I heard the voice again, faint in my ears like a badly tuned radio.
They aren’t the only ones faced with a challenge, dear Hand.
Question your reality.
Shield yourself behind your sanity.
Only the truth will set you free.
It was too much to absorb, too much to think.
But a few realizations became clear, bright beacons shining in the night.
The Gods were coming back.
They would destroy humanity.
They must be stopped at any cost.
That was my task.
And the Order was mine to command.
2
Zara
17 YEARS LATER
“If you make trouble, you walk the plank.”
My foot hovered over the ramp and I swiveled to stare at the crusty captain tucking four Benjamin Franklins – four of my carefully haggled Benjamin Franklins – into one of his many shirt pockets. “Seriously? That still happens?”
Blue eyes twinkled beneath a thick knitted cap full of holes as he fluttered scarred fingers at me. “Nah, I’m messing with you, American. Get on board, we’re departing soon.” His accent felt thick in my ears, but I shrugged and climbed aboard the trawler into the crush of middle-aged men rushing to and fro across the deck.
I was completely out of my element.
And I couldn’t be more excited about it.
“Over here, girl, away from the rush of things.” A hand gripped my biceps and pulled me to the side of the ship. When I finally found my feet again, I peered into the face of a man in his fifties with big bushy grey brows and cherry-red lips. One of those brows quirked as I eagerly thrust out a hand to accept his handshake. “Now, surely you’ve seen better blokes than me before.”
“I’m not so sure about that.” I hurried to accept his welcome before running a shaking hand over my long, silvery hair. “I’m Zara.”
“Kristoffer,” he replied and continued in English, just like the captain, “and what brings you aboard our fine specimen of a ship today?” He gestured grandly to the well-used industrial fishing boat with its peeling paint and rusted hinges.
I smiled. “I’m not entirely sure, actually.”
“Nothin’ wrong with that. I’ll give ya the tour as they set off.”
I hadn’t even realized we were moving, but when I turned to the shoreline, sure enough we were no longer connected to the docks. I swallowed hard but didn’t resist as Kristoffer tugged me under his wrinkled but surprisingly muscular arm.
“Come on,” he said with a wide grin, “the wind can sure pick up around here, so let me show you the open decks first.”
His tour was brief but enthusiastic. I found myself beaming at his shipmates despite their long, curious stares. As we walked, Kristoffer pointed out hooks and cages and nets and all sorts of things I couldn’t remember the names of. White sails billowed in the morning air, and the foreign calls of the men drifted into the background the longer I listened. He was clearly showing off when he demonstrated how to tie a series of complicated knots in a matter of seconds. Afterward, he returned me back to the spot along the side of the boat and left me with a stern order to “find him if I needed anything at all.”
Norway’s shore wasn’t visible any longer in the rosy dawn light. I leaned out over the rail. The sting of sea spray scalded my skin. The sharp chill of the boat’s thin railings bit into my fingers, making me yearn for the warmth of the woolen gloves I’d left at the hotel. The water before me was vast, a dark grey behemoth stretching farther than the eye could see.
I wanted to dive in, clothes and all.
Too bad I knew without protection, the salt would chap my skin in minutes, and my blood would curdle in the bitter cold of the waves of the North Sea.
It was summer in the States. Typically, I spent that time at my New York boarding school where teachers were more invested in training future athletes than drilling students on calculus. Instead, I’d joined a group of twenty or so impressive swimmers in a competition tour overseas. We were taking a small break before hard-core Olympic training picked up once again. The Summer Olympics in Japan had wrapped up last year and many of us were antsy, awaiting the next challenge ahead of us.
I grinned as a wave tilted the ship. Seventeen years old and I already had a gold, three silvers, and one bronze medal under my belt.
This relatively playful competition was small beans in the grand scheme of things, but it was nice to have a breather for the first time in what felt like years of intense training.
A bell clanged in the distance. Dozens of feet encased in black rubber-soled shoes stomped quickly across the salt-torn planks as the fishermen raced to the back of the boat and the newest catch being reeled in. The thrashing of equipment stirred the sea, the bitter scent of brine grew heady once more. The fervor and energy in their voices revitalized my own flagging brain. I was exhausted from the early wake-up call and jet-lag. Our next meet wasn’t until tomorrow, and we’d arrived early in Norway after a scheduling snafu.
My nails dug into the soft wood of the rail, and I winced as a splinter pierced a fingertip. I sucked on skin that tasted of salt to soothe the ache. Waves slapped against the side of the ship, sending it rocking from side to side. I realized the ocean seemed more aggravated than it had earlier. Might just have been a change of direction. Whatever it was, the occasional splash into my face invigorated me.
The second the wheels of the small jet had touched the runway late last night, my blood sang, calling for the sea. It’s like I’d been a needle on a compass my entire life, spinning and spinning and spinning and for the first time I finally pointed due north. Turns out, due north had been the docks. The docks had turned into this shabby fishing boat crudely dubbed Tispe.
Not that I minded the slur much.
Bitches got shit done.
