His body spasms, and it’s worse than the convulsions of a moment ago. The spasms propel his body off the slab and slam him back down so hard I worry he’ll break a bone. I want to hold him, help him, but I’m afraid of making it worse.
He breaks out into a sweat again and loses all his remaining color.
Then he falls still.
Chapter Nineteen
“Clay?” I ask. “Clay?” It feels like I’ve been calling his name all night. But there’s no answer.
He lies there comatose. All the color drained from his face.
“Olee, what now?” Worry laces Caspian’s voice.
“We wait,” she says. She clears up her supplies, and I know what that means: if this antidote doesn’t work, she’s got nothing else to try.
I clutch his hand, stroke his face, and hope. If I’d just let Melusine keep him, if I hadn’t intervened, she’d never have given him a love potion. If he dies tonight, it’s my fault.
Ten minutes pass.
Then another ten.
We’re all wading in stagnant water.
“Is there—”
A whimper. A whimper! I’ve never been so happy to hear a whimper.
“Clay?” I ask again, voice urgent.
“L-Lia?”
“I’m here. I’m here. You’re okay. You’ll be okay.”
“Where … where … ?” His eyelids are heavy, weighed down after his body’s battle, but he’s trying to open them.
Caspian looks at me, mouth open, eyes panicked. Clay can’t see the grotto, can’t see our tails.
“Is the susceptibility spell out of his system?” I ask Clay’s grandmother. “Answer me.” I put as much power, as much threat behind the words as I can.
She gives me a curt nod and swims out of the room.
“Sleep, now,” I tell Clay before he can open his eyes. “Just sleep.”
Obeying my command and exhausted from his ordeal, he does.
On the car ride back, I sit in the backseat again with Clay’s head resting on my lap. He’s sleeping deeply now. No more shaking or sweating. His fever is gone, and his color is back. His breaths against my knee are steady and even.
I turn my attention to the driver’s seat. To Caspian’s profile, illuminated in yellows and whites by passing headlights. So far, the only words we’ve spoken to each other were my directions to Clay’s house. He’s silent now. Contemplative. He saw me tell Clay to sleep. Did it sound like the order of a siren or the comforting words of a girlfriend? Does he suspect?
No, I’m being paranoid. How could he? His grandmother was both too scared and too scarred to breathe a word. And Clay’s energy was so sapped from fighting Melusine’s potion that it’s expected he’d fall asleep. I hope.
When we’re only a few blocks from Clay’s house, Caspian says, “You were right about Melusine. I didn’t want to believe it.” Of course he didn’t; Caspian wants to see the good in everyone. I just want him to keep seeing the good in me.
“Do you think her father knows?” he asks.
I doubt Caspian’s ever met anyone else who shares his passion for scholarship the way Mr. Havelock does, anyone else who he admires so much. I don’t want to hurt Caspian—but I don’t want anyone else to either.
“That was an ancient potion. Illegal and complicated. I think he brewed it.”
“I thought so,” is all Caspian says. Hurt settles in the set of his mouth.
“That letter you found about how much he loved the human world and wanted his family to move up here? He probably wrote it for your sake. Planted it to throw us off. You need to stop interning for him. That family is dangerous.”
He nods, and I drop the subject. “I can’t leave Clay tonight. I’m going to call my parents and say we swam so late that I want to stay the night at your place. I’ll tell them your parents are home and I’m sleeping in the guest grotto. Cover for me if they call?”
Another nod. We pull up to Clay’s house. Since his mom is at her conference, all the windows are dark.
“Hey, Lia?” Caspian asks as I’m using Clay’s key to unlock the door. “My grandmother said the potion didn’t work because of a second type of magic. What do you think it could be?”
I shrug, but I don’t say anything. I’m so sick of lying.
My mother pretended to be stern on the phone, but she could barely conceal her glee that I’m finally expressing interest in a Merman. Caspian, with his family’s reputation, is far from an ideal choice, but at least he has a tail.
