Shining Sea Read online

  “Men see what they want to see. Survivors spread stories. We let them. We made them.

  “And so Sirens vanished from the minds of men. Today it’s the weather, malfunctioning equipment, modern-day pirates.”

  The waves leap at our thighs, soaking the legs of our jeans. I stare at Bo’s wings, at his face. His lips remain still, his voice a whisper in my mind, as he says, “Not an angel, Arion. A murderer.”

  I fight to keep my voice steady, but then I figure out that, like Bo, I don’t need to use it.

  The water is acting as a conduit for us.

  “You’re not a murderer.” My thoughts move magically from my mind to his.

  “Not today.”

  “Not ever.”

  “Maybe that’s part of why I want you so much. To tell me lies like that. So human.”

  He brings his hands to my waist, then slides them to my hips, holding me so tightly it hurts.

  My gaze leaves his ocean eyes, taking in the angles of his face, the hollow at his throat, the corded muscles of his arms. I don’t care what he is or isn’t, don’t care about anything except eliminating the space between us. I press myself against him, grasping his upper arms—

  Eyes locked on one another’s lips, our silent struggle takes us out of the water. His wings loom over me like the cliffs above the beach, their unearthly beauty stark against a sky that’s turned to navy without me noticing. I know I should be scared; I also know—he must be wrong.

  “Self-defense, maybe,” I say, my breath coming fast. “Maybe you could kill someone if your life were being threatened, but wouldn’t we all? If we possessed the skill and the strength and our lives were at stake? Anyone would kill, to live.”

  “Anyone would kill to live. My point exactly.” He straightens, starts pulling away—

  But even as he tries to step back, I cling to his hips, my brain sluggish with wanting. Everything is a tangle. My body’s desire twisting my thoughts. What I see clashes with what he’s said. Then there’s the music of him.

  “Arion, you need to let go.” His chin is lifted with the effort of restraint. With a hushed gust of wind—his wings vanish.

  “No—” Surprise shows on his face as I grab his arm and spin him around—running my hand over his shoulder blades. Smooth skin. “No, you can’t keep doing this to me. We can’t have this—tug-of-war. I only want to kiss you, is that so horrible?” It’s humiliating, to say these things, but I can’t seem to stop myself. Again, I run my hand over his back, now his chest.

  His laugh is derisive. “Only a kiss? You’re right, you’re not a good liar.” He brings two fingers to my neck, to the pulse there. Presses. His fingers are hot, yet a chill runs through me. His other hand moves to my lower back, a gentle pressure. “Do you even understand what my Song does?”

  “It lures. You use it to lure your—prey.” The word “prey” fades to nothing.

  But my fear doesn’t chase away the want—although a sort of paralysis creeps through me now as he bends his head, the side of his face touching mine, his mouth near my ear.

  “It works well, doesn’t it?” He whispers the words, and I can barely hear them above the sound of the ocean, but I don’t doubt their meaning, and all at once, I understand his intent.

  “Wait—”

  He brushes his lips along my cheekbone, his next words soft as shadows. “That was the idea. But it seems you can’t.” His laugh is dark. “Love comes and goes, with humans. Ebbing, flowing . . . an uneven, tidal thing. Love, for mortal men and women, is a beautiful lie, a broken promise. A wave that rolls up on the sand—then falls back to the sea.”

  Love. My paralysis is complete. Hearing him say that single word scares me more than anything he’s said, or done, so far. Because I agree: love is a lie, a ghost of a ghost.

  “But my love isn’t like that, I assure you. It won’t recede. It will flood you. Drown you.”

  Love. Are we in love, then? Is that what this is?

  “On the other hand, if you were my mark—”

  Smooth as water, he slides his hand behind my neck—

  CHOICE

  Fear and desire collide in me as he draws me to him, his eyes becoming whirlpools of night just before his mouth comes down hotly on mine—

  But before I can even taste him, he tears his lips away—pushing hard against my shoulders, so that I stumble and fall to the sand.

  He looks down at me, his chest rising and falling fast—his face pale except for a spot of color burning on each cheek. “What the hell am I doing?”

