Shining Sea (21 page)

BREATHE

The week goes by in a blur.

It rains and gets cooler.

The ringing in my ears gets louder, and every night, I have The Nightmare.

It’s becoming more terrifying—and more real.

The dream is always the same, and always different. Last night the sand and dirt wasn’t a path at all, it was the parking lot at Hive, and the boy with wings—who had no twisting scaled appendage at this point—kept disappearing. Each time he did, Jordan Summers took his place. He leaned over me as I lay prone in the parking lot, the sandy grit of the ground scratching my back where my shirt had ridden up, and his wild wet hair dripped seawater on my face. I know it was seawater, because when I woke up, I smelled it. Which sounds crazy. But is true.

What gets less real is my friendship with Logan. He avoids me now, so I avoid him, not an easy trick, especially during homeroom.

Mary is trying to stay neutral, although one afternoon we hang out after school and watch
The Thing Called Love
. This time, the movie seems different. The music feels less important, the story, more. Also, I think I understand now, how the main character could fall for two guys who are so different from each other.

Though it makes me kind of edgy, I take long walks on the beach, sometimes running along the shoreline until my legs ache. Up on the gallery deck, I watch birds through the binoculars. And once, feeling like an idiot, I searched the sky for white wings.

I worry that Bo might change his mind, might stay away. My body buzzes at the thought of seeing him—or not seeing him. It’s hard to study, hard to eat. And then, the severe pain I experienced when I thought I’d never see him again—returns.

Recovering from a particularly bad spasm, I lie on the bed and contemplate the stacks of books piled on the bedside table, the desk, the floor. For the first time, I notice that nearly all the books I own are love stories, little more than variations on
Romeo and Juliet
. Does anyone else find it bizarre that the most famous love story of all time is a tragedy?

“Lips, O you, the doors of breath . . 
.” I whisper the line. It holds new meaning for me now, and makes me shudder.

Mary finds me throwing up in a bathroom stall at school one morning.

“No,” I say, before she can ask. “I’m not.”

Friday night, after lighting a candle and getting out my guitar, I open my notebook. Reading through some pages—stream of consciousness stuff about a rock and a river—I mess around with a few chords and am totally surprised by what comes out. No river. No rocks.

“When I’m with you I can feel the heat.

A thousand suns are beating on the street where I’ve been walking.

I don’t care if I burn both my feet.

Put your lips up to my ear, just keep talking.”

Pouring my feelings about him onto paper, I try different chords and melodies, until the song reveals itself, reveals
me
.

“What I want, your hands on me,

It’s the only thing I can feel . . .”

A cry comes up through my body, a series of sliding notes leading to the chorus.

“You breathe me in . . . I breathe you in . . .”

Sometimes, you write the song.

But sometimes, the song writes you.

FOREVER

Finally, Sunday morning as I stand on the deck of the lighthouse looking toward Summers Cove, I see a figure headed for the sunlit water. Energy shoots through me, then dies away. The boy isn’t Bo. One of his brothers? As the boy prepares to catch a wave, I notice someone swimming near him, but a second later my attention is riveted on the surfer. He rides the big waves more like a skateboarder on a half-pipe than a surfer on the sea.

And the waves are definitely
big
. They’re at least as high as my head over there, higher, while the waves below on Crescent Beach are only knee high.
Weird.

A song pops into my head, a manic drum and bass groove slamming up against a caffeinated zigzag of a melody, perfect accompaniment for the surfer boy’s wild ride. My fingers tap the binoculars to the beat.

“Good, isn’t he?” Nearly dropping the binoculars, I whirl to find Bo leaning against the doorframe. “Thought you weren’t afraid of me?” He joins me at the railing.

“Bet I could scare you too, if I snuck up on you like that.”

“But you couldn’t.” He twirls a lock of my hair around his finger.

“Couldn’t sneak up on you? Why not?” The nausea that has become ever-present while Bo’s been gone suddenly lifts—like seasickness, when you step onto land.

