OTHER BOOKS BY TRICIA RAYBURN
YOUNG ADULT TITLES
The Siren Series
Siren
Undercurrent
MIDDLE GRADE TITLES
Merits of Mischief: The Bad Apple (writing as T.R. Burns)
Ruby’s Slippers
The Maggie Bean Series
The Melting of Maggie Bean
Maggie Bean Stays Afloat
Maggie Bean in Love
EGMONT
We bring stories to life
First published by Egmont USA, 2012
443 Park Avenue South, Suite 806
New York, NY 10016
Copyright © Tricia Rayburn, 2012
All rights reserved
www.egmontusa.com
www.triciarayburn.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Rayburn, Tricia.
Dark water : a Siren novel / Tricia Rayburn.
p. cm.
Summary: When seventeen-year-old Vanessa reunites with her biological mother, she faces the dilemma of a siren’s existence, that in order to survive she must endanger the lives of those she loves most.
eISBN: 978-1-60684-331-4
[1. Supernatural–Fiction. 2. Sirens (Mythology)–Fiction. 3. Mothers and daughters–Fiction. 4. Interpersonal relations–Fiction. 5. Maine–Fiction.]
I. Title.
PZ7.R2103Dar 2012
[Fic]–dc23
2011027674
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher and copyright holder.
v3.1
A story for Susie Q
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
With heartfelt thanks to Rebecca Sherman, Regina Griffin, and everyone at Writers House and Egmont USA who help bring the Siren stories to readers. Huge hugs go to Mom, Michael, Sean, Kristin, Honey, Megan, Bobby, and the rest of my friends and family for their continued support and endless enthusiasm.
Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
CHAPTER 1
IT STARTED AN HOUR INTO THE TRIP. The fluttering in my chest. The weakening of my legs. The tightening of my throat that made each breath feel like it was filled with broken glass rather than clear, fresh air. These feelings were nothing new. For nearly a year, they’d been the messages my body sent whenever it was slowing down, tiring out … drying up.
The difference this time was that I wasn’t thirsty. We’d visited enough rest stops along I-95 to be sure of that.
I was scared.
“Chips?”
An economy-size bag of Lay’s appeared between the two front seats. Shook back and forth.
“They’re your favorite,” Mom said. “Salt and vinegar.”
“Heavy on the salt,” Dad added.
I watched him take a plastic shaker from his cup holder and tilt it over the top of the bag. As the white powder fell onto the chips, I thought about how the mere idea of this road-trip snack should make my stomach turn. But it didn’t.
“No, thanks,” I said. “I’m not hungry.”
“You haven’t eaten today,” Mom said. “And you barely picked at your dinner last night.”
“I’m saving my appetite. For Harbor Homefries.”
Mom glanced at Dad. His head lowered and lifted so slightly, you wouldn’t notice the nod if you didn’t expect it.
“So,” he said, leaving the bag on the console and replacing the shaker in the cup holder. “Several of my students were renting a house in Kennebunkport this summer. It’s supposed to be a pretty hopping place.”
“Hopping?” I said.
“You know—happening. Grooving. Or, as one young word-smith alleged, slamming.”
“Slammin’,” Mom said.
Dad looked at her. “How come it doesn’t sound nearly as ridiculous when you say it?”
“Because I said it correctly.” She tried to catch my eye in the rearview mirror. “You leave off the G. Right, sweetie?”
I turned my head, faced the window. “I think so.”
“Well,” Dad said, “if our Dartmouth-bound daughter thinks it’s so, then so it is.”
I pressed my forehead to the glass, blinking away images of green ivy-covered walls.
“In any case, the town gets fairly busy, but it’s by the water and is supposed to be beautiful. Maybe we should check it out. Like, today.”
“That’s a great idea,” Mom said. “The exit will be coming up soon.”
I sat up. “Don’t we have an appointment?”
“We do,” Mom said. “And it can be rescheduled.”
“But you’ve been planning this trip for weeks. Why the sudden detour?”
“Why not?” Mom asked. “It never hurts to know all your options. Especially when it comes to real estate.”
“But where we’re going is also by the water. It’s the most beautiful place I’ve ever been.” I tried to smile. “And after last summer it shouldn’t be too crowded.”
This final point was an attempt at keeping things light. For better or worse, my poor delivery broke through my parents’ happy facade.
“We don’t have to go back.” Mom said, squeezing the steering wheel.
“We can go anywhere,” Dad said. “Try someplace new.”
“I know,” I said. “You told me that six months ago and every week since then. I appreciate the offer, but it’s not necessary. I don’t want to try someplace new.”
Mom glanced over her shoulder. Her lips were set in a thin, straight line. Behind her sunglasses, I knew her brows were lowered, her eyes narrowed.
“Vanessa, are you sure? I mean, really sure? I know you’ve visited a few times since … everything … but this is different.” She paused. “It’s summer.”
