by Kiera Cass
With that sole desire pulsing through me, I walked toward the rail. It would be a pleasure to drink myself full until every last piece of me was sated. I was barely aware of hoisting myself over the side, barely aware of anything, until the hard smack of water on my face brought me back to my senses.
I was going to die.
No! I thought as I fought to get back to the surface. I’m not ready! I want to live! Nineteen years was not enough. There were still so many foods to taste and places to visit. A husband, I hoped, and a family. All of it, everything, gone in an instant.
Really?
I didn’t have time to doubt the reality of the voice I was hearing. Yes!
What would you give to stay alive?
Anything!
In an instant, I was dragged out of the fray. It was as if an arm was looped around my waist, pulling with precision as I shot past body after body until I was free of them. I soon found myself lying on a hard surface and staring up at three inhumanly lovely girls.
For a moment, all the horror and confusion disappeared. There was no storm, no family, no fear. All that ever had been or ever would be were these beautiful, perfect faces. I squinted, studying them.
“Are you angels?” I asked. “Am I dead?”
The closest girl, who had eyes greener than anything I’d seen before and brilliant red hair billowing around her face, bent down. “No. You’re very much alive,” she promised.
I gaped at her. If I was still alive, wouldn’t I be feeling the scratch of salt down my throat? Wouldn’t my eyes be burning from the water? Wouldn’t I still be feeling the sting on my face from where I fell? Yet I felt perfect, complete.
In the distance, I could hear screams. I lifted my head, and just over the waves I spotted the tail of our ship as it bobbed surreally out of the water.
I took several ragged breaths, too confused to grasp how I was still breathing, all the while listening to others drown around me.
“What do you remember?” she asked.
I shook my head. “The carpet.” I searched my memories, already feeling them becoming distant and blurry. “And my mother’s hair,” I said, my voice cracking. “Then I was in the water.”
“Did you ask to live?”
“I did,” I sputtered, wondering if she could read my mind or if everyone else had thought it, too. “Who are you?”
“I’m Marilyn,” she replied sweetly. “This is Aisling.” She pointed to a blond girl who gave me a small, warm smile. “And that is Nombeko.” Nombeko was as dark as the night sky and appeared to have nearly no hair at all.
“We’re singers. Sirens. Servants to the Ocean,” Marilyn explained. “We help Her. We . . . feed Her.”
I squinted. “What would the ocean eat?”
Marilyn glanced in the direction of the sinking ship, and I followed her gaze. Almost all the voices were quiet now.
Oh.
“It is our duty, and soon it could be yours as well. If you give your time to Her, She will give you life. From this day forward, for the next hundred years, you won’t get sick or hurt, and you won’t grow a day older. When your time is up, you’ll get your voice and your freedom back. You’ll get to live.”
“I—I’m sorry,” I stammered. “I don’t understand.”
The others smiled, but their eyes looked sad. “It would be impossible to understand now,” Marilyn said. She ran her hand over my hair, already treating me as if I was one of her own. “I assure you, none of us did. But you will.”
Carefully, I got to my feet, shocked to see that I was standing on water. There were still a few people afloat in the distance, flapping at the current like they might be able to save themselves.
“My mother is there,” I pleaded. Nombeko sighed, her eyes wistful.
Marilyn wrapped her arm around me, looking toward the wreckage. She whispered in my ear. “You have two choices: you may remain with us or you may join your mother. Join her. Not save her.”
I stayed silent. Could there be truth to her words? Could I choose to die? If this was real, could I do what she was suggesting?
“You said you’d give anything to live,” she reminded me. “Please mean it.”
I saw the hope in her eyes. She didn’t want me to go. Perhaps she’d seen enough death for one day.
I nodded. I’d stay.
She pulled me close and breathed into my ear. “Welcome to the sisterhood of sirens.”
I was whipped underwater, something cold forced into my veins. And, though it frightened me, it hardly hurt at all.
EIGHTY YEARS LATER
TWO
“WHY?” SHE ASKED, HER FACE bloated from drowning.
I held up my hands, warning her not to come any closer. But it was clear she wasn’t afraid of me. She was looking for revenge. And she would get it any way she could.
“Why?” she demanded again. Seaweed was wrapped around her leg and made a flat, wet sound as it dragged across the floor behind her.
The words were out of my mouth before I could stop myself. “I had to.”
She didn’t wince at my voice, just kept advancing. This was it. I would finally have to pay for what I had done.
“I had three children.”
I backed away, looking for an escape. “I didn’t know! I swear, I didn’t know anything!”
Finally, she stopped, just inches from me. I waited for her to beat me or strangle me, to find a way to avenge the life taken from her far too soon. But she merely stood there, her head cocked, as she took me in, eyes bulging and skin tinted blue.
Then she lunged.
I awoke with a gasp, swinging my arm at the empty air in front of me before I understood.
A dream. It was only a dream. I placed a hand on my chest, hoping to slow my heart. Instead of finding skin, I pressed my fingers into the back of my scrapbook. I pulled it off, looking at the carefully constructed pages filled with clipped news articles. Served me right for working on it before sleeping.
