Shining Sea (17 page)

TIDAL

Across the parking lot, Bo opens the passenger door of the red Wrangler. He says hello and his voice—is like a touch. The nausea I’ve been feeling all afternoon vanishes, and I climb into my seat, albeit a bit unsteadily.

Bo’s backing up when I spot Logan. He must have come in after lunch. “Hold on, I need to talk to Logan for a sec.”

Bo spins the wheel—then
accelerates
. “Sorry? You need to what?” We shoot past Logan, who’s standing next to his truck, hand frozen on the door handle, his gray gaze unwavering as it meets mine.

“Didn’t you hear me?” I say, voice shaking slightly. “I need to talk to Logan. I think—”

“Do you
think
,” Bo muses, “that Delaine has a good memory, or a poor one?”

“I have no idea—why are you asking about Logan’s memory?” My own memory seems fuzzy all of a sudden, filled with . . . white noise.
What was I just thinking about?

“Because the faster he forgets his feelings for you, the better.”

“What feelings? Just because you guys have some weird history . . . What happened between the two of you?”

“It’s complicated. Delaine thinks— But hey, we don’t need to talk about him, do we? How are you feeling, Arion?”

“I feel fine. And no, we don’t have to talk about Logan—you’re the one that brought him up.”

“You’re the one who was checking him out.”

“Um, no—” The road forks and we head west. “Wait—are we going to Seal Cove?” Bo nods. My face heats with embarrassment at the memory of my splashdown and the almost kiss. I begin to protest. Then I think of the way someone had held me down, under the water, and how I don’t really know for certain that it hadn’t been Bo. “Actually—”

But then our eyes meet, and there’s nothing for it. I have to go with him.

“Fine. As long as I don’t have to take another rules-and-regs test.”

“No rules, no regulations.” His lips twitch. Then his jaw tenses. “Yesterday, at Cliff House, did the things I told you frighten you?”

The things you told me, like the fact that you can take my life?
“Not really,” I say quickly.

“Why don’t I believe you?”

“Because I’m a bad liar?” He laughs. I say, “But I was a bit . . . overwhelmed.”

“Yes, well, so was I.” His hands tighten on the steering wheel.

“You told me you couldn’t be alone with me.”

“Right. I did say that. And yet, here we are.”

Moments later the drizzle stops and the sun comes out. When we arrive at Seal Cove, Bo comes around and opens my door. We make our way down to the waterline.

“I’m sure you know plenty of guys who’d like to be alone with you,” he says.

Unintentionally picturing Logan’s ghost eyes, I don’t answer, crouching to pick up a pink pebble still wet from the water.

As we begin to walk, I reply, “No, I don’t think so. Hey, let me ask you a question.”

“As long as my answers don’t have to be any more truthful than yours.” I laugh, my question forgotten, as he hands me a white clamshell edged with purple. I place the pebble in the shell, where it sits like a pearl. Beside us, Wabanaki Bay glitters in the late September sun.

We reach the rocks at the end of the beach. Bo’s light hair blows across his ocean eyes.

“We’re not so different, you know,” he says quietly. The water whispers,
Shh . . .

“Right.”
If we weren’t so different, I’d kiss you
now.
I take a seat on the sand instead.

“Homo sum, humani nihil a me alienum puto.”
He pronounces the words easily.

“The inscription on the plaque at the library,” I say in response. “Means?”

“Means, ‘I consider nothing that is human alien to me.’ Above all, Arion, I’m a man.”

My hands, which, seemingly of their own accord have been squeezing and releasing small hills of sand, are suddenly between his, and it’s as if the two of us, touching, complete some kind of circuit. A current runs through me, plunging beneath my skin, to my blood. His gaze sharpens, and he draws me onto his lap. My knees press into the sand on either side of his hips, and unable to stop myself, I slide my arms up around his neck, lifting my lips—

With a swift movement he brings one hand behind my head, tucks my face beneath his chin. Then he wraps his arms around me, and when he stands up, he takes me with him.

Swaying on my feet, I breathe in the salt and pine scent of him, wanting in part to run, knowing, somehow, that I can’t. Sound pours over me like water: The whispered sound that comes from a seashell when you hold it to your ear—sent through a Marshall stack. A hundred songs, a thousand; the music vibrates inside me. Like a wave, it draws me under, tosses me over— Until I understand.
The irresistible pull of him
is the tug of the tides, the power of the sea.

And music. I can
feel
what music sounds like
.

