Diary of a Radical Mermaid

by Deborah Smith

  “Oh, please. I didn’t hurt your Irish chauffeur. He’s in the hotel bar. By the time he wonders why he deserted you for a brew and a smoke, we’ll be halfway to Georgia.”

  “I’m not going anywhere with you!”

  “Yes, you are. I’m doing this for your own good. Well, actually, I’m doing this for my own good.” I stepped aside and waved a hand toward a door that led to a sumptuous bedroom. “Charley, deposit Molly and that ancient, bad-tempered kitty of hers in there. Lock the door. Then let’s get this tricked-out Greyhound on the road.”

  “Are you insane?!” Molly yelled. She kicked and flailed her cane at me”— uselessly, of course. “People will look for me! I’m a celebrity! I’m M.M. Revere!”

  I draped myself on a sage-green couch. “Get real. You have no close friends. You have no close family. All your publisher cares about is your next book, and it isn’t due for six months. Face it, Molly Mallard Martha: you could jump off a cliff and no one would even notice.”

  This observation made her shriek again. Hey, the truth hurts. She uttered furious little squeaks and flailed her arms as Charley lugged her and the old cat into the bedroom. “Ouch,” he grunted. She’d clubbed him with her cane. He set her down, backed out of the room, locked the door, and lifted a brawny, tanned hand to the welt on his forehead. “She could be a wrestler.”

  “Sorry, Charley. I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”

  He put a hand to his heart in devotion, then lumbered to the front and climbed into the driver’s seat.

  Whack whack whack whack whack. Molly pounded her mermaid-handled cane on the bedroom door. “If you let me out of here right now, I won’t press charges!”

  I rose languidly and went to the door. Leaning close, I said in a pleasant tone, “If you keep whacking that heirloom cane, Paul’s mermaid will get dents in her fins. So calm down and shut up.”

  “You can’t just take me prisoner and haul me to the coast!”

  “Oh? Watch me.” I toyed with her cell phone, which Charley had pilfered from her purse. “You can’t phone home, ET. And if you think you can get help by scribbling Me And My Geezer Kitty Are Being Kidnapped on a piece of paper and holding it up to the windows so passing drivers will see, forget it. I’m tuned into you like a baby boomer to an oldies station. I’ll know what you’re up to. If you try anything I’ll come in there and . . . and I’ll dunk Geezer Kitty in the commode. Head first.”

  She gasped loudly enough to hear it through the door. I felt her surge of fury but also her fear for her old pussy cat. She didn’t make so much as another gimpy peep. I’d won. I rolled my eyes. Like I was really serious about drowning her elderly feline. Like I’d really stick my hands in a commode.

  “I can’t wait to get back to the ocean,” I said to Charley, settling back with dramatic weariness on the couch as he steered the bus down a Memphis street, heading for the nearest interstate. I can’t wait to get back to Jordan, I added silently. If Orion the Psycho Swimmer was really out there in the briny deep, and he was looking for his daughters, and he tracked them and their Uncle Rhymer to Sainte’s Point, and Jordan tried to help Rhymer fight Orion, and Jordan got hurt, or killed . . .

  “Drive faster,” I called to Charley.

  Charley frowned. “Juna Lee, what exactly are you going to do with Ms. Revere when you get her to the coast? I mean, you can’t keep her locked up. And I don’t see that your powers of persuasion are working too well. She’s a tough little she-crab.”

  I frowned. He was right. Molly Mallard Martha Revere had given me more trouble than any Mer had a right to. Even Lilith’s song hadn’t hypnotized her for long. What kind of defenses did she have around that geeky little mind of hers? A shark-proof cage? If she didn’t succumb to psychic voodoo easily, how would I ever make good on my deal with Lilith? How could Molly ever be of any use to Rhymer in fighting off Orion? How could I help Jordan as long as I had Molly hanging around my neck like a pastel albatross? How could I matchmake Molly and Rhymer if I couldn’t make Molly even get on her own damned bus voluntarily?

  “I’ll think of something,” I muttered. “Or she’ll be sorry.”

  It never occurred to me that True Love might help me out.

  * * * *

  Uncle Rhymer. Uncle Rhymer? We feel you worrying again. Small voices, singing inside my head. I turned to find three pretty faces peering at me from a porthole in the sailboat’s main cabin.

  I’m only testing the wind, girls. Stay silent, girls. Just stay silent. Remember. Never sing out.