  “What are you doing?” I jump to my feet. “Why did you make me feel like your—” I search for a word, refusing to say prey. Mark? Is that what he said?

  “Because you need to know the difference! Between love, and what we do. But I didn’t mean—”

  “What did you mean? What do you want?” I practically shout.

  “What do I want? I wanted only to show you. Teach you. Then someday, soon, maybe—” His tone turns bitter. “But you. You wanted—I almost lost control! Happy?”

  “Oh, so I should be happy? Happy my heart nearly broke through my rib cage? Happy you paralyzed me with—” With want, with need. Were you going to kiss me? I want to shout, Were you going to kill me? I look at the water. Look back at him. Can’t speak.

  Running his hands through his hair, he says, “I thought you wanted to know me.”

  “Yes, but that’s not who you are, it’s just something you can do.”

  “No. It’s who I am.” We stare at each other.

  “I need to go,” I say shortly.

  “I can see that.” We begin to walk. Bo’s voice is low, angry sounding. “You know, despite your eagerness for—me, you’re not ready to hear more.”

  “Oh please! Teach me. Just don’t scare the hell out of me.” Or make me want you until it hurts. “What about the breath? Where do you get it?” From who?

  He slows then, angling his gaze down at me, his eyes making me think of a glowing pendant I’d seen in a dusty display case buried in the back of one of the old fishing shacks near the harbor that had evolved—or perhaps devolved—into shops. I’d wondered what the gorgeous green-and-gold necklace was made of, and the shopkeeper, whose skewed smile somehow seemed as dark and dirty as the rickety row of buildings, told me it was dichroic glass. The piece fascinated me, and even as I backed away from the counter, I pressed him to explain how it had been made. “Layer upon layer of metal oxides attached to the surface”—the man started around the counter—“see how the colors shift?” But to me it was his eyes that were shifting as he came toward me—the necklace outstretched like an offering, which I refused—the same way Bo’s are shifting now.

  And just this one look makes a cry catch in my throat, some wild yearning trapped behind my lips. A strange tone rings in my ears, and suddenly any questions I have are completely eclipsed by a chasm of ache for him that opens within me. I need this to end—I’ll die if it ends.

  “It’s like I don’t have a choice!” I blurt, furious now. “Like I have to be with you, or, or—” I drop my gaze to the sand, the only source of light left on the darkened beach.

  “Arion.” His voice is silk smooth as he says my name, yet somehow sharp. The way a knife can be so honed, you don’t feel the initial cut when it slices you.

  He cups my chin now, lifting my face until I’m forced to look him in the eye.

  In a whisper, he says my name again. Sings it. “Arion.” Then he asks, “Is having a choice really so important?”

  I don’t need to be told, the question is rhetorical.

  INQUISITION

  Dad is in front of the TV when I get home, watching some show about boats. For a minute, it seems like he’s forgotten all about the “face-to-face” talk he wanted to have, and I’m relieved. My head is leaden—my pulse, like a caged thing. How can I talk to anyone?

  But then he says, “There’s steak and salad,” and heads into the kitchen. So I do too.

  The aftershocks o
f the strange afternoon still rocking though me, I get out a plate and some silverware. Dad takes a beer from the fridge.

  “Well? Let’s hear it. What happened to the truck?” He sits down at the table.

  “I—borrowed it.”

  “So I gathered.”

  “I went to the museum,” I say, taking the steak and salad out of the fridge. “That old house, the Wayside. Coming home, I’m not exactly sure, but . . . I think a stone hit the window.”

  “Did you fall asleep?” He gives me a hard look. He knows I’m leaving something out.

  “Um, maybe?” I grimace. “I’m okay, though,” I add, hoping that might be enough.

  “Apparently. Where’ve you been? Didn’t you get my note?”

  Where have I been? To heaven. To hell. Is that love?

  “I was with Bo. We went to Seal Cove after school.” I sit down.

  “After school.” Dad runs a hand over his face. “That was a while ago. Bo Summers?”

  I nod.

