Silver Bells

by Holly Gunn

  She even joins in with the caroling, her voice soft.

  I lean forward to listen and find myself chuckling.

  Her head tilts, and that’s when I see her eyes are bright and wet with tears, but she doesn’t seem sad.

  Lost in thought, maybe, but not sad.

  I give her a squeeze and smile at her chiding glance in regards to my chuckle.

  My mouth at her ear, I whisper, “A great cook, a good mother figure, the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, and a heart bigger than anything … but,” I tell her, a short laugh escaping me, “a singer you are not.”

  Her lips press together but she smiles not a second later and nods, settling her head against my shoulder. “Essie got the voice in the family.”

  Hearing Essie’s voice joining in with the carolers, I can’t argue that fact.

  The family leaves after this, dragging Essie and Irina with them.

  Bjarke joins, though by the look of him, he’d rather be watching the game, not heading out on a snowy evening to sing Christmas songs.

  I’ve known him to be the man for my girl, the merman as it were, but not until this moment do I realize he really will do anything for my girl.

  The door closes as I have that thought.

  Lotta’s hand is warm against my bearded jaw when she directs my gaze back to her.

  “He’s good to Irina,” she tells me. “Really good. Bjarke always was. I didn’t know him well, but he’s always been honorable.”

  I nod, my throat clogged with unshed emotion.

  There are no words because she’s right, and I would want nothing less than this for my baby girl.

  I clear my throat and incline my head to change the subject. “What was that?”

  Her eyes move to the side and she asks, “What?”

  “Uh-uh, darlin’,” I say, “no evasions. You were quiet during dinner and have been most of the night. What’s bothering you?”

  Her blue-green eyes are shining and full of tears when they hit mine.

  I suck in a deep breath.

  “Nothing,” she whispers. “Absolutely nothing in the world is bothering me, Aaron.”

  She puts her head against my chest and front to front, she presses close to me, her arms around my back, massaging deep circles into the muscles there.

  Her voice still quiet, she adds, “It was the best Thanksgiving I’ve ever had.”

  I draw her as close as possible, my arms tightening around her as I think about that, about the loneliness she’s felt for so long. She and Essie both.

  I clear my throat again at the emotion that’s gathered in my chest.

  I want to say, ‘I’m going to make sure you feel that way every year’.

  I want to say, ‘You’ll never feel lonely again’.

  I want to say, ‘This is it, you and me, forever’.

  I want to say a great many things, but I think we’ve said all that needs to be said these past couple days. And now, she’s only got a few more hours with me before it’s time for her to spend another month in the water.

  I didn’t lie earlier. I truly believe it’ll be her last month in the lake. She’s been mine for twenty-five years, even when we couldn’t belong to each other. It’s fate.

  “The song was perfect,” she speaks up first, interrupting the companionable silence.

  I think back on the song the carolers were singing and then ask, “Silver Bells?”

  She nods against my chest.

  “It was the first time I knew.”

  I feel lost but ask, “Knew what?”

  Her voice muffled against my chest, she confesses, “Twelve years ago, we were friends, but I called you Sheriff and you called me Charlotta. Then, you gave Essie that silver bell, the one from the church’s auction because they’d gotten new bells. It was the only one not worn. It was shiny and perfect. When you noticed me standing to the side and that I was crying, you said my name—just Lotta. But the way you said my name, that silver bell, my sister’s shining face and her joy over such a small thing … it’s still one of my best memories.”

  Her head lifts and she smiles up at me. “That’s when I knew you I loved you.”

  My eyes close slowly.

  Twelve years.

  “We only have a few hours,” I growl, my eyes opening as I grab her and rush us toward the back of the house.

  Her body being dragged along and seemingly flabbergasted, she asks, “What?”

  “Until you need to get back to the lake,” I answer, picking her up.

  Arms flailing and gripping for purchase, it clicks and she starts to laugh.

