, but now I just curse harder because it means I might as well have stayed home.
“Storm’s coming.”
I jump, the motion yanking the front door open and nearly sending me flying. It gives me a chance to paste a polite smile on my face before I turn to face my neighbor Penelope Richards. Even after the years I’ve spent in this world, I’m still terrible at guessing human ages. She could be anywhere from sixty to ninety, her gray hair a nimbus around her head and the body beneath her floral dress so thin, it’s a wonder the wind doesn’t pick her up and carry her down the street. Another gust chooses that moment to slam into us, and I reluctantly let go of the bookstore’s door. She’s been nothing but kind to me, despite my general lack of social skills and I can’t very well let her get hurt just because I don’t feel like chatting. “Pen, why don’t you come in for some tea?” Anything to get her out of the weather for a little bit—and save me the chore of having to walk her home before I open shop.
“If you’re sure it won’t be an imposition.” She’s already moving, ducking into the open doorway with a glowering look at the clouds twisting together overhead. “It’s going to be a nasty one, mark my words.”
“I know.” I can feel the pending violence licking against my skin. Despite mostly mild winters in Northern California, the occasional winter storm still rolls through and reminds us mortals that our lives mean less than nothing in the grand scheme of the universe. I wrestle the door shut and shove my hair out of my face. “You stay out of the weather today, Pen. It’s not going to be something to mess around with.”
She tsks at me, the sound full of fondness. “I know you think I’m just an old biddy who needs taking care of, Lorelei, but I’ve been weathering these storms since I was younger than you.” She squeezes my arm. “But I appreciate you thinking of me. That grandson of mine is going to come collect me before too long.”
The grandson in question probably doesn’t even realize she’s missing. Pen likes to give him the slip just to prove she still can, though most days she spends with her group of lady friends, sunning themselves on one of the benches lining the main thoroughfare and gossiping about things that happened decades ago. She doesn’t like to admit it, but she can’t get around as well as she used to.
No point in commenting on that, though. She’s here and, for the time being, she’s safe. I pause to flick on the Open sign, the red neon brighter than it should be at this time of day. Another glance at the gathering clouds and I follow Pen deeper into the bookstore.
As much as I bought this place in some strange sort of penance, I’ve grown to love it. The shelves perpetually lean in odd directions, forcing people walking the few aisles to lean with them, and though I keep them mostly organized by genre, I’ve started and stopped a massive reorganization no less than half a dozen times. The result is…eclectic. People find what they’re looking for when they wander in, though, and that’s all that matters.
I have a tiny bar situated behind the counter, though the only thing it holds is an electric kettle and a glass case with a variety of tea. Pen’s hobby seems to be ensuring that I’m not left alone for too long—and that I could drown in all the tea provided.
The thought of drowning has the smile fading from my lips. I almost forgot, just for a little bit, about what happened in the dark of the new moon.
Chapter Two
“Are you okay, Lorelei? You look as if someone walked over your grave.”
Impossible to walk over a watery grave. Did sea creatures have chills skitter up their spines when a boat cruised over the place of their demise?
I pull my hair tie out and run my fingers through my hair. Even though I shampooed twice in the scalding shower, I swear I can still feel coarse sea salt against my fingertips. “I didn’t sleep well last night.”
“Old wound acting up?”
I touch my thigh, mentally tracing the scar that spiderwebs from hip to knee. “Something like that.”
“My Thomas used be able to predict storms down to the very hour.” She smiles, her face going soft. Just for a moment, I can see the younger version of herself shining through the lines brought on by age and a life well-lived. Pen was a stunner back in her heyday, no doubt about it. She pulls two cups from the wire rack next to the kettle and passes one over. “He took a bullet to the knee in the war, and it was never quite the same again. But we were never caught in a storm for the rest of our marriage.”
I fill our cups and sit back. Rain clatters against the windows and I make a mental note to close the shutters once we’ve finished our tea. The last thing I need is the storm blowing something through the glass and drenching the interior of the store. I spent the only resources I had getting this place in my name, and though I etch out a living, my savings account is as much a fantasy as merfolk are supposed to be. I’m one bad day from going under.
I have a lot of bad days, but at least they don’t usually expand to encompass the business.
