Shearwater: Ocean Depths Book One (FULL)

by D. S. Murphy

  SHEARWATER

  D.S. Murphy

  Copyright © 2017 by Derek Murphy

  Urban Epics

  Portland, OR

  www.UrbanEpics.com

  All of the historical research, mythology

  and geographical locations in this book are real.

  “It’s like The Little Mermaid for adults. I couldn't stop reading.”

  “Not just another Twilight—even though we do have sparkly mermaids instead of sparkly vampires. But the story itself is well told and the characters act and respond like real people instead of cardboard cutouts. The mystic premise of the mer-people is even almost believable in the context of the Irish coastal culture, and the interactions between the characters are more encompassing than just the make-believe of the story. Although it's written for young adults, as a mainstream adult I found the story entertaining and readable, and even subscribed to the author’s site to get the next installment as well as his other books.”

  “The author’s writing and editing is impeccable, and his research is substantial. I feel like I’m at the exotic locales described. His backstory and science behind the mermaid phenomenon is solidly explained and more than adequate to suspend my disbelief. The author also presents a lot of this backstory as not an info-dump, so kudos for that.”

  If you've already read Part One of Shearwater, you can start reading from Part Two.

  PART I

  PART II

  PART I

  PROLOGUE

  Ireland, 32 years ago

  The pale-skinned woman stood on the edge of the cliff, looking out at the dark ocean, as she often did when the moon was bright and the wind still. Her toes gripped the tufts of grass that pushed up through the rocky soil. A crisp winter breeze stroked her long charcoal hair and tugged playfully at the hem of her white cotton dress. The indigo blue waves undulated below, stretching the shimmering reflection of the full moon towards the horizon. They turned to white foam as they unleashed themselves against the rocks. Her awareness fixed firmly in the deep waters below her, she almost didn’t hear the approaching footsteps; two sets—one of a heavyset man, one of a young boy. By the time she turned to greet them, the dagger was sticking out of her abdomen. The handle was black onyx, and a pair of golden wings separated it from the blade. A shearing pain spread through her torso, causing her to stumble. Blood soaked into her dress and dripped down her leg. Her first thought was how difficult it was going to be to get the stain out. But then she realized, she was never going home.

  “Sorry about this, love. But we can’t have your kind walking around up here. I’ve allowed it long enough,” the man said. His tone was apologetic, but he didn’t look sorry. There was a smug enthusiasm in his eyes that told her he’d been looking forward to this moment. His companion was just a child; his face was a mix of terror and determination. His unruly hair was bright orange, even in the darkness.

  “Don’t do this,” the woman said, gasping for breath. “You can’t imagine the consequences it will bring.”

  “Ready?” the man said, ignoring her. The boy nodded, holding out a silver chalice etched with symbols.

  With a sudden jerk, the man tore the knife from the woman’s body, while the boy caught the spurt of blood in the container. The chalice began to glow as it filled. The woman shuddered, but then her eyes filled with a smoky blackness, until even the whites of her eyes were black.

  “There you are,” the man teased. “I was hoping you’d reveal your true self. Any last words? I would offer to bring a message to your daughter, but she’ll be joining you soon enough.”

  “You’ve just destroyed the human race,” the woman said, in a gravelly, unearthly voice. “And sealed your own fate.”

  Faster than he could follow, the woman grabbed the knife from his hands and plunged it deep into the man’s shoulder. He screamed in agony. The woman’s arm shot out at lightning speed with supernatural power, punching through the man’s chest. Her bloody hand jutted through the other side. Blood gurgled from his mouth and his eyes widened in pain. “Take care of the girl!” he shouted to the boy with his last breath. Then the bloody pair tumbled off the edge of the cliff as one, plunging like a red comet towards the dark water, and were lost into the crashing waves below.

  1

  Present Day

  I’ve always believed that the world was full of magic. Maybe not the spells and wands kind of magic, but at least the subtle, intuitive kind—like that TV show I watched about a woman who sensed her mother was dying from thousands of miles away, and got there in time to say goodbye. But when my dad’s silver Acura smashed through the guardrail on highway 99, sending both my parents tumbling down the side of a ravine and killing them both, I didn’t feel a thing. I was warming up backstage in the auditorium of Arcadia High School, devising new forms of torture for Timmy Grant, who was flirting with Emily Peters just two weeks after he kissed me behind the props closet. And I was also pissed off at my parents for not being on time to my performance.

  “I’m sure they’ll be here any minute,” Beth said, trying to console me.

  “It’s fine,” I lied. “I’m fine.” It was generous of Beth, my best friend since third grade, to assume I was worried about my parents, rather than how Timmy was leaning in really close to Emily now and touching her cheek, in front of everybody, and my heart was ripping in half because I really thought he liked me.

  “He’s a douchebag,” Beth said, following my gaze and finally clueing in.

  “Whatever,” I said with a shrug, forcibly removing the big sad puppy dog eyes from my face that I was secretly hoping he’d notice. I replaced them with a calm determination that felt more natural. “I’m so over it.” Life goes on. Que sera sera. I’ll just ignore the pain, win some scholarships and go off to college, where I’ll meet a dashing prince. Or something like that.

