Emerge (30 page)

“Clay?” I ask. “Clay?” It feels like I’ve been calling his name all night. But there’s no answer.

He lies there comatose. All the color drained from his face.

“Olee, what now?”
Worry laces Caspian’s voice.

“We wait,”
she says. She clears up her supplies, and I know what that means: if this antidote doesn’t work, she’s got nothing else to try.

I clutch his hand, stroke his face, and hope. If I’d just let Melusine keep him, if I hadn’t intervened, she’d never have given him a love potion. If he dies tonight, it’s my fault.

Ten minutes pass.

Then another ten.

We’re all wading in stagnant water.

“Is there—”

A whimper. A whimper! I’ve never been so happy to hear a whimper.

“Clay?” I ask again, voice urgent.

“L-Lia?”

“I’m here. I’m here. You’re okay. You’ll be okay.”

“Where … where … ?” His eyelids are heavy, weighed down after his body’s battle, but he’s trying to open them.

Caspian looks at me, mouth open, eyes panicked. Clay can’t see the grotto, can’t see our tails.

“Is the susceptibility spell out of his system?”
I ask Clay’s grandmother.
“Answer me.”
I put as much power, as much threat behind the words as I can.

She gives me a curt nod and swims out of the room.

“Sleep, now,” I tell Clay before he can open his eyes. “Just sleep.”

Obeying my command and exhausted from his ordeal, he does.

On the car ride back, I sit in the backseat again with Clay’s head resting on my lap. He’s sleeping deeply now. No more shaking or sweating. His fever is gone, and his color is back. His breaths against my knee are steady and even.

I turn my attention to the driver’s seat. To Caspian’s profile, illuminated in yellows and whites by passing headlights. So far, the only words we’ve spoken to each other were my directions to Clay’s house. He’s silent now. Contemplative. He saw me tell Clay to sleep. Did it sound like the order of a siren or the comforting words of a girlfriend? Does he suspect?

No, I’m being paranoid. How could he? His grandmother was both too scared and too scarred to breathe a word. And Clay’s energy was so sapped from fighting Melusine’s potion that it’s expected he’d fall asleep. I hope.

When we’re only a few blocks from Clay’s house, Caspian says, “You were right about Melusine. I didn’t want to believe it.” Of course he didn’t; Caspian wants to see the good in everyone. I just want him to keep seeing the good in me.

“Do you think her father knows?” he asks.

I doubt Caspian’s ever met anyone else who shares his passion for scholarship the way Mr. Havelock does, anyone else who he admires so much. I don’t want to hurt Caspian—but I don’t want anyone else to either.

“That was an ancient potion. Illegal and complicated. I think he brewed it.”

“I thought so,” is all Caspian says. Hurt settles in the set of his mouth.

“That letter you found about how much he loved the human world and wanted his family to move up here? He probably wrote it for your sake. Planted it to throw us off. You need to stop interning for him. That family is dangerous.”

He nods, and I drop the subject. “I can’t leave Clay tonight. I’m going to call my parents and say we swam so late that I want to stay the night at your place. I’ll tell them your parents are home and I’m sleeping in the guest grotto. Cover for me if they call?”

Another nod. We pull up to Clay’s house. Since his mom is at her conference, all the windows are dark.

“Hey, Lia?” Caspian asks as I’m using Clay’s key to unlock the door. “My grandmother said the potion didn’t work because of a second type of magic. What do you think it could be?”

I shrug, but I don’t say anything. I’m so sick of lying.

My mother pretended to be stern on the phone, but she could barely conceal her glee that I’m finally expressing interest in a Merman. Caspian, with his family’s reputation, is far from an ideal choice, but at least he has a tail.

With that taken care of, I grab Clay’s phone off the nightstand and send a quick text to his mom, scrolling through his earlier messages to make sure I word it the way he would. It’s late and if he doesn’t check in to say goodnight, she’ll probably make the eight-hour drive back down here. Then I sit on the bed next to him. He looks so peaceful. All of his muscles are relaxed in sleep, and I’ve never seen his rugged features look more angelic than they do now. I make my voice as gentle as I can when I erase my earlier command, “Clay, you can wake up now if you want to.”

He blinks and shining hazel gazes up at me. “Lia?” He glances around, sees that we’re in his bedroom and it’s late. “What are you doing here?” He tries to smirk at the implication, but he’s too sleepy to pull it off.

I tell him as much of the truth as I can. “Mel stopped by—”

“Oh, yeah, I remember,” he says.

“She gave you some tea that didn’t agree with you. You’ve been pretty sick, but you’re okay now. You’re gonna be fine.” He nods. My explanation must gel well enough with whatever he remembers.

Now there’s only one thing left to do. He needs to get out of his sweat-drenched, salt water-splashed clothes. I didn’t feel right changing him myself while he was sleeping. “Here, put these on.”

I hand him a fresh t-shirt, boxers, and a pair of pajama pants from his drawer. Then, I turn my back.

“What? You don’t want to watch the show?” he asks. This time, I can hear the smirk. I can also hear him pulling down his zipper.

“Are you wearing my workout pants?” he asks over the rustle of fabric.

“My skirt ripped,” I say. I’ve had to roll the pants up about a zillion times, but I like knowing the smooth fabric against my legs belongs to Clay. That it’s touched his skin the way it’s touching mine.

I can feel his body behind me. “I won’t need these.” He rumbles the words right into my ear and presses soft cotton into the hand hanging at my side. I look down to see I’m holding the pair of clean boxers I gave him. “I don’t wear them to bed,” he says, his voice still gravelly from sleep. I’m positive I’m blushing, and I’m glad my back is turned.

