Shining Sea (30 page)

BLACK SEA

A heartbeat later, Nick’s body slams into mine—

He clamps onto me, viselike.

His wings move faster as he takes control of the rate at which we fall, his arms and legs bars of a cage that surrounds me. We slow slightly—

And he covers my mouth with his.

Squeezing my lips closed, I try to turn my head— But he holds me with one arm, bringing his fingers to my mouth, prying it open, shoving his tongue in.
Pressure.

It feels like my lungs will explode—or collapse.

Earlier Nick mentioned hell. Now I’m sharing it with him.

My mind splits off . . . I’m singing in the church choir, dragging palm fronds down the aisle. Sparse a cappella melodies mingle with the medieval harmonies . . .
All the singing I’ve done . . . won’t give me the extra breath I need to live through this.

Each day we breathe about twenty-five thousand times, maybe thirty thousand . . .
the sucking sensation,
it hurts
. My thoughts start to stumble over one another as my brain becomes deprived of oxygen.
Breaths come in pairs . . . except for the first breath, and the last.

But what’s another breath or two? The fall is sure to kill me.

I close my eyes.
The last thing I see will
not
be Nick Delaine with his maniacal eyes shining like the moon
—
the moon, spinning out of orbit.
Instead I picture Bo’s face, marveling for one last time how his eyes hold the sun at their centers . . . the sun, surrounded by water, the deep greens and blues of the sea . . . the sea . . . is black.

BREAKWATER

Half in, half out of the stormy Atlantic, I cling to the breakwater. Waves crash against my back. Desperately trying to catch my breath, I clutch at the crevices of the wet black boulders, the rain stinging my face. On my right hang the remnants of an old lobster trap. To my left is a crab trap, a disintegrating fish head tied at the center.

That’s why he left me alive—I’m
bait.
Bait for Bo.

Killing me isn’t enough. It never has been, or I’d be dead by now. Jordan was right, I’m one of the birds. But more importantly to Nick, more horribly, I am the stone.

Bo. I told him to leave, and I meant it. I can’t be with him—not anymore. But I also can’t help hoping he doesn’t fall for Nick’s trap. I don’t want him to die, no matter what he’s done, and I have no doubt that Nick intends to kill him.

With an intense effort, I haul myself up—one rock, then another, clinging, climbing. Partway out of the water, now all the way out, I will myself to crawl up the side of the soaking seawall. It feels as if I’m dragging my body behind me, that I’m somehow a foot or two in front of myself, looking back on a burden, this body, so numb it no longer seems like my own.

Nick’s body is half man, half angel. His mind belongs to a beast.
Where is he?

My arms tremble—I can hardly feel my feet. But I continue to climb, the sharp edges of the rocks slicing my hands. Even though I can’t see it in the rain, the path that runs along the top of the breakwater can’t be far above me now. Uttering a string of obscenities plus a prayer, I stagger to my feet. My ribs feel bruised—or broken. Every breath jabs like a knife.

The path is an inch out of reach now, the rail just above it.

Flinging my arms up—

I grasp at the air.
My palms slap down hard on the wet granite as I fall—my left ankle catching between two rocks. For a second, I give up, one leg bent beneath me, the other trapped.

Leaning my forehead against the granite, I don’t know which is colder, my skin or the unyielding stone. Then the wind screams—and I yank my leg free with a cry of my own.

Scanning the sky for Nick, I assess the jagged gash in my calf just above the edge of my boot. The cut is bleeding heavily. Struggling to stand, I put my weight on the leg and yelp—but finally, reach the top.

Flash.
In the dark of the day, the beam of the lighthouse cuts through the clouds. But how is that possible when—

No, the light comes from the end of the seawall—
Bo!

The storm mimics midnight. Silhouetted against the black sky, Bo looks luminous. His back is to me, his great wings extended as he battles the Cimmerian creature who Called to me so convincingly, and in so many ways.

But it’s
my
Song—my swan song—that’s lured Bo here today, just like Nick planned.

And knowing that, I can’t run. Bo’s saved me more than once from this same monster—in return, I suspected him, feared him, and doubted his love. Even now his stunning Song fills my ears, my very veins
.
Maybe Jordan is right about this too—maybe I’ve reached the point where I can’t live without Bo’s Song. Or maybe I love him. Despite what he is, despite that we’re over. No matter the reason,
I
have
to do
something
.

Can I distract Nick?
He said my Song had thrown off his Siren senses before.

Planting my feet, I stare into his sterling eyes, willing my own eyes to blaze. Adrenaline fills me and I open my mouth, screaming into the wind—

“Stop!”
My voice tears through the air—

Then dissolves into sky, into clouds so thick they look like roiling smoke.

My gift, my Song, is nothing compared to the hatred of Nick Delaine, whose eyes flash like a blade now as they lock onto mine. And this time, instead of feeling his gravitational pull drawing me toward him, the invisible will of his terrible Siren Song
pushes
me back
.

