Shining Sea (14 page)

PURSUIT

Whizzing through the rain, the plastic wrap I’ve duct-taped to the window flapping rhythmically, I don’t see one other car on the road. Rock Hook may be a peninsula, but it feels like an island—a deserted island.

After half an hour, I veer off the main road and onto a dirt road. Soon, I turn again, heading southeast on what’s nothing more than a narrow trail. Branches scrape the side of the truck as I head deeper into the wet woods.

Devil’s Claw. Everyone knows the Summers have a house out there, maybe not at the end proper, but somewhere in the woods—not that there’s any guarantee Bo will be there. But none of the cars I’ve seen him driving were at Summers Cove. I checked down the overgrown private road first. I couldn’t see the house from where I was, but I could see the drive, and there weren’t any cars. Besides, Bo’s got to know I won’t let this go—what exactly happened last night? And Summers Cove is too close if he wants to avoid me today.

Like he said, we’re neighbors.

Devil’s Claw. Wabanaki Wilderness is the official name, and US wilderness areas don’t usually allow motorized vehicles, but—the truck jounces over a series of bumps—I’m in a park service vehicle, and I’ve already driven up this way once, with Dad.

I stop in front of an old cabin surrounded by evergreens. We didn’t go beyond this point, the day we drove out here. The sign on the side of the building is worn, but I manage to make out a few dates. The area will be closed for the season in less than a week, the end of September. Under the dates are warnings so faded they’re illegible.

A clipboard with a pen hangs from the wooden counter below a shuttered window.

Sure enough, Bo’s name is there along with today’s date.

A few yards in front of me a rusted gate blocks the road. I push it open, then climb back into the truck and drive past it. I stop again and jump out, closing the gate behind me.

The trees tower over the truck as I continue driving. I’m trying to concentrate on my surroundings, but mostly, I’m thinking about Bo. I feel almost feverish with the desire to talk to him—I just want to talk. To hear how I managed to miss our goodbye last night, and to tell him he doesn’t have to shut me out. I can keep his secret.

I hit a series of ruts in the road and feel a hot flush of anxiety.

He was there when I nearly drove off the road. What does that say?

Nothing. It doesn’t say anything. It’s a coincidence, that’s all.

Then who tried to run me off the road?

I try to calm myself by looking at the land, the rocky peaks reaching up through the tree line stretching toward the sky. It’s beautiful—and untouched. I shiver a little. Tell myself it’s from the damp of the day.

At last I reach the top of a granite outcropping—

And there’s no place else to go. I’ve passed barely there side roads, possible hiking trails. But this truly seems to be the end of the main road.

I get out of the truck and begin hiking down what to me is a nearly nonexistent trail. The only reason I know to follow it is because of the bent branches at the top, low-lying bushes that have recently been disturbed. Hiking downward over the steeply slanted ground, I imagine Bo moving fluidly over the mossy rocks and tree roots, intensity radiating from him.

I’m having trouble with the slippery soles of my boots and try to keep my attention on my feet, rather than the fact that inside every one of my shivers a needle of heat is burning.

The trees shield me from the rain for most of the hike, which, like the drive, probably takes three-quarters of an hour. At the end of it I discover—

Logan is wrong. Someone
has
built at Devil’s Claw.

I thought the house would be a cabin, would be like the ranger station in the woods.

It’s not.

The rocky site of the bunker-like house is shockingly close to the ocean. The hard look of the concrete walls makes the house appear armored, yet the way the structure seems to cling to the rocks makes it seem organic as well, and . . . barnacle-like.

When I reach the unassuming door, I stop. But I’ve already berated myself for coming, already pictured the various responses my showing up unannounced might elicit. At this point, I don’t care. Nothing surpasses my need to see Bo.

I knock. No one answers. I knock again, then again, thinking of Dr. Harrison now, of what he’d say about obsession, about triggers and loops.

I imagine how I’d tell him,
The hike was good exercise.
And,
It’s just this one time.

