Wrecked (16 page)

“Yes, ma’am,” Miranda said, staring at the floor.

“Good,” Eleanor murmured, brushing her dry lips against Miranda’s forehead. “Chin up, you hear?”

“Yes,” Miranda said sullenly.

“I hope that’s true, for your sake,” Eleanor said as she turned and slowly walked up the sandstone path to Roger’s waiting car.

As soon as she’d heard the car leave, Miranda slid into her own car, reveling in the sense of freedom that surged through her as she pressed her foot on the accelerator. Even when she was angry, Eleanor was never the type to invoke a curfew and Miranda felt glad. Besides, now that she didn’t have any friends, it wasn’t like she could exactly get in trouble.

She drove through the back roads of Whym, which were flanked by low-hanging Spanish moss and willow trees. The air smelled like early October, of bonfires and falling leaves, with just a slight chill in the air. Miranda rolled down the windows and, true to her word, turned up the radio. An old Grateful Dead song was playing. Typical. The Grateful Dead were one of Teddy’s favorite groups. They’d also been her father’s favorite. There was even a picture of Miranda as an infant at one of the shows, wearing a tie-dyed onesie and sitting on top of her father’s shoulders. She’d looked so happy in the picture.

Miranda turned down the path to Bloody Point. Despite its gruesome name, brought about by a pre-Revolutionary War battle between natives and settlers, Bloody Point was beautiful. And even though the Whym Island elite believed it was on the wrong part of the island, Miranda had always been magnetically
drawn to it, ever since she was allowed to explore the island on her own. Even before she’d gotten her license, she used to run or walk the five miles there. It was worth it. While the beach right outside their house was all smooth sand and shallow water, the Point was wild, surrounded by scrubby palmetto trees, patches of dark sand, driftwood, and, about half a mile off the shore, a hull of a ship, jutting out of the waves.

Legend had it that it had been a mid-nineteenth-century sailing ship that had been purposely wrecked by a captain enchanted by the sea witch who ruled the waters. She’d apparently come to shore as a human and had slowly driven him insane until she’d forced him to drive the boat into a rock. It was said that her powers were especially felt at the Point, and that she would curse a couple who kissed while standing in her waters. Miranda and Fletch had kissed there just a week after they’d started dating, which only confirmed
that
legend.

And like so many legends, this one was somewhat grounded in reality. According to geological record, meridian lines could be found below the point, which could be the cause of electromagnetic shifts that could lead to quickly forming storms or sudden changes in the tide. And maybe it was also pulling Miranda. And so what if the space was cursed? Wasn’t she as well?

Miranda pulled the car slightly off the road, so it was hidden from the street by a row of trees. She got out of the car and
walked the well-worn path through the brush and toward the sand. As usual, the entire area was deserted.

She pulled off her sweatshirt and yanked off her shorts. Then, not waiting for her skin to adjust to the slight breeze licking her thighs, she sprinted into the water and threw her body into a wave, allowing the water to carry her. The cold felt redemptive against her skin.

She flipped onto her back.
I could just let the water take me.
The thought popped into her head, unbidden. Even though every time she woke up, she’d imagine what would happen if she could just permanently stay asleep, she’d never really thought about
killing
herself.
What would happen if I just swam, deeper and deeper out to sea, and never came back?

Miranda began kicking, faster and faster, as if a force greater than herself were propelling her toward the horizon. Going to school had unhinged something in her. She felt anger where before there’d just been numbness. When she finally got to the ship hull, she stopped to tread water. She looked down. Her scar glistened, still bright red, even beneath the surface, but it didn’t hurt when she moved it. She shook her other leg. Although she could feel the water stinging the wound, it didn’t hurt.

She took a few more strokes, then stopped and squinted back at the beach. Nothing was there, but she had the eerie feeling she was being watched.

“Genevieve?” She said out loud, knowing she was only
giving in to her imagination. Genevieve believed in ghosts, and had even given Miranda a Ouija board for her thirteenth birthday.

“Can we ask for Fletcher?” Even back then, she’d had a crush on him. She just hadn’t thought, given her history and her newcomer status on the island, that she’d have the chance over the likes of Darcy or Gray.

“You’re supposed to choose
dead
people, dumb-ass!” Genevieve had said in her sweet-as-sugar Southern accent. Thanks to her bohemian upbringing, Gen had been the first girl of the Ferries to swear, drink, and—if her accounts of her many hot and heavy trysts were to be believed—lose her virginity.

“You shouldn’t ask
her
that,” Gray had said, poking Genevieve in the ribs. At that, Genevieve’s face had fallen as she’d remembered that both of Miranda’s parents were dead.

“I mean . . . ,” she’d faltered.

“It’s okay. It doesn’t matter,” Miranda had said quickly. It had been one of the first times she’d been invited to hang out with the Ferries outside of school, and she didn’t want to ruin it by being different. She didn’t want to be the girl with the dead parents. “I don’t even think of them,” she lied, pushing the Ouija pointer away from her.

“I guess we could try my Great Grandma Emmaline,” Darcy had quickly chimed in.