  “But last night you were out with—?”

  “Logan.” My cheeks grow warm.

  “That’s what I heard. Sounds like it’s not a very good time to get grounded.”

  “Not really.”

  “You know, the truck isn’t for joyriding. You’re going to have to pay for that window.”

  “I said I would.”

  “Yes, you did.” He laces his fingers together, rests his hands on the table.

  “Dad, I’m sorry about the truck. I shouldn’t have taken it. But do you think you can just forgive me? I’ll pay for the window, and, well, maybe, can I be grounded some other time?”

  “Some other time.”

  “Right.”

  “And what ‘other time’ did you have in mind?”

  “Um . . . I haven’t really thought that through yet. Maybe, sometime soon?”

  “Sometime soon as in, when you’re not dating two guys?”

  “Dad!”

  Guess he figures that little jibe is punishment enough, or maybe he’s just glad I’m not hurt, or that I finally have a social life. He takes a sip of beer. “Sometime soon. Guess we can make that work. Now tell me, what happened to the note I left for you this morning?”

  “Oh. Did you leave a note? For me?” Lying to him is impossible.

  He squeezes the bridge of his nose. Then he gives me another hard look. “Okay. You’re officially not grounded. But you owe me one. And tell me where you need to go. I’ll give you a ride. Hopefully, the Cherokee will be fixed soon, or, I don’t know. I’ll look around. I’ll take you to school tomorrow, though, all right?”

  “Sure, okay. Great. Thanks. A lot. And sorry about the truck, really, I’m sorry.”

  “You can stop being sorry. It’s fixed. I’ll send you the bill.”

  Dad gets up and leaves the kitchen, presumably going back to his boat show.

  “Logan phoned,” he hollers a moment later from the living room.

  “Oh. Okay. Thanks.”

  He pokes his head around the doorframe. “Heard you two tried the new sushi place.”

  “Uh-huh, we did.” I try to give my voice the kind of tone a parent reading to a child gives the final words of a bedtime story: The End.

  Dad mumbles something about teenagers and then retreats across the hall.

  INTERVENTION

  Tuesday. Wednesday. Thursday. I don’t hear from Bo. And I’m glad. I am.

  I’m also sick. Literally. Friday, I stay home with a fever.

  But I’m sick in some other way too—because I can’t stop thinking about him. Specifically, I can’t stop thinking of the split-second crush of his lips against mine. There was something true about it, something more real than his fantastical wings.

  He’d talked about love. Told me his secrets. Why hasn’t he called?

  On the weekend, I lie in bed, burning up, tossing and turning, waving away Dad’s good intentions. I can’t stop touching the shell that sits on my bedside table. I pick it up. Put it down. Marvel at its royal-purple edges. Wonder what I did with the pink pearl of a pebble I’d placed in its smooth white center just after Bo gave it to me. I swear I put both in the pocket of my jeans.

  It’s only after I throw up for the second time on Saturday night that I think of Lilah. The way I’m hunched over the toilet—it suddenly reminds me of her, hunched over the Moleskine.

  I am waiting.

  Not hearing from Bo acts as a trigger, and I feel the bite of the black-eyed dog that Nick Drake sang about so beautifully. But I fight it—I do. I listen to music. Finish my homework.

  I’m almost afraid of what might come out if I pick up my guitar, so I open a book instead.

  But none of my favorite characters have anything on me. No great novel, no trashy romance, no story I’ve ever read has prepared me for feelings like these. My heart feels squeezed—my gut, raw. I can pretend I’m not thinking of Bo—but that’s all it is. Pretending.

  And Logan? He’s on it—on me. Looking suspiciously at me on Monday when I manage to keep down a little food and make it back to school. Offering me a ride on Tuesday and again on Wednesday, joking and trying his best to cheer me up on Thursday.

  Finally, Friday, he’s in my face. “I don’t get it,” he says as I stare unseeingly out the cafeteria windows. “Last week you looked like you won a jackpot or something, but did you share the money? No.” He waves a fork. “Fine. Keep the cash. But quit hiding in the library at lunch. Mary and I both know you’re freaking out about something, so just tell us what it is.”

