Siren's Storm (19 page)

Will flipped through the pages that followed, but they were all blank. At the back of the journal was tucked a brittle old newspaper clipping, yellowed with age. A corner broke off as Will unfolded it, gently flattening it against the page. He let his palms rest against the book for an extra moment, hoping they would stop shaking.

He looked down at the newspaper clipping.

Will stopped reading. He didn’t need to know more—he knew already that the log raised more questions than it answered.

Is that what Asia is? One of those
—things?
Those things in the water …

He looked out the window, toward the horizon, at the unseen ocean beyond. Will imagined that he could hear their subtle whisper. The endless pounding and sucking of the waves. Suddenly the ocean itself seemed like a devouring creature. He’d grown up near the water—he’d spent endless hours in the waves, splashing and playing. He’d never been a sand castle maker—maybe that was why he’d never paid attention to the sea’s destructive power. But over the past year, he’d begun to have trouble seeing it in any other light.

Will crossed the room quickly. He opened his bottom drawer and pulled out the flute. The instrument was roughly the length of his forearm, and he shivered as a thought occurred to him. Was this—could it be—a human bone? Was this the remnant of some frightened sailor, dragged to the bottom of the sea?

That’s stupid
, Will told himself. But—what about Asia’s voice, the one that had stopped Jason in his tracks? What about that strange, melancholy song that Gretchen had been humming recently? Did that mean anything?

Will shuddered. He wished more than ever that he could talk to Tim. Will’s brother had always known what to do. He was smart and practical. Somehow, if Tim had just been there to tell Will that he was acting crazy, Will knew that he would have believed it. Then he could just stop looking for answers. And if Tim had thought that Will
wasn’t
crazy, well, that would have helped, too. But there was no one else he could really trust with this information. He couldn’t tell Angus. And he didn’t want to tell Gretchen—she had enough problems.

There was a hole in the world where his brother used to be.

When Gretchen stepped outside that night, there was a figure on her doorstep. She took a quick step backward in surprise and fear—for a moment, she didn’t recognize the broad, square shoulders, the shaggy, shoulder-length hair streaked with blond. She realized who it was a moment before he turned to look at her. In profile, she could see the boy he used to be—the long, straight nose, peeling slightly with the usual
summer burn, the fine, high slant of a cheekbone, the familiar denim blue of his eye. And then she saw his full face, which had grown chiseled and taut over the past year, and the familiar scar that tore from forehead to cheekbone. Gretchen realized that Will was taller than she was, even though he was standing a step below her.

He held her eyes for a moment, and Gretchen dared to imagine that he was thinking the same thoughts she was. And then he opened his lips and said, “What do you know about mermaids?”

The question was so unexpected—so far from her own thoughts—that it rocketed her back to the present with the speed and weight of a falling meteor. It crashed into her mind, and she laughed. “Da seaweed is always greenah,” Gretchen sang in a Jamaican accent, just like the spunky crab in the Disney movie, “in somebody else’s lake. You t’ink about goin’ up dere, but—”

“I’m serious.” Will’s face was unusually stony, and the words withered on Gretchen’s lips.

“You’re serious?” she repeated. She wanted to add,
About mermaids?
but Will’s expression was grave.

“Have you ever heard any local stories?”

“Local? No.” She shook her head. “No …”

“You just thought of something.” Will stepped up to the porch. He looked down at her. “What?”

“Stop reading my mind.” A flash of annoyance shot through Gretchen.

“It’s not your mind I can read—it’s your face.” He put a warm hand on her shoulder. “Please tell me.”

“Well, they aren’t exactly
mermaid
tales. But I was
just remembering the stories Sally used to tell.” Sally had been Gretchen’s nanny when she was young. She was a local woman whose family had lived in Walfang for generations.

“Sally.” Will nodded, remembering. “Is that why you were always afraid of the bay?”

Gretchen shrugged. “Probably.”

“Okay. So tell me.”

“She just never wanted me to go down to the water, that’s all. She claimed the sea witch could get me.”

“What sea witch?”