At that, Miranda desperately tried to tear her mind away from the flashback, but it continued to play in slow motion.
Before the accident, none of her friends had known anyone who’d died. It had been Miranda who had stood out then, for having had a personal connection to tragedy. Now, it was the same story. Genevieve had passed away still never knowing anyone who’d died.

Miranda shivered and the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. She whirled around, and there, treading water only a few feet away from her, was a guy.

Miranda shrieked and swam as fast as she could to shore, where she ran gasping up the beach. She felt weirdly violated. The beach was supposed to be hers.

The guy followed behind her, panting. “Sorry to have scared you,” he yelled from the high-tide line.

“
What the hell
?” Miranda muttered as she rifled through her pile of clothes, self-conscious of the jagged scar that ran from the top of her hip to the bottom of her knee, ending in a flourish that looked like the top of a question mark. “What are you
doing
here?” Miranda yelled, her heart pounding. She definitely hadn’t seen anyone enter the water. She knew she was being paranoid and unreasonable—after all, it
was
a public beach—but she didn’t understand where this guy could have come from.

“Swimming,” he said, in an odd accent that was impossible to place. It was formal, like Coral’s, the words meticulously pronounced as if it was a second language. “What about you?”

Miranda squinted, taking a closer look at the guy. He had
dark hair and his chest muscles rippled, as if he were a Greek statue come to life. Before Miranda and Fletch had started dating, Genevieve always said that Fletch had the body of a Greek god. But he didn’t. Not compared to this guy.

“I’m not doing anything. I’m leaving,” Miranda yelled, her heart hammering. She forced herself to run, then. Once out of sight, she stood behind the trees that separated the dirt road from the beach. Something about him made her want to continue to watch him.

The boy turned toward the woods, as if he were staring right at her. Miranda deliberately glanced away. She knew she was hidden well enough that he wouldn’t see her, but it felt too weird to be staring at him while he stared toward her.

She glanced toward the horizon. Down by the harbor, about half a mile down the island, boats were circling in and heading into the nearby harbor. In particular, the
Sephie
seemed to be cruising straight into the point. Lights were twined around the mast, and at first Miranda thought there must be a party on board. But when she squinted, she realized there was only one passenger: a woman wearing a flowing beaded gown, her blond hair tousled around her head. Miranda squinted. The woman looked like a spotlight was illuminating her, but there were no other lights on the ship besides the tiny decorative ones on the mast.

It was Coral, but in the light of the rapidly sinking sun she looked different than she had before. Her skin was too pale, her
eyes too wide, as if she were a grotesque Fun House mirror image of herself.

Miranda yanked her gaze away, back to where the boy had been standing. But no one was there, and all she could see for miles on end were waves crashing endlessly into the shore.

S
IX DAYS.
H
E’D BEEN SO CLOSE TONIGHT, HAD FORCED HIMSELF
to swim up closer to her than he ever had in the past. After all, he was on a mission. He’d waited until the end of her swim, and had watched when she abruptly stopped, gazing off at a boat in the far distance.

That had been his mistake. He should never have waited for her to stop. Because once she stopped, all he could do was stare. And then she’d gotten scared, and he’d felt like he’d been yanked in two directions. He was relieved she’d run before he could take action, and annoyed at himself for stopping. She was just a human. Maybe Sephie was right—she hadn’t even wanted to be saved. She looked completely different than the girl he’d rescued last month. Her eyes were hollow, and she had
a haunted expression on her face. But she was still beautiful. He just wished he could somehow erase her pain.

She’d run away so quickly, as if she was afraid of him. And she should be. And yet . . . didn’t she have even one tiny flicker of the memory that he’d saved her? All Christian could hope was that maybe, once his mission was complete, he could forget her as easily as she’d most likely forgotten about him.

Christian stroked to Down Below, feeling more and more trapped, the farther he went. He was well aware of the irony that it was Miranda who kept him tied to Down Below. If he hadn’t broken the code, he’d have been allowed to formally petition to live as a betwixtman Up Above. He’d look like a human, and act like a human, and would formally renounce any powers over the sea. He’d breathe oxygen all the time. He’d become comfortable with walking on sand. Maybe he’d even travel in one of those cars they loved. If only he hadn’t interfered.

It was like Sephie said. He was too impulsive. Which was why this time, he’d wait. After all, he had nearly a week to take her soul. There was no need to rush. His plan would be flawless and he’d be free. Simple.

As soon as he entered Sephie’s kingdom, he was stopped by Valentine.

“Did you do it?” Valentine asked in a ragged voice. With dark circles under his eyes and a wild expression on his face, Valentine looked even worse for wear than Miranda had.
Christian’s heart twisted. He needed to do this, if not for himself, for his brother.

Christian shook his head. “I will.”

“Why
didn’t
you, then?” Valentine asked. “It’s just a human. It will be easy.”

“I . . . I will,” Christian repeated.

“When?” Valentine asked, frustration evident in his voice.

“Tomorrow. I just needed to make sure that I had the correct person . . .”

Valentine raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything. “Tomorrow, then,” he said uncertainly. “Do you need my help?”

Christian shook his head.

“It’s just a human girl,” he repeated, more for his benefit than Valentine’s. It was just a girl. Tomorrow, he wouldn’t hesitate.