Mermaids Never Drown: Tales to Dive For E-Book

Zoraida Cordova

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Serie: The Untold Legends
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 434

Beschreibung

14 Young Adult short stories from bestselling and award-winning authors make a splash in Mermaids Never Drown - the second collection in the Untold Legends series edited by Zoraida Córdova and Natalie C. Parker - exploring mermaids like we've never seen them before! A Vietnamese mermaid caught between two worlds. A siren who falls for Poseidon's son. A boy secretly pining for the merboy who saved him years ago. A storm that brings humans and mermaids together. Generations of family secrets and pain. Find all these stories and more in this gripping new collection that will reel you in from the very first page! Welcome to an ocean of hurt, fear, confusion, rage, hope, humor, discovery, and love in its many forms. Edited by Zoraida Córdova and Natalie C. Parker, Mermaids Never Drown features beloved authors like Darcie Little Badger, Kalynn Bayron, Preeti Chhibber, Rebecca Coffindaffer, Julie C. Dao, Maggie Tokuda-Hall, Adriana Herrera, June Hur, Katherine Locke, Kerri Maniscalco, Julie Murphy, Gretchen Schreiber, and Julian Winters.

Leseprobe

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Leave us a Review

Copyright

Dedication

INTRODUCTION

STORM SONGRebecca Coffindaffer

WE’LL ALWAYS HAVE JUNEJulian Winters

THE STORY OF A KNIFEGretchen Schreiber

THE DARK CALLSPreeti Chhibber

RETURN TO THE SEAKalynn Bayron

THE DEEPWATER VANDALDarcie Little Badger

THE NIGHTINGALE’S LAMENTKerri Maniscalco

SEA WOLF IN PRINCE’S CLOTHINGAdriana Herrera

NOR’EASTERKatherine Locke

THE FIRST AND LAST KISSJulie Murphy

THE MERROWZoraida Córdova and Natalie C. Parker

SHARK WEEKMaggie Tokuda-Hall

JINJU’S PEARLSJune Hur

SIX THOUSAND MILESJulie C. Dao

Acknowledgments

About the Authors

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Mermaids Never Drown: Tales to Dive For

Print edition ISBN: 9781803368122

E-book edition ISBN: 9781803368139

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

www.titanbooks.com

First edition: September 2023

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

Mermaids Never Drown: Tales to Dive For © Zoraida Córdova and Natalie C. Parker 2023

“Storm Song” © 2023 Rebecca Coffindaffer

“We’ll Always Have June” © 2023 Julian Winters

“The Story of a Knife” © 2023 Gretchen Schreiber

“The Dark Calls” © 2023 Preeti Chhibber

“Return to the Sea” © 2023 Kalynn Bayron

“The Deepwater Vandal” © 2023 Darcie Little Badger

“The Nightingale’s Lament” © 2023 Kerri Maniscalco

“Sea Wolf in Prince’s Clothing” © 2023 Adriana Herrera

“Nor’easter” © 2023 Katherine Locke

“The First and Last Kiss” © 2023 Julie Murphy

“The Merrow” © 2023 by Zoraida Córdova and Natalie C. Parker

“Shark Week” © 2023 by Maggie Tokuda-Hall

“Jinju’s Pearls” copyright © 2023 June Hur

“Six Thousand Miles” © 2023 Julie C. Dao

The authors assert the moral right to be identified as the authors of this work.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

To ourreaders—fromvampires of the nightto mermaids in the sea.We thank you for joining us on this magical enterprise.

INTRODUCTION

Let’s just start with the obvious: Who hasn’t spent hours sitting on the bottom of a pool pretending they were a mermaid with a gorgeous tail and the ability to breathe underwater? Or, in Zoraida’s case (because, spoiler alert, Zoraida can’t swim), staring at the glorious expanse of blue and dreaming of what lay beneath? Just us? We don’t think so.

Natalie was so enamored of all things aquatic that she started begging her parents for scuba lessons at eleven years old (though they held out, citing something about “being too far from the ocean” as if that would stop her); and Zoraida received a VHS of Disney’s The Little Mermaid when she was three and watched it on repeat so many times she taught herself English, and came away with a lifelong love of mermaids.

When we started thinking that maybe, just maybe, we could turn our first cryptid collection into a series, we knew that mermaids would be our second installment. Mermaids, like many folktales and legends, have taken on a life of their own. These beings change from culture to culture—sometimes there are fins and sometimes tentacles, sometimes they sing you to the bottom of a cold sea, and sometimes they fall in love with lonely sailors who most definitely weren’t hallucinating. No matter what, stories about merpeople are an invitation to dream about the mysteries of our own world.

With each story, our authors invite you to imagine mermaids in a wide variety of ways. There are mermaids who dream of being on land and mermaids who dwell in the deepest waters. There are stories of transformation and magic and of yearning to belong. As you read, we hope you will explore these endless, magical possibilities, because, let’s face it, the ocean is big enough for all of us.

Cheers,

Zoraida & Natalie

STORM SONG

Rebecca Coffindaffer

To feed the magic, you must first yourself know hunger.

It is your turn to call down the storms tonight.

The waves are wild already, white fingered and clawing at the rocks that line the coast. Above you, the star-scattered sky is clear and waiting.

No moon, though. That part is important. The magic is at its most powerful when she is hidden, and you’ve watched carefully every night, tracking her as she slipped farther and farther into shadow.

She is at her darkest now—right now. And the current brings the ship you chose closer every moment.