With that taken care of, I grab Clay’s phone off the nightstand and send a quick text to his mom, scrolling through his earlier messages to make sure I word it the way he would. It’s late and if he doesn’t check in to say goodnight, she’ll probably make the eight-hour drive back down here. Then I sit on the bed next to him. He looks so peaceful. All of his muscles are relaxed in sleep, and I’ve never seen his rugged features look more angelic than they do now. I make my voice as gentle as I can when I erase my earlier command, “Clay, you can wake up now if you want to.”
He blinks and shining hazel gazes up at me. “Lia?” He glances around, sees that we’re in his bedroom and it’s late. “What are you doing here?” He tries to smirk at the implication, but he’s too sleepy to pull it off.
I tell him as much of the truth as I can. “Mel stopped by—”
“Oh, yeah, I remember,” he says.
“She gave you some tea that didn’t agree with you. You’ve been pretty sick, but you’re okay now. You’re gonna be fine.” He nods. My explanation must gel well enough with whatever he remembers.
Now there’s only one thing left to do. He needs to get out of his sweat-drenched, salt water-splashed clothes. I didn’t feel right changing him myself while he was sleeping. “Here, put these on.”
I hand him a fresh t-shirt, boxers, and a pair of pajama pants from his drawer. Then, I turn my back.
“What? You don’t want to watch the show?” he asks. This time, I can hear the smirk. I can also hear him pulling down his zipper.
“Are you wearing my workout pants?” he asks over the rustle of fabric.
“My skirt ripped,” I say. I’ve had to roll the pants up about a zillion times, but I like knowing the smooth fabric against my legs belongs to Clay. That it’s touched his skin the way it’s touching mine.
I can feel his body behind me. “I won’t need these.” He rumbles the words right into my ear and presses soft cotton into the hand hanging at my side. I look down to see I’m holding the pair of clean boxers I gave him. “I don’t wear them to bed,” he says, his voice still gravelly from sleep. I’m positive I’m blushing, and I’m glad my back is turned.
Despite his swagger, as soon as I usher a pajamaed Clay back into bed, his eyelids drift closed. He’s been through so much tonight. More than he should ever have had to endure.
“Need a pillow,” he mumbles, already half-asleep.
“You have one right here,” I whisper, guiding it under his head.
“Need a better one.” He pulls me by the waist until I’m pressed up next to him on the bed. Then he rests his head in the crook of my arm, a contented sigh escaping his lips. “Perfect,” he says. And just as he’s falling asleep, “You smell like the ocean.”
I can imagine the bliss of surrendering to sleep in Clay’s arms. If only I could control my tail. Over the next few hours, every time Clay shifts or mumbles in his sleep, I sit bolt upright, terrified that either the potion or the antidote is having some deathly side effect. I have another dose of the cure waiting on the nightstand in case he needs it. I watch him sleep and whisper that he’ll be all right, that I’ll make everything okay for him.
When the first rays of pink sunlight peek through his curtains, I extricate my arm from under his head. Then I allow myself a second to admire him. I’ve never seen him like this before—after a night’s sleep. His hair is mussed, his lips parted. I don’t want to leave him; I want to stay
here enveloped in his warmth, in this refuge of sheets that smell faintly of cinnamon. But he’s fine now. I nudge his shoulder until he’s awake just enough for me to siren him. To be safe, I sing the entire song. Now’s not the time to leave him alone unprotected, and I have to go. I owe someone a visit.
The sun hasn’t even fully risen when I reach her door. I ring the bell. Repeatedly. I’m sure it’s set up to echo in the grottos below, like the doorbell is in my house. I’m also sure that at this early hour, she’s still asleep. But I didn’t sleep last night so I don’t think she deserves to either. I press the doorbell again, and I don’t remove my finger.
The ring drones on and on until the door opens. I must have woken her, but she doesn’t look disheveled in the least. Sure, she has bed head, but in a sexy movie star kind of way. She’s still tying the sash of a red silk kimono around her slender waist when she pulls open the door. It reveals a deep V of skin along her chest, all the way down to her abdomen.
