Siren's Storm (2 page)

What’s she doing?
Will wondered as he watched her pause briefly at the bottom. She faced the sea, then began to walk toward it.

Salt stung Will’s face as the frigid water reached her ankles.

“Wait!” Will shouted. “Wait!”

But she didn’t pause or even glance toward him as she waded into the water. Will hopped over the rail and raced down the dock, but the water was already up to her waist.

“Stop!”

She turned and looked at him. Her face was awash with confusion, and he thought she would turn back. But she didn’t move. The wind tore the scream from his throat as a wave crashed over her, swallowing her whole. “No!”

Her head did not bob back to the surface as Will raced to the water’s edge. “Wait!” Icy claws tore at his shins as he waded into the water. “No!”

For a moment he thought he saw the thick ropes of her hair. He reached out, but his hand drew back only seaweed. Her head didn’t reappear above the surface.

A wave loomed before him like sheer wall. Will tried to dive into the calmer base of the wave, but it blasted against him like dynamite, knocking him down. For a sickening moment his feet couldn’t find purchase. In the tumble, he’d lost his sense of how to become upright. Churning sand filled his eyes—he couldn’t see. But his fear was lost in his need to find the girl. His arms reached out for her, but she wasn’t there. He couldn’t breathe.…

Suddenly he felt a strong hand on his arm, and a moment later his head broke through to the rainy surface. “Will!” Uncle Carl was there, pulling him toward shore. “Will—are you okay?”

Will tried to speak but sucked in salt water. He coughed violently.

The waves took no pity, continuing their relentless assault. Will’s mind was muddled, but his body held a deep survival instinct. Without thinking, he allowed his uncle to haul him toward shore. They ducked and let the waves pass over them until they were at the breakers. Carl did not let go of him, not even when the waves slithered only to their ankles and they collapsed to their knees on the sandy beach.

“What were you thinking?” Carl shouted as coughs racked Will’s chest. “What the hell were you doing?”

Will shook his head. “I couldn’t—” Another fit of coughing overtook him. The seawater that lined his mouth made him want to gag. But he had to say something. He had to let his uncle know that it wasn’t his fault. “I couldn’t reach her.”

Something flickered in Carl’s eyes—something that Will couldn’t read. “Who?”

Rain lashed at Will’s face; water streamed into his eyes. “The girl with black hair.”

Carl shook his head. “What girl?”

“She was walking into the water. I tried to stop her.” Will gestured to the crashing surf. “She was right there—five yards ahead of me.”

Carl shook his head, but he didn’t say anything else. Will felt his silence like a slap. “You’d better get on home,” Carl said. His voice was calm, quiet. He stood up and yanked Will’s hand, pulling him to his feet. “I’ll finish up on the boat.”

“I came out to help you,” Will protested. His voice felt feeble as it rose from his throat, and was made even thinner in the wild air.

“You get on home,” Carl repeated. “Take my car; I’ll take the truck.” He patted Will on the back with a hand like an anchor. “I’ll be there soon.” He looked deeply into Will’s eyes for a moment, then turned and started across the sand.

Will felt sick as he stared out at the coal-gray water that roared at him.
What happened?
A large
wave crashed at the break point, then smoothed and reached toward him like an arm unfolding. It grabbed at his feet, then retreated and sank wearily into the sand. There was no sign of life beyond the breakers. The water held no trace of his struggle to save the girl, no record that she had ever been there at all.

There was water all around her. She couldn’t see the horizon, and somehow she knew the shore was a long way off. She wasn’t sure how she’d gotten here.

The moon shone down on the calm black water. The stars were out—more stars than she had ever seen before, like a blanket of diamonds. And the constellations were strange. She wondered where she was.

Farther in
, her mind whispered.
Farther in
.

She swam forward, then stopped, treading water. Something brushed her arm, and she drew it away quickly. The movement caused a splash that sounded deafening in the silence of the dark sea.

She became aware that the edge of the horizon had shifted slightly. A black shape had blotted out part of the stars—a mountain. She swam toward it, wondering how she could have missed noticing it before.

She concentrated on swimming, but her arms were tired. She looked up, expecting to feel despair at
the mountain’s distance. But, surprisingly, it seemed much closer now. She was making progress.

She redoubled her efforts, moving with great effort through the sea. The next time she looked up, she realized that the mountain was almost on top of her.

But it was no mountain.

She struggled against the water in a desperate attempt to swim backward, but it was useless. The wave slammed against her. She was caught in the giant wall of water. Claws scraped at her face, her legs. The tsunami had churned up so much debris that driftwood and pieces of shell scratched and bit at her like living things.

Her lungs strained.

I have to swim toward the surface
, she thought. But there was another voice in her mind.
Down
, it whispered,
down
.

And then she saw the eyes. They gleamed through the dark water like silver coins at the bottom of a pool. Then—teeth. They revealed themselves slowly in a dangerous, razor-like grin. “Gretchen,” the thing said.

Gretchen tried to cry out, but her mouth filled with water.

An arm reached toward her, grabbing her shoulder in a grip that burned like a brand. “Gretchen,” the thing repeated. “Gretchen!”

“Gretchen!”

The voice changed, deepened.

“Gretchen!”

And suddenly a man stood before her. Wild hair, dark eyes, black goatee, a strange dark mark like a
flower near his temple. Water streamed down his face like tears. “Gretchen!” he cried.

She pressed her palms against his chest. “Dad?” Gretchen looked around. She wasn’t in the water. There were boards beneath her bare feet. She looked down at her dark blue T-shirt and plaid pajama bottoms. Her clothes were sticking to her limply. “I’m all wet.”

“It’s still raining,” Johnny said as water lashed the porch. “The storm hasn’t passed yet. Are you okay?” Creases appeared at the corners of his dark eyes. It was an expression Gretchen’s father wore often lately—he looked worried.

