Scary Out There (9 page)

But there he was, where the silver-faced man had loomed behind her. No, not a man. A fey thing, dark and terrible. Something that belonged in the dark, in the water of a swamp. Not in the sun, not in a spring.

As she fell, she thought—in that half second before she hit the water and closed her eyes from pure reflex—that there was distortion around him like a halo, like the way hot air rises from asphalt, or the way gasoline fumes twist outside a car's tank while the pump fills it up.

And in that split instant when she hit the water and her eyelids were dropping down hard, she saw Frank, too. Coming up behind Ed with a look on his face like murder.

Tammy slapped into the water backside first, and it stung when her shoulders smacked down. The weeks of training held her gasp in check, and when she broke the surface she took a deep breath, then sank. She let the water close over her before opening her eyes again.

It was strange and hard to watch from underneath, but there they were—Frank and Ed, tussling in a hard way, a jerky
way, a rough way that made her glad she was in the water and not up there with
them
.

Her stomach tied itself tight into a knot, and she wasn't sure why. She shouldn't be worried for Frank. She should stay there, in the water, in the spring where she was safe and where she knew how to reach the air tubes. Frank was practically invincible. Navy veteran. Solid as a side of beef. Tough and quick.

But he was not
different
. Not unreal, not like Ed—if that was even his name.

(It probably wasn't. Silver-skinned things with black-blue hair don't have names like “Ed.”)

Tammy pushed the towel with the tiara up under her armpit and kicked herself down and away from the surface. Let Frank throw the bum out. Of course he would. He
had
to. Because if he didn't . . .
then
what?

A pulse of water answered her, close to her legs. (Or was she wearing the tail? Was it right beside her fins? Suddenly, she wasn't sure.) A hand grabbed her foot and pulled her through the water. It tugged her like a fish on a line; it reeled her close with silver-spider hands.

She forgot. Ed
made
her forget.

She forgot all the training and the tubes, and she cried out a burp of surprise. And then there was no more air. Ed's hands—both hands, then—clamped around her foot. Her ankle. Her leg. Up around her knee, and reaching higher.

Give it back.
His lips didn't move. He didn't speak, but she heard him anyway.

Tammy flailed, almost dropping the towel but catching it at the last second with two fingers. It sank slow, unraveling from its balled-up twist in slow motion. Unraveling but not untying, not undoing completely. Not letting the treasured tiara fall free.

Tammy reached, elbows thrusting in every direction for the nearest hose. There were
always
hoses, hidden here and there. Always hoses for breathing, for refreshing, for shaking off the sparkles that crept up behind her eyes when it'd been too long since she'd had a breath; and the fizz was coming up now, and so were the silver-spider hands, curling like an octopus up her thigh.

Another splash, and something hit hard against her head.

(It was Frank. That part was an accident.)

When he joined them, he turned the water pink, a little bit, in a curly cloud there by his side. He took Ed by the hair, right by that billowing head that looked for all the world like a poisoned anemone. He yanked Ed hard, snapping his neck back, and up.

The octopus, silver-spider hand seized, and struck, and let go.

It went, sucked into a flurry of frothy spring water and violent rich foam, a curtain and a tower of bubbles.

And the static.

There was a dazzling flash, and there was Frank—turning the water all pink but not giving up. Frank, with his sun-brown arms and legs as strong as chains, the big ones that hold ships to docks—the big ones that hold anchors on ocean liners . . . and Frank was holding on, but the thing called Ed was spinning—trying to cast him off like the alligators people wrestled for tourists.

And Tammy was spinning too.

There wasn't any air, and there weren't any hoses. Did Frank pull them all up when the day was out and over? Did he put them all away? Of course, when no one needed them. Of course, when the mermaid aquarium was empty, in the auditorium with eighteen seats, lined up like soldiers in a row, lined up like lines on a page, in a story, in a fairy tale where something had gone terribly, terribly wrong. Of course there wasn't any air.

Tammy let go of the towel. It dropped away with its strange little prize, a glimmering cheap hairpiece with gems made of sea glass.

She didn't know how she knew about the sea glass, but she would've bet her life on it. Maybe she
was
betting her life on it. No, that couldn't be right.

She wasn't even sinking anymore—but rising, slow and unafraid. Her back breached the surface; she could feel the late day sun warm against the wet shirt there, and warm against her skin. She wasn't a real mermaid. This wasn't a real
aquarium, but that tiara was real, and its sea glass gemstones were magic of a glorious kind. And Ed was real, and he was magic of a terrible kind. The two went together, somehow.

She felt . . .

She heard . . .

She saw . . .

Below her the crumpled towel stopped atop a rock. It teetered, toppled against another boulder, into a plant. Onto a compressor, and down again, another step or two to the spring bottom, where it came to rest in the soft, white silt. It came unfolded, unwound, and from beneath one waving corner of terry cloth, there sparkled something bright and cheap and priceless.

A deadly lure, glittering with enchanted glass.

Cherie Priest
is the author of twenty novels and novellas, most recently
The Family Plot, I Am Princess X, Chapelwood
, and the Philip K. Dick Award nominee
Maplecroft
; but she is perhaps best known for the steampunk pulp adventures of the Clockwork Century, beginning with
Boneshaker
. Her works have been nominated for the Hugo and Nebula awards for science fiction, and have won the Locus Award (among others)—and over the years they've been translated into nine languages in eleven countries. Cherie lives in Chattanooga, Tennessee, with her husband and a small menagerie of exceedingly photogenic pets.