  I take the small stairwell to the addition two steps at a time and then walk the short hallway to my room, depositing her on the bed.

  “I can’t do everything I want to, Lotta, but I’ll be damned if I don’t get at least a taste.”

  “O-okay …” she answers.

  I love that. She’s been with other men, and I’ve been with other women, but here with her, it’s all new. She’s nervous, and it may be wrong of me, but I like that. I like that a whole hell of a lot.

  “Lie back, darlin’,” I tell her quietly, and her head hitting my dark blue pillowcases, her body on my hunter-green bedspread … all of it grips me in this fierce moment. All I can think is, this is right. She’s mine.

  I have to temper this with, ‘Get a move on, Sheriff, you don’t have all the time in the world’.

  Next full moon—and every day after, though, we will.

  I kick off my boots and join her on the bed, and her hands come to my shoulders before I can even make a move.

  She pulls me down to her and our lips meet, hers soft and sure. That little tongue of hers teases at my lips, and I take her in, enjoying the moans and short breaths she emits.

  Her small but strong hands latch more tightly to my shoulders, digging in, and I have the sensation of knowing that when I’m finally inside of her, she’ll grip me with even more force—every inch of her. She’ll be the best I’ve ever had.

  To accentuate this point, her thighs open, leaving me to settle into that space as she wraps her legs around me.

  I give a little jerk against her, partly to feel her reaction to it, partly because I can’t help myself.

  An indrawn breath is my reward.

  I take her moment of weakness and I use it, moving my mouth down her jaw and across its length, along the vulnerable column of her throat, spreading short open-mouthed kisses and long licks along her collarbone.

  My hands have not been tied, though. I’ve been slowly lifting the skirt of her dress, letting my fingers caress first her knee, then her outer thighs, then the inner thigh of each leg until I reach her panties. They’re soft, cotton probably. I don’t look. I want to. God help me, I want to. But I don’t think I can let her go if I know for real that she’s mine in every damn way. I just won’t be able to.

  I reach for the small scrap of fabric right near her pussy at the same moment her hands move to my hair, and my other hand pulls the top of her dress down.

  I kiss the top of her breast right as my finger touches her wet clit for the first time.

  If I’m on overload from those sensations, her fingers running through my hair with forceful need tell me she’s more than affected. She’s lost, to just that one touch from my hands.

  “Tell me you want more, Lotta.”

  She nods, and I smile but stop my movements.

  “No, Lotta. Tell me you want more.”

  Her blue-green eyes open, half-lidded and so fuckin’ sexy, I almost throw caution to the wind and decide then and there, she’s going to take it. She’s going to take it all, and we’ll deal with the consequences later.

  Her reply stops me.

  Small sexy smile in place, she says, “Give me more, Sheriff.”

  She wants her sheriff. She wants control.

  That’s something I can give.

  A deep sound ratcheting up my throat, I take her ripened red nipple into my mouth, laving it,
flicking its tip then around the rim, and right when her fingers start digging into my scalp again, and she cries out, “More!”, I start to work her clit again, this time with my thumb. Even better, I use two fingers inside her to add to her pleasure.

  She nearly pulls my hair out.

  It’s a good thing I’ve got a tough scalp. It’s also a good thing that the feel of her inside, the smell of her sweet pussy, the taste of her soft breasts with their ripe tips, and everything that is Charlotta Lawsen turns me on more than anything.

  Her body goes taut, her breath is but one puff of air, and then she starts to shudder. Her head thrashes back and forth, her moans increase, and the last thing she says as her world comes apart is, “Aaron …”

  I haven’t even come and it’s the best orgasm I’ve ever experienced.

  Even better? The kids still haven’t come back yet, and after she’s soaked up the moment and lain in my arms for a bit, we don’t waste the time we’ve been given.

  CHARLOTTA

  The water laps at my skin as my tail reforms.

  My sadness eclipses the rush that usually comes from a change.

  “It’s less than a month,” he says as though trying to convince himself.