Sliding toward the edge of the seawall, I lean forward, trying to resist—

He and Bo continue their combat, two strange angels. Wings moving at odd angles, sharp, misguided scissors. Their Songs sound as if they’ve been orchestrated by the sea and the soaking sky, a merciless sky, that continues to dump rain so cold it feels like ice, on a sea so unpredictably wild, it serves as a mirror for this unforgiving Siren
who will not stop until he kills
one of the only boys who could be like a brother to him
. It’s true; who else can understand Nick at this point? Logan wouldn’t recognize him as his brother if he saw him now.

If only Nick had waited, if only he’d let the Summers save him—save him completely. If only he hadn’t fled from the one family he can ever really belong to. But in his fury he bolted, only to return in order to destroy Bo’s life, and mine, which will in turn wreck the lives of our families. I can’t let it happen.

“Nick!”
I shout.

“Ari!” Bo’s voice trails over his shoulder. “Get back!”

But I can’t move. Is it Nick’s spell? Or am I simply too saturated with seawater and despair?

Nick’s mouth curls at one corner. His Song sings under my skin.

My faith begins to fail. How can we win against Nick Delaine? I’ve looked into his eyes—I’m looking now. The annihilating rage is there. He’s a murderer.

Sheets of rain lash my face, but it isn’t the pain that makes me cry.

This is how we’ll die.

A bolt of lightning cracks the sky, and a peal of thunder rolls across the water. Then, for a split second, there’s a lull in the storm.

“Nick,
please
.” The words slip through my lips, two notes of an unwritten hymn.

Amid the chaos of their terrible dance, Nick’s black-ice eyes keep me captive. But he says nothing. And when Bo risks a quick glance over his shoulder at me—Nick slams a fist into his face.

Blood gushing from his lip, Bo stumbles—

With both hands, Nick grabs his head. Slams it to the stone beneath their feet.

“Bo!”
I strain against the invisible bonds. “Please! Nick! Please
don’t hurt him!”

Nick’s gaze holds steady, flares bright—

Then, amazingly, the current between us shifts. The forceful energy pushing against me doesn’t stop completely, but it lightens, like the ocean at a time when the tide is neither ebbing nor flowing but slack, about to turn.

He’s changing his mind.
He’s going to let us go!
I suddenly wonder—if we’d met before, when Nick had been human, when he’d been Logan’s twin—
Would we have been friends?

But Nick laughs now. Swings again at Bo—

Who’s on his feet, and this time dodges Nick’s flying fist, springing at the silver-eyed Siren—
a flashing blade in one hand
. His other hand is a fist that connects with Nick’s jaw—

Bo thrusts the knife—

And misses.

Nick doesn’t waste time. He grabs Bo’s outthrust arm, twisting it up—forcing Bo to his knees and the knife from his hand—

The weapon spins through the air then clatters on the granite, jouncing, tumbling, and finally catching in a crevice midway between us. Then Nick is on his knees as well, bending Bo backward, sealing Bo’s lips with his own—

“No!”
I scream.

Bo’s hands fly to Nick’s throat—then both boys are prone. They roll over and over as I leap toward them—

But Nick pins Bo beneath him, and all at once they go still. I scream again.

Bo’s hands drop from around Nick’s neck—

His legs go limp.

Even as I shout,
“No, no, no!”
other words—my own words to Bo—ring in my head:
“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.”

My life
is
being threatened—I can’t deny it, and as Bo’s Song vanishes like morning mist over the sea, I feel as if
I
might disappear as well, might die from the loss of it, of him, if Nick doesn’t kill me first.
Bo!
But I can’t help Bo—I can only save myself. My strength is nothing compared to Nick Delaine’s, and I don’t have the skill—

But I have a knife. It shines at my feet.

And all at once, I remember. I’ve seen it before. Held it. Begged Bo not to carry it.

But that was in another life. Lightning glints off the blade now, off the slim handle slick with rain. And as Nick comes reeling toward me drunk with Bo’s breath, I swiftly scoop it up.

He laughs when he sees me holding the weapon. “This was never your fight. And besides”—his full lips push into a pout—“I don’t want to ruin my dessert.” He laughs again, Logan’s grin on his face, his head tipping back—

Which is why he doesn’t see the blade coming.

And if a wall of water hadn’t slapped my back, maybe I wouldn’t have moved at that very moment, but I did move—I’m moving now, propelled by the Atlantic, and wondering—
wondering
in this split second that stretches into an endless eternity—
where to aim the knife
.

But then in my mind’s eye I see Jordan’s hand coming down on his thigh—hear the
smack
of it, loud as a gunshot in my memory’s remix—and I know. The windpipe.

Surely to slice it will take Nick’s breath more quickly even than a Siren’s kiss.