“I’d hear you. Siren senses are sharp. Keener than . . . animal senses.” He lets go of my hair, takes a step back. “We need to talk.”

“Okay . . . How was your trip? Where did you go? Did you find out—anything?”

Bo doesn’t answer, just looks out at the ocean with a frown, as if puzzled. Then he looks up. “Air currents,” he says quietly.

“Air currents?” When he doesn’t elaborate, I say, “Fine. Keep yourself cloaked in mystery.”

“Cloaked in mystery? Is that what I am?” He crooks his elbow and brings his forearm toward his face, narrowing his eyes as he peers over the top.

“Sorry, the Prince of Darkness doesn’t do it for me.”

He drops the stance. “And what would?”

The wind shifts, lifts our hair around our faces.

“Arion, being away from you isn’t an option for me now. I love you. I
need
to be with you.”

In an instant I’m in his arms, lifting my lips—

“No.” He laces his fingers in my hair, pulls my head back, his eyes on mine. “Don’t you understand? We can’t. Not yet. Not until . . . you’re like me.”

“Like you? How can I be like you? You can’t mean—”

“Arion,
I could kill you
, so easily. I don’t want to start anything before you’re ready, but even a kiss, one that’s too long—I could lose control. If you love me—But maybe you don’t.”

I realize I’ve been holding my breath. Bo notices too. His lips twist.

Words spill out of me. “I know I want to be with you.”
That I have to be. That I feel sick when we’re not together.

“I see. Well, maybe the rest of this conversation should wait after all. But then everything else will have to wait too.” His voice has turned hard. “I don’t want to kill you with a kiss.”

“Stop, okay? No more talk about kisses that can kill.” I try to smile. “Deal?”

He
does
smile then, and it’s wicked. “Don’t you know you’re not supposed to make deals with supernatural beings?” He takes my hand, pulls me down onto the deck. “If you want to take chances, maybe I should let you. Maybe I should take some too.” But he lets go of my hand then, and looks away.

I study his profile as he sits with his back against the tower
. Like him.
Is he really thinking of
making
me into a Siren?

Although it’s unseasonably warm, I shiver—then I lean back against the bricks too, glad for the sun-warmed feel of them through my sweater.

“So you missed me,” Bo says after a long moment.

We’re not even looking at each other, but I feel the pull of him. I’m desperate for the distance between us to disappear, but after what he’s implied . . . I keep my tone noncommittal.

“Did I? Did your keen Siren senses pick up on that?” I recall the pain, the nausea. It is not, I’m sure, the usual way of missing. In fact, I know it’s not, because I miss my sister every day.

“Just a logical guess.”

There’s a slightly arrogant curve to his lips.

“A logical guess—do you like guessing games?” Eagerly I turn toward him. Maybe confiding in him will lighten the mood. Bring us closer in a different way.

And so I tell him—tell him what I haven’t told Logan or Mary, even though I’ve talked to them both about Lilah.

“I think my sister met someone here. I want to find him.”

“Your sister. But—”

“It was before the accident. She fell in love with someone from Rock Hook. I need to know who.”

Bo bows his head, maybe trying to hide the smile that plays on his lips now.

“What? What’s so funny?”

“No, it’s—not funny. Sorry, I just—I’m not an expert in this kind of thing. You must know that by now.” He looks back out to the ocean. “Jordan laughs at me. Asks what kind of love this is, if I’m willing to risk your life.” He turns to me, fixing me with his blue-green gaze. “But you’ve risked your life before, haven’t you?”

“What are you talking about?”

“The day I met you. Your plunge, from the cliff.”

A
swish, swishing
cuts the air above our heads as several ravens appear out of nowhere, their pointed wings angling as they change direction, then change again, the feathers of their long tails reminding me of . . . something. Forcing myself to concentrate, I try to remember my hike up the trail that day. The walk had energized me, but I’d also been thinking of Lilah, been upset.

“You think I jumped? That’s ridiculous!”
But did I consider it, just for a second?

