Emerge (31 page)

She crosses her arms over her ample chest. “And what if I do?” she asks, her voice a dangerous whisper. “What if I tell them exactly what you’ve been doing to Clay?”

She doesn’t scare me. Not anymore. “Who would believe the word of an
udell
poisoner?”

A part of me feels dirty for dismissing my own crimes this way, but my words have the desired effect. Her face falls, defeat dowsing her defiance. If I go to the Foundation, there’s nothing she’ll be able to do to save herself.

“And the priccce of your sssilence?” she hisses, her Mermese accent slipping through the cracks of her façade.

“I don’t want to ever have to think about you again. You will not so much as blink in Clay’s direction—or any other human’s. You place one scale over the line and you and your father are history. You can kiss your safety in this Community goodbye. Got it?”

She nods once.

“Tell me you understand,” I insist.

“I underssstand. There’s nothing else I could try anyway. Clay’s all yours. Enjoy him.” Spite infuses her words, but I don’t care.

She’ll stay away from him now. She doesn’t have a choice. I turn on my meager half-inch heel and walk toward the front door.

“Do you think he loves you?” she calls out behind me. “Do you think he ever will once he knows what you are? What you’ve done?”

My body tenses, but I don’t turn back to face her. With her question still ringing in my ears, I leave the house and don’t look back.

I’ve never ditched school before. In fact, I’ve had near perfect attendance all year. But wasting the rest of this monumental day cooped up in a classroom would be a travesty. Today deserves to be celebrated. Today is the first day that Clay is free from Melusine.

Today deserves to be savored. Today is the last day that Clay and I will ever be together.

I go home, rush through a family breakfast, and grab my backpack for appearances. So many fake smiles. So many half-truths. Yes, I sure was out late with Caspian. No, we’re not together … yet. Yes, I admit he’s handsome. No, I didn’t sneak out of the guest grotto in the middle of the night. Yes, I’m sure. Every question wastes precious seconds.

Finally, I’m standing among the potted geraniums, my hand poised to knock on Clay’s door. One more day. I’ll allow myself one more day.

He opens the door dressed for school. I miss the intimate, bed-mussed appearance from earlier this morning, so I tousle his hair.

“Hey!” he exclaims in mock offense. His eyes are still glazed from my siren song earlier, but I won’t let it bother me. Not today.

“Did Mrs. Halliburton come over yet?” I ask. Clay’s neighbor checks in on him every morning before school while his mom’s out of town.

“Yeah, she already left for work.”

I grab his hand. “C’mon then! We’re late for our adventure!”

“What adventure? We’re just going to school.”

“Not today, we’re not.”

Clay raises an eyebrow, “
You
wanna ditch?” Even with a mind still fuzzy from sireny, he’s surprised. “You sure?”

I nod, my smile pushing up into my cheeks.

“Where are we going?” he asks.

“Anywhere you want.”

He thinks. His own desires come to mind slowly, the way they always do when he’s sirened. About a minute later, he tells me where he wants to go.

“You got it.”

Clay’s convertible is our own private world. It lets in the sea breeze and keeps out my worries. Clay serenades me with the cheesy songs he sings along to on the radio. I dance badly in my seat. By the time we’ve turned off the Pacific Coast Highway and away from the ocean, my hair is a tangled mess of wind and my tension has been laughed away.

The further inland we drive, the more daring I feel. For my sisters and I, trips into Los Angeles are few, far between, and short-lived. Since I got my legs three years ago, I’ve come into the city to go to a few museums and to see the ballet with my mother (“See, Aurelia, if ballerinas can do that with their legs, surely you don’t need to worry about walking around school.”). But those trips to L.A. lasted only a few hours. Being this far from the sea feels unnatural. It heightens the call of the ocean to a level that, just a few months ago, would have been uncomfortable. Now, though, after routinely harnessing the call to check on Clay through our bond, I’m more accustomed to the tug, and I can push it to the back of my mind. Which is a good thing because Clay and I plan to be here all day.

We drive through the wide residential streets, and I marvel at how all these people live a whole fifteen minutes from the ocean. Then we head to Sunset Boulevard and go into a store that must have been built for Clay. Three entire floors of guitars and music memorabilia. His eyes are so wide he reminds me of a blowfish. If blowfish looked windswept and sexy and wore low-rise jeans … okay, time to reign in my brain.

The clerk tells us some of Clay’s favorite up-and-coming bands have performed gigs in the back room. Since it’s empty during the day, I ask if we can see it. The awe on Clay’s face as he stands on the black box stage and runs his hands reverently along the vintage posters lining the walls is enough to make the entire trip worth it.

But the day’s still far from over. When Clay finishes drooling on at least half the guitars, he buys some new picks and a soft suede guitar strap, and we drive to our next stop.

We preview about a hundred food trucks and laugh at menu items like Squeeze My Meatballs and Berry Potter Pie. The Fishalicious Tacos tempt me, but Clay points out that L.A. is known for its gourmet burgers. Fish may be my fave, but since getting my legs, I’ve explored beyond the realm of Mer-cooked meals. I’ve learned to appreciate other human food, as long as it’s not overly processed or chocked full of additives. The truck we settle on is painted bright green and boasts organic ingredients. Perfect! I follow Clay’s lead, and soon I’m at the window, retrieving the juiciest burger ever. Afterwards, I steal Clay’s napkins, and he chases me down the row of trucks, grabbing at me with ketchup hands. On foot, he’s much faster than I am, so he catches me in no time. Living on land sure has its advantages.

