Shining Sea

by Mimi Cross

  He spins away—

  “Wait.” He turns back. “W-what was your brother like? I hardly know anything about him.” And I’m having a hard time believing everything I’ve heard.

  Logan gives me a quizzical look, then sighs and leans back against the row of lockers. “He was . . . Well, I think I told you, he liked to fight. But, hey, you’ll appreciate this. He liked music. He worked the raves down in Portland. He’s the one who got me going down there.”

  “Raves? Do you still go?”

  “Once in a while. Lot of fights these days, though, at the warehouses on the waterfront, especially.” He rolls one of his shoulders, reaches up and massages it.

  “Ah. Another place to collect your cuts and bruises?”

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Fine, be that way. So your brother was a DJ?”

  “Nah. Bouncer. Too young for the clubs, but the promoters used him at the warehouses.” Logan gives a snort of laughter. “He wanted to be a DJ, when we were like, thirteen, fourteen. He had a bunch of gear. First gig he had was in the basement of Saint Cecilia’s, in Portland. We were visiting our abuela—”

  “Your what?”

  “Our Grams. ¿Qué pasa? ¿No hablas español?”

  “What’s with the bilingual boys around here?” I mutter.

  “Hey, if you’re talking about Summers, the only language he speaks is bullshit.”

  “Right, well, I’m having a hard time picturing you in a church, speaking of bullshit.”

  “Not me, my brother. Nick was . . . religious. We lived with our abuela for a while. She taught us how to pray. Took us to Mass on Sundays. Nick got into it. Communion, confession—all that Catholic crap. Think the idea of sin was the one he liked best. But the spiritual connection . . . that was real for him. Until he figured out he wasn’t gonna get an answer.”

  “An answer to what?”

  “To anything. But especially to why our mom—whatever.”

  “Why your mom, what?”

  “Why she left.”

  “But I met your mom. Anita. She looks just like—”

  “Me. I know. Or, I look like her. But she’s not my mom. She’s my aunt, my mom’s sister. Now you know the whole soap opera. Nick hated our mom for leaving. I didn’t. Dad can be a jerk. I get why she left; I knew she wasn’t leaving me. We keep in touch. We’re close. But Nick, he never forgave her. Never forgave our dad. So Dad used to pound on him. Fun stuff, huh?”

  “Is that why he liked to fight, because he was pissed at your mom and dad?”

  “That was one excuse. You enjoy what you’re good at, right?” Logan runs a hand over the back of his neck. “Then again he was good at everything. School. Sports. He was good with girls, but not good to them, you know? He was mean. They liked him anyway. Loved him.”

  “Same way they love you?”

  “Back it up, Rush, you need a couch for this, don’t you? And some letters after your name? I’ll settle for the couch, though, long as it’ll fit two. What do you say, pencil me in for nap time?”

  I roll my eyes. “Definitely didn’t mean to get so sidetracked.”

  “By my charm, I’m sure. You want to know about Nick? He was an asshole, okay? But I feel like that’s not cool to say, ’cause he’s not around. He was my best friend, but the truth is, he was a dick. Probably still is, wherever the hell he’s at.” Suddenly Logan closes the space between us, grabs the hem of my shirt. “Why do you want to know so much about him?”

  “What the—no reason!” I try to pull away, but he grips the material, twists it.

  “You swear?”

  “I—swear.”

  Logan ducks his head and I feel his breath, warm against my neck, as he whispers, “You can’t lie for shit, you know that, right?” He leans into me, his body pressing along the length of mine. “Not about anything.”

  I stand there for a moment, mind spinning, my body responding to the crush of his. Betraying me. Then I tear my shirt from his grasp—

  “Wait.” With a metallic clang, his hands slap the lockers on either side of me.

  “Why should I?” I push at the cage of his arms.

  “Please.”

  The way he says that one word, with such . . . desperation, makes me go still.

  Slowly he lowers one hand. His face is inches from mine. Eyes watchful, he reaches into his back pocket, pulling out a wallet. Flicking it open, he nods toward the edge of a piece of paper that sticks out just slightly.

