by Tracy Deebs
Page 5
Before I could stop myself, I glanced at the easel set up a scant few inches from where I was standing. It was old and battered, covered with paint and pastels, but it was sturdy. Reliable. And still bore the weight of the last painting I had created.
A self-portrait of sorts, it was started four months ago when I’d been looking for a way to process my last big battle with Tiamat and her minions, not to mention all of the fallout caused by it. Fallout that included dealing with new, dangerous powers and breaking up with Kona, the selkie prince whom I had loved but couldn’t stay with. Not when there was Mark. And not when I was so uncertain about who I was and who I wanted to be.
The portrait is a back shot, and in it I showcased my tattoos as well as the electricity I was even now still learning how to harness, though I’d lived with the power for months. I’m standing on my beach—the one right outside this house, where I so long ago learned to swim and surf and play. But that childhood innocence, that innocuousness, is long gone. In its place is the malevolent darkness of a storm closing in. There is violence in every cloud, betrayal in every reckless lash of the wind. My arms are raised and spread wide while lightning dances along my fingertips. My feet are planted firmly on the shifting sand, my toes digging into the damp shore in a desperate bid to hold on to what I know I should give up. My hair is flying in all directions, whipping against my face and back in a desperate reprimand. And my power, my terrible and magnificent power, bleeds into every inch of the painting even as a wave of epic heights threatens to crash down on me.
Looking at it now—even after all these months—hurt me. No wonder my father kept sending me searching looks, like he was trying to figure out who I was and what I was thinking. Though the painting was beautiful, it was much more a cry for help, a desperate search for identity, than it was a viable piece of art. Just looking at it took me back to those tumultuous times, to the aftermath of a battle so devastating that it had destroyed nearly everything I believed in in one fell swoop.
Coral Straits, the mercity that was my mother’s homeland, the place I was poised to take control of in the not-so-distant future, had been decimated by Tiamat and her forces. The merQueen, Hailana, had been gravely injured—as well as exposed for the cold, heartless tyrant that she was. And Kona, poor Kona, had been forced to deal not just with the death of his beloved parents and siblings and his subsequent ascension to the selkie throne, but with what I knew he saw as my betrayal as well. With what, if I was completely honest, I too couldn’t help seeing as a betrayal.
Sighing, I barely resisted the urge to beat my head against the window. I was caught between a rock and a hard place, between the ocean and the shore, and I was finally smart enough to figure out that I was screwed no matter which direction I chose.
I wanted to cry, to scream, to beg the universe for answers. Instead I just stood there and watched the waves strike the shore, again and again and again, and wondered if all this was futile, if all this worrying would even amount to anything. In six months—hell, in three months—would I still be standing here contemplating my fate and where I belonged? Or would I end up like so many of the others who had given themselves to the Pacific? Who had thrown themselves into the fray?
Chapter 3
I didn’t know how long I stood there contemplating my close-to-imminent death (Would it be quick like my mother’s? Long and lingering as these last months had been for Hailana? Would I have time to say good-bye, or would I just disappear from my family’s and Mark’s lives? Would they understand that I wasn’t like my mother, that I hadn’t left them voluntarily? Would it hurt?) as I looked out at the ocean that both soothed and terrified me. Long enough for the tide to roll in. Long enough for the sun to set. And more than long enough for Mark to grow concerned.
“You okay, Tempest?” His voice drifted up the stairs and through my open bedroom door. “It’s getting late. ”
His words galvanized me to action. Shoving my worries and self-pity into the darkest corner of my mind, I finally did what I should have done all along: grabbed clothes from my closet and did the world’s fastest change into my favorite pair of ripped jeans and a red cashmere sweater. After slicking on gloss and doing a quick pass over my eyelashes with some mascara I found at the bottom of my long-ignored makeup case, I gathered my obnoxious curls into a low ponytail, added the pair of flirty gold hoops Mark had given me for Christmas one year, slid my feet into a pair of low-heeled brown ankle boots, and was out the door.
I made my way downstairs to find Mark still on the couch where I’d left him, clutching an Xbox controller like it was the answer to all of life’s mysteries. He and Moku were racing to the finish line of some car game, and I paused behind them to watch.
“Look out, Moku!” Mark taunted as he whipped around a particularly dangerous curve. “You’re about to get smoked. ”
“You wish. ” Moku snorted, coming up behind him in the game and clipping Mark’s bumper with his own.
Smiling, because I never took for granted the fact that Mark loved my little brother as much as I did, I met my dad’s eyes above their heads. He was grinning too, Sabrina nowhere to be seen, and for the first time since I’d been home, I felt comfortable. Like I belonged. So much had changed since I’d been gone, but this scene, right here, was one I’d witnessed a million times. If it was the last time I’d ever see it, so be it. I didn’t want to know.
At the last minute, Mark swerved out from the bumper crush Moku had on him, leaving my little brother to crash and burn, hard. “Nooooooooo!” Moku cried in mock horror, falling to his knees in front of the television.
“Take that, sucka!” Mark crowed in triumph, even as he reached down to ruffle my brother’s hair. “You can’t mess with the best. ”
Moku pretended to gag. “Yeah, right. That attempt was pathetic. ”
“Got you, didn’t it?”
“Because you got lucky!”
Mark snorted. “Keep telling yourself that. ”
Figuring I’d better break up the brag fest before they decided to settle it in the age-old manner—with another race—I wrapped my arms around Mark’s waist from behind and pressed soft kisses to the nape of his neck.
He turned immediately, winding an arm around my waist, and pulled me over the back of the couch and onto his lap. “Ready to go?” he murmured, his breath warm against my ear.
Shivers slowly worked their way through me, and I nodded. I was more than ready. Mark and I hadn’t been alone for more than a couple minutes since I’d been home.
I thrilled a little at the thought of climbing on the back of his bike, but when we got outside I realized Mark had run home while I’d been upstairs changing. His mother’s bright red Mercedes sports coupe sat in my driveway, and though I knew he’d brought it because he thought it would be more comfortable for me, I was a little disappointed that we weren’t taking his Ducati.
We hadn’t ridden it together in months, and I missed it, especially the way it felt to sit so close behind Mark, my arms wrapped around his waist, my body pressed to his as I counted his every heartbeat and exhalation.
Mark didn’t let me miss that closeness for long. As soon as we climbed into the car, he covered my hand with his, intertwining our fingers even as the palm of his hand rested against the back of mine. As he made the turn onto Prospect, he brought both of our hands to rest on the hardness of his thigh, his callused thumb gently stroking over the side of my hand.