Then slowly, the music begins to fade—but his pull remains. He keeps one arm around my waist, as if to steady me. With his free hand, he yanks his shirt over his head and tosses it on the sand. The muscles of his arms and chest look smooth and strong; I don’t even try to stop myself—I slide my hands up over his chest, reaching for his face, turning it down toward me—

“No!” Releasing me, he backs away, moving so suddenly he inadvertently steps into the water. He doesn’t seem to notice. “It’s not that simple.”

My legs feel as if they can barely hold me. “But—” I take a step toward him.

“There’s more.” The waves slap around his knees. “You saw the paintings that belong to my father—my family
commissioned
those paintings, and hundreds like them, a very long time ago. Red herrings.

“Part man, part monster, who
wouldn’t
blame the creatures in those paintings for lost ships, lost lives? It was never part of the plan to have mermaids morph into pretty playthings for children—Hans Christian Andersen was a dreamer. Our kind, we’re the stuff of nightmares.”

Slowly,
immense white
-
feathered wings begin to spread from behind his back
. Haunting melodies mingle with the sound of the waves as the wings emerge, stretching alongside his body, extending several feet above his head. The edges of the feathers pulse with subtle movement, like the silent swaying of sea anemones, and once again, it seems that music rolls off of him. When I gasp at Bo’s beauty, the muscles along his jawline tighten and he scowls.

But he doesn’t frighten me now. He draws me. The ocean is the same. I’m no longer afraid of it, only enchanted. The water’s temperature doesn’t even register as I take a step into the sea, a step toward Bo.
An angel. Mom’s right. They exist.

“No. Not an angel.”

But I have no idea how Bo can be objecting to what I’ve just said—I didn’t say it out loud. I also have no idea how
I
heard
him
, because he didn’t speak—and yet he did. But his lips didn’t move.

And they don’t move now, as he says,
“Although perhaps angels were our origin. The confusion was common enough. ‘The Angel of Death.’ People used to scream those words, people who saw my ancestors . . . But nobody wants to believe angels are killers. So men made up their monsters. Sea monsters, they called us. Sea serpents, even. People aren’t particular when they’re half mad with fear. Mermen. Mermaids. So much easier to blame a beautiful woman; who can stop a beautiful girl?

“Men see what they want to see. Survivors spread stories. We let them. We made them.

“And so Sirens vanished from the minds of men. Today it’s the weather, malfunctioning equipment, modern-day pirates.”

The waves leap at our thighs, soaking the legs of our jeans. I stare at Bo’s wings, at his face. His lips remain still, his voice a whisper in my mind, as he says,
“Not an angel, Arion. A murderer.”

I fight to keep my voice steady, but then I figure out that, like Bo, I don’t need to use it.

The water is acting as a conduit for us.

“You’re not a murderer.”
My thoughts move magically from my mind to his.

“Not today.”

“Not ever.”

“Maybe that’s part of why I want you so much. To tell me lies like that. So human.”

He brings his hands to my waist, then slides them to my hips, holding me so tightly it hurts.

My gaze leaves his ocean eyes, taking in the angles of his face, the hollow at his throat, the corded muscles of his arms. I don’t care what he is or isn’t, don’t care about anything except eliminating the space between us. I press myself against him, grasping his upper arms—

Eyes locked on one another’s lips, our silent struggle takes us out of the water. His wings loom over me like the cliffs above the beach, their unearthly beauty stark against a sky that’s turned to navy without me noticing. I know I should be scared; I also know—he must be wrong.

“Self-defense, maybe,” I say, my breath coming fast. “Maybe you could kill someone if your life were being threatened, but wouldn’t we all? If we possessed the skill and the strength and our lives were at stake? Anyone would kill, to live.”

“Anyone would kill to live. My point exactly.” He straightens, starts pulling away—

But even as he tries to step back, I cling to his hips, my brain sluggish with wanting. Everything is a tangle. My body’s desire twisting my thoughts. What I
see
clashes with what he’s said. Then there’s the music of him.

“Arion, you
need
to let go.” His chin is lifted with the effort of restraint. With a hushed gust of wind—his wings vanish.

“No—” Surprise shows on his face as I grab his arm and spin him around—running my hand over his shoulder blades.
Smooth skin.
“No, you can’t keep doing this to me. We can’t have this—tug-of-war. I only want to
kiss
you, is that so horrible?” It’s humiliating, to say these things, but I can’t seem to stop myself. Again, I run my hand over his back, now his chest.