One last volley of knocking and I give up, heading around the side of the house, peering in through a large window. The L-shaped floor plan is compact. Efficient, like a boat. The concave wood ceiling gives an embracing sense of shelter, but everything else is open. The main rooms have no partitions between them, so there’s a flowing feeling. Nothing interrupts the view of the sea, and the sea—I realize now that I’m observing the way the house hangs out over the water—

Is all around me.

“What are you doing here?”

I quickly turn toward him. “Looking for you.” His board shorts, the bare skin of his chest, shoulders, and arms, stream water as if he’s just climbed out of the sea.

“You found me. Now what?”

“Now—we talk.”

Bo doesn’t say anything right away, just pushes his wet hair back from his face. The pewter light of the rain-soaked sky hits his ocean eyes. Finally, he nods. “Okay. Come on.”

Once inside, Bo stands in front of the huge wall of a window that faces the ocean. The rain is falling harder now, in dense gray sheets. His wet shorts drip water on the slate floor.

He gestures to the low couches.

I sit.

“Are you hungry? Do you want something to drink?” He walks past me and grabs a black T-shirt from a hook by the door.

“No. Thanks.” My tongue is in a knot. Eating or drinking would definitely present a problem. “I want to ask you something.”

“Some
thing
? Singular?” His lips curve. He pulls the shirt over his head.

I ignore the attitude. “Your dad—he founded OZI, right? So—”
So an oceanographic institute is the perfect place for a merman—I know what you are.

God, I can’t say that.

Bo is watching me closely. “I’m sure you knew that,” he says. When I don’t reply, he sighs. “My father is in India right now; perhaps you didn’t know that. My mother—is dead.”

“I—I know. I’m sorry.”

Bo looks at me skeptically. “I like your father,” he says suddenly. “We had a few good conversations. While you were sleeping,” he adds drily.

“Ha. That must have been after you hauled me out of that
tide pool
.”

His gaze flickers, lands on my lips. “Good guess. And
your
mother—where is she?”

“Home, with my sister. I mean—at our old house, the one my parents are trying to sell, in San Francisco.”

“Right. I suppose I could ask you about your sister now, or you could ask me about mine—yes, I have a sister, and two brothers. But I’m guessing we’ve both made enough small talk to pass as civilized if anyone was listening, and since nobody is, tell me why you’re really here.”

I’m not ready, it’s just—I can feel the words forming themselves on the tip of my tongue. It’s like I’m eating a piece of saltwater taffy, and he’s got one end, and is pulling. I feel a small surge of anger at this . . . coercion, though that doesn’t make any sense, so maybe it’s frustration that forces the words from my lips.

“Why are you pretending?” My tone is sharper than I’d intended.

“Why are you?”

And he’s right, I am—I’m pretending. Pretending I’m brave. Pretending I know what I’m doing. Pretending there’s only one reason why I’m here.

His expression changes now to one of amusement. Condescension.

He doesn’t think I can figure him out. Figure out his secret.

“I’m not sure what happened last night—”

“You are, though. You had a shock. It caught up with you. I helped you to your room.”

“That’s all?”

And there it is, that hesitation. But it’s so brief, as soon as he starts talking, I think I must have imagined it.

“That’s all,” he says.

“Maybe—maybe as far as last night goes. But there’s more, and you know it. You move like water. And you’re homeschooled, or, you were. I think it’s so you didn’t have to deal, with regular people. You sing like . . . an angel. Although I’m not sure if that’s part of it.”

“It?”

“Bo, you kept me from drowning, easy for you, because you can swim, and surf, in super cold water, frigid waves.” I pause, remembering the way he held me in his arms, the feel of his body. I imagine it now beneath his soft-looking T-shirt, a V-neck that’s fitted to his shoulders and clings damply across his chest. My stomach dips—

And I’m lost.

“Ah,” he says softly. “Now we’re getting somewhere.” He comes closer to the couch, looking down at me with those eyes.

So what if he’s a gorgeous guy who moves like an athlete? So what if he’s a strong swimmer, has an amazing voice, was homeschooled? My loaded guns are beginning to feel like they’re filled with nothing but air. My brain stalls.