You’ve timed everything perfectly. You had to.

You need every advantage you can get because your song . . .

Your song. It isn’t ready. It may not be strong enough.

You’d wanted more time to find your melody, to hone that power that sits deep in your stomach. But the season already grows late. The elders—those sirens who’ve been around the longest, who know the seas best but no longer travel so far to join the singing—told you it cannot wait any longer. If you don’t call down the storms tonight, the cycle will break. Everything will suffer.

Abalone slips up beside you, curling gracefully around the rocks. Even in these waters—darker and colder than the warm, tropical currents where the elders hold the heart of your people’s power—she stands out, vibrant as a flower. An ombré of rich blue and gold, touched with streaks of pink, from the bright yellow tips of her billowing hair all the way down to the deep navy ends of her fin. Everything about Abalone is provocative, shimmering.

You, on the other hand, blend in up here along the jagged coasts of the northern seas. Your scales and skin and hair are mottled dark gray and brown and rust orange. The ends of your fin are bristly and sharp, and long, thin, venomous barbs line your spine.

Abalone twists her arms, her hands, her delicately webbed fingers in a smooth series of movements, signing to you, “Everyone is ready. We wait on you.”

“Don’t worry,” you sign back to her. “They’re coming. Can’t you feel their wake?”

Even if you could easily speak down here, deep underneath the waves, signing is the only safe way for your people to communicate. The voice of a siren is too dangerous for casual use, capable of turning tides, shifting currents, altering the ocean waters in a million tiny ways that could upset the delicate balances of life. Every siren grows up knowing the weight of this power, how vital their voices and songs are in governing the seas.

But to call down the storms? That is another kind of magic. A magic of sacrifice and bargaining.

The waves are hungry, the elders always say. Feed them and the skies will listen.

“There! I see them now,” Abalone signs, pointing ahead at the sharp keel and curving underbelly of a ship as it cuts through the waves toward you. A glow gathers around the edges of her scales. Anticipation stretches her mouth into a grin, baring viciously sharp teeth.

She looks almost as excited as she was when it was her turn to call the storms last season. Her first time leading the song, just as it is yours tonight. She had chosen a shoreline instead of a ship, closer to your home waters. A sprawling town stretched along a coast of white sand. Every unique note of her song had risen flawlessly from her throat, and humans had thronged to the water toward her, wading in up to their necks.

The other sirens had slipped easily into her cadence and harmony, the ocean had taken its bloody sacrifice with vicious waves and greedy foam, and the storms that had been born out of that night had been the most powerful in generations. Churning up vital nutrients from the seafloor and pouring rains across the dry lands of the surface.

Vibrant, violent blooms of new life, above and below the water.

Abalone curls her fin around yours, brushing her hand down your barbed back without fear, and you lean into her touch for a moment. Then you kick upward, spiraling along a twisted stack of volcanic rock and breaking through the surface. Just barely. Enough that you can see the full ship rocking up and down over the waves. Brought here on a current you created and cultured yourself, singing soft tones to the waters so that they would wrap around its keel and pull it here:

Where the sirens are gathered.

Where it will be dragged down to its grave.

It’s quite the prize. Triple masted with stacks of white sails that are rounded with the breeze. Not a fisherman’s ship or that of rough sailors scraping for trade or coin. You chose this one because it’s richly outfitted, newly painted, crowded with humans who always have gold and gems glinting on their fingers and earlobes or along their belts and decorative sword sheaths.

One of them—a woman with bright yellow hair piled atop her head—has a necklace that encases her whole throat in sapphires and gold. She can’t even comfortably drop her chin when she’s wearing it, but you don’t think she minds that part. She seems used to viewing the world down the length of her nose.

Every time you see that necklace, you think of how much better it would look on Abalone. You imagine the gems dripping between your fingers as you fasten it around her neck.

Tonight is not supposed to be about riches or the spoils of the kill. It is supposed to be about continuing the cycle, blessing the lands and seas with storms for another season.

Still, you think. Maybe if I am good enough, if my song is strong enough, there might be room for both.

You look up at the dark-faced moon, at the alignments of the stars. You see the roll and flash of sirens’ fins—bright orange, vivid pink, metallic black—as they twist through the waves and rocks and wait. On you.

Now is the time.

But there is a tightness in your chest so fierce it squeezes your voice into silence.

You have sung before—to the currents and the tides, to the pods of whales that pull you along in their enormous wakes as they croon back. But those are different songs.

The storm song is about lust, about wanting. It is about drawing all the humans on that ship to your call, filling them with such desire for you that they throw themselves into the arms of the sirens and let their blood spill across the seas in red ribbons.

You must sing to them about allure and longing until it builds a fire in their groins that burns away all logic and reason, until all they can think of is getting to you, pressing themselves against you, even as you rip them apart. It is about the hunger.

But you don’t know how to sing this song.

You’ve never really known how to sing it—because you’ve never felt it.

You will, Abalone told you at the last new moon, as the two of you swam along the coral at home. When it is your turn to lead, I’m sure you will. It is a powerful feeling.

You have joined the songs of other sirens before. You remember what it was like to sing with Abalone’s song, to see the hunger alight in the humans’ eyes and how the sirens had thrummed with the power of it.

But it hadn’t felt powerful for you. It had felt . . . uncomfortable. Wrong. Their blood had tasted sour—it always tasted sour.

Maybe Abalone is right, though, you think. Maybe it’s only because I haven’t led the song myself. Maybe it will be different tonight.