Website:
cheriepriest.com

Twitter:
@cmpriest

Facebook:
facebook.com/cmpriest

ELLEN HOPKINS

Fine Day

Early spring, the ground velvet

brown just beyond April thaw.

Robins comb the earth, hungrily

plucking foolhardy worms,

as overhead cottonwoods shake

crowns of near-fluorescent green.

From a safe distance, I watch

a motorcade in serpentine form

slither along creviced asphalt,

through wrought iron gates.

None of the passengers know

I'm here. None know me at all.

But I know the boy who rides

in the place of honor inside

the long black Cadillac

hearse. We were more than

friends. We took a vow

and this is his promise, kept.

Yes, it's a fine, fine day

for Cameron Voss's burial.

More Cars

Than I expected to see pull one by

one to the side of the road. Cameron

is—I mean was—a strange boy.

(No stranger than I, of course.)

I'm surprised so many people

have turned out to say goodbye.

Far fewer, I have little doubt,

would do the same for me.

I'm sitting on a hillside grave,

shaded by an elderly oak, cool

grass licking my skin. This is

the oldest part of the cemetery,

and I'm pretty sure whoever I'm

sitting on doesn't mind. Laura

Simpson is her name. She died in

1802. Her spirit must be long gone.

A breeze rises warm, lifts

my hair, puffs a kiss on my neck,

and I remember Cam's words:

The flesh disintegrates to reveal the spirit,

initiate its journey. The spirit may

wander or stay bound to those it loves.

Who did Laura Simpson love? Are

they here? Is she? And where is Cam?

The Flesh Part of Cam

Is, I assume, in the shiny, copper

casket levitating over the freshly

dug hole in the ground. I know

there are straps holding it there,

but from here it seems suspended

in mid-air, a product of magic.

Cam's family gathers to witness

the lowering. I've never met them,

but I've seen their photos on his

Instagram. His mother sobs

loudly.
Why? Why?
His father

slides an arm around her shoulder.

I could tell them why. But they

wouldn't want to hear it. Couldn't

understand why their son chose

to put an end to his life. He was

only seventeen. Just like me.

Suddenly the breeze turns chill.

It whispers through the greening

leaves,
Seventeen. Seventeen.

Goosebumps rise up like ghosts

from their graves. It's time to go.

I take a deep breath. “Goodbye Cam.

“Sleep well. I'll see you one day.”

I Start Across

A long stretch of lawn, beaded

with headstones. My VW waits

on the far side, staring at me

with mournful eyes. Cam told

me once that before he died

he wanted to take a cross country

ride in a car just like mine. “Why

were you in such a hurry to go, then?”

I whisper the words into the sky.

They are answered there by the hideous

cry of a crow.
Chloe!
It screams

and I start to run. How can this evil

tongued bird know my name?

Winter's littered branches snatch

at my feet as I stumble toward

the harbor of the street.
Chloe!

I look over my shoulder, and see

the black feathered dagger perched

on a wire, staring curiously. It

never wanted me at all. “Stop it!”

I command myself out loud and slow

my pace to a measured walk. Why

am I so spooked, anyway?

Maybe coming to pay my respects

wasn't the best idea. But I wanted

to say goodbye to Cam, since, despite

many long conversations, we never

managed an in-the-flesh hello.

Safe in My Bug

My hand trembles as I turn

the key. How absurd. Ghosts

only go a-haunting at night,

and if I imagine contempt

in the eyes of a bird, it is only

the manifestation of my own guilt.

The car knows the way home,

lets me think about how Cam

and I met that day, in a chat room

named “Contemplating Death.”

I had recently lost my best friend

to leukemia, and as her short life

neared its end, I kept promising

to go visit. But watching her waste

away creeped me out and she died

before I ran out of excuses. It wasn't

my own death I was considering

that afternoon. It was Erica's, and

for some reason, it didn't occur to me

that dreams of suicide had drawn

most everyone into that cyber crypt.

Hi. I'm Barry and I want to kill

myself.
Sounded like SA—Suicides

Anonymous. Whatever. Anything

was more entertaining than thinking

about what a poor excuse for a friend

I was. I didn't care one bit about Barry,

though. “Hello. I'm Chloe and I want

to know what happens after the light

sputters out.” Nobody had an answer.

I Lurked for a While

Strangely fascinated by the (all

things considered) rather trivial

reasons people gave for wanting

to exterminate themselves.

My boyfriend walked out on me.

I flunked out of chemistry.

I had sex with my brother.

My sister is really my mother.

I sat at the keyboard, fingers

itching to write, “What the hell

is wrong with you? These things

aren't worth dying for.”

And then, like he could read

my fingers' minds or something,

up pops Cam's instant message:

What would you die for, Chloe?

That Was the Beginning

Of our beautiful, but totally odd,

relationship.

Odd, because, though we lived

on opposite far edges of the same

city, we never hooked up for real.

Introverts to the point of pain,

we kept waiting for the right time.

Time ran out.

Odd, because though we never

hooked up in real time, we fell as far

in love as two people who've never

met in the flesh can. Most people

probably believe actual skin-to-skin

contact is a requisite for romance,

but it wasn't Cam's touch I tumbled for.

It was his incredible quirky brain.

Odd, because falling in love led

us to make a suicide pact. Before

I met Cam, I'd never seriously

considered snuffing the flicker

of my lousy life, which proved

so much richer with him in it.

Despite his need for control.

Odd, because that promise to die

in tandem is what made us beautiful.

We were Romeo and Juliet, except