Air.
What is it about air?

“A fairly flattering list of facts about me can’t bring a girl like you any satisfaction, not unless it’s brought you to some sort of a conclusion. Answers—that’s what you like, am I right? I prefer questions. Still, it might be entertaining to hear what you’re thinking, beautiful.”

In his mouth the word “beautiful” is the shimmer of light on water, a dangling promise.

It feels like I have no choice but to reach for it.

“You’re a mermaid,” I say at last, looking up at him. “A merman.”

SECRETS

Bo bursts out laughing, and I might be embarrassed, that he’s laughing at me, except that I’m too busy being mortified. Along with the metaphorical reaching, I’ve actually stretched my hands out—my fingers spreading over the tops of his thighs.

He looks down at my hands—his eyes glittering, his laughter dying abruptly—watching as I quickly bring them to my lap. He swallows a smile.

“Siren. That’s the correct term. Have you ever read Kafka?”

“Some.”

He begins to recite, as if reading a poem. “
Now the Sirens have a still more fatal weapon than their song, namely their silence. And though admittedly such a thing never happened, it is still conceivable that someone might possibly have escaped from their singing; but from their silence certainly never.

“My father insists we spend our lives in silence, in order to remain undiscovered. But my brother Jordan and I don’t completely agree. The two of us have been . . . exploring our options.

“Jordan has been ‘exploring’ a little longer than I have. He tells me that soon, you won’t be able to live without my Song. He says that will be a problem, for both of us.”

His words baffle me. “I—I want to spend time with you.”

“Of course you do. But at some point, your self-preservation will kick in. You’ll want to go, and you
will
go—possibly running and screaming—once you understand what I am.”

“What I understand is—you saved my life.”
I always knew you were more than a boy.

“But I could
take
your life as easily as I saved it.”

“Why would you? You wouldn’t hurt me—that doesn’t make sense.” I thought I understood what was between us, at least in part, but now . . .

Sitting up straighter I repeat, “You wouldn’t hurt me.”

“I might,” he says. “Even though I don’t want to. I told you, I’ve been listening to you.”

Listening
to me? I’m desperate to know more, but I’m too confused to formulate a question at this point, and too . . . too . . . I can’t stop looking at his lips. Energy pulsates in the space between us. Does he feel it? I wish he would sit down, I wish—

He says, “Once you know more—”

“So tell me,” I say impatiently.

“We change, Arion.” He watches me intently as he says the next words. “Change our forms.”

“But you just said—Fine. Do I get to see your fish tail?”

His laugh has an edge to it. “Afraid not, seeing as I don’t have one.” He touches my hands, both of which I’m appalled to find, have somehow made their way back to the tops of his thighs. With a start, I jerk them away—

He presses them in place. Goosebumps rise on the skin beneath my shirt.

“There’s something else you may want to consider.” His eyes drill down into mine.

I nod in acquiescence, but I don’t really want to know anything—not anymore. I just want . . .
him
. A wave of desire rises and falls in me, like a sort of sensual seasickness.

“Sirens need the breath of living creatures to survive. Do you understand?”

What I understand—
I slide my hands to his hips, draw him toward me, the front of my body brushing the front of his as I stand up now.

“Arion, do you hear what I’m saying? Living creatures. We
take
their breath.”

Breath: the essence of life.

He’s taller than me, but it doesn’t matter.
I already know our bodies will fit perfectly together.
I shake my head a little—but it’s like I can’t control my own thoughts.

“Breath,” he says again. My own breath is growing shallow. But—

Breath.

Oxygen. Nitrogen. Carbon monoxide.

Air.

Then, I get it. Every time I’ve gasped in his presence or released my breath. Each time I’d inhaled deeply, then exhaled slowly. I begin to see the pattern.

When he’d helped me out of the water, when he’d appeared at the window of the truck. There’d been more than just an expression of concern on his face, more than a worried look in his eyes. There’d been a look of lust, of
hunger
. I’d thought he wanted
me
.