My long, gray scarf fluttered in the wind, drawing my thoughts back to the ocean. I’d grown up in Nebraska, about as far away from a large body of water like this as you could get. It reminded me of the text message from my mother burning a hole in my jacket pocket. We rarely saw each other now that I was out on the coast, and our relationship had grown strained. The more I competed, the less connected I felt to the people who had adopted me—maybe it was the lack of time spent together; or perhaps I was just growing up. The feeling was completely opposite to the sensations I had the more I flew over oceans and stayed in cities near them.
My blood churned with the waves.
My skin craved the salty water.
I longed to live in it, if such a thing were possible.
And here I was, Zara Ramone, on a boat in the middle of the North Sea.
Maybe this would finally fill the small void inside me I’d never truly understood.
A hand thumped between my shoulder blades, sending me reeling.
“How are you holding up?” Kristoffer said. This time he’d addressed me in his native tongue, probably a mistake, but my ability to follow foreign conversation wasn’t anything new. I liked languages, always had. I picked them up almost immediately.
I smiled up at his grizzled face. He’d abandoned his hat somewhere else. “Pretty well; appreciating how beautiful the sea is,” I replied in his language.
He tensed, looking past me and rested his forearms on the railing. “That she is. But she can be a turbulent beast, and a deadly one if you don’t know what you’re doing.”
He pointed up at the large swells of thunderclouds cresting before us. They were angry: bold and black, bellies rumbling with thick thunder. The waves beneath the ship had turned choppy and dark, a sharp contrast to the blue glass that hypnotized me not all the long ago.
“Like that. Storms that come out of nowhere,” he said.
At that, the wind picked up, fast and demanding, tearing at my clothes and hair. It felt wild and raw. A feeling rose sharp in my chest, something a lot like…anticipation?
I leaned a little over the side of the boat, starin
g hard at the frigid water, contemplating how much time it would take for even a seasoned swimmer to drown beneath those waves.
Then something moved.
Something big.
Something sliding under the boat in one long, smooth motion.
Was that a tentacle?
Kristoffer yanked my arm, pulling me toward the center of the boat as I started to get a good look at the beast. He flipped up some sort of door cut into the bowels of the ship and motioned toward it.
“Get down to the mess and stay there until someone comes to get you. Pull the door shut behind you. We can’t have you going overboard.” The merry twinkle had vanished from his face. He barely looked at me, his gaze flitting around the ship where he was clearly needed elsewhere.
“But there’s something —”
“Get below deck.”
He cut me off before I could tell him about the monster and spun away, yelling orders to his mates as they maneuvered ropes and traps in an effort to get the haul in before the storm hit full force.
My lime-green Converse slipped on the rungs slick with water and worn smooth over time. But something made me stop. It felt wrong, very wrong. No, I wasn’t needed down there. I needed to get to the side of the ship. I needed to tell the captain about those tentacles.
The trapdoor banged shut behind me as I hauled myself back on deck. The wind roared now, the ship rocking dangerously side to side, sending lines and hooks flying. I tripped on a hank of rope, going down hard. But I clawed my way back up, trying to find my footing as the boat crested wave after ever-higher wave.
There it was. My heart almost stopped. A tentacle with suction cups the size of sedans hovered, suspended right below the surface of the water. I looked up in time to see the massive wave bearing down. My grip on the railing wasn’t going to keep me on board.
There wasn’t any time to react.
One minute I stood upright, feet firmly planted on the planks.
The next, I was airborne as the wave crashed into the vessel.
For one glorious moment, I flew, the wind whistling past my ears, hair torn from my hair tie, breezing past my face reaching for the heavens. Then I slammed into a concrete wall. Searing pain engulfed me as bones cracked and joints shattered, rendering me blind as I slipped beneath another wave. I was falling, falling faster than a cannonball into the dark depths of the sea. With one last ounce of effort, one last thought of survival, I flipped my eyelids up. But I couldn’t see. My fingers clawed for something to hold onto. Which way was up? My lungs screamed, crying for me to release my breath.
I was going to die.
I’d spent my life in the water. Spent my teenage years craving the ocean.
And I was going to die in it.
The irony hit me almost as hard as I’d hit the water.
Breathe. The word echoed through my head, soft but stern. A single word spoken by something that sounded very large and very intimidating.
Breathe.
I’ll die. I can’t breathe underwater, I thought, knowing I was moments away from losing the battle with my lungs. Fireworks popped behind my eyelids.
Dark laughter rumbled. Have you tried?
I must be delirious. That actually sounded like a reasonable question.
The Gods must be ready to take me into the afterlife.
Why not?
What could it hurt?
Carbon dioxide rushed out of my mouth in one large burst.
My body felt weightless, motionless. My extremities nonexistent.
I was merely another organism in the vastness of the sea.
Why not?
I drew in a breath.
3
Zara
I almost choked on the air that flooded my body, sending life, glorious life, tearing through my veins. Yes, liquid was definitely filling my mouth but bubbles were coming out. I must, most definitely, be dying because that definitely didn’t happen in real life.