Your people have been singing the songs of storm season for generations without fail—surely, you can’t be the first who has felt like this. Who has come to this ritual without feeling fully connected to the hungry magic you’re calling upon. They managed it anyway, so why can’t you?

The water twists around your body, and Abalone rises up next to you. Starlight shimmers in her hair and along her high, curving cheekbones. Her hands move above the surface.

“It will be all right. The skies will listen.”

The tightness in your chest loosens. Just a little. She believes in you. And maybe that will be enough. Just for tonight.

You dive deep, pulling the waters around you, letting them push you up until you rise well above the surface. Water pours from your hair, curving down your body, and the air up here is cold against the bare skin of your chest.

This—the display of yourself, your body—is part of it. You know that. You know so many sirens who find strength and pleasure in this part of it, and you try to be like them.

But it doesn’t feel any less uncomfortable to expose yourself like this. To have to present yourself in such a specific way. Not even as you open your mouth and start to sing.

The first notes come out wavering and weak, but they are still enough to draw the eyes of one human on the ship. And then another notices. And another.

You try to build the melody, stringing the next note and the next. Like trying to find your way in the deepest, darkest waters. You have no instincts for this song, no sense of how to shape it, so you try to sing it like you’ve heard the other sirens before you do. You mix deep, low notes with sweeping highs, like Abalone did. You push and pull at the volume like Thessa’s song, three seasons ago.

None of it sounds right in your throat.

But it seems to be working, which is what matters.

The humans have all clustered against the railing on the ship, pressing against it, their eyes fixed on you. Far above, dark clouds start to spool from the horizon, obscuring the stars.

The sharp waves die suddenly, going eerily still as the other sirens break through the surface, glowing with bioluminescence as their voices join yours. It shines in their eyes and the strands of their hair, around the scales of their fins and in delicate patterns across the skin of their chests.

Abalone was right. There is something powerful here. In hearing them match their songs to yours. In tasting the bargaining magic, like ozone on your tongue, as it starts to unfurl.

But the song . . .

It won’t flow from you as it should. You can’t find its natural rhythm, and the melody scrapes against your throat.

The next note comes out in a stuttering rasp, but you catch yourself quickly. Throw yourself back into the song before the other sirens hear.

On the ship, you spot the woman with the sapphire necklace. She blinks, and the lust starts to fade from her eyes.

No.

You yank the melody up from your chest, singing it louder. You can’t lose them. No siren has failed in calling the storms before. You can’t be the first one. Without them, there will not be a renewal of life in the oceans. Drought will strike the lands, and wildfires will paint the air with ash and smoke.

The woman in sapphires blinks again—and then she looks away. She turns toward a man on her right—a soldier in uniform—and leans into his ear to whisper something.

He looks away, too. No longer transfixed by you. Or by Abalone. Or any of the other sirens.

A shudder ripples through the ocean currents. Above you, the dark clouds begin to stretch and thin.

No. No no no.

You choke on the next note and can’t find your way back into the song. Beside you, Abalone’s voice wavers—and then drops to nothing. One by one, each siren goes silent. They turn their eyes to you, expressions tight with worry, with fear.

Abalone slides in front of you, brushing her webbed fingers down the sides of your face. Her hands move, trying to speak to you, but you can’t look at her—your eyes are fixed on the ship and the quickly clearing sky.

Panic grips you by the throat. So tight that you have to drag every breath into your lungs.

The stars wink down at you, bright and sharp against the dark night.

Then the people on the ship begin to move. They scatter and shouts ring out from bow to stern as the most richly dressed of them pull back from the railing. Soldiers surge to the side of the ship, all in uniforms of black coats and gold buttons, some with gold epaulettes on their shoulders. They line up with muskets held in front of them, silver bayonets glinting as they point the muzzles down at the water.

At you. At your sirens.

Another shout from the ship, and then there’s an explosion of noise.

Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack.

Smoke curls from the muskets as bullets hit the water, sending up sprays. Over by the rocks, Thessa cries out with pain and slips beneath the surface.

Horror swells in your chest, choking you. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Not a wail or a shout. Definitely not a song.

The ship towers above you, all noise and movement. The people on board are cheering. Excited. You see the woman in the sapphire necklace applauding, laughter dancing across her face.

Crack. Crack. Crack.

They are shooting at will now, over and over. Another siren gets hit, red blood splashing against the ship’s hull. You hear the cry of another far off, back by the stern.

Abalone screams.

Your heart stops as you turn and see her, clutching at her shoulder. You dive for her before the soldiers can fire again, dragging her below the surface.

The waves close over your head as you sink down and cradle Abalone against you, her cheek resting against your bare shoulder, her hair and yours mingling together in the current. Thin ribbons of blood twist upward from the wound in her shoulder, and she shudders with pain.

You bury your face in the billowing forest of her hair and sing to the waters, so quiet, so soft. It’s the song one of the elders sang to you when you lost control of a riptide and crashed against the coral, gouging scrapes all along your side. It’s a blood song, a healing song, and Abalone starts to relax as it eases her pain and knits at her wound.

The soldiers are still shooting. You can see the sharp, straight trails the round lead balls make as they cut through the water. In the shadows of the waves, sirens are scattering, diving deep.

“I’m so sorry,” you tell Abalone. “I failed all of us. I couldn’t feed the magic. I couldn’t make it listen.”