  “Twenty-eight days really, less even,” I tack on, to help in the convincing.

  We’re quiet for a moment, and Essie comes to the shore.

  “No, Essie,” I tell her. “This time, you stay on land, sweetheart.”

  There are a few mermen bringing objects ashore, and I see Essie’s eyes widen as her treasure is laid at her feet, including her favorite silver bell.

  So much has changed since that silver bell was given to her, but the promise of it is greater than it’s ever been.

  Seeing it makes me brave.

  “You have a mission, systkin. Find a place for your treasure this moon cycle, and when I return, I expect there will be a map and a secret cave and all sorts of hubbalub about a buried treasure that will be talked about for generations. Make it that good,” I say to her.

  She smiles but then purses her lips. “No one’s touching my gems. Or my spoon, or my new shrimp fork.”

  I laugh. “Seems fair, little mermaid.”

  She’s quiet for a moment, and then asks, “You’ll be okay?”

  I tilt my head a bit and then nod, making sure she sees the truth in my eyes.

  “It’ll be strange without you, Essie, but it’s important I do this, and it’s important to me that you start living, sweetheart.”

  That stubborn look returns and I shake my head. “Don’t fight me on this, Maranessie Lawsen.”

  She wants to. I can tell. It’s a glint in her eye. But she doesn’t. She knows what I’ve come to realize. We may always want to protect each other. We may always be there for each other. But there are experiences we cannot protect each other against, and the main experience is actually living.

  She comes to the edge of the water, leans forward and we hug.

  Her hugs, I find, are more precious than anything. They aren’t warmth and honey.

  They’re purity, goodness, adventure, and a zest for life.

  She is, after all, the reason I have survived as long as I have, asleep in the lake for a thousand years, and in love with a man who I didn’t think could ever love me back while I shared my body with so many others.

  “Thank you, Essie,” I whisper in her ear before letting her go.

  She nods and her smile is sad but also full of joy. “Thanks right back, Lotta.”

  We don’t have to say anything more. We understand each other. Through all that we’ve been through, she knows me and I know my girl.

  When Essie takes a step back, just like he’s always been, Aaron is right there, crouching and taking me into his arms.

  I don’t tell them it’s getting harder to breathe. I can sustain some time outside above water, more so I’ve noticed than even other cursed mermaids and mermen, but it can be difficult.

  I shouldn’t have worried.

  His lips slide across my temple on the way to my cheek, then to the edge of my mouth, and finally, he’s giving me air, giving me breath, and I don’t think he realizes he’s breathing for both of us.

  Warmth, honey, and sunshine trickle into my veins. The memory of his mouth on mine as well as of his touch, and the short conversations we will have in between are what will sustain me, whether for the next month or in between each time we’re together.

  “We’ll know soon,” I share quietly, and I know when his eyes close slowly that he understands.

  We’ll know whether this is what will happen every month, or if the Fates chose him for me and me for him.

  His forehead against mine, he whispers, his voice rough, “I’ll do this at the end of every full moon. I’ll come to you every night. I’ll spend three days a month with you for the rest of my life. Because it means I have you, Lotta. It means I have you, and I love you.”

  He is going to be the type of man who tells me that often.

  I love you.

  And it is never, ever going to get old.

  Not even if we lived a thousand years.

  My breath is leaving me, though, and I can tell Aaron sees this when he kisses my forehead and reluctantly takes a step back.

  Then, before I sink into the depths of Sapphire Lake, I exhale a breathy, “I love you.”

  And the last thing I see are their wavering forms as I take in the smell of brine, and the cool waters envelop me.

  The mermen and mermaids of the lake treat me differently now.

  I’ve been underwater for two weeks, and I’ve noticed they don’t let me keep to my cave. In fact, anytime they see me heading to my hideout, they waylay me with chatter and small talk.

  And sometimes, I’ve even found that small talk turns to something more.