I had just finished my page on Kerry Straus before falling asleep. She was one of the last people I had needed to find from our most recent sinking. Two more to go, then I’d have information on every one of those lost souls. The Arcatia might be my first complete ship. Looking down at Kerry’s page, I took in the bright eyes from the photo on her memorial website, a shabby thing no doubt created by her widower husband between trying to serve up something more creative than spaghetti for his three motherless children and the endless routine of his day job.
“At least you had someone,” I told her photo. “At least there was someone to cry for you when you were gone.” I wished I could explain how a full life cut short was better than an empty life that dragged on. I closed the book and set it in my trunk with the others, one for each shipwreck. There were only a handful of people who could possibly understand how I felt, and I wasn’t always sure that they did.
With a heavy sigh, I made my way to the living room, where Elizabeth’s and Miaka’s voices were louder than I was comfortable with.
“Kahlen!” Elizabeth greeted. I tried to be inconspicuous as I checked to make sure all the windows were closed. They knew how important it was that no one could hear us, but they were never as cautious as I would have wanted. “Miaka’s just come up with another idea for her future.”
I shifted my focus to Miaka. Tiny and dark in every way except for her spirit, she’d won me over in the first minutes I knew her.
“Do tell,” I replied as I settled into the corner chair.
Miaka grinned widely at me. “I was thinking about buying a gallery.”
“Really?” My eyebrows raised in surprise. “So, owning instead of creating, huh?”
“I don’t think you could ever actually stop painting,” Elizabeth said thoughtfully.
I nodded. “You’re too talented.”
Miaka had been selling her art online for years. Even now, mid-conversation, she was tapping away on her phone, and I felt certain another big sale was in the works. The fact th
at any of us owned a phone was almost ridiculous—as if we had anyone to call—but she liked staying plugged into the world.
“Being in charge of something seems like fun, you know?”
“I do,” I said. “Ownership sounds incredibly appealing.”
“Exactly!” Miaka typed and spoke at the same time. “Responsibility, individuality. It’s all missing now, so maybe I can make up for it later.”
I was about to say that we had plenty of responsibilities, but Elizabeth spoke up first.
“I had a new idea, too,” she trilled.
“Tell us.” Miaka set down her phone and climbed onto her as if they were puppies.
“I’ve decided I really like singing. I think I’d like to use it in a different way.”
“You’d be a fantastic lead singer in a band.”
Elizabeth sat up straight, nearly knocking Miaka to the floor. “That’s exactly what I thought!”
I watched them, marveling at the fact that three such different people, born to different places and times and customs, could balance one another out so well.
“What about you, Kahlen?”
“Huh?”
Miaka propped herself up. “Any new big dreams?”
We’d played this game hundreds of times as a way to keep our spirits up. I’d had dozens of ideas over the years. I’d considered being a doctor as a way to make amends for all the lives I’d taken. A dancer, so I could practice controlling my body in every way. A writer, so I could find a way to use my voice whether I spoke or not. An astronaut, in case I needed to put extra space between the Ocean and me.
But deep down I knew there was only one thing I really wanted. I eyed the large history book that rested by my favorite chair—the book I’d meant to take back into my room last night—making sure the bridal magazine inside was still hidden from sight.
I smiled and shrugged. “Same old, same old.”
I swallowed as I set foot onto campus. Unlike some of my sisters, human ears set me on edge. But even now, I could hear Elizabeth’s voice in my head. “You don’t need to stay inside all the time. I’m not living that way,” she had vowed, maybe two weeks into her new life with us. And she stayed true to her word, not only getting out herself, but making sure that the rest of us also had as much of a life as possible. Venturing out was half to appease her, half to indulge myself.
Our current home was right near a university, which was perfect for me. It meant slews of people wandering around on open lawns and mingling at picnic tables. I didn’t feel the need to go to concerts or clubs or parties like Elizabeth and Miaka. I was content merely to be among the humans. If I sat under a tree, I could pretend to be one of them for hours.
I watched people pass, pleased we were in such a friendly area that some people waved at me for no reason at all. If I could have said hello to them—just one tiny, harmless word—the illusion would have been perfect.
“. . . if she doesn’t want to. I mean, why doesn’t she just say something?” one girl asked the crowd of friends surrounding her. I imagined her a queen bee, the others hapless drones.
“You’re totally right. She should have told you she didn’t want to go instead of telling everyone else.”
The queen flipped her hair. “Well, I’m done with her. I’m not playing those games.”
I squinted after her, positive she was playing a completely different game, one she would certainly win.
“I’m telling you, man, we could design it.” A short-haired boy waved his hands enthusiastically at his friend.
“I don’t know.” This boy, slightly overweight and scratching a patch of skin on his neck, was walking fast. He might have been trying to outwalk his friend, but his counterpart was so light on his feet, so motivated, that he probably could have kept up with a rocket.
“Just a tiny investment, man. We could be the next big thing!”
I suppressed a smile.
