Shining Sea (19 page)

PLAYER

Guitar. Cable. Strap. Tuner. Drink. Capo. Pick.

Bo’s leaning against the far wall back by the soundboard—staring at me.

Double-check tuning. Adjust mic stand.

Mary leans over and says something to Logan. He laughs, but keeps his eyes on me.

Ground feet. Soft knees. Lips. Breathe.

Strumming a percussive pattern on the Martin, I whisper sing into the mic—

“I wanted to know you, but you always had your secrets.

Like airplanes, tall buildings, the mysteries that you kept
 . . .”

I sing lies that tell truths.

“I wanted to have you, but you always kept your lips shut.

Like veils, dark nighttime, the split of the skin when it’s cut . . .”

Leaving the room behind I lean into the chorus, opening up, bleeding out—

“So I slept . . . I slept . . .”

Storyteller. Bottom dweller. Digging in the dirt.

Fingers. Frets. Lights.
Him.

Ripping. Stars. Regret.

Dark hallways, tilting floors, unexpected steps, taking me down . . . down . . .

In front of everyone, in front of no one, I soar through the mansion of my voice . . .

DANCE FLOOR

“Arion, you were great!” Mary says, coming up to the side of the stage as I jump down. A smattering of applause comes from the people standing nearby, the denouement of the wild clapping and shouts of approval that followed my final song.

“Yeah? You think it went okay?” Adrenaline courses through me. I try to see past the crowd that’s blocking the soundboard now.

“More than okay,” she assures me. “Everybody was totally listening. They loved you.”

“Six songs, not bad for an open mic,” Logan says, coming up and taking my guitar. “And, hey, you’re kinda hot with a six string in your hands, Rush. Buy you a drink?”

“Um—” Quickly I scan the crowd, trying to look like I’m not.

“He left,” Mary whispers in my ear. “I thought he was going to melt your clothes off with that stare of his—personally, I think I’d combust if I looked into those eyes—then he just left.”

Nodding to her, I cast one more glance toward the back of the room, surprised at how angry I am.
No hello. No goodbye.
What the hell?

“What do you say, Rock Star?” Logan continues as we head for the table. “Drink?”

“No. Dance.”

“Really?”

“Really. Mary, will you watch my stuff?” Grabbing his hand, I drag Logan into the front room where a full band is burning down the house and the dance floor is mosh-pit packed. We merge into the crowd as the singer’s voice does a backbend, then sinks to a whisper, an urgent bass line throbbing beneath it. His voice makes me think of Bo’s voice, the way it seems to . . . enter me.
Why did he leave?

Closing my eyes, I focus on the music, inviting it in, willing it to fill me so I don’t have to wonder anymore, don’t have to care. Imagining the music flooding my veins, I open my eyes and grin at Logan, who looks like he’s feeling the music too—and the Hive’s Honeywater.

The next song starts. I lift my hair up off my damp neck. Logan comes closer, putting his hands in my hair, making a ponytail for me with his fist. His own hair hangs dark around his face. His pale eyes are moonlight. A smile plays on his lips as he lets go of my hair and grasps my waist. Lifting my arms overhead I toss my head back, feeling my lips part. His hands move to my hips. Then he turns me around, pulling me against him.

Shutting my eyes again, I listen to his body talking to mine, my body talking back. It’s only getting stronger, this something-happens-when-we’re-in-the-same-room-together thing, this under-the-friendship-and-the-joking-we’re-connected thing.

The song ends and I open my eyes, peeling away from him.

“Pull back all you want,” he says. “It’s not going to change the way you feel.”

“We have to get back to Mary,” I say a little breathlessly.

“We will in a second.” He reaches for me.

“There she is—” I wave over the crowd.

“My turn to dance yet?” she shouts.

The next song starts, and I take my guitar case and backpack from her, setting them down against the side of the stage. She body-slams Logan, then grabs both my hands.

Laughing, I whirl her around—“Now you know what it feels like to be me!”