Whenever I’d been close to him and expelled a breath, he’d seemed irritated, horrified even, but he wasn’t horrified by me.
No, he was horrified at the idea of
what he might do to me
, and now I am too.

Suddenly his gaze—so steady and level just a second ago—travels down over my body. Then he looks back to my face and stares—positively stares—at my mouth.

“I’d wanted to keep this from you, but . . .” He gives a small shrug. Then he says something else, only I don’t actually hear what he says, don’t hear the words, because the sound of his voice is like an instrument now, emitting notes that strain against their very edges, bending and extending beyond expected tonal parameters to become something strange. The music seems to reach
for me.

“Arion, listen. If you stay
still
,
there may be a way for both of us to get what we want.” Bo brings one hand up to the neckline of my shirt, and I do—I go still as he runs a finger along my collarbone. But alarm bells riot in my head.
Sirens—they use their voices.
Listening is a very bad idea. Staying still is a close second. I take a step back. Effort.

He says my name now, his voice an orchestra playing with the utmost precision. My eyes flutter closed, and I fight against the exquisite beauty of the sound of him. Glowing colors—sunrises, sunsets—bloom in the darkness.

“Arion, try to understand, I
have
to. But maybe—maybe with you, it can be different. You’re able to look me in the eye, and your
voice
 . . . maybe I can take . . . just a small amount.”

“A small amount,” I echo. I can’t seem to say more.

His voice is soft, hypnotic. “I tried, I really did. Tried to warn you.”

“I—I need to leave—”

“You need to
stay
.” It’s mesmerizing, the way his voice rings with the beauty of bells, ancient pealing chimes, calling people to prayer, to their god. The idea of people willingly giving their lives for what they believe in suddenly seems so understandable, so right.

Siren.
The word comes to me from a great distance. Bo is no myth, but how is it possible that he’s a Siren? They’re the stuff of imagination. Artists of all kinds through the ages have conjured them from their own linings. What maker could bring those imaginings to life? Had Sirens been created the same way as the rest of the world? Made of atoms and molecules, flesh and bone, sound and vision? What other way is there?

Slowly, like I’m coming awake from a dream, I manage to open my eyes. Bo starts, as if in surprise—then whispers my name. I waver, feeling the way a mirage looks, quivering in the shimmering field of his heat. His voice, no louder than before, becomes achingly seductive. My torso seems to float up out of my hips, my head drifting among the clouds of a night sky, stars swirling at the edges of my sight . . .

It feels like I’m moving against a strong current as I make my way to the door, where I cling to the frame for a hundred years before stumbling outside, searching for the path that brought me here.

Behind me I imagine Bo’s stride. Measured, even . . .

My misguided sense of direction takes me straight to the sea—
the last place I want to be
.

Then he’s next to me, with his light hair and golden skin—like he’s been kissed by the sun. Envy shoots through me, but
who envies the sun?
I’m gone. Wanting to touch him so badly I feel I might scream, I breathe in his scent—sea, and sky, and everything I’ve ever wanted.

A trick! My mind insists,
Run!
My legs are water. My brain commands,
Go!
My body won’t obey. My heart abandons me—and beats for him. I’m stranded between two worlds. Bo’s eyes swirl with color. Sky blue, sea green. “Don’t make me force you, Arion.” But his voice communicates the strength of the sea. It’s like the ocean, knocking against me. Any minute, I’ll fall. Go under. “Then again, I don’t hear you saying no.” He reaches for me, his fingers sliding down my arms until his hands reach mine, his grip tight, tight,
tight
as a lock. Fear courses through me—

But alongside the fear, desire swells now, as it did inside the house. In an instant I’m undone, nothing but rhythm, nothing but chant.
Kiss me, please kiss me—

He lets go.

The cold sea breeze snaps at my face, whips my hair. The Siren spell is broken.

“Jordan’s right,” Bo says, turning away. “It’s not possible. I can’t be alone with you.”