Between the Sea and Stars

by Chantal Gadoury

She skidded across the floor and smacked into the wall. The breath went out of her lungs and she coughed. Watery heat filled her eyes. She blinked furiously, willing her vision to clear.

  Edwin came back into focus, wheezing audibly against the quilt as Lord Jarl smothered the air from his lungs. His arms seized up at his sides, then collapsed abruptly and began to twitch.

  Lena fell forward on her hands. Javelin, she thought. “Edwin,” she said.

  Her voice was choked with tears. She had watched her brother writhe in agony; helpless, unable to save him. But she was not helpless now.

  She pulled herself upright, staggering slightly, and barreled forward. Lord Jarl’s gaze flickered at her approach. One hand lifted from Edwin’s face. The heel of his palm contacted sharply with her sternum, launching her backward.

  Her arm twisted beneath her, breaking her fall. Pain reverberated through her body. She lifted her gaze, gulping air, readying her body to ram again.

  Lord Jarl was smiling. He eased the quilt away from Edwin’s mouth and discarded it with a smug flick of his wrist.

  “E-Edwin?” A sob rose in Lena’s throat. Her friend was slumped over, his unseeing eyes pressed wide. They’d always been devoid of color, but now, somehow, they seemed emptier.

  His thin lips were parted, slightly agape. His body was still.

  “The Magiske skal, little merrow.” Lord Jarl extended his hand to her. He curled his long, spindly fingers toward his chest.

  Lena struggled to stand. Her arm stung. Her whole body was quivering.

  She took a step back, shaking her head. Tears rolled down her cheeks in earnest as she stared at Edwin, limp in his armchair. Dead. A human corpse. He wouldn’t dissolve into sea foam. Wouldn’t lift through the window on a breeze, wouldn’t become one with the air or sea. He would remain here, in his favorite chair, dead. In the morning, Mrs. Wyatt would have to see . . . everyone would have to see.

  Lord Jarl stalked forward, hand outstretched. “Run and hide,” he taunted. “I’ll always find you. The queen’s shell beckons me. Calls to me. Belongs to me.”

  “It never will,” Lena snapped, and took another trembling step backward, toward the door.

  Run to the Bror Boghandel. Run, and don’t look back. Edwin’s warning echoed in her mind. She needed to leave.

  “I won’t ask again, little pearl,” Lord Jarl jeered. His tongue turned sharp. “Give the Magiske skal to me.”

  “Never,” Lena repeated, shaking her head vigilantly.

  Lord Jarl lurched forward. He belted his fingers around her wrist and dragged her body against his. A grin slithered across his jaw. “It’s been far too long since I’ve tasted merrow blood,” he hissed. “Mette’s magic grows weak in me.”

  He slid his hand over her arm, then sank his sharp fingernails into her skin.

  Lena screamed. Blood beaded up from her flesh. She yanked against his grip, but he held her still, pressed his mouth against her gushing laceration and sucked deep.

  “Delicious,” he purred, sliding his tongue over the wound.

  Lena’s stomach churned with disgust. “Jace will see you for what you are,” she cried, tugging on her arm, desperate to be free.

  Lord Jarl chuckled. “Jace,” he snarled, “is just like me.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  “Am I?” His tongue traced over the wound again, lapping up a ropy dribble of blood. “Humans are all the same, my dear. Everyone has a price. Everyone has a dream.”

  Lena glared at him. She collected the saliva in her mouth and spat in his eye. Lord Jarl swore in dismay and released her so suddenly that she tumbled to her knees.

  “The shell, Lena,” he roared, dragging his arm over his dripping face.

  Lena slid across the floor, dragging herself toward the door. She clambered to her feet and darted into the hall. The foyer beyond was dark and still. The storm had muffled the sound of her shouts, and not a soul had been roused. She clutched her throat. The heat from the shell still burned her palm. Asger. Perhaps he could help her if she made it to the beach.

  She hesitated. Asger’s last words repeated in her mind, his voice slick and over-sure, sounding too much like Lord Jarl’s. You belong to the sea, Lena. You belong to me.

  Lena dashed through the dark room, bumping into tables and chairs. Her elbows and knees stung from the impact. She could hear Lord Jarl behind her, calling her name. She hurtled through the kitchen, knees nearly buckling beneath her. Her chest ached. Her twisted arm thumped with a dull pain.

  “Run, run,” Lord Jarl growled. “Your merrow blood is singing to me.”

  She wrenched open the back door and bolted into the night.

  Soren. She had to get to Soren.

  Lena ran as hard as she could, squinting against black sheets of rain. Mud made her bare feet slick as she followed the stone-lain path through the hills. It was a miracle she didn’t slip.

  In the distance, she could hear the ocean’s waves angrily smacking against the beach, and another sound, softer. Coaxing her to the water. Søstjerne, it sang. Lena, return to me.

  She hurled herself into the village. Sharp stones in the street dug into feet. She yelped as blood seeped from her heels and stained the dirt. Limping and disoriented, she hobbled forward, searching for Soren’s shop.