CAGE

Much later, as the three of us shamble across the parking lot, Logan announces he’s driving me home.

“You’ve been drinking,” Mary says.

Logan waves a hand dismissively. “Sugar water.”

“Honeywater,” Mary corrects. “And it’s got alcohol in it.”

“You would know.” They grin at each other.

Headlights wash over us. Mary waves.

“You guys can come with,” she says, as the Eatons’ Prius stops alongside us and she opens the passenger door. “Dependable, fast service,” she adds, waggling her eyebrows. “Roomy backseat.” She climbs in and kisses Kevin in the middle of his hello.

“Yeah, I don’t think so,” Logan says.

Kevin waves and says something to Mary about picking up her car tomorrow. She kisses him again, then says, “And one for you—” and blows me a kiss as the Prius rolls away, red taillights and dust. Logan shakes his head and I laugh. We walk over to his truck.

“Hang on,” he says. “I need to take a—”

“Spare me the details.”

“Be right back.” He disappears into the pines.

As soon as he does, the door of the club opens and two people stagger out, arms wound around each other.

Jordan
.

The other stumbling figure is a tall, leather-clad girl with long dark hair. The two are a tangle of limbs and lips as they trip toward the edge of the woods on the far side of the parking lot where Jordan pins the girl against a tree.

She clenches the material of his shirt, pulling him closer, her hands disappearing between the two of them. But then she cries out—and Jordan rocks slightly, as if he’s been pushed. Her muffled cry comes again, and I start toward them.

Suddenly he pulls the girl away from the towering pine, his body bent over hers, kissing her hard. She kicks—her feet scuffing the sandy ground—as he pulls her around the side of the tree.

“Hey!” I shout, breaking into a run.

I’m rounding the tree when a roar of music echoes through the evergreens and an immense set of wings bursts through the back of Jordan’s shirt—

Stunned, I stop short as he wraps the wings around the girl, enclosing her in a cage of sleek feathers the color of snow.

Her screams are barely audible now, but my voice is plenty loud. “Jordan—stop!”

One white wing whips back as he half turns. He’s taller than Bo I realize now, more muscular. Excitement gleams in his eyes like stars in a night sky. Before I have time to hate him for it, my attention rivets on the girl, who’s gasping for breath.

“What’s wrong with her—what did you do to her? She needs help!”

But Jordan doesn’t help. He remains motionless for a moment, one wing aside—so I can see. Then he seals her panting mouth with his, his body shuddering with sensation. The girl struggles, legs scissoring—

I scream—

Her head drops back—and he lets her slip from the circle of his arms. Her body hits the carpet of pine needles beneath the tree with a soft thud.

Jordan wipes his mouth. “Too quick. Guess I was hungry.”

To me the girl’s struggle lasted forever. This moment, too, stretches out—as I stare down at her white face, her pale, swollen lips—time becoming an elongated thing.

But Jordan’s smile is whip fast. “What do you think I should do? Get her to water?”

I gape at him. A million years later I say, “Water? She’s dead.”

“Well, technically, yeah. But I still have a few minutes. I could probably help her—”

“Help her, then!” The possibility seems to wake me, and I crouch next to the girl.

“Jordan, please, you have to—”

Swiftly he lifts the girl to her useless feet.

Then he says, “Nah.”

And yanks her head to one side.

My horror magnifies the sound of her neck snapping, making it loud as a gunshot.

“Just in case,” he says. Then he lets the girl drop, and gives her a shove with his foot, rolling her farther into the woods that ring the lot. “We’ll let the morning crew find her.”

“Morning crew?” I stare at him, my hands clenching and unclenching. Inept fists hanging at the ends of my arms. I don’t dare hit him, though I want to, so badly.

“What are you worried about? She’s a runaway. Or maybe you’re worried about me, is that it? Don’t be. Jacques is an old buddy of mine—he knows the drill. His club in New York is much bigger than this one.”

“His club. In New York. Are you saying . . . there are Sirens in New York City?”