She presses a hand against you, right at the base of your throat. “You tried to sing my song. You tried to sing Thessa’s. You didn’t try to sing yours.”

Her heartbeat is strong under your fingers, pounding in her chest, reassuring you that she, at least, will be all right. The relief that fills you at feeling the rhythm of her pulse is cool and calming.

And clarifying.

You have been thinking, all this time, that there was a way to do this wrong, but that is impossible. Songs, after all, are like sirens. Unique and the same all at once. Abalone’s had been full of allure, brightly colored and impossible to ignore. Thessa’s had been sweet and warm, a melody that lapped gently at your skin and drew you in with slow fingers.

Every song you’ve heard and joined since your very first storm season had been perfect because that siren had simply sung who they were to the stars. Without hesitation or regret.

You look up, watching the faint ribbon of Abalone’s blood drift above you, the dark shapes of your sirens, fleeing, in pain, scared. The bottom of the ship looms on the surface, blotting out the sky above.

There is hunger inside you after all. You know the taste of it now.

You help Abalone to that twisted stack of volcanic rock, leading her to a tucked-away spot where she has shelter from the bullets still raining down. And from what you are about to do.

“Stay here,” you tell her, and then you kick up to the surface.

The ship is right where you left it, its sails now bound against the masts as the people on board mill about. The finely dressed passengers—in their tightly fitted coats, their hose and heeled shoes, their gowns with layers and layers of skirts—laugh and cheer and call out to each other as the soldiers pace from railing to railing, searching the waters as they reload their long guns, shoving black powder and lead balls deep into the barrels. Every now and then they take a shot, the harsh crack and acrid scent of smoke raising the barbs along your back.

In the corner of your eye, you spot Thessa, huddled and shivering in the shadow of a rock where the humans can’t see her, the water around her colored red with her blood. She sees you and shakes her head, motioning for you to leave, to disappear.

But you just smile at her, the points of your teeth dripping venom. You’re not afraid anymore.

This time, when you part your lips, the first notes come out strong. Deep, low notes that vibrate in the bones and send ripples down into the seafloor.

Come back, you think, hoping the other sirens hear you, sense you. The ocean is calling. Come back. I know what I’m doing now.

You build the new melody piece by piece, calling up a song from all the secret corners inside you. The notes spill from your mouth, growing in resonance and force. They ring off the rocky cliffs and rattle the deck of the ship. They whip at the water until it froths and boils.

And from out of it, you rise higher, borne up on a towering column of sea-foam. Light radiates from your scales and your skin and your eyes and your hair, and aboard the ship, all the humans pile against each other on the railing to witness you.

They stare, transfixed, their faces stretched not with lust or desire, but with amazement and fear. It is the look of someone witnessing the earth splitting at their feet. The look of someone standing on the beach as the hurricane bears down on them. The look you get when you’re in the path of something magnificent and terrible.

You are that magnificent and terrible thing. You are beautiful and monstrous. Sharp as the barbs that bristle across your body. Dark as the clouds starting to knit together in the sky.

The woman in the sapphire necklace shoulders her way to the front, disdain written across her face. She’s the last person to lay eyes on you, and as soon as you see her, you twist the song like a snare, rounding out each note with the rich clarity of the sea shimmering under a bright sun, the ferocity of the orca on the hunt. You watch as it floods her ears, molding her disdain into awe.

The water breaks to your left, and a siren sister appears, joining her voice seamlessly with yours. From her spot behind the rock, Thessa starts to sing as well, and the blend of even just two harmonies with this song—your true song—fills your chest with fire. The melody spills from you faster now, fiercer. You taste the bargaining magic on your tongue.

More sirens return, layering on deep bass notes and rich altos and high tones that ring bright against the air. Dark clouds boil outward across the sky. Lightning flickers in their bellies and then—thatquick—lances down in a jagged arc and strikes the tallest mast of the ship. The wood bursts into flames, quickly catching on the canvas sails, the network of ropes.

Your voices, as one, climb higher, rising to a fever pitch. There is no sweetness in it, no niceness. It is filled with chords that drive shivers up your spine, and you know it will not inspire any of the people on board to leap over the side, into your deadly embrace.

But that’s all right. It doesn’t need to. Because you are not singing to drive the humans mad with want.

You are singing to the storms.

You are singing to the ocean, telling it to take what it is due.

The waves claw against the hull, tossing the ship in their grasp. Wind rips across the cliff face, driving the fire down the masts. Screams fill the deck.

Still, you sing.

You sing until a loud crunching sound cuts through the air and the whole ship shudders as it smashes against a rock, splitting the hull right in two. Wood splinters and cracks, and the ocean rushes in to fill the gaps, scooping out crates and chests, barrels and bodies. Fire still burns on the masts as the hungry waves pull the belly of the ship apart, greedily sucking everything down.

Thunder rumbles in your ears, and the clouds burst open, sheets of rain pouring down on your head.

Only then do you let your song die. You float at the surface, content to let the rain and wind batter you as you watch the other sirens dive into the wreckage of the ship, their fins flashing bright amid foam that gradually gets redder and redder.

Lightning flashes, and your eyes catch the sparkle of sapphires. The woman with the necklace clings to a flat of splintered wood. Surprising that she wasn’t dragged down by her own gown and the weight of all her jewels. You watch as another human swims toward her, their hand outstretched for help, but she smacks at them, pushing herself away from their reach.

Your lips pull back from your teeth, and you run your tongue across their jagged points. Tasting venom.