  She rounded a corner, and there it was. The Bror Boghandel, its windows lit by candlelight. She slammed into the door and desperately began to knock.

  “Soren! Soren Emil!” Her fists pounded against the wood. She glanced over her shoulder, searching for the shape of Lord Jarl in the shadows. “Soren! Soren, please!”

  Lena heard the clank of a latch being unlocked.

  A disheveled Soren yanked open the door. “Lena?” His forest-green eyes widened with shock.

  “Please,” she gasped. “Please, Soren . . . I need your help!”

  Soren’s brow creased with concern. He nodded quickly and beckoned her in.

  Lena rushed to the windows, blowing out each of the candles, so the shop was as black as the night. Soren found her in the darkness. He smoothed his hands over her arms.

  “What’s going on?”

  “L-Lord Jarl . . .” Lena was shivering violently. Her soaked clothes stuck to her skin. She had to tell him. Had to trust him.

  Soren wove his finger with hers, trying to soothe her, trying to calm her.

  She jerked her hands free.

  “Do you remember . . .” She swallowed and forced her nervous tongue to cooperate. “Do you remember when you told me your mother was a merrow?”

  “Of course.” Soren’s brow furrowed, confused. “You’re the only person, aside from Edwin . . . the only person in the world who’s ever believed me.”

  A cry slipped from Lena’s lips as he spoke Edwin’s name. Edwin was gone. Edwin was gone. It was her fault. That book he’d clamped onto so dearly, it must have had something to do with the Magiske skal. Perhaps he’d discovered the way to destroy it.

  He would still be alive if she’d never come to the surface. Never shown up at the Wyatts’ inn wearing Mette’s shell. Still be alive . . . like her brother. Soren lifted a hesitant finger and caressed the quivering line of her jaw.

  “Talk to me, Lena,” he begged, his voice thick with worry. She had to tell him. She had to confess—what she was, what she’d done.

  “Soren,” she whispered, “What if—”

  A burst of knocks erupted against the door, interrupting her, paralyzing her. Soren’s hands stiffened against her cheeks.

  “It’s him,” Lena breathed.

  “Come.” Soren’s voice was low. He tucked her against his chest.

  “You don’t understand. I have to hide!”

  “Trust me, Lena,” he murmured.

  He guided her through the hall, back into his chambers. A warm fire greeted them, crackling behind the gated hearth. Ship logs lay open on his little table, as if he’d been reading.

  “Stay here,” he urged her, leading her to her usual seat. “I’ll be righ
t back.”

  Lena gripped his hand, eyes searching the room for someplace to conceal herself. She couldn’t just sit here, with Lord Jarl right outside. Soren squeezed her trembling fingers.

  “I’ll only be gone a moment,” he promised. “Have faith in me.” He slipped back through hall, vanishing into the black.

  Lena folded herself into the stiff, wooden chair. She slid her fingers into her lap and twisted them nervously. Any second now, she would hear the boom of Lord Jarl’s voice, or worse . . . that horrible purr. Would he come stomping after her, or slithering like a water snake? She primed her ears, her entire body tense, but all she heard was the deep hum of male voices—a short, halting conversation. In a matter of minutes, Soren returned. His face was grim as he gazed at her.

  “That was . . . one of the village doctors. It seems Edwin Wyatt was just found dead in his room.” His lips pinched together as if unwilling to utter this news. He combed an unsteady hand through his hair. Lena’s chin collapsed to her chest. It was one thing to know it, to have seen it. But hearing the words . . .

  She’d never said it aloud, she realized. She’d never said it to anyone—My brother is dead.

  Tears poured over her cheeks, for Javelin, for Edwin. For her father, left all alone. For Soren, whose only friend was gone. Murdered. Shame strangled her lungs till she could hardly breathe.

  “It’s my fault,” she managed to say. Forced herself to say, for it was true. “Edwin is dead because of me.”

  “What are you talking about?” Soren shook his head, disbelieving. He crossed the room and knelt down at her feet.

  “I’m a merrow, Soren.” The words gasped over her lips. “I possess the Magiske skal, and now Lord Jarl will stop at nothing to own it. He’ll kill me, just as he killed Edwin. Just as he killed the queen.”

  Soren studied her for a long moment. “Why?” he whispered.

  “I think Edwin found a way to destroy the shell. To save the seas from Lord Jarl. From . . . from me. All those books he asked for . . .”

  “Why didn’t you tell me, I mean?”

  She clutched her head in her hands. He’d told her all his secrets, and she’d told him nothing.

  Slowly, Soren stood, gazing down at her. His shadow was heavy, unbearably so, and Lena could not meet his eyes.

  She felt the absence of him, the moment he left her. He strode to the hearth, his gait deliberate and slow. After a long moment, he selected a log and added it to the fire. The flames hissed. Sparks snapped at the air. Outside, thunder rolled through the skies. Raindrops pelted the windowpane. Otherwise, the chambers were dreadfully quiet.

  Soren collected his kettle from the kitchen and returned to the hearth. Lena wished he would speak. Wished he’d stay silent forever. Would he forgive her? Throw her out into the storm?

  Another thought occurred, and sent hot tears streaming down her cheeks.