Unbidden, my hands drifted up, cleanly parting the water. I touched my mouth, my jaw, my neck. When I’d hit the water, I’d felt my body break, the bones in my face shatter. But now it, and my arms and legs, were whole again. Free of pain. The tips of my fingers met thick ridges cut into my skin. The flaps of flesh were flexible, and I drew in another belly-fully of air, feeling the ridges lift away and expel a rush of water.
I had gills.
There was no way this was happening.
Yep. I had to be dead.
Dear, silly girl, what nonsense. You’re finally alive for the first time.
The whispery voice was back, the same voice I’d heard moments after I’d belly flopped into the sea. The same voice that had caused chills to course through my body earlier now felt familiar, even friendly.
It felt like coming home.
That’s because you are home. I’ve searched for you for so long, Zara, and here you finally are.
It could hear me. Damn.
Yes. We are connected in many ways.
Something large and long rolled by my left side. Ripples in the currents wrapped around my body, warming and cooling it all at once. For the first time, fear trickled across my skin. This was wrong. So wrong. I reached up, not sure where the surface was, but needing to get there no matter what. Something hard wrapped around my foot, holding me fast.
Spots danced before my eyes as I forced myself to calm down.
A panic attack might actually kill me this time.
Who are you and can I see you? I thought.
That quiet, deep rumble of laughter quaked in my chest again.
It wasn’t mine.
Of course. I forgot how limited your sight would be so early.
Something blue and pink and gold dimly flickered below my feet. The light warmed, brightening like a fluorescent bulb. At first, it stung my eyes, and I blinked rapidly. What emerged from the darkness was something beautiful and enchanting and…broken. A fortress with large columns of rock and marble dove low and rose high. Within those walls, windows and doors and turrets spread out. This monstrosity was as large, no larger than, any of the German castles I’d toured last week. The history this place must have seen made my seventeen years seem very small.
Never-ending currents of water had worn away some of the features, but chipped surfaces and scorch marks among the wide array of sea creatures carved in the stones that made up the outside walls could still be made out. One of the front doors—they seemed too grandiose to be only doors, but I was at a loss at what else to call the two-story opening—was cracked in half, hanging by one massive hinge as if someone had crashed through it, desperate to get inside.
As if sensing my hesitation, the voice came again. Go.
And like every character in every horror movie I’d ever criticized, I did, too intrigued to stop.
I took a deep breath and pushed my hair behind my ears. The strands appeared more pale gold than silver in the eerie light. I sank lower and ducked under the splintered wood, working my way inside the castle, marveling at what used to be some sort of grand hall. Coral in all shades of the rainbow made up the columns holding the ceiling up. Heavy tapestries hung in silken strands that fluttered in the subtle currents. It was impossible to tell what scenes they used to depict. I ghosted to the floor, realizing only now it was composed of millions of glittering, crushed shells. It, too, was cracked down the middle and arranged in a deliberate pattern I couldn’t quite work out. My high-tops touched down, and I was surprised to find the surface smooth, free of sand and grit. It shouldn’t be possible here, underwater, but I could walk.
That’s because you were always meant to be here. You’ve always belonged to the sea, the voice came again.
I glanced over my shoulder at the doors, but couldn’t see anything indicating another person or… creature. Shrugging, I turned back to the room. Along the interior walls lay further evidence of destruction. From smashed pottery on broken pedestals to gouges scored deep into wooden tables, something horrible had happened here.
My gut twisted.
My clothing floated around me, periodically twisting tight around my body as I strode past long windows that now housed jagged edges of shattered glass. I wanted to get closer to the magnificent throne that towered high above the room, commanding complete attention. The chair was raised up and the back spanned high toward the ceiling, chunks of coral and shells spilling outward, encompassing the entire wall. In the shells, artistic shapes of sea creatures wove in between one another; most I recognized, like dolphins and starfish, and some I didn’t. Like one particularly worm-like beast with a body of a snake but a face that twisted into something resembling a wolf, complete with two hairy front feet. Across from it slithered some sort of water-dragon with legs like a centipede.
When I got close enough, I touched the smooth grey stone of the seat itself. Where my fingers touched, a ripple of light passed through the rock, highlighting crevices and revealing hidden creatures carved inside. My body stiffened. The light rippled up the length of the back of the throne.
I gasped. The light was the exact color of my eyes—my aquamarine eyes that appeared a size too big for my angular face. When I got emotional, they’d turn stormy, like liquid lightning filled their depths, and that’s what I saw now, the color brought to vivid life.
It’s beautiful.
Yes it is.
How did it end up down here? I wondered, somehow forgetting I was conversing with an unknown entity that was, in all reality, probably my own delusional brain. Or death. I hadn’t yet counted that option out. When did this happen?
Nearly two decades ago. The victim of a horrible onslaught.
The twisting in my gut clenched into a fist. Who does this belong to?
A pregnant pause followed.
It felt like I was missing an obvious answer.
Walk on Water Page 2