  The oldest, Stella, who was twelve, nodded somberly. The other two, Isis, eight, and Venus, five, whimpered inside my mind, then withdrew from the window. I could not let them keen in vibrant waves of mental song, could not let them heal themselves.

  Their father would hear them if they sang. He would track them by the echoes. If he weren’t tracking them already.

  I had cut across the English Channel in record time, knowing the currents the way only the Water People know them, slipping like a drop of mercury along the curving thermometer of the great summer ocean. I locked the wheel then went to the stern. I watched the receding waters of the other side of the world, my mind open, a net to catch the man, the myth, the thing, the mystery, that had seduced my sister, caused her death, and murdered a dozen people to steal her body before it could be returned to her heartbroken children. I felt his guilt in my soul; I sensed it in the psychic fury humming inside my brain — that poison in him, following me to a new continent. I didn’t believe in whimsies and fairytales, either my own kind or Landers’, but I did believe in evil, and what I felt seeping after my ship was as unknowable as the darkest evil of an ancient ocean abyss.

  Stay back, you bastard. Or come forward and prove you’re flesh and blood, and I’ll cut the life out of you.

  Every sense in my brain searched for him, listened for the low hiss of threat I’d heard from time to time, hummed a sonic minefield, daring him to follow. He was a killer, but so was I. No magic of our kind, no extraordinary psychic powers or other abilities would match the heavy automatic pistol in my belt or the half-moon sword snugged to my left leg. An ancient tradition, that. Bit of a throwback to the old ways, I was. Knight of the watery realm, you might say. A warrior.

  A worried man.

  He had not killed Tara with his own hands, no, but he’d lured her into his shadow world, convinced her to be a terrorist, and thus she’d died like a thief in the deep, cold waters off our own homeland, where he had not bothered to accompany her. He sent her to her death alone.

  Now he wanted his children. Her children. Daughters he’d never even met. My nieces. All that was left of the sister I’d failed to protect. “You’ll no’ get the girls,” I whispered. “Whether you’re man or myth, you’ll no’ get them.” My brogue always became heavier when I was worried.

  I leaned further over the bow, watching the empty eastern horizon, scanning the vast gray-green surface of the Atlantic. We were along the coast of the States now. We’d make Sainte’s Point Island by nightfall, if the wind held.

  The wind will hold, an elegant female voice hummed in my ear.

  I shut my eyes. Thank you, Lilith. Please keep steering us to your sanctuary.

  The bow of the large sloop angled leeward as if pushed gently by a hand. The sails bulged, pregnant with the breath of the great waters.

  My kinswoman, Lilith Bonavendier, had a way with the winds and the tides. Her island home was the site of old legends, old powers. I could hide my nieces there. I could protect them.

  I could wait for their father to find them, if he dared.

  And I would fight him to the death, when he did.

  Ahoy, Rhymer! The psychic greeting filled my head. Rhymer McEvers. Come about. Hello. Welcome to America. A man’s voice.

  Welcome, Rhymer. Welcome. Let us aboard. A woman’s.

  I brought the sailboat to a halt and dropped anchor. Surprised, I hung out a ladder then stepped back, watching. A darling brunette climbed aboar
d, long hair streaming to her hips, sweet breasts and butt outlined nicely in a black maillot. She smiled gently and held out a hand. “I’m Ali Bonavendier. Soon to be Ali Randolph.”

  “Ah. Cousin Ali. It’s nice to meet you. You’re a kind of legend. Lilith’s long-lost half-sister.”

  She smiled wider but shook her head. “I’m just one of Lilith’s many projects. Rescued from a life of dry futility. Set on the right course by the enchantment of Sainte’s Point.” She looked up at me solemnly. “It’s a safe place. A sacred place.”

  I laid a hand on the pistol belted to my waist. “I don’t need magic. I just need one clear shot.”

  She frowned, and I felt her concern for my attitude. Before she could counsel me about it, a big lean bruiser hoisted himself up the ladder and bounded onto the deck. He scooped dark hair back with a thick hand. Bit of a rough looker for a Mer, not that I was much prettier. Scars, large and small, pockmarked his bare chest and arms. A wide nylon belt was snugged to the waist of his black trunks; its sheathed knife was long enough to gut a whale. Even his feet were scarred, their webbing gone, snipped out when he was a babe and his mother wanted to hide his Mer heritage. I’d heard plenty about Griffin Randolph on the oceans of the world. The treasure hunter. His father had been a rich, prideful Lander, his mother, a distant cousin to my own. There was a tragic story there — and I sensed the scars inside him. But I also sensed the happiness. It radiated from Ali to him, and back again. My gut twisted. It’d been years since I’d felt any such bond between me and a woman. I was good at sex, bad at the rest.