*   *   *

Abalone still sits where you left her, perched on the ledge of dark volcanic rock, tufts of red algae and green seagrass waving around her. Even wounded, she looks like a benevolent queen.

You reach around her neck, draping the necklace of gold and sapphires on it. You were right—it suits her perfectly. Even with the bloodstains smeared across parts of the metal. Or, maybe, especially because of them.

Abalone runs her fingers along it, smiling at you. Her teeth are like knives.

“I told you the skies would listen.”

WE’LL ALWAYS HAVE JUNE

Julian Winters

I’m ten years old the first time the ocean whispers her name to me:

Death.

One moment, I’m on the edge of the boat, singing along to the music coming from someone’s phone. My moms are laughing with their friends on the other end of the deck. Then we hit a wave. I lose balance and the ocean takes me.

She doesn’t embrace me like a concerned parent. No, she swallows me like a starved shark.

The descent is quick. I’d secretly slipped out of my life jacket ten minutes ago because we were headed back to shore, and it felt so constricting while I sang. Now, the ocean’s strong fingers tug on me. I fight to hold my breath. I thrash and kick, but I’m not a great swimmer, so I sink.

Down, down, down.

Everything slows like the space between the end of a dream and waking up. I almost don’t believe someone is swimming toward me.

A boy, who looks my age, but different.

His eyes are amber like Mom’s favorite pair of teardrop earrings. Short locs dance in the current. Rich brown skin all the way to his navel. After that, it’s a burst of fire and gold. He has a tail. The scales shimmer like a slice of the sun.

But shock and fear seize my limbs. It’s just the two of us in the pounding silence of the sea.

His small hands catch my limp arms. He studies me with sad, bright eyes. Carefully, he pinches my nose and leans in. His mouth covers mine. It’s not a kiss. He exhales small pockets of breath into me. The coil around my lungs loosens.

I’m . . . alive.

He propels us up. I don’t struggle. I let this boy with a tail rip me from Death’s determined hands.

In the distance, I hear the ocean again. This time it shrieks my name:

Kai!

Or maybe that’s my moms. They find me spluttering on the shore. Soaked clothing pinning me to the soft, grainy sand. Salty water burning my eyes, scratching my throat.

Echoes of “Are you okay?” surround me.

Am I?

My only response is, “A boy . . . saved my life.” I know what he is, but I don’t want to say it out loud. Not yet.

No one listens. And the boy with a tail and careful touch is gone.

*   *   *

Six Junes Later

“What’s the worst that could happen?”

Nothing good has ever come of those words, especially when said from the wolfish mouth of Vicente Pérez.

We’re at our favorite spot—the railing leading down to the beach. The sky’s an explosion of crimson and tangerine. Sunset looks nice on his tawny complexion.

Vic knots his hair into a messy bun. “Just ask him out already.”

Me and Vic are complete opposites. He’s loud and reckless. I’m chill, cautious. Even down to our bodies—where he’s short and defined, I’m long and lean, a level above scrawny.

We’ve lived on Talisa Island, a coastal town deep in the belly of Georgia, all our lives. Nine months out of the year, nothing really changes around here. But summers are different. Every June, tourists pour into our town for the beach and ocean.

One of those visitors is Marc O’Brien, the boy who’s stolen my attention for the last two summers.

Even from here, I can see him kicking a soccer ball along the shore with kids from my school. Floppy ginger hair like a crown of flames. I can picture the spill of freckles across his face contrasting with his very green eyes.

“Your pining is embarrassing.” Vic hops off the railing, checking his phone. “And my break’s over.”

He works part-time at the surf shop. I pick up shifts at my moms’ restaurant. Being a busser isn’t glamorous but I’m already saving up for college. I’m looking at universities closer to the city. Far from the ocean.

“So,” Vic begins, a smile teasing his lips, “band rehearsal tomorrow?”

I roll my eyes. We’ve had this conversation a hundred times. Vic plays bass guitar in an amateurish cover band. He’s tried persuading me to sing lead for years. Everyone said I had a beautiful voice when I was younger, but I haven’t sung in front of people since almost drowning, only to myself or when goofing off with Vic in my bedroom.

I worry the moment I sing in public again, something awful will be waiting to swallow me whole.

“We need you, Kai,” Vic continues. “We landed a gig at my dad’s karaoke bar.”

“I’ll think about it,” I lie.

It’s the same answer every time.

Halfway back to the main road, Vic pauses. He looks out toward the beach, where Marc is still dribbling a soccer ball between his feet, then to me. “Kai,” Vic shouts, eyebrows waggling, “you’re a six-foot god! Stop being scared. Any boy would be bananas not to want you.”

I wave him off, nose wrinkled. If my best friend only knew about the boy I really dream about.

*   *   *

When the sun kisses the horizon, the beach empties out like a flood. Locals and tourists pass me on the wooden walkway. Everyone but Marc. He’s hiked to his usual hideaway—atop one of the shallow cliffs overlooking the water. For nearly an hour, I watch him from a distance, unsure my clumsy feet will carry me all the way up the rocks without tripping and landing right back in the ocean’s dark, possessive grip.

Eventually, Marc fades into the night.

Now, I’m standing on the beach, arms folded across my chest, legs trembling. The water’s briny, salty scent fills my nose. I glare at Death as she unleashes her nightly hymn.

I rarely come this far into the sand. This close to the ocean. Over the years, my moms and therapist have gently nudged me toward giving swimming another chance. Trusting the water again. But every time it brushes past my ankles, climbs up my shins, I freeze.