  Okay, now I was getting a little worried about my parents: the concert had already started and I was going on stage soon. It’s only the biggest concert performance of the year. So my parents are late. It happens. But in all my fifteen years, I don’t think my mom had ever been late, for anything, which probably explained the dark terror that was creeping under my skin and sinking deep into my bones. I have an overactive imagination, my teachers have said, and I use it to dwell on horrible things. When I was little I had separation anxiety and I’d draw all the awful things that could be happening to my mom after she dropped me off at preschool. They even thought about making me see a shrink, suspecting I was either a twisted psychopath (and a very dangerous three-year-old, like those ones in the horror movies) or that I had some hidden childhood trauma. Neither of which was true. My mother explained this to my teachers (which means: she stood up and shouted in their faces, pumping her fist, and even throwing desks around, the way my dad tells the story). But she learned not to make me wait, and to always be there for me when I was expecting her. Punctuality had always been my comfort blanket. Until tonight.

  My stomach was in knots and I clenched my fists in frustration. Mom had circled the date in red ink on the calendar months ago—and there were supposed to be representatives from prestigious universities in the audience tonight seeking out fresh talent to lavish scholarships upon. And I had a solo.

  I couldn’t think of any justifiable excuse for them not to be in their front row seats an hour early. I poked my head from the side of the curtain as the orchestra warmed up. I could see the two seats I’d saved, the red ribbon I’d wrapped around them taunting me with a sly gleam. I was angry, but behind the anger, scorpions of anxiety were clawing through my stomach. I knew it was probably something simple and stupid, like traffic on 101, and that worrying right
now was wasted energy. I needed to stay calm so I’d nail all the right notes and not forget the fancy Italian words to my solo.

  In quali eccessi, o Numi... in quai misfatti orribili, tremendi, I hummed to myself, reciting the words in my head. But then I made the mistake of translating the words into English, and the weight of the augurous passage filled my heart with unwarranted despair.

  In what excesses, O Heavens, In what horrible, terrible crimes...

  We weren’t doing the full Don Giovanni, just a few musical scores, but my solo was one of the highlights of the performance. I was the star of the high school production—and as a sophomore, no less. It was really quite an accomplishment, or so my mother had been telling me all week.

  Where the hell are they?

  When they introduced me, Clara Clark, I stepped as boldly as I dared onto the stage in my blue Disney princess dress with puffy sleeves—the closest the drama department had to an 18th-century opera star outfit. I blinked against the bright spotlights, nodded at the conductor to let him know I was ready, and began to sing on cue. I was halfway through my piece when my eyes adjusted enough to make out the audience. I tried to ignore the two empty seats in front, but that damned red ribbon kept drawing my eye.

  I closed my eyes and let myself melt into the music. My fears and worries abated, and the warm, full notes bubbled up from my diaphragm like honey. I could feel them soaring over the crowd like sparrows. Then I started to connect with the audience. I felt my voice pique their full attention, almost like it grabbed their chin and forced them to look up at me. I watched them put away their cell phones and stop reading the program. I felt their hearts begin to race, in sync with mine, as the music built towards the crescendo. All their private thoughts were washed away by the river of my singing, and my emotions became their emotions. At least that’s how I liked to imagine it. Maybe it was just a little game I was playing with myself. Maybe it wasn’t real.

  When I opened my eyes again, there was movement in the back of the auditorium, and the game was spoiled. Two uniformed police officers were talking with the music director, and he gestured to the stage. To me. When the three of them stopped talking and looked at me with sad eyes, it felt like someone had punched me in the stomach. I knew it wasn’t like it was in kindergarten, when I’d cry and then my mom would sweep in and show me that all of my fears were misplaced, and that she’d always be there for me. I knew this time it was real, and no one was coming to comfort me. Ever. My eyes brimmed with tears, but I forced myself to finish the song. Somehow my brain could sing in Italian while another voice in my head was screaming.

  2

  The days following the accident were a blur of gray suits and black dresses, white flowers on polished mahogany caskets, hushed conversations and furtive glances in my direction. The funeral was torture. I have a dark sense of humor that few people get, and a passive-aggressive sarcasm that comes from having an overbearing mother and a fear of any kind of conflict. At school those attributes just made me weird and quirky. At funerals however, I soon found out, dealing with the death of my parents through sarcasm and lame jokes wasn’t a socially acceptable way to express my grief. So I stuffed my face with cheese and crackers until I couldn’t do anything more than nod and mumble “thank you” when people offered me their condolences.

  One conversation stood out. There was a young priest at the funeral with handsome features. After the service he came up to me and took my hands in his.

  “I knew your mother,” he said. “She was… very special. I’m sure you are too. Strong, like her.”

  “You don’t know anything about me,” I said, pulling my hands away.

  “I guess only time will tell,” he said with a mysterious smile. “I’d like to say I’ll be seeing more of you, unfortunately I don’t think that’s in the stars. Take care of yourself, Clara.” Weird, I thought as I watched him leave. Cute though. For a priest.

