Dark Water: A Siren Novel

by Tricia Rayburn

She didn’t answer right away and I was worried she wouldn’t—that despite her claim that she wanted to answer whatever questions I had, there was still a line. And I’d just crossed it. But then she faced the water and said:

  “By convincing him I was someone else.”

  My head spun with a dozen new questions. Like how? Why? Who would she have been instead? Would it have worked? But she spoke again before I could decide which to ask.

  “I’m assuming what you’re really asking is how you and Simon can move past what happened last summer and have the kind of relationship other young adults get to have. Is that correct?”

  It was only one word, but it was hard to get out. “Yes.”

  A large wave crashed onshore. The runoff was so strong, Charlotte tilted back as it wrapped around her. She waited for the water to retreat, and then continued.

  “Vanessa, if we weren’t so closely linked, my answer would be simple: you can’t.”

  “But—”

  “You love him. And he still loves you despite everything.”

  “The first part, yes. I’m not sure about the second.”

  She reached one arm to the side without turning toward me, and placed her hand on my knee. “I am.”

  That made two people. She and Paige seemed so certain, they’d probably start booking florists and DJs soon.

  “It should be enough, right? That real, intense, undying feeling for each other? Because your love is stronger than anything else, it should be able to overcome every obstacle.”

  It was exactly what I was hoping for, but I was aware of how naïve it sounded as she said it.

  “But it’s not enough,” Charlotte said.

  “How do you know? If you’ve never experienced it yourself?” I inhaled, clamped one hand over my mouth. “I’m sorry. That was a terrible thing to say.”

  “Don’t apologize. It’s a good question.” She brought her knees closer to her chest. “Unfortunately, I know because I’ve seen it happen with countless others. Just as an ordinary woman thinks true love can conquer all, a siren thinks the same thing—until she learns otherwise. Though a relationship might start out well, it simply can’t survive the challenges she eventually faces.”

  “You mean the thirst? The weakness? The constant need to swim?” I shook my head. “Simon would be okay with all of that. He’d even want to protect me, to take care of me.” I was surer of this than I was that he still wanted to be with me.

  Her eyes found mine. “That’s wonderful … but it’s not enough, either.”

  “But—”

  “That’s not all, Vanessa.” Her voice was sharper. “The thirst, the weakness, your body’s other needs … this is only the beginning. Especially as a Nenuphar. We’re capable of much more than others like us, and we also require much more.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Compared to normal sirens,” she said, her voice softening slightly, “our bodies adjust very quickly after transformation. They’re like sponges, not just with saltwater, but with signals both given and received. They know what we can do, with men and one another, long before we’re consciously aware. It might not feel like it, but we’re always ten steps ahead of other sirens—even when we haven’t been actively practicing or honing our talent.”

  I considered this. “So right now I have power I don’t know of? Or how to control?”

  “Absolutely. And yours may be greater and different than mine or that of other Nenuphars. It varies greatly from one siren to the next. I can offer some guidance, but for better or worse, you must learn on your own, through personal experience and discovery. And often the lessons will come when you least expect them.”

  Images of Raina and Zara flashed through my head. To them, the idea of unplanned power trips would be exciting. To me, it was reason to crawl into bed and hide under the covers forever.

  “In certain circumstances,” Charlotte continued, “this power can be an enormous benefit. In others, especially those in which advanced capabilities aren’t needed or desired, it’s an exhausting detriment. Because our bodies are constantly working, they require constant fuel. More often and in much larger amounts than sirens not of our lineage.”

  My head whirled as I tried to process this. “But … what if we can’t keep up?”

  She forced a small smile. “Why don’t we focus on one thing at a time?”

  I held her gaze, then looked away. As the tightness in my chest extended to my legs and arms, I pressed my palms into the wet sand, letting my skin absorb the moisture.

  “If you were just a young siren coming to an experienced elder for advice,” she continued, “I’d tell you as kindly as possible that having a normal romantic relationship is impossible. I’d suggest you end the situation before it gets even more complicated. And I’d reassure you that as difficult as ending it will be, doing so sooner rather than later will save you and your significant other pain you simply can’t imagine—and that you’d likely never recover from.”