Despite his swagger, as soon as I usher a pajamaed Clay back into bed, his eyelids drift closed. He’s been through so much tonight. More than he should ever have had to endure.

“Need a pillow,” he mumbles, already half-asleep.

“You have one right here,” I whisper, guiding it under his head.

“Need a better one.” He pulls me by the waist until I’m pressed up next to him on the bed. Then he rests his head in the crook of my arm, a contented sigh escaping his lips. “Perfect,” he says. And just as he’s falling asleep, “You smell like the ocean.”

I can imagine the bliss of surrendering to sleep in Clay’s arms. If only I could control my tail. Over the next few hours, every time Clay shifts or mumbles in his sleep, I sit bolt upright, terrified that either the potion or the antidote is having some deathly side effect. I have another dose of the cure waiting on the nightstand in case he needs it. I watch him sleep and whisper that he’ll be all right, that I’ll make everything okay for him.

When the first rays of pink sunlight peek through his curtains, I extricate my arm from under his head. Then I allow myself a second to admire him. I’ve never seen him like this before—after a night’s sleep. His hair is mussed, his lips parted. I don’t want to leave him; I want to stay here enveloped in his warmth, in this refuge of sheets that smell faintly of cinnamon. But he’s fine now. I nudge his shoulder until he’s awake just enough for me to siren him. To be safe, I sing the entire song. Now’s not the time to leave him alone unprotected, and I have to go. I owe someone a visit.

The sun hasn’t even fully risen when I reach her door. I ring the bell. Repeatedly. I’m sure it’s set up to echo in the grottos below, like the doorbell is in my house. I’m also sure that at this early hour, she’s still asleep. But I didn’t sleep last night so I don’t think she deserves to either. I press the doorbell again, and I don’t remove my finger.

The ring drones on and on until the door opens. I must have woken her, but she doesn’t look disheveled in the least. Sure, she has bed head, but in a sexy movie star kind of way. She’s still tying the sash of a red silk kimono around her slender waist when she pulls open the door. It reveals a deep V of skin along her chest, all the way down to her abdomen.

“I thought you might come calling,” she says, her lips curling into a sea serpent’s smile. “Since you’re not strangling me, I assume lover boy’s all right?”

Oh, I want to strangle her—more than anything else right now. But this situation needs to be handled delicately. So, I reign in the violent urges, the hatred, and use them to infuse my voice with authority.

“We’ll talk about Clay. In private. Where’s your father?” I ask. I must have woken him too.

“On a dive,” she says, still smiling. “Leviathan’s breath has to be picked right before sunrise.”

“Who will you be poisoning with that?” I’m determined to wipe that damn smile off her face.

“It helps prevent hair loss. Didn’t you hear about Mr. Piskaret? Poor man.”

I did hear about him, of course. Mr. Piskaret was a Merman just a few houses down from me who started going bald. He was over fifty, and it really wasn’t that surprising. But he killed himself anyway. He couldn’t take the constant reminder that he was aging. That he wasn’t immortal. I don’t understand this way of thinking, but it’s common enough among Mer who grew up Below. It isn’t vanity; it’s a deep, irrevocable sense of loss.

“Such a tragedy,” Melusine says, the pity in her voice almost believable. “My father and I are doing our part to help our Community and keep something like this from happening again.” She sounds like a politician. She lies like one, too.

Enough of this. My parents raised me to be courteous, to be polite. I pride myself on both qualities. But she doesn’t deserve either. I push past her and step inside.

She doesn’t have the decency to look affronted. She just keeps up that infernal smile. “Come in,” she says when I’m already standing by the table in the entrance hall. Nothing’s on it but a towering silk orchid in a waterless vase. Like everything above ground in this McMansion, it’s fake. Just for show. “Welcome to my house.”

“This house is owned by the Foundation. You lease it at their discretion.” That shuts her up. Good. She needs to be reminded of her place here. And I’m the one to do it.

“I won’t stay long,” I continue. I don’t want to be near her any longer than I have to. “You know what you did to Clay last night and so do I. More importantly, so do two other Mer. And we have proof.”

I expect her to bristle, to argue. Instead, all she says is, “You’re looking a little worn around the eyes, Lia. Did you stay up all night playing medic to a human?” She studies me, and her tone loses all trace of mocking when she says, “You really love him, don’t you?”

Telling her it’s none of her business would be an answer in itself—and I don’t answer to her. So I ignore her question and say what I left Clay’s bed this morning to say. “I have a sample of the potion that Clay remembers you giving him. I have the thermos full of poisoned tea that you brought to his house—with your fingerprints all over it. And I have two witnesses aside from me who saw the effects. One is a potions expert who can testify to its contents and implicate your father in its complex brewing.” I pause to watch this sink in. Em said all those human courtroom dramas were a waste of time. Good thing I didn’t listen.

Melusine’s smile
FINALLY
disappears. “Daddy didn’t brew it. I did. I found his notes on susceptibility potions … ” She blinks, and then her wide eyes meet mine. “I didn’t know the potion would conflict with the sireny. I’m … I need him to love me. You don’t understand—”

“I understand plenty.” I pin her with my stare. She’s not worming her way out. “Now you understand this: I don’t care who mixed the potion. I have enough to get both you and your father thrown into a warzone for illegal brewing and violence against a human. I won’t have to mention sireny at all.”