  I’d gone home with Beth’s family after the concert. I was excused from school for the time being, and Beth’s father had helped arrange the funeral. Like I said, those days are kind of blurry. It wasn’t until Beth’s dad drove me to the appointment with the state of Arizona that life snapped back into focus.

  I was wearing my blue Doc Martens, black skinny jeans and a baggy T-shirt. After the concert that destroyed my life, I’d retrieved the red ribbon and now wore it around my wrist like a bracelet. It reminded me of what I’d lost. I felt shame and guilt thinking that I spent the last moments of my parents’ lives angry at them. The ribbon was like my own personal scarlet letter.

  “You said before, you don’t have any other relatives, is that right, hon?” the social worker asked me. I think she said her name was Janet or Janice. She chewed on her pen and peered at me over her faux-vintage horn rimmed glasses.

  I shook my head. “My dad’s parents died when I was young.”

  “And your mom—”

  “Left England when she was sixteen,” I said. The subtle edge in my voice shouted, I’ve already answered this question a hundred times! The office decor was trying too hard to be cheerful, with yellow wallpaper and colorful posters. They were encroaching on my sensitive vision, and I’d been sitting in this chair for at least ten minutes. I bounced my knees in frustration.

  Janet or Janice put on a confused face—not actual confusion: a parody of what a confused face is supposed to look like—and ruffled her papers. I hate it when people do that. The face thing, not the ruffling. “Hmmm... our records show your mother was from Ireland,” the woman continued. “See here?” She gestured at a photocopy of my mom’s passport and green card. “Last name, Daly.”

  I grabbed the papers from her and narrowed my eyes. The photograph in the documents was clearly my mother. Large dark eyes, silky black hair, the smooth, porcelain skin I’d always admired. But the name was wrong.

  “This is a mistake,” I said. “My mother’s maiden name was Bishop, before she met my dad and became Branna Clark.”

  “I understand that’s what you’ve been told.” The woman adjusted her glasses. “Maybe your mother just wanted to try out a new name, for fun, when she got to America?”

  “That’s impossible,” I said. I knew my mother. Fun wasn’t something she did spontaneously. What the hell is going on?

  “Anyhow, we’ve gotten in touch with her biological father, Aedan Daly, in Northern Ireland, and he’s confirmed that he’s your grandfather. Since you’re only fifteen, he’s your legal guardian. He’s made arrangements for you to go and live with him.”

  My jaw dropped open and my heart skipped a beat. A few seconds later I remembered to take a breath. I have a grandfather? I stood up, but my shaking legs betrayed me, and I sank back into the chair again.

  Beth’s father, who’d come with me, leaned forward and said, “Listen, I think it would be better for her to stay with us, at least until she finishes high school. After the death of her parents, moving to a new school—a new country, just seems like too much.”

  I didn’t like that they were talking about me like I wasn’t there. But I was also glad Mr. Reed had come with me. My heart filled with hope: surely they would let me stay with Beth’s family instead of moving to live with some stranger in another country.

  “I understand this is a huge adjustment, especially after the accident—”

  The hope died in my chest, and panic consumed me. In desperation, I stood up and started shouting—which for me, means speaking quietly in a scathing voice.

  “It wasn’t an accident,” I said, seething. “It was some stupid asshole, probably drunk, who murdered my parents.” Actually the police hadn’t mentioned another driver. But what else could have happened? The police said they hadn’t found anything wrong with the car, but cars don’t just spin out of control for no reason.

  The woman closed the folder and gave Mr. Reed a look that said there’s nothing we can do.

  I raised my voice a little. “What about school? My house? All my friends… my whole life is here
.” Definitely not an indoor voice.

  “Ireland has excellent schools, and I know you don’t want to hear this right now, but you’ll make new friends,” she said, with a saccharine smile I wanted to slap off her face.

  “I can’t just move to Ireland,” I said. I crossed my arms and stood in a way that suggested they would have to crate me up and ship me there against my will.

  “Unfortunately, there’s very little we can do legally. If you had no living relatives at all, the court would have to make a decision, and you’d probably be moved to a foster home; in which case living with Beth’s family might be a possibility. But we’ve had a lot of experience in these matters and it’s almost always best if a relative is available. Honestly, it’s much better this way. Plus, there’s the matter of your parents’ will.”

  That shut me up. I took a deep breath and swallowed loudly.

  “The will?” I asked.

  “Your mother named her father as your godparent and legal guardian, in case anything ever happened to both your parents.”

  Damn. Here I was thinking the state was trying to pull a fast one; they’d made some clerical error, and the corporate bureaucracy was going to send me off to live with a complete stranger: my mom would be furious. Bungling imbeciles, she’d call them to their faces. If she were here. But a will, mentioning this Aedan Daly?

  “You’re saying… she lied to me my whole life and never even mentioned I have an Irish grandfather, but she left me to him in a will like a piece of furniture?”

  “I agree the circumstances are unusual, but I’m sure she had a reasonable explanation—”