“I’m fine.” Gretchen glanced out over the front yard. It looked like the storm had already taken out one of the smaller weeping willows on the edge of the creek that ran through their property. Even in the darkness, Gretchen could see limbs littered across her front lawn. “Why am I on the porch?” she asked. “What time is it?”

“Midnight,” Johnny said. Naturally, Gretchen’s father was still wearing his jeans and faded concert T-shirt. He didn’t go to bed before three in the morning most nights.

“I thought you were asleep,” he said. Then, hesitating, “I mean—I guess you were.”

“It’s been five weeks,” Gretchen said. Since the last sleepwalking incident, she meant. That was nearly a record.

“Why are we still standing out here?” Johnny took her elbow and guided her through the front door. “Do
you want some cocoa, or something? It’s chilly.” He grabbed a cashmere throw from the faded couch and swept it over her shoulders. He touched her chin gently, then led the way toward the kitchen. Gretchen’s cat, Bananas, took one look at her and skittered under the couch.

“Thanks for the support,” Gretchen told the cat.

The house was warm and comfortable, but Gretchen kept the blanket around her shoulders. Her father liked to cluck and fuss over her, and she knew it made him happy to think that he was keeping her warm, even though Gretchen hardly ever felt cold. All winter long she would wander the streets of Manhattan with only a light jacket and no hat. It drove her father crazy. Even here, in the summer house, he kept jackets in the hallway and blankets on the couches. “Just in case,” he said. Unlike her, Johnny was cold-blooded.

Gretchen sat down at the wooden table in the breakfast nook as her father walked to the cupboard. She looked around the cozy kitchen.
I could live here all year
. The thought was comforting … especially since it was starting to look like she’d have to.

Johnny stood staring at the cupboards. He looked baffled.

“Cold,” Gretchen said.

“What? You’re cold?”

“No—you are,” Gretchen told him.

Johnny looked at her quizzically as he touched the lotus tattoo on his temple.

“Wrong cupboard,” Gretchen explained. “Ice cold.”

Johnny scooted to the right.

“Warmer,” Gretchen told him.

He moved farther to the right.

“Warmer. Warmer. Getting hot.”

Johnny opened the cupboard and rummaged around on the middle shelf until he found the cocoa. He leaned against the counter, studying the label. “But this is for baking,” he said.

Gretchen sighed. “Let me do it.”

“I can make cocoa,” Johnny protested.

“Right.” Gretchen rolled her eyes and shook the blanket from her shoulders. “Just like you can cook chicken.”

“The fire department guy said they handled fires like that all the time,” her father protested as she took the cocoa from his hand.

Johnny was pretty famous for his incompetence in the kitchen. The gourmet meals they’d enjoyed when Yvonne—Gretchen’s mother—was behind the apron had devolved to boxes of mac and cheese and Chinese takeout in the years since she had moved out. But Gretchen didn’t care. She had always hated fancy food.

“He was clearly a Johnny Ellis fan,” Gretchen countered as she yanked open the fridge. “He was just being kind.”

“Nobody’s a Johnny Ellis fan,” her dad corrected. “Studio musicians don’t have fans.”

“Oh, please.” The milk hissed softly at the rim as
the pan heated up. “Everyone knows who you’ve recorded with. They’re all hoping that we’ll have a pool party one day and invite all of their favorite rock stars.”

“Well …” Johnny stroked his goatee, pretending to think it over. “We’d have to get a pool … and I’d have to make some friends.”

Gretchen let the sugar fall into the milk in a steady stream. Steam started to rise from the cocoa, and she poured it carefully into two mugs.

“What’s that?” Johnny asked as she passed him a mug. His favorite—the one that said World’s Best Dad.

Gretchen cocked her head. “Cocoa.”

Johnny rolled his eyes. “Yeah—I got it,” he said as he blew across the top of the steaming liquid. “I’m not a total idiot. I
meant
, what’s that song you’re humming?”

Gretchen sat still. She hadn’t even realized she’d been humming. “I don’t know,” she said.

“Hum it again.”

Gretchen tried, but the tune was like sand that slipped through her fingers. “I can’t.”

Johnny shrugged. “Too bad. Could’ve made me a million.”

“Next time,” Gretchen told him. But she wasn’t even sure what she meant.
What next time?

Will looked out his window as the raindrops splattered the glass. It was past midnight, but he couldn’t fall asleep. His mind was whirling with thoughts and images. That girl—he couldn’t get her green eyes out
of his mind. When he closed his eyes, he saw them clearly—luminous, with hypnotic intensity.

Guernsey let out a soft snore from her place at the foot of Will’s bed. Will stroked her gray-flecked black coat softly, so as not to wake her.
Let the old girl sleep
, he thought as the Labrador shifted slightly, dreaming.

Will’s room was directly over the kitchen, and his father’s and uncle’s bass voices floated up to him. When he was a child, Will had always found their talk soothing. Tim had been interested in the parental gossip, but Will tried to listen not to the words but just to the calming drone of the voices, like the crash of the sea. It was hard now, though, since the words were about him.

“You should have seen him.” Carl’s voice was a sigh, and Will could picture his uncle sitting at the ancient wood table, swigging a bottle of non-alcoholic beer. Will’s father always kept the fridge stocked with them in case Carl came over.

Carl had waited until Will’s mother went to sleep to mention anything about the incident on the beach.

Carl is a wise man
, Will thought.
Mom would’ve had to be strapped to something
.

“He looked … well, to be honest with you, Bert, he looked crazy.”

Will’s father let out a soft hissing sound. “It’s the timing.”

“Next week. I know.” There was a gentle clink as Carl set his bottle on the table.