  I asked my next question five times silently. When she didn’t offer a response, I took a deep breath and said it out loud.

  “But because I’m your daughter …?”

  We were surrounded by sound—the wind, rolling waves, rushing water. I could hear her quick intake of breath over it all.

  “But because you’re my daughter,” she said quietly, hesitantly, as if testing whether she’d misheard, “I’ll suggest you do what I would’ve done. Convince Simon you’re someone else.”

  I looked at her. “Who?”

  Her eyes glistened. “The person you were before you changed into the one you are.”

  “How do I do that? My abilities don’t work on Simon. You said so yourself.”

  “You don’t need them. Just be together. Have fun. Talk about whatever you used to talk about. Do all the things you did that made you fall in love in the first place.”

  “But he’s so questioning, so skeptical … I don’t know if he’d be able to just have fun. Especially without talking through everything else—all the transformation and siren-related stuff—first. Not only would he want to know so he could understand, he’d want to know because he cares. And that could take a really long time.”

  “Vanessa, trust me … there will come a point when you’ll both wish you hadn’t wasted a single second.”

  I tried to process this as waves pounded the shore and water rushed toward us. My skirt was completely soaked and my denim jacket clung to my arms, but I barely noticed. After several minutes, I asked two final questions.

  “If the relationship has to end the way you say all relationships have to … won’t it still hurt?”

  Her lips pressed together like they wanted to lock up her answer. “Yes,” she finally said. “It will.”

  “So then why shouldn’t I let it go now?”

  Her fingers quivered as she pressed one cool, damp palm to my cheek.

  “Because Simon makes you happy, and you deserve every bit of happiness this life gives you.” She slowly lowered her palm. “And because I know you can’t.”

  CHAPTER 13

  I DECIDED TO TAKE CHARLOTTE’S ADVICE. It was what part of me had wanted to do anyway, but more importantly, it was what Justine would’ve suggested I do. Just as my sister had once told me to pretend the dark was really light as I lay awake at night, too scared to sleep, I knew she’d tell me now to pretend that the situation wasn’t as serious as it seemed. She’d be certain that was the only way to keep my fear from leading to paralysis—and lost opportunity.

  She’d be right.

  Still, making Simon forget—or at least not fixate on—the events of the past twelve months would be difficult. He was Mr. Science Guy, after all, and always questioned more than he accepted. But based on our lengthy catch-up session at the lake house, I was hopeful some small part of him wanted the same thing I did, and that with the right encouragement, he’d relax enough that we could talk or not talk, laugh or not laugh, the way we always had.

 
All I had to do was figure out what that encouragement was. I’d never planned a real date before (Simon and I hadn’t been an official couple long enough for that to happen), but when choosing a place, I started with two essential criteria.

  The first: it should be somewhere we’d never been together.

  And the second: it should be nowhere near the ocean.

  Which is how a week after Charlotte’s and my conversation on the beach, we ended up driving to Crawford, a tiny town two hours west of Winter Harbor. According to my extensive online research, it was quaint, quiet, and surrounded by mountains, making it the perfect spot for a romantic reconnection.

  And, it turned out, breakfast.

  “You didn’t mention today’s adventure would include the world’s best pancakes.” Simon shoved a heaping forkful in his mouth.

  “No? How about the sweetest, richest maple syrup in Maine?”

  “Made on the premises,” our waitress said, refilling our water glasses. “From the trees you’re sitting under.”

  I looked up at the leafy boughs overhead. The sun filtered through, warming my face. There had been plenty of empty tables inside the restaurant, which, at first glance, looked more like a run-down red shack, but there had also been a few farmers enjoying their early-morning coffee. Most barely glanced our way when we walked in, but one dropped his knife and had trouble picking it up, since he looked at me instead of the floor. That was enough attention to request a table outside, where it was apparently still too chilly for other diners.