  As if what he wants to show me is in his gray gaze rather than in the wallet, neither of us breaks eye contact as I take the paper.

  Finally, though, after hesitantly unfolding it, I look down at the half page of blue-lined paper and see that someone else has done this very thing many times. The paper is deeply creased. It is also translucent along one side, as if something has been spilled on it, as if, at some point, it’s been wet.

  EVIDENCE

  LOGAN, SOMETHING HORRIBLE

  COVE.

  DON’T BELIEVE THE

  CAN’T CONTROL

  The word “control” spills jerkily down the page, as if the writer truly had none.

  Most of the words in the brief note are illegible. The capital N signed at the bottom is not. It’s clear. Strong.

  “What is this?” I whisper.

  “I think you know.” We stare at each other.

  “Did you show it to anyone?”

  “I showed it to everyone—I mean, obviously, not everyone. My parents. The police.”

  “You showed it to Mary.” He nods. “What did the police say?”

  “They said shit. They said it was someone’s idea of a joke.”

  “But couldn’t they—couldn’t they test it or something? Trace it, or—”

  “They did test it. And they found DNA. A small amount. They said it wasn’t Nick’s. They said—it was mine.”

  “Of course it was,” I say. “You touched it, you had to! But that doesn’t mean—” But what exactly would it mean, if Logan could prove Nick had written the note? Even if the note is real, how can I possibly side with him about this? “Where did you get it?” I ask, stalling for time, trying to figure out what to say, what to do.

  “My room. Found it on my desk one night. It was late. I’d been out. My father and Anita had gone to Portland for the weekend. One of my notebooks was lying open. Water was all over the place, like he’d just—” Logan breaks off, too upset to continue, but it doesn’t matter, because I know exactly what he was going to say.

  Water was all over the place—

  Like he’d just come from the sea.

  “When? When was this?”

  “A couple days after he disappeared.”

  Over a year ago. It’s not fair that he doesn’t know the truth. I need to tell him.

  But I don’t get a chance to say anything—because Logan does.

  “Your boyfriend’s here.” He plucks the paper from my fingers and steps back from me.

  Bo stands at the end of the hall, watching us. All at once I feel weightless. Clearly, this time, Bo hasn’t let school security stand in his way.

  “Love note? Autograph? What is it you need so badly from Arion, Delaine?”

  Logan carefully folds the scrap of paper, taking his time tucking it into his wallet, taking twice as long to replace the wallet in his pocket. “Just some answers.” He squints down the hall at Bo. “To a test. So don’t give her a hard time.” To me he says, “Maybe we can study later.”

  “Maybe not.”

  Logan’s light eyes ice over.

  But I keep going. It’s the best thing, for all of us. “Because those answers you have? They’re not right. You should toss that sheet out.”

  Turning, I walk toward Bo. It feels like . . . I’m walking away from myself.

  USING

  “You know Delaine’s just using you, right?” Bo says once we’re in the Jeep.

  “Using me? For what?”

  “To find out
about me, about my family. Jordan’s caught him on our property more than once—he’s convinced we were involved with Nick’s death.”

  “And he’s right,” I say angrily. “And he’s got proof. A note, one that Nick wrote.”

  “Ah.” Bo tries and fails to repress a smile. “What does it say?”

  “It doesn’t say Logan’s using me, that’s for sure.”

  “Arion, I’m sorry, but you need to understand—”

  “A real apology doesn’t have any other words attached to it.”

  “Fine. Forget what I said, but know this: a note’s not proof of anything. Logan could’ve written it himself. If it’s real, it supports what we already know. Nick’s alive. Unfortunately, your buddy Logan’s alive as well. And it looks like, sooner or later, he’s going to be a problem.”

  “So what are you going to do—turn him into a Siren too?”

  Bo laughs. “He should be so lucky. No, I just need him to forget his suspicions, and to forget you, while he’s at it. Your ‘friendship’ with him needs to end. In fact, consider it over.”

  “You can’t make that kind of choice for me!”

  “Actually, I can.” We careen down the drive to Summers Cove. When we get to the bottom, Bo slams the gearshift into park.