Summer. The word hung above us, heavy, expanding. I looked at the empty seat to my left, then reached forward and grabbed a handful of potato chips.
“Yes,” I said. “I’m really sure.”
Despite my countless assurances over the past few months, I understood their concern. We’d made the same trip each June for as long as I could remember, and this was the first time we were doing so without my older sister, Justine. Not only that, due to our realtor’s schedule—and a supposedly amazing property that’d recently hit the market—we’d had to leave today. Which just happened to be the day after my graduation from Hawthorne Prep … and the one-year anniversary of Justine’s death.
As my body continued to remind me, this was scary. But one thing would be downright terrifying.
Not returning to Winter Harbor at all.
I washed down several handfuls of chips with two bottles of salt water. For fifteen minutes, I half-listened and nodded along as my parents debated the benefits of all-w
eather siding. When we passed the Kennebunkport exit, I waited another five minutes for good measure, then settled back and checked my cell phone for the hundredth time since waking up.
V! So excited to see you. Who knew 20 hours could feel like 20 years?? At restaurant all day. Stop by when you can. xo, P
Paige. My best friend, recent housemate—and one of the main reasons why vacationing anywhere else this summer was impossible. I smiled as I texted her back.
Can’t wait to see you, too. Still a few hours away. Will write again when closer. Don’t work too hard! L, V
I sent the note and scrolled through older messages, hoping, like I always did, that I’d missed one. That maybe there’d been a glitch in my service and I hadn’t been notified of every incoming text.
There wasn’t. A quick call to my voice mail proved that it, too, was working fine.
I swapped my phone for the Dartmouth course descriptions I’d printed from the school Web site and curled up on the backseat. I already had a pretty good idea of what I wanted to take in the fall, but my parents didn’t know that. And more than anything else, looking like I was thinking about my future stopped them from bringing up the past. In fact, the course descriptions were such an effective shield, no one asked how I was or what I needed for the rest of the trip.
Of course, by the time we pulled off the highway, they didn’t have to. Not out loud anyway. Mom looked in the rearview mirror more than she did at the road, and Dad gave a bag of pretzels an extra coating of salt before propping it between the two front seats.
“I’m fine,” I said, as my pulse pounded in my ears. “Promise.”
This seemed to appease them until we neared the sailboat-shaped WELCOME TO WINTER HARBOR sign. That’s when Mom jerked the steering wheel to the left—and we took an unexpected detour bypassing Main Street and all the local businesses. I started to protest but then hesitated. Did I really want to sit in traffic and inch past Eddie’s Ice Cream? Which had always been our first stop—and the official start of another wonderful family vacation?
Probably not. I let my parents have that one.
I took another water bottle from my backpack and focused on drinking. A few minutes later, the detour led to the same intersection we would’ve reached had we stayed on Main Street. Turning right would take us toward the mountains and down a long, winding road I knew so well I could drive it at night without headlights. I listened for the clicking signal, waited for the gentle pull west. Neither happened. We went straight instead.
As we drove, the straight, flat road began to incline. The houses grew farther apart, the trees closer together. I’d never been in this part of Winter Harbor; before I could decide whether that was a good or bad thing, the road ended. The car stopped. We all stared straight ahead.
“Is this a joke?” I asked, peering between the front seats.
“I don’t think so,” Mom said, after a pause. She handed the directions to Dad, rolled down her window, and pressed the button on a silver box next to her door. The tall gates, which featured iron mermaids with ornate tails rather than simple bars, swung open.
“Let’s give it a chance,” Dad said, then busied himself with folding and refolding the directions.
I wanted to take the stack of course descriptions, hold them in front of my face, block out everything I didn’t want to see. But I couldn’t. My eyes were glued to the faceless heads, the flowing hair, the intricate fins. I told myself that these mermaids were decorative art, nothing more, but I still searched for something, anything familiar about them. As the gates closed behind us and we continued down the driveway, I even turned in my seat to watch them grow smaller. Or perhaps more accurately, to make sure they grew smaller.
The steep driveway curled through dense forest. About half a mile in, Mom, growing nervous, impatient, or a combination of both, hit the gas. The SUV shot up a small hill—and toward the edge of a cliff.
Dad and I reached for the grab handles above our doors. Mom gasped and slammed on the brake. The car skidded a few feet before rocking to a stop.
“A fence,” Mom said, exhaling. “We’ll just get a good, strong fence.”
She opened her door and hopped out. Dad slowly leaned forward, started to turn. Sensing a fresh wave of concern approaching, I opened my door and stepped down before it reached me.
“Jacqueline! So glad you could make it on such short notice.”
A woman strode down a wide stone path to our left. She wore white linen pants, a white caftan, and leather sandals. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail so tight, the corners of her blue eyes lifted. I must’ve been even more shaken by the iron shield of swimmers we’d passed through than I thought, because for a split second, she looked just like another woman I’d met last summer.