When the crowds dispersed in the afternoon, I made my way to the library. Since moving to Miami, I’d gone there once or twice a week. I didn’t like to do my scrapbook research at the house. I’d made that mistake before, and Elizabeth had teased me mercilessly for being morbid.
“Why don’t you just go hunt for their corpses?” she’d said. “Or ask the Ocean to tell you their final thoughts. You want to know that, too?”
I understood her disgust. She saw my scrapbooks as an unhealthy obsession with the people we’d murdered. What I wished she understood was the way those people haunted me, the way the screams stayed with me long after the ships sank.
My goal today was Warner Thomas, the second-to-last person on the passenger list of the Arcatia. Warner turned out to be a relatively easy find. There were tons of people with the same name, but once I found all the social networking profiles with posts that stopped abruptly six months ago, I knew he was the right one. Warner was a string bean of a man who looked too shy to talk to people in person. He was listed as single everywhere, and I felt bad for thinking that made perfect sense.
The last entry on his blog was heartbreaking.
Sorry this is short, but I’m updating from my phone. Look at this sunset!
Just below that line, the sun melted into nothing on the back of the Ocean.
So much beauty in the world! Can’t help but think good things are on the way!
I nearly laughed. The expression in every picture I’d found made me think he’d never exclaimed anything in his life. But I couldn’t help wondering whether something had happened just before that fateful trip. Did he have a reason to think the direction of his life was changing? Or was it one of those lies we told from the safety of our rooms when no one could see how false it was?
I printed out the best-looking photo of him, a joke he’d posted, and some information about his siblings. Sorry, Warner. I swear, it wasn’t me you died for.
With that complete, I was able to turn my mind to something a little more fun. I had learned over the years to balance out each devastating piece of my scrapbook with something joyful. Last night, it was looking at dresses before pasting in the last of Kerry’s pictures. Today, it was cakes. I found the culinary section and hoisted a stack of books to an empty space on the third floor. I pored over recipes, fondant work, construction. I built imaginary cakes, one at a time, indulging in the most consistent of my daydreams. The first, a classic vanilla and buttercream with pale-blue frosting and little white poppies. Three tiers. Very lovely. The next was five tiers, square, with black ribbon and costume jewelry broaches aligned vertically on the front. A bit more appropriate for an evening wedding.
“You having a party?”
I looked up to see a scruffy, blond-haired boy pushing a cart full of books. He had a flimsy name tag I couldn’t read and was wearing the standard college-boy uniform of khaki pants and a button-up shirt with his sleeves cuffed around his elbows. No one tried anymore.
I held back my sigh. It was unavoidable, this part of the sentence. We were meant to draw people in, and men were particularly susceptible.
I looked down again without answering, hoping he’d take the hint. I hadn’t chosen to sit at the back of the top floor because I felt like socializing.
“You look stressed. You could probably use a party.”
I couldn’t hold back my smirk. He had no idea. Unfortunately, he took that little smile as an invitation to continue.
He ran his hand through his hair, the modern-day equivalent of “Good day, miss,” and pointed at the books. “My mom says the secret to making good baked stuff is to use a warm bowl. Not that I’d know. I can hardly make cereal without burning it.”
His grin suggested that this was a little too true, and I was slightly charmed as he bashfully tucked a hand in his pocket.
It was a pity, really. I knew he meant no harm, and I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. But I was about to resort to the rudest move I had and simply walk away when he pulled that same hand back out and extended it to me.
“I’m Akinl
i, by the way,” he said, waiting for me to respond. I gawked at him, not used to people pressing past my silence. “I know it’s weird.” He’d misread my confusion. “Family name. Kind of. It was a last name on my mom’s side of the family.”
He kept his palm outstretched, waiting. Typically my response would be to flee. But there was something about this boy that seemed . . . different. Maybe it was how his lips lifted into a smile without him seeming to even think about it, or the way his voice rolled warmly out of him like clouds. I felt certain snubbing him would end up hurting my feelings more than his, that I’d regret it.
Cautiously, as if I might break us both, I took his hand, hoping he wouldn’t notice how cool my skin was.
“And you are?” he prompted.
I sighed, sure this would end the conversation despite my kindest intentions. I signed my name, and his eyes widened.
“Oh, wow. So have you just been reading my lips this whole time?”
I shook my head.
“You can hear?”
I nodded.
“But you can’t speak. . . . Umm, okay.” He started patting at his pockets as I tried to fight the dread creeping down my spine. Unlike Miaka and Elizabeth, I didn’t find getting this close to humans exciting. It only meant I was in a realm where I might break the rules.
There weren’t many rules, but they were absolute. Stay silent in the presence of others, until it was time to sing. When the time came to sing, do it without hesitation. When we weren’t singing, do nothing to expose our secret.
“Here we go,” he announced, pulling out a pen. “I don’t have any paper, so you’ll have to write on my hand.”
I stared at his skin, debating. Which name should I use? The one on the driver’s license Miaka bought me online? The one I’d used to rent our current beach house? The one I’d used in the last town we’d stayed in? I had a hundred names to choose from.