  And just like that, he’s the only friend I need . . .

  WAVE

  Down on the beach a steel sky hangs over a silver sea. Bo’s Siren Song rings in my ears.

  Fingering my lips, I watch as he strips down to his trunks and dives into the water. A moment later, the waves grow monstrous.

  “C’mon, Bo, send us another!” Cord’s words carry over the water from where he floats on a surfboard out beyond the breakers. Letting his pop song of a voice wash over me, I try to justify Bo’s behavior. My skin feels seared where he touched me.

  Close to tears, I mutter, “If only—”

  Jordan drops down on the sand beside me. “If only what?”

  I open my mouth to speak, but the slippery eel of a thought—something about Bo—slides off to some dark corner of my mind. I shake my head, struggling to pursue it.

  Jordan studies me for a moment, then looks away.

  “If only Nick and Beth hadn’t climbed the jetty,” I blurt.

  “He still would have hurt her,” Jordan says, watching the waves. “He’s a Delaine.”

  Burning to defend Logan, defend his family, I shiver instead at the sound of Jordan’s voice, and search the horizon for Bo. Finally I spot him, just his torso visible above the waterline—I know now, no glittering fish tale lies below it. The source of Bo’s support is his legs. Kicking, treading water—pedaling, that’s the Siren term. He can stay afloat forever. Now he windmills his arms through the waves, creating a perfect curl for Mia and her pink surfboard.

  Jordan had been doing the same thing for Cord last Sunday, when I’d watched from the deck of the lighthouse. He’d been the swimmer in the water. I hadn’t known then, about their wave-making game, how they take turns playing Poseidon.

  Vaguely, I remember a story by Kafka, about Poseidon doing paperwork. I can’t imagine the Summers anyplace but here, but if what Logan said is true, then the media—

  As if Jordan is reading my mind, he says, “Mortal Girl, I know you’ve got a thing for Logan, but his brother—he may be more dangerous than we thought.”

  “Same way Bo’s more dangerous than I thought?” I spit out before I can stop myself.

  Jordan’s atramentous eyes regard me steadily.

  Then suddenly he lunges at me—

  I scream as he jerks me to my feet—

  “I heard him!” Dripping wet, Mia appears beside us. “Bo’s right. It’s Nick.”

  Bo races up behind her. “Mia, are you sure—” He breaks off and glares at Jordan.

  “Don’t be a presumptive bastard,” Jordan says in response to Bo’s narrowed eyes. “I heard him too. He’s close.” He releases me, examining the ocean Mia and Bo abandoned with such speed.

  “Nick’s in the Cove!” Cord bounds up from the water. “His Signal’s cranking.”

  How can Nick be here? How can this be real?

  Holding my breath as if that’ll protect me, I start making deals with God. Please, let me see Mom and Dad again. Please let me see Lilah. Bo and Jordan failed to hold Nick before, even with the help of their father—how do they expect to stop him now that he’s bent on revenge?

  Nick—can he really be a Siren?

  And Logan, how could I have just walked away from him?

  God, are you still there? Because there’s this boy, with eyes like a cloudy day. His smile might blind you momentarily, but please, I need you to let him know—

  I love him.

  The ground seems to dip under my feet. A nonexistent wind stirs the water violently and the ocean—

  Begins drawing away from the beach.

  Jordan shouts something, and Bo leaps in front of me, his bare back dripping seawater. Shoulders squared, he looks ready to fight—

  Only there’s no one to fight. Instead there’s a massive wave forming off the beach, a wave twenty times the size of any I’ve ever seen.

  Silently, I start to cry, and for a second, it looks as if everything is underwater. I stare at the towering wave looming impossibly high over a newly visible flat of soaking sand dotted with suffocating fish and scuttling crabs. Lilah, I’m sorry. I should have been on that boat.

  Jordan and Mia and Cord move as one toward the receding sea—

  Just as a great roaring detonates in my ears, the thunder of smashing waves—

  No—it’s music. Cascades of strings, great claps of percussion—

  Bo’s wings.