Pen sips her tea and smiles. “That’s the good stuff.” She sets down the cup. “While I did come to chat, I have a favor to ask before I forget. I set down my glasses somewhere and, for the life of me, I can’t figure out where they are.”
“Hmmm.” I cradle the cup between my palms, letting the warmth soak into my hands. One slow breath centers me, and a second sends my power down to my very core. I might be cut off from the majority of it, but those bastards couldn’t take this. It doesn’t matter that it’s hardly impressive in the grand scheme of things, or that it’s not going to be a power that will save the world one day. It’s mine, and it will always be mine.
I send a thread out, concentrating on Pen’s desire to find her glasses. It works better if I’m in the room with the object, but I can manage over short distances with some degree of accuracy for strangers. For friends, the range expands. For myself and my sisters, I could find something even if it required crossing the earth to do it.
An image forms in my mind and I wait while the details slide into place. A cash register, a counter faded from years’ worth of use, and the scent of donuts in the air. I lick my lips and open my eyes. “You might want to stop by Dory’s on the way home. Just a hunch.”
“Thank you, my dear.” She gives me a happy smile. “You ought to sell that talent of yours. You could be living the high life, rather than stuffing yourself away in this dusty old place.”
“I like my bookstore,” I say mildly. It’s the truth, more or less. I’ve settled into owning this place, and I don’t hate it. That’s enough for me.
“You’re too young for this town.” She waves a weathered hand at me before I can speak. “Oh, don’t get me wrong. I love this place. But every summer, I expect some gorgeous tourist to tempt you away, and every summer it doesn’t happen.”
There have been tourists. Not many, but some nights the loneliness gets too much to bear and I wander into one of the local watering holes and allow someone there to seduce me. I still haven’t decided if it’s a form of self-care or penance, but I’m not likely to stop anytime soon. Sex is a need just like food or sleep or air. Just because I don’t need it as often doesn’t mean the desire to indulge ceases to exist.
But I’m not about to divulge that truth to Pen. She won’t understand. Pen met the love of her life and spent decades building a life with him. To her, it’s just a matter of finding the right person and following a similar path. There’s no room in her story for merfolk who’ve been cursed or a larger paranormal threat bearing down
on all of us. I won’t be the one to break that spell. Not for her. Not today.
I smile and sip my tea. “Maybe someday.”
“Maybe someday,” she mocks, but not unkindly. “Lorelei, you’re too young to already have one foot in the grave.”
Thunder rumbles in the distance and, despite myself, I shiver. Even sheltered in the bookstore, I can taste the hint of danger on the wind. Something’s coming, it whispers. I could spend the next hour convincing myself that it’s all in my head, but I’m not just putting myself at risk by ignoring the possibility that it’s real. I finish my tea and push to my feet. “Let me call that grandson of yours. If you wait much longer to head home, you’re going to end up soaked and catch a chill.”
Pen watches me with clear blue eyes. “Have him stop at Dory’s on the way.”
***
After Pen leaves, there’s no point in sticking around. The skies open, sending the rain howling down upon us. I lock my door and lean back against it as a particular brutal gust nearly takes me off my feet. The streets are all but deserted, the locals battening down the hatches and huddled inside to wait out the worst of it. There are a couple tourists farther down, but if they’re not smart enough to seek shelter, they’re not my problem.
Technically, no one in Trinidad is my problem.
I start for home, the wind and water turning my hair into blond snakes that whip around my head. Less than a quarter mile to my house and it might as well be on the moon. I pull my jacket tighter around my body and pick up my pace. Each harsh breath makes my chest ache, reminding me about the way this morning started.
I shouldn’t be alive.
There’s no other way to say it. When I closed my eyes, parted my lips, and inhaled… I made my choice. That I hadn’t died. That I woke up on the beach… Someone put me there, though I can’t begin to guess their purpose.
Lorelei.
I jump and spin in a circle, searching for the source of the voice. There’s no one in sight. There isn’t even a single pair of headlights on the road. Just the trees whipping back and forth in front of me and the beach at my back. I turn slowly to face the beach—the water—and squint into the driving rain. No part of me is dry at this point, so I might as well investigate.
Siren’s Surge Page 1