Our next stop promises even more fun. The central plaza of the quaint outdoor shopping center buzzes with people. Clay drapes his arm around my waist as we walk, and several passersby shoot me jealous glances. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to try on clothes for my boyfriend like girls do in the movies. I find out when Clay pulls me into the first of several clothing stores, all featuring art-deco façades and high price tags. He compliments me on so many outfits that by the time we’re done inside, I’m several shopping bags heavier.

Then we just stroll. We browse trendy odds and ends at kiosks and duck into intimate courtyards hidden among the shops. The European-style cobblestone walkways are newly built but romantic all the same. I’ve never had this much fun just walking around in public before. Back in the plaza, Clay stops me on a picturesque little bridge to admire the pond-like fountain below. I don’t know if it’s the look in his eyes, the fact that we’re so far from the ocean, or the other human couples doing exactly what we are, but I feel … normal. More normal than I’ve ever felt. I bask in that feeling the entire drive home from Los Angeles.

When we get back to Malibu, I’m not ready for the day to end. My siren song has been wearing off all day. Soon it will be gone. My time is running out.

Clay and I head to El Matador Beach, which is within walking distance of both my house and his. The tightness in my chest lessens with the ocean in sight, but I don’t welcome the relief. The closer we are to home, the closer we are to the end of our day. Our last day. No, I won’t do this. I won’t give into melancholy yet. It’ll just make it that much harder to do what I must do.

There are couples here, too, walking hand in hand along the beach. They make this feel like a real date. I cling to the feeling, knowing today will be the last time I feel it.

It would normally worry me to be this close to the ocean around humans. That’s why my family has invested in the stretch of private beach behind our house. But Clay’s hand resting on my hip anchors my legs in place. I can even take off my shoes, bury my toes in the wet sand, and let the waves lap at my feet without fear of transforming. It’s exhilarating.

Everything today has been exhilarating.

“Clay?” I turn to him, taking both his hands in mine. “I just want to say, thank you.”

“Today was all your idea.”

“Not just for today. These last few weeks, being with you has been … ” I trail off, at a complete loss for what to say. How can you narrow down to a few paltry words something that means everything?

“A fairytale?” he asks, a teasing lilt to his voice.

“No!” I insist. “No. Being with you has been … real. This … us … has been real to me.”

Tears sting the back of my eyes. I can’t let him see so I squeeze them shut, will them away.

“Hey,” he says in a comforting voice, “hey, what is it? What’s wrong?” He cups my cheek in his palm, and I lean into his touch. “Do you think this isn’t real for me? It is. Lia, I l—”

“Don’t!” I say, my voice full of the tears I can’t shed. “Please, don’t say it. If you say it, I won’t be able to—”

“To what? Lia, I don’t understand.”

Then his hand drops from my cheek. He staggers back and blinks several long, slow blinks.

No, no, it’s too soon. It’s not enough time. I want to turn my face to the heavens and plead for more time. Instead, I step close to Clay, wrap my arms around him and hold him close. I bury my face in his chest and inhale the scent of him—for the last time.

I can’t do it. I can’t let go.

Today was so wonderful. We could have a day just like it tomorrow. Just one more day and then I could let him go. That couldn’t do any harm, could it? All I’d have to do is tilt my head up and hum. It would be so easy.

A hummed melody through my lips and we could have more time together. Clay could tell me he loved me. We could have everything. Everything I’ve ever wanted.

“Lia? What was I saying?” Confusion laces his voice again. I hate it. I hate myself for causing it. I hate myself for even thinking about violating him one more time when I don’t have to. He’s free from Melusine and now he’ll be free from me.

It takes every ounce of strength to lift my head from his chest, to pull away from his body. This is it. The song has worn off, and I will never sing it again. I will give him his life back and let him live it without me.

All I have to do is turn around. Turn my back on him and walk away. It’s the right thing to do. It’s the only thing to do.

But I don’t do it.

My eyes meet his open, questioning ones, and I stop thinking. Grabbing two fistfuls of his shirt, I yank him up close to me. I raise myself on tiptoe and finally—finally—crash my lips against his.

He doesn’t move. For an instant, he’s completely still.

Then his lips part and I’m tasting him. He astounds my senses. My world becomes a whirlwind of supple lips and exploring tongue, of light stubble and sweet, gasping breath. I press the entire length of my body against his, twine my fingers in his hair, and lose myself in the heady, overwhelming taste of him. His lips and body are firm against mine, a buoy in the storm.

This. This is what I’ve longed for. For weeks. For a year. For my whole life.

Wrenching my lips from his is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.

I step back. He brings a hand to his lips, his expression stunned. I have no clue what he’s thinking. There’s no spell now to cloud his vision of me. Nothing to make him spend time with me, to make him love me. He’s free to dismiss me now, free to reject me. Whatever he feels now is real.

I can’t bear to find out.

With my heart still pounding and the taste of him still lingering on my lips, I turn and run down the beach.