  “Get Arion away from—” Cord’s voice disappears in a gust of wind, and then—

  We’re in the air.

  “Wrap your arms around my neck—tighter!” Bo commands. His legs are already around my legs. His arms cross my back, pulling me closer until our bodies touch in every possible place. One of his hands slides quickly to the back of my neck, jerking my face roughly against the hollow of his collarbone, and I feel his body, hard everywhere, as the tug of the tides washes through me.

  Light, dark, light, dark, the shadows of his wings fall around us as we speed through the sky. Squeezing my eyes closed, I press my face into his neck, trying to catch my breath but succeeding only in emitting a ragged sound between a cry and a moan. Suddenly I don’t have to try to hold on—my body clings to Bo of its own accord. He sings to me now, his lips near my ear. Maybe he’s trying to reassure me, but the sound only makes me ache, makes me forget anything else exists besides his skin, and his Song.

  “Okay,” he says now, “okay.” And somehow we’ve landed, and we’re standing by the lighthouse, and he’s trying to peel me away from him. But I grip his shoulders, won’t allow him to disentangle himself, lifting my lips— Gently but firmly he pulls my arms from around him, sliding my leg down—the one still wrapped around his own—little by little, until both my feet are on the ground and there’s an inch of space between us. The inch alone makes me groan in frustration.

  “I need you—” I protest almost incoherently, swaying toward him love drunk—not even, drunk with lust—and pleading, wanting to lick his skin, sink my teeth into one of his bare shoulders.

  “I know what you think you need.” He crosses my lips with an index finger. “Rising is—intimate, can lead to intimate things.”

  “Rising,” I repeat, stumbling slightly as he steps back from me.

  He takes my elbow, steadying me. “Yes. I had to. And I may have to again. I need to get you away from here, until this is over.”

  “But it’s over, isn’t it? Your brothers, Mia, they’ll . . . they’ll make him leave.” But even as I say the words, I know neither thing is true. Nick Delaine is as tenacious as he is terrible, and as Bo’s Siren spell begins to fade, I want to shout, What about the serpentine tail? But I’m thinking crazy. That image—it’s from my dreams. Nervous laughter bubbles out o
f me.

  “Arion. Stop. You need to pack. I’ll go back, get the car.”

  “The car?”

  “Yes. I’m going to take you away from here, away from him. We need to go.”

  “But I can’t just go! And where? Where would we go?”

  “Anywhere! Anywhere but here.”

  We stare at each other, and I imagine what it would be like, running away with him. How long is he talking about? A night? A lifetime? What about my family? What about—

  Logan.

  “I can’t,” I say frantically. “My mother is coming, my sister—”

  “Arion, be reasonable, let me take you away from here, just until—”

  “Could you leave your family now? Knowing that Nick Delaine is here?”

  “He’s been here,” Bo counters. “Maybe longer than we thought. We need to go.”

  “No! And don’t make me. This one thing—I need to choose. Please.”

  He scowls and swings away from me, walking across the pebbles to the windblown grasses at the edge of the bluff. I follow.

  “Bo—”

  “Ari. Nick Delaine has mutated, or—something. He’s learned . . . Neptune knows what. That rogue wave he formed? That’s not something a single Siren can do. And yet he did it.

  “Jordan and Mia, and Cord—the three of them will handle this. They’ll push the water back, protect the cottages, but only because they’ll work together.

  “Nick . . . seems to be on his own. He must have struggled to survive . . . You’d think being alive would be enough for him!”

  Bo shouts this last handful of words at the sea. Then his voice grows quiet. “But being alive isn’t enough.” He turns around, looks down at me. “Is it. Not enough for any of us.”

  All at once the wind tears over the bluffs, lifting our hair, shivering my skin.

  But it doesn’t bring any answers with it, and I don’t know what’s enough—for Bo, or for me, or for Nick Delaine.

  BLINDFOLD

  Out of the sea and onto the sand steps the Siren, the winged man. Yes, I know what he is now. I know what he wants. His skin is seawater. His eyes are swords.

  Silently this time, the wings appear. Not white but oil-slick black.