What if I get it all wrong like I did as a kid? What if there is no magical merboy waiting? Who will save me? My moms didn’t then, not that I’m upset with them. They tried.

As much as I want to learn how to swim better, so it never happens again, I’m scared the only thing that’ll catch me when I fail is Death.

Anger coils in my throat. I yell to the water, “Why won’t you let me forget?” My voice echoes into the night like a broken note in a quiet room.

Death doesn’t reply in words. Instead, the wind lets out a low howl, and the ocean answers in a slow-building wave. My eyes catch on something moving along the crest. A flicker of fiery, glittering light. The quick whip of a tail emerging, then disappearing.

Stunned, I instinctively shuffle backward, but I don’t notice the hole some kid dug up hours ago. My foot catches. All my weight shifts and then, my balance is gone.

As I’m falling, I almost laugh. This is what I get for being bold. Classic Kai.

I thud onto the beach, eyes closed. A groan escapes my lips as the back of my skull throbs.

Can you get a concussion from sand? I think. Then: Who’s gonna delete my browser history if I fall into a coma?

My eyes pop open when a throat clears above me.

It’s him, standing over me. The full moon weaves silver garland through his dark locs. He has a delicate, beautiful smile like blown glass in the light. Shiny drops of water slip down his deep brown skin. There are two legs where I remember a tail being. And he’s—

Naked.

“Oh shit,” I gasp.

He stares at me for a moment, an eyebrow arched, before glancing down. Reality sets in. “Sorry. I forgot.” His grin widens before he jogs down the shore, ducking behind a large rock.

Lethargically, I sit up. He’s not a dream. My brain’s barely calibrated those words before the boy’s returned, settling next to me in a loose, short-sleeved Henley and board shorts. “Are you okay?”

I nod slowly. When the waves dance up the shore, I finally scoot back. I don’t let the water near my feet.

“Just a bump on the head,” I say, rubbing my skull. The short hairs of my taper fade tickle my fingertips. I blink, then gaze at him.

In the moonlight, his eyes are less bright. He’s toned like a swimmer. Nothing different from the boys I see at school, except . . .

“Sorry.” God, was I really just staring at him? “I was expecting . . .”

His mouth tilts curiously, waiting for me to finish.

“Uh, nothing. I’m—”

“Kai,” he says, his voice like salt and honey. Rough but sweet. The curves around his mouth deepen. “I know.”

My heart tumbles like rolled dice in my chest.

“I’m Cyrus,” he says. “We’ve met before.”

“You saved me. A long time ago,” I rasp out. “Do you always go around rescuing drowning boys?”

“No,” he says. “Just you.”

My eyes widen. He ducks his head, face scrunched as if he’s just grasping what he said.

I glance at his feet, toes wiggling in the sand. “No offense, but I have to know,” I say. His eyes narrow suspiciously, but I can’t stop. “You had a tail that day, right? You’re a . . . merboy?”

A pause hangs between us like the moon in the indigo sky. Tension shifts through his jaw. He’s thinking. Finally, he whispers, “Yes. I am.”

His eyes scan my face, waiting for a reaction. I don’t flinch. I shift closer so he knows I’m not scared of what he’s just told me. He saved my life. How could I ever be afraid of him?

“But you have legs now,” I blurt, breaking our stare.

“Only during the full moon.” He dusts grainy sand from his palms. “Every twenty-nine days, for two to three nights, my people can walk the shores.”

“And the rest of the time?”

“A tail. Gills.” He grins. “Of the sea.”

I’m transfixed by his face, those high cheekbones, until another wave washes up, brushing the tips of my sneakers. I reflexively pull my legs to my chest.

“You’re scared of her?” he asks.

Frustrated tears prickle my eyes. “I can’t swim really well,” I admit. “Practically the only kid in this beachside town who can’t. It’s embarrassing.”

“We all have at least one thing about ourselves that’s embarrassing.” He tucks locs behind an ear, sitting a breath closer to whisper, “I can’t sing.”

Seconds pass before I laugh, which is high and thin like a wheezing cat.

Cyrus frowns, confused.

“Sorry,” I rush out. “It’s just that—lots of people can’t sing? Not good, anyway. My best friend can’t. Don’t tell him I told you.”

His expression doesn’t alter. “It’s not a joke. Where I’m from, our song is important. It’s part of our magic.”

My hands fidget anxiously. I want this boy to smile again, to know I’m not an asshole. “Oh. I’m sorry. Seriously. Tell me about your . . . magic. Please?”

The sea’s haunting chant softens as if she’s listening. She wants to know what secrets Cyrus is holding. So do I. Gently, I nudge my knee against his, encouraging him.

“In my kingdom, our voice is an instrument of power.” Beads of water slip down Cyrus’s cheek like dew on a peach. His eyes never leave the water. Dancing ripples disrupt the moon’s doppelgänger on its surface. “When we sing, it shows the god of the ocean we’re worthy of her gifts. That we can command the waters. Bring peace to a storm. Call on the creatures that live among us. It’s a rite of passage for royals. But if you can’t find the right pitch, then . . .”

“Then, what?”

He frowns. “Then the people of my kingdom won’t respect you. I’ll never ascend to the throne like I’m supposed to. No royal has ever failed to find their song. Until . . . well, me.”

I lean away. “Wait, so you’re a . . .”

Cyrus winces like he’s said too much. “A prince.”