FREEDIVERS

The hand that knocks me from the seawall is bloody—Nick’s hand.

My forward momentum sank the knife deep into his throat—

But he still had some momentum of his own.

My shoulder strikes rock. My back—slaps water. Then the sea—

Swallows me.

My heart thrums in my chest. Swim
up
, swim
up
, swim
up
—

But the water is frigid, and I’m exhausted.

Too
late,
too
late—
My pulse beats a frantic rhythm, as I sink . . .

Into darkness . . .

Until I’m back in San Francisco, with Lilah, the bright turquoise of the public pool surrounding us. Diving in the deep end, wearing underwater smiles. She makes it to the bottom first, like always.

We swim one lap together, two—Lilah pulls ahead—always ahead—and vanishes.

Now my body is a submarine, lost on maneuvers. My heart is a butterfly, caught in the net of my body. My heart . . . is a rhythmic tattoo, fading . . .

The blackness behind my closed eyes becomes an infinite space. I gaze into the inky darkness . . . find a theater stage, velvet curtains drawn open to reveal a black screen.

Pictures appear. Lilah, Mom, Dad . . .

Images form faster now, flickering on the screen . . . more family, and friends. Mary, and Logan.
I’m so sorry, Logan.
Further back now, steep streets, in our old neighborhood, blue skies and boats, Mom and Dad, holding hands, running on the black sand of Stinson Beach.

Beach
—
sand. Ocean—
water
.

Please, let it be quick.

But my body falls slowly, drifting through watery twilight.

My hair floats around my face in a dark cloud, like the tentacles of a jellyfish swirling around itself. My tears are the sea . . .

The curtain closes now. Darkness descends . . .

Nighttime, time for sleep . . .

Only suddenly, I feel heat, and a petal-soft scalding touch—the
sun
—on my mouth.

I try to open my eyes—

No longer know how.

I’m dreaming. No, dying.

The sun presses against my mouth more urgently now, until my lips part, and warmth surges through me, springtime entering me. A breeze from a hot summer day swells my lungs with sweetness, fills them with air impossibly fragrant with grass, sea spray, and flowers. I breathe in rosemary and sage—the desert, after rain. I inhale deeply—feeling a sort of shock that I can, but it’s a buffered, far-off feeling, surreal as the scent of sun-warmed pine needles and August evenings.

Breathe.
I hear the word in my head, and open my eyes.

He surges away from me, and I follow, mesmerized by his beauty, by the tiny beads of water covering his body, catching what little light there is. His wings have transformed, have become like the undulating fins of a fish. Nearly translucent, they shine with a subtle rainbow of iridescence and sway with each movement of the current. Above us, the storm may still be raging, but down here, the water is calm. Peaceful.

Will my wings look like his?

Like him, I’m able to breathe underwater. When he spins toward me, possibly to make sure I’m following, his hair drags across his face, rippling like seaweed. I mouth,
How?

But even as I ask, I realize—we’re connected. There’s no need to articulate my questions by forming words with my lips; words aren’t necessary—the water is once again our conduit.

I’m confused, though, by the darkness of his thoughts, by my inability to comprehend them all, by so much—static.

But he holds out a hand to me—and this I understand. Staring at his diaphanous appendages, his animal beauty, I take it.

Through the hair that drapes his face, his eyes are two dark mirrors reflecting the sea. A sea that is such a dark green at this depth, it appears almost black.

And yet it teems with life. Schools of fish glide by—scaled bodies smooth and supple. I imagine swimming off . . . marvel at his torso instead, as he tugs me along behind him now, my attention torn between the strange world around me and his graceful, nearly naked form. His shoulders look broader, stronger, than ever.

But— 
Oh!
A strangled cry issues from my lips along with a stream of bubbles. My lungs feel tight, a horrid sensation. A sharp pain causes me to bring my hands to my rib cage. I squeeze my eyes closed.

He tightens his grip on my hand, and we begin to ascend faster, pausing every few feet so he can blow his honeyed breath into my mouth. But the sharp pains continue.
Diver’s disease?
The bends?
In the back of my mind, I hear Jordan Summers’ words.
“I lost her. I never even had a chance to begin the Deepening.”
Then I remember another scrap of the same conversation:

“How exactly does Deepening work?
”

“Or not work.”
Bo’s words.

He pulls me faster through the darkness.

He sent the first sweet breath into my lungs, and my senses exploded, expanded, but now, in the reverse, they begin to shut down, a lotus flower, closing at dusk. I open my eyes, but my vision fails. Then, I can’t hear, can’t hear anything except my heartbeat, loud and slowing in my ears.

Until there is nothing . . .

Except his hand . . .

Holding mine . . .

Then even the sensation of his touch is gone, and all that remains is a futile feeling, that the vast body of water washing over me is winning, and that I’ve lost.

That he—has lost me.