But that was impossible.
Wasn’t it?
“This must be your beautiful daughter.” The woman shook Mom’s hand and beamed at me. “The Ivy Leaguer. I’ve heard so much about you. Dartmouth, right?”
I forced a smile as I joined them. “Right.”
“You’re a parent’s dream come true.”
I looked down.
“Vanessa,” Mom said quickly, “this is Anne. Our realtor. And, Anne, yes, this is my beautiful daughter.”
“I’m the perfectly average-looking husband and father,” Dad said, shuffling up behind us. “And this is quite a place.”
“I told you. Didn’t I tell you?”
Anne took Mom by the elbow and led her down the path, rattling off details about bedrooms and bathrooms and energy-efficient construction. Dad followed close behind, hands in his pockets, eyes turned to the horizon on our right. I followed a few feet after him, keeping my cell phone in one hand in case someone turned around and I needed to look distracted. It wasn’t that I wasn’t curious; I just didn’t want to influence the decision any more than I already had.
“The house has never been lived in,” Anne said, as we neared the building. “The owner, an architect from Boston, designed it for his wife. It was supposed to be a gift for their tenth wedding anniversary, but then, just last week, the missus decided to celebrate early with one of the mister’s male coworkers. It’s awful the way these things happen, isn’t it?”
Under his red plaid shirt, Dad’s back muscles tensed. Mom’s head dropped as her hands shuffled through the papers she carried.
“Yes,” she said. “But happen they do.”
“Is that a pool?” I asked.
Anne, instantly recovered from her disappointment in the state of modern-day relationships, shot me a quick grin. “And hot tub. Wait till you see.”
She and Mom hurried inside the house. Dad paused by a tall, coral-shaped stone planter. I stood next to him.
“Thank you,” he said.
I nodded.
“It’s not quite what we’re used to, is it?” he asked, a moment later.
It took me a second to realize he referred to the house, which looked like a cluster of glass boxes connected by wooden hallways. There was no rickety front porch. Thanks to countless windows, I could see the backyard from the front yard, and there was no deck, either. Peeling paint, crumbling bricks, and dangling gutters were also missing.
“No,” I said. “But what is?”
I went inside. Mom’s and Anne’s voices echoed through the house from the right, so I headed left. I passed through the living room, dining room, and two bedrooms, all of which were decorated in various shades of taupe and still smelled like paint and sawdust. One particularly long hallway ended at a set of glass doors. I pushed through it into a third bedroom—and was nearly knocked over by a rush of wet, salty air. I automatically closed my eyes and inhaled, savoring the warmth as it traveled down my throat, soothed my aching body.
When I opened my eyes again, I saw water. As I stepped into the room, the slate blue horizon seemed to curve, wrap around me. I kept my gaze level as I walked to a second set of glass doors and out onto a stone patio.
And there it was. The
ocean. So close I could feel the spray each time it lunged against the rocks on which the patio rested.
“We won’t do better than this.”
I jumped. Spun around. Mom stood in the open doorway, arms crossed over her chest, eyes aimed past me.
“The only way we’d get closer is on a houseboat … and no offense, sweetie, but my stomach simply can’t handle that way of life.”
Personally, I thought she was a trouper for trying to handle this one. Not many women would.
“Do you like it?” she asked, joining me on the patio.
A wave slammed into the rocks below. I rubbed the spray into my bare arms. “Yes. I don’t know if it’s really Dad’s thing, though.”
“Your father will be fine with whatever we decide.”
I knew this. I also knew why. If it were possible to assign blame to such a thing, my parents agreed it was his fault we were here.
Mom tilted her chin toward the water and breathed deeply. “I think someone else would’ve approved. The possibilities for unobstructed sunbathing are endless.”
I couldn’t help but smile. “Justine would’ve loved it.”
We stood quietly for a minute. Then Mom put one arm around my shoulders, pulled me close, and pressed her lips to the top of my head.
“I’ll go work out the details. Stay here as long as you’d like.”
When she was gone, I walked to the patio’s edge and surveyed the grounds. The pool and hot tub were off another patio about fifty feet south of this one. Bright green lawn filled the space in between. A stone stairway led from the yard down to a private beach.
Or, a nearly private beach. As I watched, a tall figure dragged a red rowboat across the sand. He had dark hair and wore jeans, a T-shirt … and glasses.
My heart thrust against my rib cage. My breath lodged in my throat. My feet moved, off the patio, down the rocks.
How did he know I was here? Did he find out from Paige? Had he stopped by the restaurant to ask? But how did he know she’d be there? Maybe he’d been checking in regularly, just in case?
It didn’t matter. What mattered was that he was here. He’d found me. And we’d be together on my first day in Winter Harbor, the way we always were.
Dark Water: A Siren Novel Page 1