“Disposal’s a much bigger issue down there. Although, a big city has its advantages.” With a rush of wind, Jordan’s wings vanish and he stands with his savage smile, his shirt hanging around him in tatters. “But let’s talk about you, Arion Rush. What are
you
doing here?”

“I—I—”

Jordan grabs my hand and pulls me farther into the trees. His eyes shine in the dark like some kind of jungle cat, but his voice as he says my name again—
“Arion Rush”
—is so soft. There’s no growl at all. And for a second, I think I’m mistaken—
have
to be wrong—about what I’ve seen.

But then he speaks again.

“So, has my brother found a way to have sex with you yet? A way to take ‘just a little’ of your breath?” Jordan’s laugh is mirthless. “Not only is his ‘experiment’ ridiculous, but, really, who has that kind of patience? Fuck ’em and suck ’em, I say.”

God, he’s going to kill me
.

“But you didn’t—you didn’t—” My tongue trips as I stall for time.

“Didn’t fuck her? Please, in a parking lot? You surprise me. Such a public place. Although—” Jordan breaks off, rubbing the golden stubble along his jawline as if considering some kind of dilemma. “I did kill her here, didn’t I? That was tactless.”

Abruptly he pulls me up against him. “But I haven’t done anything to
you
yet.”

“Please!”

“Please?”

“Please don’t!”

He mimics me, then says, “You’re Bo’s toy. If I kill you, he won’t get his questions answered. And you know how that feels, don’t you? I’ve heard you’re a very curious girl, that you ask all kinds of questions.

“But you’re going to forget your questions now, at least the ones you have about me. About this night. About this place.” He grips my upper arms, bends his face close to mine. I feel his lips brush my ear as his music winds around me, a snaking melody that makes my skin ripple with pleasure. My mind begins to muddy, like the tidal waters of the bay where they bump up against the edge of the woods.

“Where’s my brother, Arion?” Jordan whispers. “Where’s Bo?”

Bo.
Something wordless and heavy drops into the deep water hole, the abandoned wishing well my stomach has become.
Splashhh . . .
the heavy thing knocks against my insides.

Jordan’s voice grows sharp. “He did bring you here—sick bastard that he is—didn’t he?”

“I brought her.”

Logan appears from between the blue shadows of the trees. “And I’m taking her home.” Glaring at Jordan—who has released me with a soft sound of surprise—he holds out one hand.

Slowly, I take it, looking back and forth between the two boys. Wondering—

Why in the world are the three of us standing out here in the woods?

FIRE DRILL

When I wake up, my head is hazy. An emotional hangover, that’s what it feels like. Between the trauma of seeing Jordan—I can’t remember
why
it had been so horrible to see him, but it had—the uncomfortable ride home with Logan—me, insisting it wasn’t Bo’s brother who’d upset me, him insisting it was—and, of course, being truly upset about Bo, I almost decide to stay in bed.

Mary
does
stay in bed, which is why I miss homeroom, and my first class.

Last night, she said she’d pick me up for school. When I got home, I told Dad.

Ensconced in the living room at one end of the couch, newspapers spread out around him, he looked at me over the top of his reading glasses. I was sure he was going to comment on the time—midnight—or worse, my condition—blurry. That was how I felt at the end of the night. Not drunk. Not even tipsy. Just—like my head was filled with clouds.

But he only said, “Glad you found a place to play. Do I get to come hear you next time?”

“Um—” I have no idea what I said then, but I’m fairly certain I followed it with something about sleep.

I don’t even remember climbing the stairs.

Now, thankfully, this dragging day is coming to a close. School is nearly over, and we’re on the way to our last class.

Mary starts to say something about Hive, about how weird the club is, when a loud ringing obliterates her words. Fire drill.

Crowds of students propel us down the hall toward the front of the school, where we become separated. As I’m swept out of the building and onto the steps, I see Bo in the parking lot, standing next to the blue Mercedes, scanning the swell of faces, watching students spill down the stairs, across the driveway, and onto the front lawn.

God, I can
feel
him from here. Feel the pull of him. I
have
to talk to him.