  “Cousin Rhymer,” he said, and we clasped hands.

  “Cousin Griffin. Should you not be on the island, dressin’ yourself up for a wedding to this beautiful woman tomorrow?”

  “What can I say?” He nodded at Ali. “On the eve of our wedding she challenged me to a five-mile race from Sainte’s Point to your sloop here. It took all my willpower to let her beat me.”

  Ali clucked her tongue. “You go on believing you let me beat you.” To me she said, “Lilith asked us to welcome you and your nieces personally. The island’s full of guests, so she couldn’t get away herself. It’s our honor to be her emissaries. We’ll lead you to a quiet cove along the mainland for now. We wish you’d come to the mansion, but Lilith says you’d rather wait until the wedding’s over and the island’s empty.”

  I nodded. “The fewer who know about me being here, the better. Orion’s listening for hints, keeping his mind open for information. I can’t risk him hearing any chatter about me and the girls.”

  Griffin frowned. “I have a ship off the coast of Costa Rica. My crew is exploring the ruins of Timaupica, one of the hidden Mer cities. You could take the girls there. And Riyad bin Mahadeen says he can hide you off the coast of Arabia — he never calls it Saudi Arabia, because his loyalties are a helluva lot older than the modern regimes.”

  “Or you can bring the girls and come with us,” Ali said gently, “on our wedding cruise around the world.”

  “Thank you both, but no. We’re as safe here as anywhere. And I don’t want to endanger more people than I can help. Orion may look on my allies as his enemies.”

  Griffin laid a hand on the hilt of his knife and scanned the waters, scowling. “I’ve learned to believe in a lot of things I can’t explain. But I’m not sure I believe Orion is a Swimmer. I assume you do? You don’t doubt he’s . . . different . . . from the rest of us?”

  “I don’t know what he is. My sister guarded his secrets, even from me. All I know is, I intend to kill him.”

  Both Ali and Griffin looked at me with worry in their eyes. In my mind there was no room for debate about Orion’s guilt, innocence, motives or intent; the issue was settled. He’d had years to present himself with honor, years to come to me, Tara’s brother, and make a show of fellowship. Now I’d tried and convicted him without his testimony, but it was his own doing. I’m not a brutal bastard, I started to tell Ali and Griffin. I just prize good manners, that’s all.

  “Hello, sweetie!” Ali said suddenly and knelt down with a hand out.

  Venus, the five-year old, peered, wide-eyed, around the corner of the cabin. I groaned inwardly. So much for the girls staying out of sight.

  “Are you an angel?” Venus asked Ali, her Scottish brogue lilting like an Inverness butterfly. “Have you talked to me mum, in heaven? Will you tell her we miss her so; tell her to come home?”

  Oh, God.

  Ali’s face convulsed. She put a hand to her heart. I recalled hearing from Lilith that Ali had lost her own mother, a Lander, when Ali was just a babe. A tide of sympathy poured from Ali. Venus gave a little cry and rushed to her. Sobbing, Venus threw her arms around Ali’s neck, and Ali held her tight.

  Griffin and I, being no more comfortable than Lander men when it came to female tears, harummphed and looked the other way. Suddenly Venus noticed Griffin. She pulled back from Ali’s hug and stared up at him, at his scars. One small hand shot out. She laid just her fingertips on a thick scar that crossed the back of his hand.

  “Venus, no,” I ordered sharply. I scooped her up. “You promised. You promised. You must keep that promise all the time.”

  She stared at me tearfully. “I couldn’t help it, Uncle Rhymer. I couldn’t. I’m sorry.” She hid her face in her hands and sobbed again. I felt like a monster. I was no good with children. “Uncle Rhymer, I’ll take her back in the cabin,” Stella said, behind me. “She moves so fast. She got away from me. Sorry.”

  She and Isis stood there at attention. Isis looked stern as a teacher; Stella looked teary but resolved.

  “You’ll have to do better,” I said. What a beast I was. Not capable of tenderness. But tenderness bred mistakes, and mistakes bred disaster. “You’re my lieutenant. I depend on you. Do your job.”