“Whoa.” Being kissed by a prince of the sea wasn’t on my bingo card. Though technically, it wasn’t a kiss. CPR? Mouth-to-mouth?

“That seems like a lot of pressure,” I say. “The singing thing.”

He nods solemnly. “Have you ever felt that way? Like a failure?”

My eyes immediately focus on the shallow waves. I hug my knees. Words sit tangled like a knot in my throat. I nod once.

“What if I teach you to swim?” he offers. When my head jerks in his direction, Cyrus quickly adds, “For your safety. I don’t mind saving cute boys like you, but . . . just in case. I can teach you to trust her.”

“I—” Nothing else comes out. He thinks I’m cute?

“And you can teach me to sing!” he insists, grinning.

A sputtering laugh escapes my lips. He can’t be serious. I’m not a trained vocalist. Even though Mama says I could “outsing Tevin Campbell,” whoever that is, and Mom used to sign me up for every school musical that promised a potential solo performance, I’m not qualified to teach anyone.

I tell Cyrus that.

“Kai,” he says, “I heard you sing. When we were younger. And tonight—”

“That wasn’t singing.”

“Point is, I heard you. It’s how I found you both times.” A loc falls over his forehead. “I’ve never stopped thinking about how beautiful you sounded that day.”

I bite my lip. My lungs fight for oxygen.

“I need to learn or—” Cyrus swallows hard, and I see it. In the pinch of his mouth. The hollowness of his cheeks. A melancholy shine to his eyes. It’s the same face I make in the mirror whenever I think about that day:

Fear.

I rest my hand on the back of his. His skin’s warm like a cookie fresh from the oven. His gaze meets mine. “You’d be out there”—my wobbly chin jerks in the direction of the dark water—“with me the whole time?”

He nods enthusiastically.

“And I can quit when I want? No questions asked.”

Another nod.

Already, my stomach is sinking into my feet, but I say, “Tomorrow night? Meet here?” with more confidence than I feel.

The edges of Cyrus’s mouth twist up and he says, “Tomorrow night.”

*   *   *

Cyrus’s voice is a collision of dissonance. The rumble of earthquakes. All snare and cymbals, no bass. It scares a flock of birds into flight. Unleashes a wail from the ocean.

We’re standing face-to-face, alone on the beach. He’s in the same clothes from last night. I’m wearing a tank top and, reluctantly, a new pair of swim trunks. Sneaking out of the house with them on didn’t go as planned.

“You’re learning to . . . swim?” Mama asked, panic etched around her eyes.

“Yes?”

“From a boy we’ve never met?”

I grimaced. “He’s, uh. Here for the summer. He knows his stuff! I’ll be safe.”

She pursed her lips. “Years of offering to pay for swimming lessons and suddenly one boy comes around and you’re—”

Luckily, Mom interrupted. “Carolina, we can trust him.” Turning to me with narrowed eyes, she warned, “Phone and location on. Home before eleven. No practicing in the water after dark.”

“And get the floaties!” Mama yelled when I ducked away to run all the way here.

To Cyrus.

For now, the floaties are lying discarded on the beach. The usually pale-gold sand is brushed smoke gray by the moon. The night’s eerily quiet except for us.

We’ve done this for an hour—I hum a melody, then he echoes. Our notes never sound the same. Mine are a mellow tenor. His are a boom of noise. I don’t laugh or scold him, and he smiles appreciatively at my patience, as if he’s used to people giving up on him.

After another failed note, I ask, “Isn’t there anyone who teaches you how to sing?”

“No,” he says, chin lowered. “We believe this kind of power isn’t taught. It’s supposed to come naturally. And only wielded by royals.”

“So, technically, what we’re doing is . . . forbidden?”

“Yes?” He grins slyly. “Again?”

I finally laugh, then give him a new chord. He destroys it but with crinkles around his eyes. We trade unmatching melodies for another ten minutes before he asks if I’m ready to get into the water.

I chew my lip. “I guess?”

He peels off his shirt. When his hands reach for the waistband of his shorts, my throat releases an awkward noise that sounds like his singing voice.

Cyrus flexes an eyebrow. “I can’t get in the water with shorts on.”

Of course. I quickly avert my eyes. Just because there’s no shame in being naked in his culture doesn’t mean I have any right to look.

Soon, there’s a small splash. I wait another beat before turning.

When anyone else is in the ocean, it looks too big, swallowing them whole. But not with Cyrus. It’s too small, barely containing all the light and beauty radiating off him.

Ten feet out, shiny beads of water gather on his skin like stars broken from the sky. He’s visible from the chest up. Beneath the surface I spot the gilded fire. Behind his shoulder, a peek of tangerine fluke emerges. I glance apprehensively at my floaties.

“Kai,” he says, “I won’t let you drown.”

The promise in his voice carries me to the sea.

Shivers race up my muscles. The cold mixing with stubborn fear. I’m only waist-deep when receding waves knock me off balance. Cyrus races forward. His strong arms catch me before I go under.

“It’s okay,” he assures.

My fingers pinch his biceps. I count backward from ten. He keeps my chin above water, waiting for the tremors to subside before slowly floating us deeper into Death’s embrace.

“The mechanics are different for merfolk. Tail versus legs,” he explains as we drift. Past the sea’s inky surface, his tail moves in effortless motions. Fire and grace. “But the main things are the same.”

“Like?”

His grin inches into something mischievous. “First, you have to trust her.”