  “D-Do you believe me?”

  With delicate hands, Soren pushed the kettle over the embers. A muscle rippled in his jaw as he clenched his teeth.

  “I asked you once to believe me,” he murmured. He stood again, and met her eyes across the room. “I believe you, Lena.”

  A sob broke from Lena’s throat. She didn’t know what he would say next, what he would think, but somehow . . . somehow, his mere belief was a relief.

  She cried softly, with Soren watching.

  He let the kettle heat, then brought her a cup of warm tea. He sat beside her, sliding a hand over her back. “Tell me everything, Lena. Tell me everything . . .”

  Phonetics Glossary

  Lena - Le-nah

  Javelin – Jav-lin

  Carrick – Care-rick

  Asger – Ah-s-gar

  Soren – Sor-in

  Skagerrak – sk-ay-rack

  Sogen Hav – So-gan - how

  Fosse-Søfolk – Fossey – Su-fulk

  Kattegat – Katty-gat

  Søstjerne – sos-de-ann

  Bror Boghandel – bore bo-heten

  Kaereste – key-ah-st-ah

  Min pige – mm- pea

  En uskyldig – en – oo-sk-yl-dee

  Dumme dreng – doon-dr̃eng

  Magiske skal – ma-ish-k - skah

  About the Author

  Chantal Gadoury is a 2011 graduate from Susquehanna University with a degree in Creative Writing. Since graduation, she has published three novels, “Seven Seeds of Summer,” “Allerleirauh,” and “The Songs in Our Hearts” and has achieved bestselling author

  status on Amazon. Writing has always come naturally to her, beginning at the early age of seven. Her love of writing evolved from a passion to read and document everything about her life in journals. (A Real-Life Harriett the Spy, without the Spying!) Chantal studied many genres of Creative Writing during her time at Susquehanna University, such as poetry, non-fiction, fiction, and ‘the novel.’ She became co-editor of an on-campus publication her senior year.

  While Chantal is not pursuing writing avenues, she enjoys acrylic painting, watching Disney and romantic historical movies, and spending time with her family.

  For more information:

  www.chantalgadoury.com

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  Acknowledgments

  I have to begin with a thank you to my “Hatter” of Tumblr, whom, I could never have written this novel without. And to quote our song from those days from the talented Sara Bareilles, “Gravity”: “Something always brings me back to you. It never takes too long…” Our time of writing together is not only treasured by me, but cherished, and looked upon fondly so very often.

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  This story would have never seen life if it hadn’t been for all the many other tumblr adventures I once experienced in the RP Community. This time in my life was so valuable, as it was where I found a selection of people in which I felt I belonged to. A writing family. A first. I was surrounded by so many talented aspiring writers! And, it was the beginning of the foundation of finding out who *I * was and wanted to be – not only as a writer, but as a person. I learned so much about myself – about kindness and strength. And how to persevere. To all those people who lingered in our “inn” that housed the many different DFD characters, the secret “tent,” the tea parties, the villains, the heartache and life lessons. Most importantly to all the friendships that we found there – this is to you. (Milo, Peter Pan / Alice, Aladdin, Flynn, Belle)

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  Of course, I must thank the Parliament House Publishing team, who listened to my idea and told me to write it. To Jennifer Castleberry, who edited this novel and made Lena, Javelin, Jace, Asger, and Soren more than I could have ever hoped for – Thank you. Without you, this story would not be what it is today. To all those late night texts, large copy-and-paste messages of the manuscript, and “SOREN’s” shared – You, Jen, are amazing. And -- I believe “Diktys” will always live in infamy. My entire experience with Parliament continues to be transformational – reminding me often of the scene in the Disney’s Cinderella movie. I never want to wake from this dream.

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  Shayne Leighton – publisher, graphic designer, gold-star giver and most importantly, best friend. Thank you. Thank you for the long phone call conversations, the freedom to speak and cry and laugh. Thank you for being a cheerleader for me. Thank you for everything…. Your friendship means the world to me.

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  To my Mom, my thanks to you is immeasurable. You are my best friend, Mom. Thank you for being my support, my home and my Mom. Carrine (and James) – thank you. Thank you for your pride, your understanding, for giving me “one more
drink” and the laughter. Sometimes, I truly feel like you keep me glued together. To Taran, for all the best doggie-kisses ever.

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  To my Dad – Even if you’re not here, it feels only right to give you a thank you. Because I know, even in spirit, all of this wouldn’t be happening if it weren’t for you. I know that you’re looking out for me up there, in heaven. I know that too many things have happened since you’ve been gone, and in all of those good things – I’ve felt you there, every step of the way. I strive every day to make you proud of me.

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  To all the readers of my books, I can’t thank you enough. To Samantha (Review-By-The-Page) for welcoming me so much into the Instagram community and becoming someone I consider a good friend; to Angie-Lee (The Fiction Vixen), your support and friendship has meant so much to me ever since we met! Thank you so much for always believing in me. And to so so so many more of you out there. You inspire and amaze me with each interaction we share. I can’t wait to continue to share more books with you in the future.

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