A mermaid; an honest-to-goodness mermaid. The concept had enchanted storytellers for millennia, long before even Homer had tied Odysseus to the mast of his ship. Finally, the source of all the stories and legends would be revealed to the world! What would this creature look like?
A rumble in the distance caused eyebrows to crease and eyes to dart around nervously. The sound increased, and voices began to whisper curiously. A sense of apprehension and excitement was palpable in the atmosphere. As the source approached, and the source drew nearer, spectators began to recognize the particular brand of thunder. In the distance, a black blur became visible as it barreled down the road. A motorcycle.
There was no question that the little two-wheeled vehicle had been easily doubling the speed limit, but no one seemed to notice this as they stared spellbound at the figure of the person atop the motorized beast. It was not the silhouette one might have expected. Instead of a brawny fellow clad in a denim jacket with buttons that barely contained his beer belly, there was a slim and shapely waist swathed in black, armor-like leather.
It was a woman. If this was not shocking enough, she turned her bike into the field where the press conference had been set up, and drove directly onto the stage, using the side of the stairs as a ramp. The motorcycle was airborne for a moment before it landed. The important female political official screamed, and vaulted away from the vehicle.
Trevain crossed his arms over his chest. The woman crunched down on her brakes, locking up her wheels and causing the motorcycle to skid across the stage until it was barely an inch away from Trevain. She slammed her leather-booted foot onto the ground to stop the momentum. Trevain sighed as the scent of burnt rubber infiltrated his nostrils.
As the woman turned off her bike and dismounted, Trevain heard a familiar laugh and thought he saw a playful wink through the tinted visor of the motorcycle helmet. The woman used her boot to aggressively knock down her kickstand as she turned to look out at the massive audience. She placed her leather-gloved hands on her hipbones as she considered the crowd for a moment.
Her wide stance and erect posture oozed confidence as she reached up to remove the helmet from her head. She shook out a massive heap of tangled, unruly red curls and gave the audience a smug smile. She shoved her helmet onto one of the handlebars of her bike and began slowly sauntering up to the podium.
The tight leather clung to every contour of her long, muscled legs as she moved. When she was positioned before the podium, she studied the audience with a challenging air of superiority. Her shoulders were set back proudly and fearlessly, and she turned their scrutiny back upon them. So these are humans? her expression seemed to ask. So these are those silly insignificant beings who live and die on land, never knowing all the majesty they’re missing? No words were required to communicate that she was not a lesser animal for their entertainment. She was not to be exploited or mistreated in the common way society treated biological anomalies—she was too strong. She would never be a circus freak or a laughingstock. She was from a place of culture and sophistication, and she would tolerate no contempt.
All of this was understood before she had even parted her reddened lips in speech. Her entire audience, including those physically present and those watching from the comfort of their living rooms, was effectively mesmerized by her manner. She could feel the humming energy of their awe and fascination as though it were a physical thing she could grasp in her hand. Heat emanated from the object, warming her entire body.
Oh, how she loved an audience. The tall redhead tapped the microphone to check that it was on, before leaning forward to speak.
“I am General Visola Ramaris, the representative from the undersea kingdom of Adlivun,” she said. She paused, scanning the crowd with a poised, yet placid expression. She glanced back at Trevain and smiled at him to reassure him that she had everything under control. Trevain found himself holding his breath, almost afraid of the next thing she would say or do. Visola turned back to the audience, and cleared her throat, before delivering her carefully written speech.
“As you can see, I’ve got legs.”
She paused again for effect, allowing these words to sink deep into the eardrums of her onlookers. “I can also assure you that I know how to use them. Any questions?”
There was a silence as everyone registered her words. Everyone seemed unusually shocked and perplexed at both the simplicity and hilarity of her words. The spectators seemed to suddenly catch themselves staring, and they tightened their slack jaws. An explosion of camera flashes and excited chattering began. It hit Visola like a tsunami of adoration, and she smiled like a parading pageant queen basking in the gaudy glow of fame.
Trevain sighed and lifted his palm to press it against his forehead. Visola had completely tossed out her carefully planned speech, and had instead decided to use cheap theatrics to impress and engage her audience. And that is how my grandmother became an international sex symbol, Trevain thought to himself dryly.
“She’s quite the firecracker,” Marshal Landou said quietly, running his tongue over his top lip.
“She’s married,” Trevain responded, looking at the bald man with disdain.
“Happily?” Marshal Landou inquired.
Trevain rolled his eyes and did not gratify this question with a response. He turned his attention back to the charming way Visola was working the crowd—her tactic had worked. Everyone was riveted, including Trevain himself, who had been completely unable to concentrate just minutes before. He had to admit that even the wildest of Visola’s actions made a twisted kind of sense. He could not help but admire how expertly and humorously the woman fielded questions from the reports, frequently sending the whole audience into fits of laugher.
“General Ramaris! We have heard rumors about decreased senescence among your people. Are your lifespans really longer than ours? How old are you?”
“I was under the impression that questions about a lady’s age would be strictly off limits,” Visola said with a playful pout, “but yes, the rumors are true. I was born in 1449 off the coast of Norway. That makes me two years older than Christopher Columbus—if he were still alive, of course.”