His laugh is derisive. “
Only
a kiss? You’re right, you’re not a good liar.” He brings two fingers to my neck, to the pulse there. Presses. His fingers are hot, yet a chill runs through me. His other hand moves to my lower back, a gentle pressure. “Do you even understand what my Song does?”

“It lures. You use it to lure your—prey.” The word “prey” fades to nothing.

But my fear doesn’t chase away the want—although a sort of paralysis creeps through me now as he bends his head, the side of his face touching mine, his mouth near my ear.

“It works well, doesn’t it?” He whispers the words, and I can barely hear them above the sound of the ocean, but I don’t doubt their meaning, and all at once, I understand his intent.

“Wait—”

He brushes his lips along my cheekbone, his next words soft as shadows. “That was the idea. But it seems you can’t.” His laugh is dark. “Love comes and goes, with humans. Ebbing, flowing
 . . .
an uneven, tidal thing. Love, for mortal men and women, is a beautiful lie, a broken promise. A wave that rolls up on the sand—then falls back to the sea.”

Love.
My paralysis is complete. Hearing him say that single word scares me more than anything he’s said, or done, so far. Because I agree: love is a lie, a ghost of a ghost.

“But my love isn’t like that, I assure you. It won’t recede. It will
flood
you. Drown you.”

Love. Are we in love, then? Is that what this is?

“On the other hand, if you were my
mark
—”

Smooth as water, he slides his hand behind my neck—

CHOICE

Fear and desire collide in me as he draws me to him, his eyes becoming whirlpools of night just before his mouth comes down hotly on mine—

But before I can even taste him, he tears his lips away—pushing hard against my shoulders, so that I stumble and fall to the sand.

He looks down at me, his chest rising and falling fast—his face pale except for a spot of color burning on each cheek. “What the hell am I doing?”

“What
are
you doing?” I jump to my feet. “Why did you make me feel like your—” I search for a word, refusing to say
prey
.
Mark? Is that what he said?

“Because you need to know the difference! Between love, and
what we do
. But I didn’t mean—”

“What
did
you mean?
What do you want?
” I practically shout.

“What do
I
want? I wanted only to show you. Teach you. Then someday, soon, maybe—” His tone turns bitter. “But
you
. You wanted—I almost lost control! Happy?”

“Oh, so I should be happy? Happy my heart nearly broke through my rib cage? Happy you paralyzed me with—” With want, with need.
Were you going to kiss me?
I want to shout,
Were you going to
kill
me?
I look at the water. Look back at him. Can’t speak.

Running his hands through his hair, he says, “I thought you wanted to know me.”

“Yes, but that’s not
who you are
, it’s just something you can
do
.”

“No. It’s who I am.” We stare at each other.

“I need to go,” I say shortly.

“I can see that.” We begin to walk. Bo’s voice is low, angry sounding. “You know, despite your eagerness for—me, you’re not ready to hear more.”

“Oh please!
Teach
me. Just don’t scare the hell out of me.”
Or make me want you until it hurts.
“What about the breath? Where do you get it?”
From who?

He slows then, angling his gaze down at me, his eyes making me think of a glowing pendant I’d seen in a dusty display case buried in the back of one of the old fishing shacks near the harbor that had evolved—or perhaps devolved—into shops. I’d wondered what the gorgeous green-and-gold necklace was made of, and the shopkeeper, whose skewed smile somehow seemed as dark and dirty as the rickety row of buildings, told me it was dichroic glass. The piece fascinated me, and even as I backed away from the counter, I pressed him to explain how it had been made. “Layer upon layer of metal oxides attached to the surface”—the man started around the counter—“see how the colors shift?” But to me it was his eyes that were shifting as he came toward me—the necklace outstretched like an offering, which I refused—the same way Bo’s are shifting now.

And just this one look makes a cry catch in my throat, some wild yearning trapped behind my lips. A strange tone rings in my ears, and suddenly any questions I have are completely eclipsed by a chasm of ache for him that opens within me.
I need this to end—I’ll die if it ends.

“It’s like I don’t have a choice!” I blurt, furious now. “Like I
have
to be with you, or, or—” I drop my gaze to the sand, the only source of light left on the darkened beach.

“Arion.” His voice is silk smooth as he says my name, yet somehow sharp. The way a knife can be so honed, you don’t feel the initial cut when it slices you.

He cups my chin now, lifting my face until I’m forced to look him in the eye.

In a whisper, he says my name again. Sings it. “Arion.” Then he asks, “Is having a choice really so important?”

I don’t need to be told, the question is rhetorical.