While I’m trying to figure out how to get to Bo, Logan appears beside me and follows my gaze.

“What the hell is Summers doing here?”

The fire alarm blares deafeningly, and suddenly, after days of keeping my feelings in check, I lose it, rounding on Logan. “What
is
it, Logan? What do you have against him?”

“You mean besides the fact that he’s messing with your head? Besides the fact that he shows up at your gig, then hardly talks to you, just fucks you with his eyes?” Exiting students flow past Logan like a river around a rock. The bell continues its incessant clanging.

I stand on tiptoe, trying to get a better look at Bo, but a fresh surge of students coming out of the building blocks my view. Logan yanks on my sleeve, says something I can’t hear.

I jerk my arm away—finally catching Bo’s eye. He lifts a hand, but is he waving me over? Waving goodbye? Throngs of students surround me like an unsettled sea.

My ears ring. The bell rings. Logan grabs my hand, pulls me down the steps and across the driveway. I catch a glimpse of Bo’s frowning face through the crowd.

“Logan, let me go!”

He releases me immediately. “Just tell me what’s going on with you and Summers—have you slept with him?”

“
What?
Logan—” Craning my neck, I see Bo open the passenger door of the car. He bends down, speaking to whoever’s inside. Then he scans the crowd once more—before climbing in and closing the door.

“Guess that’s my answer,” Logan jeers. “You can’t take your eyes off the guy.”

The shrill ringing ceases abruptly, and the principal appears at the front doors along with the superintendent. I see Mary, and trot toward her. Logan follows me. The superintendent begins speaking through a megaphone, gesturing to the students, who scurry to clean up their scraggly lines.

Fire trucks come racing down Hook Avenue and swerve into the driveway. An ambulance is next, followed by the sheriff and two police cars, blue lights spinning.

The Mercedes drives away.

“Your boyfriend probably saw the cops and thought he was finally gonna get busted.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? And
what
is your problem?” I snap, unable to hear myself think over the wailing emergency vehicles.

“
My problem?
You’re into Summers, and I’m the one with a problem? I don’t think so.” Logan looks away, as if searching for someone to complain to. “Why don’t they turn off the damn sirens?” he mutters. I nearly groan at the irony.

The lights stop flashing and the screams of the rescue vehicles peter out, but as soon as they do, the fire alarm begins ringing again. Students laugh, sitting down in the sun, stretching out on the grass. Logan shakes his head at me.

“You want me to say I’m the one with the problem, Logan? Fine. I have a problem, lots of problems, whatever. I
meant
, what is
your
problem with Bo? Why do you hate him?” Lowering my voice, I say, “You can’t possibly think, that just because—”

“You want me to tell you why I hate him? ’Cause I didn’t think you wanted to know.”

I stare at him. “Why wouldn’t I want to know?”

He shrugs. “You haven’t listened to a word I’ve said about the guy so far.”

“What do you mean?” I blink, still angry, now puzzled.

“Oh, c’mon! I’ve—Okay, how about this. Did you ever ask him about the
Lucky
?”

My stomach drops. “I told you, I learned about that boat from my dad. He asked me not to talk about it. He said he didn’t want me to fuel any rumors.” But ever since the bonfire I’ve wondered how Logan knew about the
Lucky
. Wanting only to forget the doomed boat and the fate of its four passengers, I’ve never asked. Now, thinking maybe I can turn the tide of the argument in a different direction, any direction to give Logan a chance to cool down, I do ask.

“How’d you hear about the
Lucky
anyway?”

“Old police radio.”

“Like ours?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. I’ve never seen yours.” He lets his eyes travel down my body.

“You’re funny. Tell me about the radio.”

“I got it after Nick—I got it last year. I have it rigged, set on the Coast Guard’s digital classified information output channel.”

“But—you can’t get that signal.
We
can’t even get that signal.”

Logan looks off across the lawn.

“Wow, that’s seriously illegal, National Security type stuff. How did you—hold it—
hacking
?”