“How do you stay looking so young? Are you immortal?”
“Afraid not, darling,” Visola said, casting a sad smile on the reporter. “I would love to share my beauty secrets and make a capitalistic killing from seaweed-infused cosmetics, but the truth is that I just breathe a lot of water. Oh—but don’t try that at home, kids. Not unless you have ultrasound results proving that you have amphibious lungs, and someone who knows CPR nearby in case your second pair of lungs aren’t strong enough to extract oxygen from the water. The reverse happens to us sometimes—sometimes our children are born without the ability to breathe water.”
“So it is possible for humans to have children with… mermaids?”
“Yes, and making them is just as fun,” Visola responded, matter-of-factly. She waited for the giggles and chuckles to dissipate before continuing with a serious response. “Our people have been mixing with yours for thousands of years, all over the world. We’re the Selkie in Ireland, and we’re the Ningyo in Japan. There are hundreds of names for us, in every language, and we have dozens of underwater nations. You have countless paintings and stories about us, except you like to exaggerate and make us fantastic. Now you know the truth. We’re just like you.” Visola placed her elbow on the wooden podium, and rested her chin in the palm of her hand. She smiled out at the audience. “We’re just like you… except wet.”
Marshal Landou left Trevain’s side and moved across the stage to whisper to the female politician. Trevain frowned, studying their lips.
“Tell me about her—what do you know?” Marshal Landou was quietly asking the woman.
Trevain began moving over to interrupt this conversation. The man needed to be rebuked—regardless of military rank, no one was allowed to speak about Visola literally behind her back. However, a younger military official came up to Tr
evain’s side to grin at him.
“Wowzers! Keeping all the hot mermaid tail to yourself, ain’t you Captain Murphy?”
Trevain clenched his fists, growing extremely angry. These people were despicable! How had he lived among them for an entire lifetime? “That woman is my grandmother,” Trevain said in a low voice. “My wife is missing, and you’re supposed to be looking for her.”
“I’m sorry sir, I didn’t mean…”
Trevain ignored the apology and concentrated on reading the lips of the conversation Marshal Landou was having. The female politician responded to him just as quietly—no one would have been able to hear them over the noise coming from the speakers and the audience.
“She has a sick daughter,” the woman was saying, “recently admitted to the hospital.”
Trevain’s eyes narrowed. How did they know the details of his mother’s condition?
Marshal Landou nodded, as he turned to keenly inspect Visola’s back and backside. There was no doubt in Trevain’s mind what the bald man was thinking, and he very much wanted to walk across the stage and flatten the man’s nose. Of course, it was much too public a forum to entertain such whims.
“I’ll see if I can pull some strings and get some special care for her daughter,” Marshal Landou was whispering.
Trevain’s anger quickly dissipated into gratitude and confusion. His mother could use all the help that anyone could offer. Was the bald man going to help Alcyone just to impress Visola? It all suddenly clicked in his mind. It was a foreign type of genius to him, for he had never been a woman, and he could not understand the power of shamelessly flaunting one’s body.
It occurred to Trevain that Visola had intended to seduce the military leader all along. She had intended to milk him for favors, grand gestures of romance, and allegiance. The tight leather pants were just part of the plan. Just a gimmick which Visola hoped would make things a little easier—easier to get on the marshal’s good side, and easier to manipulate him. Surely if a man in a position of power fell in love with her, it would be easier to save Alcyone, and easier to save Adlivun.
Trevain received confirmation of these thoughts when Visola glanced back at them, her green eyes sparkling with impish mischief. She was completely aware of the marshal’s eyes on her, and she expertly tossed him a flirtatious smile. Yes, the man was already wrapped around her finger. Without being able to control it, Trevain found his thoughts drifting again to Aazuria. Could Visola use her clout with the marshal to secure more help in searching for his wife? He pushed the thought away as fast as it had come—he would not exploit his grandmother’s body for his own purposes. Even though his purposes were also hers.
Did Vachlan know of this plan? Trevain chewed his lip thoughtfully as he observed the marshal’s transfixed expression. If his grandfather had seen this, he would have surely taken Marshal Landou’s head off, cameras or no cameras. Trevain began to feel strangely like a teenager whose parents’ marriage was about to be dissolved before his eyes. It was very uncomfortable. He knew one thing for sure: this idea meant trouble.
Visola sure knew how to step in it.
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Novels by Nadia Scrieva:
Sacred Breath Series
Thirty Minutes to Heartbreak
Novellas
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Nadia Scrieva was born and raised in Toronto, Canada, where she grew very strong from carrying heavy bags filled with books back and forth from the library. She attended the University of Toronto, graduating with a B.A. in English and Anthropology. She likes knives. Her writing always features powerful females and (mostly) honorable male characters.
Nadia loves receiving feedback from readers, so feel free to contact her with any of your comments, questions, ideas, or just to say hello.
Email: [email protected]
Website: NadiaScrieva.com
Fathoms of Forgiveness (Sacred Breath, Book 2) Page 32