“I thought you might come calling,” she says, her lips curling into a sea serpent’s smile. “Since you’re not strangling me, I assume lover boy’s all right?”
Oh, I want to strangle her—more than anything else right now. But this situation needs to be handled delicately. So, I reign in the violent urges, the hatred, and use them to infuse my voice with authority.
“We’ll talk about Clay. In private. Where’s your father?” I ask. I must have woken him too.
“On a dive,” she says, still smiling. “Leviathan’s breath has to be picked right before sunrise.”
“Who will you be poisoning with that?” I’m determined to wipe that damn smile off her face.
“It helps prevent hair loss. Didn’t you hear about Mr. Piskaret? Poor man.”
I did hear about him, of course. Mr. Piskaret was a Merman just a few houses down from me who started going bald. He was over fifty, and it really wasn’t that surprising. But he killed himself anyway. He couldn’t take the constant reminder that he was aging. That he wasn’t immortal. I don’t understand this way of thinking, but it’s common enough among Mer who grew up Below. It isn’t vanity; it’s a deep, irrevocable sense of loss.
“Such a tragedy,” Melusine says, the pity in her voice almost believable. “My father and I are doing our part to help our Community and keep something like this from happening again.” She sounds like a politician. She lies like one, too.
Enough of this. My parents raised me to be courteous, to be polite. I pride myself on both qualities. But she doesn’t deserve either. I push past her and step inside.
She doesn’t have the decency to look affronted. She just keeps up that infernal smile. “Come in,” she says when I’m already standing by the table in the entrance hall. Nothing’s on it but a towering silk orchid in a waterless vase. Like everything above ground in this McMansion, it’s fake. Just for show. “Welcome to my house.”
“This house is owned by the Foundation. You lease it at their discretion.” That shuts her up. Good. She needs to be reminded of her place here. And I’m the one to do it.
“I won’t stay long,” I continue. I don’t want to be near her any longer than I have to. “You know what you did to Clay last night and so do I. More importantly, so do two other Mer. And we have proof.”
I expect her to bristle, to argue. Instead, all she says is, “You’re looking a little worn around the eyes, Lia. Did you stay up all night playing medic to a human?” She studies me, and her tone loses all trace of mocking when she says, “You really love him, don’t you?”
Telling her it’s none of her business would be an answer in itself—and I don’t answer to her. So I ignore her question and say what I left Clay’s bed this morning to say. “I have a sample of the potion that Clay remembers you giving him. I have the thermos full of poisoned tea that you brought to his house—with your fingerprints all over it. And I have two witnesses aside from me who saw the effects. One is a potions expert who can testify to its contents and implicate your father in its complex brewing.” I pause to watch this sink in. Em said all those human courtroom dramas were a waste of time. Good thing I didn’t listen.
Melusine’s smile FINALLY disappears. “Daddy didn’t brew it. I did. I found his notes on susceptibility potions … ” She blinks, and then her wide eyes meet mine. “I didn’t know the potion would conflict with the sireny. I’m … I need him to love me. You don’t understand—”
“I understand plenty.” I pin her with my stare. She’s not worming her way out. “Now you understand this: I don’t care who mixed the potion. I have enough to get both you and your father thrown into a warzone for illegal brewing and violence against a human. I won’t have to mention sireny at all.”
She crosses her arms over her ample chest. “And what if I do?” she asks, her voice a dangerous whisper. “What if I tell them exactly what you’ve been doing to Clay?”
She doesn’t scare me. Not anymore. “Who would believe the word of an udell poisoner?”
A part of me feels dirty for dismissing my own crimes this way, but my words have the desired effect. Her face falls, defeat dowsing her defiance. If I go to the Foundation, there’s nothing she’ll be able to do to save herself.
“And the priccce of your sssilence?” she hisses, her Mermese accent slipping through the cracks of her façade.