  “Yes, sir.” I handed Venus to her. The three girls hurried back into the cabin.

  I turned back to Griffin and Ali. They were staring at his hand.

  The scar had disappeared.

  When their awed gazes rose to me, I said quietly, “It’s true, what you’ve heard. The girls are Healers.”

  Healers. The word hung in the salt air like a bolt of lightning. Most Mers were of the Singer class; only a tiny minority had powers so special they deserved a higher designation. Most Mers had never met a Healer. Some swore the Healers were just entertainers and attention-seekers, concocting elaborate tricks to elevate their social status.

  Venus had just knocked that idea to hell and back.

  Ali touched Griffin’s healed hand. He raised it slowly, then laid the smooth, perfect skin against her cheek. “I’ve always wanted to touch you without a scar between us,” he said gruffly.

  She gave a mewl of joy.

  I hung my head. Healers. All three of the girls. The instinct ran through every vein of their bodies. They could hardly resist the joy it gave to others. I’d told them they had to control it. When they laid hands on someone, they sang. They sang out like a beacon. And if they did that, Orion would hear them across even the widest sea.

  Ali kissed Griffin, cuddled his hand in hers, then looked at me tearfully. “There are miracles in the world. We’ve just seen one. Rhymer, you have to consider the possibility that there’s goodness inside a father who can give the gift of healing to his daughters.”

  After a long, quiet moment, I said as politely as I could, “He gave them nothing but a dead mother.”

  And I went, without another word, to set the course toward Sainte’s Point again.

  Juna Lee’s Prisoner

  Chapter 9

  Trapped. Trapped upstairs, in the dark, in a big, vintage cottage somewhere on the Georgia coast. Imprisoned like a noble heroine in the 1900s dime novels I collected as a hobby. No, no, she cried, you villain! You’ll never keep me here against my will! Tom the Ranger will save me! I loved the simplicity of good versus bad in those books; the unerring sense of fragile virtue and courageous sacrifice. Oh, all right. I mainly loved the idea of good girls
getting tied up, leered at, and rescued. Maybe I had a secret S & M fetish. At any rate, no Tom the Ranger had ever shown up in my life.

  “Molly,” Juna Lee Poinfax hissed outside the door to my room. “Stop moping around in there. All you have to do is agree to stay in Bellemeade a few weeks and get to know your own kind. Swear you’ll stay, and then I’ll let you out.”

  “My own kind?” I said loudly, through solid oak. “My kind don’t tell elaborate lies about being descended from mermaids. They don’t kidnap famous authors, haul them more than one thousand miles in a bus, then lock them in a strange house in the dark.”

  “Well, turn on a light, you idiot.”

  I steamed. I’d like to put Juna Lee in a dime novel. I’d play the part of the villain. I’d tie her to the proverbial railroad tracks. And I’d make sure Tom the Ranger got there too late to do more than scrape some of her DNA off a rail for the coroner’s office.

  She did have one good point: My noble virtue wouldn’t be compromised if I turned on a lamp. I made my way to a table, fumbled with a cord beneath a glass shade, and pulled it. Soft light lifted the shadows. I looked around, stunned.

  My prison was lovely.

  The room made me think of a romantic cabin on an eighteenth century pirate ship. Heavy, curving beams formed the ribs of the ceiling. All the furniture was ornate, handsome, and antique. In an alcove, a pretty four-postered bedstead was plumped up with lacy white pillows and a marshmallow-like comforter. Beneath my sandaled feet, fishtailed mermaids, mermen , and other mythological beings cavorted in the design of a beautiful rug. I turned slowly, pirouetting around my cane, studying that woven world.

  The lamp I’d turned on? Tiffany. And I’d bet it wasn’t a reproduction. Jasmine and vanilla scented the air, along with the aroma of maritime oak, fine brocades, and silk.

  An unhappy meow came from the carrier by the door. Big, apologetic Charley had deposited my cat and my luggage inside the room right after he deposited me there.

  “Heathcliff,” I moaned. “I didn’t mean to ignore you. I know you’ve been traumatized.” I rushed to the carrier, opened the door, and gently lifted Heathcliff into my arms. The old tabby purred. His fur felt even drier and more scruffy than usual. “I’ll give you your medicine in just a minute,” I whispered, stroking his head. “And then I’ll unpack your tuna and we’ll have dinner. I hope you don’t mind sharing.”