Bo doesn’t appear to be listening. He’s studying the painted bricks of the tower, the swath of black cutting across the field of white that creates the dark spiral band and renders the lighthouse more distinct at a distance. Finally he says, “Were you really careless enough to slip?”

“No, of course not. I didn’t slip.” It’s only as I say the words that I know for sure they’re true. But then—

“Arion, that day, I caught you in my arms. Just as you believed. I didn’t think, I just—acted. The fall would have killed you otherwise. But since then I’ve wondered: Why were you there, so close to the edge?

“I believe you, if you say you didn’t jump. And I’m pretty sure you’re right that, even though you were wearing those red boots?” A wry smile appears on his lips. “You didn’t slip.

“I think,” he says, taking my hands between his, “you were pushed.”

NEW BLOOD

“What? That’s impossible, no one was there!” I yank my hands from his grasp, leap to my feet.

“Are you sure?” He stands too.

“Of course I’m sure. Besides, I would have felt—”

But I
had
felt something, the lightest touch on my cheek, a faint caress, just before I fell.

Years ago, getting ready for bed on a winter night, I discovered one of my earrings was missing. Thinking back over the day, I remembered the tiniest tinkling sound, metal hitting ceramic, a noise that hadn’t registered at the time. Going into the bathroom, I crouched down by the sink. The tiny gold hoop lay on the floor.

The silken touch hadn’t registered either,
not like the image of the wings
.

“I saw—wings.” My throat closes around the last word.

“Wings?”

“Circling. High in the sky, by the cliff top that day.”

“Why didn’t you tell me? I can’t believe you didn’t tell me!”

I see them in my mind’s eye now, giant and birdlike, similar to Bo’s angelic wings.

Maybe even the same.

“I didn’t know what they were! And when I saw yours—”

“You thought it was
me
! You thought I’d ‘dropped out of the sky’—I remember when you said that, days later, on the beach. For a moment I thought you’d discovered—but you hadn’t! You hadn’t figured out anything.”

Bo’s anger isn’t directed at me, but that doesn’t make me feel any better. I’ve made a mistake, obviously, a bad one. I just don’t quite understand it yet.

“I’ll never forget that afternoon. Jordan and I were down by the water—”

Bo breaks off, giving me a quizzical look as I shudder at Jordan’s name. But I can’t explain it, my revulsion for Bo’s brother. I shake my head.
It’s nothing.

“Fine. Anyway. We were about to go into town. I was distracted. I didn’t want to go. I’d been listening to you. A lot.”

“You’ve said that before, about listening to me—”

“I told Jordan we should hang, go surfing. He gave me a hard time but finally said he’d wait while I went for a swim. I stripped down to my trunks, in a hurry, like I
knew
.

“I was in the water when I heard you—saw you—falling, I couldn’t believe it. My wings burst from my back and I kicked— We met in the sky. I grabbed you. But when I touched you—I lost control. We crashed into the waves.”

I remember it now. His wings, saturated with seawater, firm, but slippery, like wet satin, surrounding me.

“I’ve been an idiot. I should have known all along. Instead, I was blind,
deaf
to everything but
you
! Maybe if I’d known you’d seen the wings—but even with the disappearance of those kids from out of town, I didn’t think to connect the
Lucky
to you.”

“To
me
? Why would you connect that boat to me?”

“Arion, don’t you see? Whoever punched those holes in the bottom of that boat, whoever killed those kids—
their murderer
—pushed you from the edge of the cliff.”

“No, that’s not—No! That doesn’t make sense—”

“It does. I should have listened to you more closely, not to you, to your
words
. Tell me again, what happened at Seal Cove?”

Not to me, to my words?
“Mary told me I went over the side of the boat on purpose, but I don’t remember that. I
do
remember strong arms, dragging me under, but I thought—it all happened so fast, the water was frothy, and white, seeing was impossible, and then you were there, and the arms were yours, carrying me.”

“And the night on Smith Street, with the truck?”