“I don’t want to ever have to think about you again. You will not so much as blink in Clay’s direction—or any other human’s. You place one scale over the line and you and your father are history. You can kiss your safety in this Community goodbye. Got it?”
She nods once.
“Tell me you understand,” I insist.
“I underssstand. There’s nothing else I could try anyway. Clay’s all yours. Enjoy him.” Spite infuses her words, but I don’t care.
She’ll stay away from him now. She doesn’t have a choice. I turn on my meager half-inch heel and walk toward the front door.
“Do you think he loves you?” she calls out behind me. “Do you think he ever will once he knows what you are? What you’ve done?”
My body tenses, but I don’t turn back to face her. With her question still ringing in my ears, I leave the house and don’t look back.
I’ve never ditched school before. In fact, I’ve had near perfect attendance all year. But wasting the rest of this monumental day cooped up in a classroom would be a travesty. Today deserves to be celebrated. Today is the first day that Clay is free from Melusine.
Today deserves to be savored. Today is the last day that Clay and I will ever be together.
Chapter Twenty
I go home, rush through a family breakfast, and grab my backpack for appearances. So many fake smiles. So many half-truths. Yes, I sure was out late with Caspian. No, we’re not together … yet. Yes, I admit he’s handsome. No, I didn’t sneak out of the guest grotto in the middle of the night. Yes, I’m sure. Every question wastes precious seconds.
Finally, I’m standing among the potted geraniums, my hand poised to knock on Clay’s door. One more day. I’ll allow myself one more day.
He opens the door dressed for school. I miss the intimate, bed-mussed appearance from earlier this morning, so I tousle his hair.
“Hey!” he exclaims in mock offense. His eyes are still glazed from my siren song earlier, but I won’t let it bother me. Not today.
“Did Mrs. Halliburton come over yet?” I ask. Clay’s neighbor checks in on him every morning before school while his mom’s out of town.
“Yeah, she already left for work.”
I grab his hand. “C’mon then! We’re late for our adventure!”
“What adventure? We’re just going to school.”
“Not today, we’re not.”
Clay raises an eyebrow, “You wanna ditch?” Even with a mind still fuzzy from sireny, he’s surprised. “You sure?”
I nod, my smile pushing up into my cheeks.
“Where are we going?” he asks.
<
br /> “Anywhere you want.”
He thinks. His own desires come to mind slowly, the way they always do when he’s sirened. About a minute later, he tells me where he wants to go.
“You got it.”
Clay’s convertible is our own private world. It lets in the sea breeze and keeps out my worries. Clay serenades me with the cheesy songs he sings along to on the radio. I dance badly in my seat. By the time we’ve turned off the Pacific Coast Highway and away from the ocean, my hair is a tangled mess of wind and my tension has been laughed away.
The further inland we drive, the more daring I feel. For my sisters and I, trips into Los Angeles are few, far between, and short-lived. Since I got my legs three years ago, I’ve come into the city to go to a few museums and to see the ballet with my mother (“See, Aurelia, if ballerinas can do that with their legs, surely you don’t need to worry about walking around school.”). But those trips to L.A. lasted only a few hours. Being this far from the sea feels unnatural. It heightens the call of the ocean to a level that, just a few months ago, would have been uncomfortable. Now, though, after routinely harnessing the call to check on Clay through our bond, I’m more accustomed to the tug, and I can push it to the back of my mind. Which is a good thing because Clay and I plan to be here all day.
We drive through the wide residential streets, and I marvel at how all these people live a whole fifteen minutes from the ocean. Then we head to Sunset Boulevard and go into a store that must have been built for Clay. Three entire floors of guitars and music memorabilia. His eyes are so wide he reminds me of a blowfish. If blowfish looked windswept and sexy and wore low-rise jeans … okay, time to reign in my brain.
The clerk tells us some of Clay’s favorite up-and-coming bands have performed gigs in the back room. Since it’s empty during the day, I ask if we can see it. The awe on Clay’s face as he stands on the black box stage and runs his hands reverently along the vintage posters lining the walls is enough to make the entire trip worth it.
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