  I lowered my eyes. Simon held the saltshaker toward me.

  “The syrup’s not that sweet,” I said.

  “Don’t you want to put some in your water?”

  I took a piece of toast from my plate, focused on eating.

  “Nope. I’m fine.”

  “But doesn’t it help keep you hydrated?”

  “Sure.” I shrugged. “Sometimes.”

  My heart thumped as I waited for him to question further. When he still hadn’t, a moment later, I looked up to see him chewing and the salt in its rightful place next to the pepper.

  “So how’d you find this place?” Simon asked. “It’s kind of off the beaten path.”

  “I overheard some people talking about it at Betty’s.” This was the response I’d rehearsed so he wouldn’t know how many hours I’d spent scouting for the perfect date location. “They said it was a great day trip—and that the drive was spectacular.”

  “They definitely got that right. After traveling them one way or another for twenty years, all pretty country roads look alike. But that one, with the sun coming up over the hills? And all those flowers? That, with the top down, you could smell like they were right in front of you?”

  “Not bad,” I said.

  He grinned. “Not at all.”

  I returned his smile as my body relaxed. So far, this was going even better than I’d hoped. When Simon came to Betty’s yesterday to pick up lunch and I asked if he’d like to hang out today, he said yes without hesitating. He didn’t even question where or why; he simply agreed and told me to text him details later. When I did that, suggesting an early mini–road trip, he texted back seconds later and said that sounded like a nice way to spend a morning. Then, when I picked him up so early, the sky was just brightening from gray to pink, he was waiting for me on the porch of his family’s house and jogged toward the Jeep before I’d put it in park. We talked some during the drive, mostly about our jobs or songs on the radio, but were otherwise quiet as we took in the brisk air and scenery.

  It was all so comfortable, I was beginning to think this just might work after all.

  “I meant to tell you,” he said, “Caleb and I put an ad on the Herald Web site. In the lost-and-found listings. We’re hoping whoever dropped the camera will want it back badly enough to follow up.”

  Or it might not.

  “Good thinking.” I leaned across the table and lowered my voice. “Do you think that truck’s serious?”

  He leaned to the side and peered past me to the pickup idling in the dirt parking lot. A tall white sandwich board stood in the truck’s bed; Simon read its message out loud. “Follow the horse’s you-know-what to Maine’s one hundred magical acres.” He sat back. “Well, it is pulling a trailer. And the trailer appears to be moving, even though the truck’s still. So, yes, I suppose it could be serious.”

  I waited for his eyes to find mine again. “Do you want to go?” I asked.

  “To the hundred acres?”

  I nodded and held my breath. There were countless reasons why he could say no—we didn’t know where exactly they were or how far away; it could just be some cheesy tourist trap; we should probably get back to Winter Harbor sooner rather than later so he could check in with Caleb and do some more sleuthing. And he took long enough to answer that any of these responses were real possibilities.

  But instead, he popped another piece of pancake in his mouth, chewed, swallowed, and said, “We better hurry. If the land’s magical, who knows what that truck can do?”

  I laughed. We jumped up, then stalled briefly when we took our wallets out at the same time.

  “You get the next one,” he said.

  My smile widened. “Deal.”

  We waved and thanked our waitress, who did the same through one of the restaurant’s open windows, and ran to the Jeep. The driver had returned to the truck and was already pulling out onto the road. The pickup was no flying carpet; once we caught up, I had to brake repeatedly to avoid colliding with the trailer—and the horses’ you-know-whats, of which there were two. Simon and I spent the next twenty minutes joking and laughing, and I decided wherever we were going was indeed magical long before we got there.

  It was beautiful, too, which we learned as we turned down a long gravel driveway and drove through rolling farmland. About a half mile down, the pickup pulled up to a large white barn. We went a little farther, joining a dozen or so parked cars in a dirt lot, and hopped out.

  “Hi, there,” the driver said as we approached. “Welcome to Langden Farm. I’m Jack—one-third driver, two-thirds marketer.”