“I saw a blur of white, the wings. I couldn’t tell you! I thought you’d say I was crazy.”

“Damn. It’s like whoever it is . . . they’re after
you
. And yet they haven’t—
Why?
” He looks out at the ocean. “This changes things.”

“What things?”

“Two kayakers, a man and a woman. They disappeared yesterday. We found them this morning.”

“Found them where?”

“Their bodies, I should say. On the beach. In front of our house.”

“In front of your
house
? Their
bodies
? They were—dead?”

“If we’d been there, this wouldn’t have happened. Someone
knew
we wouldn’t be there, wouldn’t be able to help them, not this time
.
”

The back of my neck prickles. Logan’s accusations echo in my ears.

“Even if their families hadn’t told the police and the reporters from the
Rock Hook Herald
that the two were experienced boaters, their equipment made it obvious.” Bo gives a dry laugh. “The
Herald
. Can’t wait to see what they have to say this time.” He continues on before I have a chance to ask him what he means by this sarcastic comment. “There’s no way two skilled kayakers could have gotten in trouble yesterday. It was like a summer day. Like today. Their deaths were no accident. And . . . someone took their breath.”

“Someone took—?” I stare at Bo.

He stares back. “Their breath.”

Goosebumps spring up along my arms. Looking at me with his oceanic eyes, he seems more unreal than ever. Suddenly, it feels like I don’t know him. And really, I don’t. I only know I want to be near him, more than anything. But how much of that is me—what
I
want—and how much is his manipulative magic?

“H-how can you be sure that the boys from the
Lucky
were murdered? How do you know they didn’t drown, that the kayakers didn’t drown?” Unconsciously I cling to the black balustrade. “And what about me, why do you think someone
pushed
me
from the cliff?”

Seal Cove, and Smith Street, Bo was right there, he was there when I fell from Rock Hook Cliff.
Bo watches as I fight with myself.

“Do you really think I had something to do with all of those things, Arion? Because that’s what you’re
supposed
to believe. That’s exactly
why
the killer left the
Lucky
at Devil’s Claw, left the bodies of the kayakers along with their pristine boats at Summers Cove. And you won’t be the only one so easily convinced.” He eyes me speculatively. “Jordan will love this.”

Trying to ignore the way my body tenses up at the mention of Bo’s brother, I ask, “How could you tell their breath was—taken?”

“We examined the bodies, Jordan and I, before we phoned the police.”

“But, what do the police think? Will there be—autopsies?” I try not to picture a scene from one of those TV crime shows, bodies on tables in cold rooms surrounded by sharp surgical instruments.

“It doesn’t matter. Jordan made it look like a drowning. A double drowning, that’s what the
Herald
will report. Same with TV Twelve.”

“But you said the kayaks were pristine. If they’re in perfect condition—”

“We took care of that too.”

I shudder. “Did you know the kayakers? Were they—friends?”

“I don’t have any ‘friends,’ Arion, how can I?” He begins to pace.

I want to ask him how this can be possible, how he can have
no friends at all
. There are
so many
things I want to ask him—not just about friends, but about his family, his life. I want to know how it
feels
to be a Siren. Want to
insist
on hearing the details, hearing how he—survives.

But I can’t ask. Because so many of my questions are eclipsed by the pull of him, and I have to admit—by the fear I feel too, the worry that I’ll cross one of the invisible lines he’s drawn, the boundaries he enforces with a sharp look, and somehow, with his silence. And, of course, there is his voice. Just thinking about the sound of his voice . . .

I shake my head as if to clear it, managing, at last, to ask the obvious question.

“So you think Sirens did this? You told me there were other Sirens, but I thought somehow you meant in some other ocean, or—”

“In this ocean, in
all
the oceans! Sirens, some like us, some who are different than us, and not so . . . compassionate.” His gaze drops to my lips.

“But then—you just said you don’t have any friends?”

“Yes, well, I meant
human
friends. You . . . are the only one. Of course my family and I have friends. We also, apparently, have enemies.

“Arion, someone is setting us up.”