“She would drag children to her undersea cave. Sally used to say that the witch could control the weather and waves, and she’d get angry and irritable when the days got shorter, at the end of the summer. Anyway, I always thought she was just making it up to scare me, so that we wouldn’t have to go down to the beach. Sally never liked going to the beach over here. She’d never take me swimming in the bay.” Gretchen remembered how Sally’s wrinkled face would set into a firm mask of resistance at the mention of the bay. She would drive twenty minutes to take Gretchen to the public beach, but she would not take her down to water that was only a five-minute walk away. Sally had dark skin and a heart-shaped face with pronounced cheekbones. Her eyes were almond shaped and dark under thick brows. But she had frosted blond hair streaked with gray, which she wore in a long braid down her back. She had been adamant about the dangers from the witch. “Deadly Sea Woman,” Sally had called her.

Will seemed to absorb this. “Can I talk to her?”

“I think she moved away. To live with her daughter in Georgia, or someplace. I have no idea where she is.”

“Can I borrow your computer?”

“Sure.”

They walked into the living room, where Johnny was plucking a melody on his guitar. It was almost as old as he was—Johnny always composed on the very first guitar he’d ever owned. He never used it for concerts, but he considered it his “creative machine.”

Will waved and Johnny nodded, but he didn’t put down the guitar or give any other acknowledgment that he’d seen Will. He simply went on, playing the melody in his head, filling the house with eerie music. A strange look crossed Will’s face then, and Gretchen wished that she could read his expression as easily as he seemed to read hers.

Gretchen led the way up to her room. It was just the usual chaos—rumpled white quilt halfheartedly straightened across the bed, books and magazines everywhere, a sketchbook open on the floor revealing a study of a wing with hyperarticulated feathers and musculature. And beside it, a painting.
Maybe he won’t notice
, Gretchen thought.

“Where did you get that?” Will asked instantly.

Gretchen felt her face turn red. “It appeared.”

“It
appeared
?”

“Seriously, Will, it just turned up on my bed yesterday.”

“You have to call the police.”

“Won’t the Miller think I stole it?”

Will thought a moment. “I’ll call Angus,” he said. “His uncle Barry can get this sorted out.”

Gretchen nodded. “Would you?” She cast a wary glance at the painting. “The thing gives me the creeps. Who would leave it here? And why?”

“Maybe it’s some sort of message,” Will said slowly.

Gretchen grimaced. “Next time, they can just shoot me a text.”

“I’ll call Angus later,” Will promised. Gretchen flopped onto the bed and watched as Will settled into the chair and the screen leaped to life.

Immediately the chat she’d been having online with her mother appeared. Will’s hand paused over the mouse, and she knew that he’d spotted it. But he didn’t mention it. Instead, he started typing into a search engine. He came up with several pages on sea witches and Long Island.

“What are you finding?”

Will scanned a page. “Not much more than what you told me,” he admitted. “Sea Woman,” he added, half to himself. “She was a giant.” He shrugged. “Not too helpful.”

Gretchen tucked her legs beneath her and leaned against a pillow. “Why do you want to know all of this?”

Will turned to look at her. “How’s your sleepwalking?”

“It’s okay. I mean, I’m still doing it. Dad has to lock me in at night, which is really annoying. But yesterday I woke up curled up at the foot of the door, so I guess it’s a good idea.” She gave a little laugh.

“How do you get out?”

“I call Dad on his cell phone. Wake him up, usually. Then he sets me free.”

“What would you do if there was a fire?”

“Die, I guess.”

“At least you have a plan.”

“I could climb out the window.” There was a maple tree that grew close to the house. The branches were near enough to the window that Gretchen could climb down it if she needed to. In fact, she had done that once or twice. Not that she’d ever had much need to sneak out of the house with her father as her primary caretaker. Gretchen could simply stroll out the front door whenever she felt like it. But when her mother had been living with them, it was a different story.

Guitar notes wafted up to them. It was a sad melody, slow and strangely familiar. Gretchen hummed along, her eyes half closed.

After a moment, she became aware that Will was watching her. “What?”

“You know the tune?”

“I guess.”

“Isn’t Johnny making it up?”

Gretchen realized that she had no explanation for this. “Maybe it sounds like something else.”

“Maybe,” Will said. But he had a look on his face that Gretchen knew well. It was the same look he wore when he had something to say but wasn’t saying it. “Maybe, but maybe not—right?”