  It’s through these interactions and my short nightly chats with Aaron that I realize it’s not been the mermaids and mermen who’ve pushed me away. It’s been me, and my own fears and insecurities, and my unfair judgement that they’ll think poorly of me—the town harlot. And while there have been some humans and merpeople who’ve treated me as such, Aaron is right. I’ve set that ocean in front of me to cross, when there were people who already saw me for who I was. Rita, Tamara, Breezy, and of course, Aaron, Irina, my sister, Rickard, and so many others.

  The experience underwater is different this time.

  It’s almost hopeful.

  “It’s because of your choice to be with him,” Hallie, a mermaid who slept for a thousand years but awoke just last spring, told me one night last week. “We’ve all been waiting for fate to choose, and you’ve told us that you’re not sure yet, that you two haven’t … well …” She’s blushing when she says it, but continues. “Even if you don’t come back next moon cycle, we can see how much he loves you and how much you love him, and we’ll always know, fate or not, you two would be together. That knowledge gives us hope.”

  Thinking back on that moment as I wait for Aaron tonight, I know Hallie’s right.

  I can do this. Whether for ten or fifty years, I can do this with Aaron. I can be here each night, him waiting on me or me waiting on him, depending on how long his work keeps him.

  I can spend three days with him each month. The town is already friendly to those of us who are cursed. All the festivals and major holidays have been moved to accommodate our three days out of water.

  Aaron and I have hope.

  It’s on this thought that I feel a presence behind me on the jetty of rocks that Aaron comes out to each night.

  Only it’s not Aaron who stands there, a cloth bag in his hand.

  It’s a man I haven’t seen in over a thousand years, a man I thought never to see again, a man I thought was dead.

  Before I can say a thing, the ghost’s hand is over my mouth, a sickly-sweet concoction entering my nostrils and touching my lips, and then I’m drifting off as a cloth bag is placed over my head.

  AARON

  I like order in
my life.

  It’s made being a single father and sheriff doable. In general, though, my dad and gramps, both town sheriffs before me, were the same. It’s in my blood, this need for order.

  So, while I want nothing more than to spend every waking moment on a jetty waiting for a mermaid, I know she can’t and I know I’m not built that way.

  I have to be doing something.

  Today, I got up at my usual five a.m., hit Operation Fit, the local gym, for my hour and a half run/bike/swim, and like clockwork said a casual hello to Latham, dragged my ass back home and showered. Then I headed to Enchanted Brews for a coffee, where I was waylaid by not only the owner, Winona, but at least a half dozen or more constituents and townsfolk. As per usual, I was bombarded with town talk. This time, conversation ranged from what we were doing about the recent rash of thefts, to how the weather was, to the even more invasive questions about Lotta.

  Other than the weather, I gave perfunctory answers or my go-to sheriff-look that also happened to be the dad-look when Irina was a teenager.

  After a full day of work, I did some late fall yard work, cleaned out the gutters, and then ate some dinner: corned beef sandwich and potato wedges. I’ve been trying out some potato recipes knowing Lotta’s going to be back in a couple weeks.

  As I head down to the water, I see a few folks, and I wave, but they know why I’m here, and they don’t enter into small talk with me.

  Some give me pitying glances; others seem to have a bit more pep in their step when they see me. I’m unsure why, but if the people in town are good, I’m good.

  When I get to the rock jetty, I know something’s wrong before three mermen and two mermaids surface, all talking over each other.

  “He took her—”

  “She was kidnapped by one of our own—”

  “Only he isn’t a merman—”

  “Lotta passed out when he put something over her mouth—”

  I understand the gist from their ramblings.

  “Which way?” I ask, my voice calm.

  When Irina was young, as all children do, she got in a scrape. Only her scrape resulted in a compound fracture. She was only seven, but when I got her to the hospital, the staff fawned over her. One look at my face, though, and they seemed rather shocked that I wasn’t more hysterical, what with being covered in blood, holding my seven-year-old girl.