“What, didn’t know I could speak geek?” Logan’s lips lift on one side. “Everybody’s got a secret. No one at the bonfire believed me—thanks for not sticking up for me, by the way—not that I care. What pisses me off is that the mayor, the Coast Guard, your dad even, they’re keeping a lid on the whole thing.”

I cringe, feeling guilty—and confused. “Why? To protect tourism in Rock Hook?”

“To protect the Summers.”

“What does the
Lucky
have to do with them?”

“Another disappearing act. Summers Cove, Devil’s Claw. Same difference. It all belongs to them.” His voice grows hard. “I told you to stay away from Summers, as nicely as I could.”

“But
why
?”

“I told you! Something’s not right with him, with that whole family. I swear, I—” Logan’s chest heaves. “They—” He bows his head.

“They what?” I try to draw on my anger, as if it might provide some sort of support, something to keep the panic buzzing like a swarm of bees in my belly from stinging me to death. Out of the corner of my eye I see people watching us. I don’t care. The fire alarm continues to peal relentlessly. “They
what
,
Logan? They—are interesting? They—are
different
?” Logan can’t possibly know that Bo is a Siren, so what
does
he know? Why does he hate Bo and his family so much? “What is it, Logan? Honestly, you can’t possibly believe—”

“They killed Beth.”

“No—” Lurching forward, I clap a hand over his mouth. The fire alarm finally stops ringing. Someone says something about a lover’s quarrel. The bell for last period rings, instantly followed by the bell signaling dismissal.
“Fastest class ever!”
one boy shouts. Dropping my hand, I step closer to Logan, my trembling body nearly against his. “That’s. Not. Possible.”

He stares at me. I stare back. In a second we’re engaged in a ridiculous, childish staring contest. The small group watching us gets tired of waiting to see what we’ll do next and wanders away. Briefly I wonder if they expected us to come to blows. Logan looks pissed enough. But he pulled me down the stairs—he said what he said. I’m angry too.

“Don’t let Summers’ stunt at Seal Cove fool you. Just because he ‘saved’ you, doesn’t mean he didn’t kill Beth and fuck up my brother. He—his family—they did something to Nick, something bad. So bad Nick felt like he couldn’t come home.”

My hands are shaking, in part because I have my own fears about Bo. But he’s a Siren, not a monster—although I feel sure somehow that I saw his brother do something monstrous. Only, that’s ridiculous. Other than being subjected to Jordan’s chilly gaze at Sign of the Mermaid, I haven’t seen him do anything.

Poor Logan—his brother’s dead. He can’t accept that. He has to fight off his black-eyed dog somehow, so he blames Bo and his family for Nick’s death—and for Beth’s—because the two drowned at the Summers’ beach.

“Logan, I know what you’re saying isn’t—likely, but if you’ll just tell me
why
you think Bo and his family were somehow involved in—in what happened to Nick and Beth, I’m sure I can—”

“You can what? Try to make me believe like everyone else that Beth’s body just ‘washed away’? That my brother is dead, and his body washed away too?” He speaks slowly now, as if my IQ has dropped. “Arion. The Summers said they found my brother. And Beth. That they found their bodies,
saw
them, floating, in front of
their house
, and then . . .” He glowers at me.

“Then what?”

“They lost them. How do you lose a friggin’ body? But the bigger question? Is why they killed her.”

“But they didn’t! Why would they?”

“Why would they?” Logan repeats. His laugh is a corkscrew, a curling thing with sharp edges. “Maybe ’cause she saw them break my brother, break him so badly he couldn’t even let me know where he was going, why he was leaving—”

“Logan! Please. You have to stop. Your brother . . . is dead. The Summers didn’t—”

“You’re in love with the guy, Rush. What the hell do you know? You’re just like everyone else around here now. Telling me I’m in denial. Drinking the Kool-Aid. The Summers and their celebrity star power—go ahead, lap it up.”

Feeling as if he’s delivered a blow to my body, I watch, unmoving, as he sprints away across the lawn.