  “Hi.” Simon shook Jack’s outstretched hand and looked around. “This is some place.”

  “Indeed it is. Which is why I’m sorry to tell you that I’m late.”

  I glanced at Simon. “For what?”

  “For announcing the morning ride.” Jack shuffled along the side of the truck, wedged one boot between the top of the rear tire and its well, and stepped up. “There was a situation with the hitch and by the time it was fixed, the first one was already gone. I left the sign up in case folks wanted to join the afternoon ride, but that won’t leave for another six hours.” He took the sandwich board in both hands and lowered it till it lay flat in the truck bed. “Where are you from?”

  “Winter Harbor,” Simon said. “It’s a small town on—”

  “I know where it is.” He hopped down and faced us. “That was some summer you had last year.”

  Simon nodded. I looked down.

  “Yes, sir,” he said. “It was.”

  “The wife and I took the grandkids skating on the water after it froze. It was eighty degrees when we left here and dropped to about forty by the time we got to your neck of the woods. Never seen anything like it.”

  “And hopefully you won’t again,” Simon said.

  “Got that right.” Jack nodded to me. “You bring a change of clothes?”

  Their conversation had turned my face the same color as my new linen skirt: bright red. Besides the skirt, I wore a white tank top, my denim jacket, and leather flip-flops. “No,” I said.

  “Okay.” He opened the trailer and patted the horses’ haunches until the animals started backing up. “Rest here a minute. I’ll see if we can’t work something out.”

  He led the horses into the barn. Simon leaned against the truck. I leaned next to Simon.

  “It’s still strange to hear other people refer to it,” he said quietly. “I know most of t
he country knows at least some of what happened … but it still feels like this thing that only we experienced, you know?”

  I did. But I didn’t want to talk about it. Fortunately, Jack wasn’t gone long enough for Simon to question my silence.

  “How much riding time have you clocked?” he called out as he shuffled toward us.

  “None,” I called back.

  “About ten minutes around the pony pole at the 1998 Country Fair,” Simon said.

  Jack chuckled. “All right. Then you have two options.” He stopped in front of us and pointed back at the barn. “We’ve got two horses ready to go, but with no experience, you can’t wander far without a guide—and the three we have are all out. I’d take you myself, but I have meetings all morning. That said, you’re more than welcome to ride through the main meadow. It’s flat, safe, and in full view of the house, so if you have any trouble, someone’s bound to see and come running.”

  I peered past Jack to the meadow, which was more of a large front yard. It was pretty enough, but it was also completely exposed to anyone coming, going, or passing through.

  “What’s the other option?” Simon asked.

  “Come back in six hours,” Jack said. “We’ll have two horses with your names on them.”

  Simon looked at me. I shrugged. “The first might be nice,” I said.

  “Okay.” Simon nodded. “We’re in.”

  “Fantastic.” Jack chucked a cloth ball at me. “From the gift shop. On the house, if you want them.”

  “Thank you.” I caught and unraveled the ball, which was actually a pair of khaki shorts with the Langden Farm logo—a herd of black horse silhouettes galloping under a starry sky—stamped on one pocket. “That’s so nice.”

  “Least we can do for our neighbors.” He turned and started shuffling away. “Someone will bring you your rides shortly, and we’ll handle payment later. Enjoy!”

  When he disappeared inside the barn, I faced Simon and held up the shorts.

  “Be right back.”

  I could’ve easily pulled on the shorts and slid off my skirt right there and not shown any extra skin, but changing was a good excuse to steal a few minutes alone. I grabbed my purse from the Jeep as I headed for the side of the barn. After making sure Simon was still by the truck and not paying attention, I swapped clothes and gulped the two bottles of salt water I’d stowed in my bag. I’d swum for two hours and drank so much this morning, tiny droplets of water in my pores had made my skin glitter, and so far, I felt fine. But there was no telling how my body would react to being so close to Simon for an extended period of time, and some preemptive salt consumption was better than running dry in front of him.