Somehow, he persuades me to lie back. Fall into his arms. Into the water. I want to crawl out of my skin. Instead, I stare up at the jeweled moon, letting my body adjust.

A weightlessness comes first. Then a quiet in my chest that matches the noiseless night. The ocean hasn’t pulled me under.

“Safe,” he whispers.

I try not to flinch. He warned me about sudden movements. With one of his hands cradling my neck and the other tucked behind my knees, I stay afloat.

“Okay?” he asks.

I exhale. “I think so.”

We’ve floated farther out. I don’t try to crane my neck and see how far we are from shore. I let my brain remain connected to his hands, the occasional splash of his tail, the lightness of his breathing.

“Why are you only allowed on land during the full moon?” I ask, seeking another distraction.

A fondness stretches across his words. “It’s an old story. My mother tells it best.”

“I want to hear your version.”

“Once we were free to roam the waters and land. To be seen by humans. But the sun gods hated how humanity gave attention to us rather than worshipping them. Gods are equally benevolent and jealous. They promised protection from humans who’d want to capture us, learn our magic, if we stayed hidden beneath the waves. Never to be perceived above the surface.”

He rotates us in a wide circle like a carousel.

“We were safe, but unhappy,” he continues. “We missed the freedom to be wherever we wanted. So the moon gods granted us a gift—once a cycle, we’re allowed to walk the shores under their watchful eyes.”

I study his face. He’s talking about gods and magic as if they’re real. As if these things exist. It’s impossible. Then again, I’m floating in the sea with an actual merboy, so maybe . . .

“What else?” I say.

His smile ticks up. “What do you want to know?”

Everything, I almost reply. “Do you have any siblings?”

He laughs and I hear it in his voice—the rippling melody. A soft current of notes dancing from his throat. It’s not quite a song, but the promise exists.

“Four younger sisters.”

“I’m an only child.”

I tell him about how my moms fell in love. The family restaurant where Mom cooks, and Mama bakes sugary pastries—my favorite being sticky cinnamon rolls drizzled in cream cheese icing. Then about my friendship with Vic. How we came out at the same time. How I wish I had his confidence. The reason I yelled at the ocean last night. How I’d do it again if it meant he’d hear me and come.

Overwhelmed with embarrassment, my feet kick up water. That’s when I notice Cyrus’s hands aren’t supporting me anymore. He’s hovering nearby, beaming. His touch is gone.

Panic lurches through me but I breathe through it.

I’m floating on my own. The water hasn’t betrayed me. No, she’s steady beneath me. She brushes softly against my skin. When I inhale, it’s the scent of salt and green.

I want to scream victoriously. My eyes tread over Cyrus. “I’m . . . okay.”

He wades closer. Cool fingertips skim my forearm until he finds my hand, squeezing. “More than okay.”

As we drift back to shore, I comment offhandedly, “I wish you were always here.”

“There’s a myth about merfolk becoming human,” he explains. “If they find true love on land, and if that love is returned, then the ocean strips them of their magic. She refuses to let them come back once they’ve given their love to another.”

He reminds me that gods are jealous, sometimes spiteful, but they’re also compassionate.

“Do you think it’s true?” I ask.

“I’ve never seen it happen.” A hush briefly swirls between us. “But that doesn’t mean it’s not real.”

*   *   *

When I’m drying off, the moon’s footprint circling his face, I ask, “Will you come back? During the next full moon?”

Hesitation tightens his features. He’s almost neck-deep in the water. It’s gleaming like black sapphires.

“Is it fair to make you wait that long?” he asks.

“I’ve waited six years to see you again,” I say. “I can wait twenty-nine days.”

“What if—” He stops short. Never finishes.

I want to run back in. Tug him into my arms. I’ve spent almost half my life being terrified of the sea. But, in one night, Cyrus has shown me I don’t have to be afraid. If I can trust the water not to take me under, then I can dive into almost anything and know that I won’t drown.

I clear my throat. I use the one weapon I always had: my voice.

“Cyrus, what if I told you I’ve been dreaming about you ever since that day?”

He blinks hard, startled.

I smile, my resolve persisting. “I was ten years old and obsessed with a boy with a tail.” The ocean swishes and sloshes. Her song never reaches the volume my voice does. “I’m not done learning to swim. And you—you’re gonna learn to sing. You’re a prince and I know you can use your voice to show everyone how much respect you deserve.”

Cyrus pushes locs away from his face. My stomach tightens thinking about those hands holding me up like an offering to the moon. Gentle palms like a place to call home.

I stand taller. “I’ll wait for you.”

He exhales. The ocean’s surface quivers.

“Will you come back?”

It’s a long, painful silence. Nausea bubbles in my stomach. “Yes,” Cyrus finally says. Glimmering drops of water slide down his chin as he smiles. Big and unafraid.

In my mind, I roar, I’ll wait. I’ll be here.

*   *   *

July

I’m nearly bursting the first night of the full moon. So much has changed in twenty-nine days.

I’ve traded weekend shifts at my moms’ restaurant to give voice lessons in our garage.

On Saturday mornings, I meet up with Vic’s band. We rehearse for two weeks and then, one warm and humid night, I hop onstage with them at his dad’s karaoke bar. I perform in front of a cheering crowd. I soak up their energy. I show them what I can do without once thinking about drowning.

Twice a week, I drag my moms to the beach. I practice floating in the ocean with them nearby. Mama tries to hide it, but I catch her crying on Mom’s shoulder the second she sees me in the water with no floaties. Safe and comfortable and free.