  Mary’s sitting with us at the table, being careful not to comment. This week has been complete torture, and I appreciate her silence hugely. Dad gave me a ride every day, and that was hard, but it was easier than going with her or Logan. I’ve been afraid to talk to either one of them about what was—or wasn’t—going on between Bo and me, worried that I’d start crying, or begin babbling about Bo’s voice, or worse, his wings.

  Logan’s going off again: “So today, Miss Rush, Mary and I decided we should perform a little family intervention.”

  “He means friendly intervention. As in, we’re you’re friends.”

  “Whatever. You need to talk to us.” Logan reaches across the table—and with a gentleness that surprises me, brings a finger beneath my chin, lifting it until I look at him.

  If there’s a jackpot anywhere, his smile is it, but below his pale eyes, his skin is smudged with shadows, and one cheekbone wears a plum-colored bruise. The idea of someone hitting him makes my stomach tighten—I want to know what happened, who did this to him. But I don’t want to encourage any more questions. I jerk away from his touch.

  Mary takes a bite of her burger, appearing nonchalant, but as she puts it down, her hands aren’t quite steady. And it’s this, Mary’s trembling, that makes me realize how selfish I’m being. She watched Logan plunge into the depths of despair after Nick died. I don’t want her to worry about me too. Same goes for Logan. It’s not fair.

  “It’s—” A sudden pain pulses at my temples and I wince. “Bo.”

  “I knew it!” Logan slaps a palm down hard on the tabletop. “I told you, he—man, I’d like to get that guy in a headlock. What did he do?”

  “Logan, take it easy,” Mary says. She looks past him to where her Kevin’s walking toward us with a full tray. The other two Kevins are right behind him.

  “Mary’s right, Logan. You don’t have to—” The pain comes again.

  “Yeah, I do! Like I’m gonna watch you walk down a dark alley and not say anything? Tell me, what did he do? Did he—”

  “He didn’t do anything.” My head aches. I want to lie down. “It’s what he didn’t do.”

  Logan looks genuinely puzzled, but Mary—despite the cacophony of the Kevins as they sit down around us with a clatter of trays—gets it. She squeezes my thigh under the table.

  The arrival of the Kevins means the end of our lunch period. Mary kisses Kevin and gathers her things.

  “Ready?” she asks me
.

  My headache is slowly subsiding, but my pulse is fluttering fitfully. Still, I nod, then for good measure—yank Logan’s hair.

  “What?”

  “Walk with us?”

  He blows out a breath. “Sure.”

  On the way to class I tell the two of them about the club I came across. “You know about it?”

  Mary shakes her head. Logan says, “Never heard of it. Must be new.”

  “Actually, it’s old. It used to be called Pine Lodge. Then it was nothing, closed. The new owners are from New York. I looked it up online. Two Portland bands are playing this weekend, and a couple national acts are booked for next month. Wrist, and . . . Sugarcoat, I think. And Favorite Way to Die.”

  “Favorite Way to Die? Really? They’re pretty hardcore.” Logan purses his lips. Then he says, “My brother was into them.” The three of us walk in silence for a minute or two.

  “Sunday’s open mic night,” I say. “I—I think I’m feeling better, you know? I think I want to go. It’s random draw, but if you get picked, they let you play a short set, not just one tune—which really only gives you time to suck. Not that a set can’t be a train wreck, but at least you have time to redeem yourself.”

  “Ah. So that’s why we haven’t heard you play.”

  “Pff. What are you talking about?”

  “Hey, I’m not going to say it if you aren’t. Don’t want to give it any power, right?”

  “Give what any power?” Mary asks.

  Logan mouths the words: Stage fright.

  “I do not have stage fright.” I have real things to be afraid of. “And what do you know about performance anxiety, hmm?”

  “Not a thing, Rush. Come over today. I’ll show you just how little I know about that—”

  “Logan plays drums,” Mary says, elbowing him in the ribs.

  “Played,” he corrects, tapping out a quick rhythm pattern on her shoulder.