Page 35 of Sea of Evil and Desire (The Deep Saga #1)

33

Morgana

B oxes towered to the attic’s ceiling, papers littered the floor, and broken furniture was scattered among dusty statues and rolled-up carpets. My grandmother’s old dresser—the twin of the one in my room—stood among the clutter.

A single small window struggled to illuminate the gloom, its light swallowed by stacks of boxes. Dust motes swirled in the sliver of sun, and I needed artificial light even though it was daytime.

It had been a week since I left the watery realm behind, but I found it hard to forget. Every morning, I awoke in a sweat from dreams of deep darkness.

Thoughts of Finn and our kiss plagued my mind, but I would make myself so busy doing chores for Granddad to escape them. I had scrubbed every inch of the house to keep my mind off the deep—and Finn’s salty embrace—but now, the attic awaited me.

I felt so many things when we kissed—anger, confusion, guilt—but mostly, I wanted him in a way I’d never felt before.

Sometimes, images of Teachie and Rackham and what they’d done filled my mind, making my heart clamor as if trying to escape my body, just as I had wanted to escape them. My thoughts were a tangle of fear the pirates had instilled and new desires Finn had awoken within me.

I had started thinking of Finn in the early mornings and before falling asleep: how he’d pulled me into him, the hardness of his cock pressed between our bodies—a desire that I had wanted to evoke in him, unlike the pirates.

As I slid my hand between my legs and felt wetness there, I clung to these images for fleeting relief, but that’s all they could ever be. After my desires faded, searing anger took its place. Finn was engaged, so even kissing him was wrong. He knew it, too. He had said I was wrong, and we were wrong.

Shaking away the rage that had flared at the thought of Finn, I drew a deep breath, and pried open the top box from one of the stacks. Photographs spilled out, and a black-and-white picture of my grandparents’ wedding caught my eye. Granddad wore a kilt, smiling as he held my grandmother’s arm.

Granddad and I still didn’t talk much, but our relationship had deepened. Our silences were no longer awkward; we understood each other. The morning after he told me the story of my grandmother’s fur coat, we’d had breakfast in the little kitchen.

“I’m not going back,” I told him. Though my words were quiet, my tone was firm.

He only nodded and surveyed the purple bruises the pirates had left on my cheeks.

My grandmother stood taller than him in the photograph, even in flats, and her thick, dark hair was swept into a bun. She was smiling too, but her gaze had a vacant sadness. I wondered why I hadn’t noticed it before; her grin was wide, but her eyes were distant. They were off somewhere else, not at this wedding, accompanying her smile.

I shuffled through the rest of the pile. The pictures were all like this. The look in her large brown eyes was absent even when she cuddled her daughter or laughed. Had she borne the same shoulder marking as I had now?

So many questions bubbled up, ones I wished I could have asked her.

“I have seen what you’ve seen and chose to come back,” I whispered, running my finger across the photo’s shiny surface.

I stacked the pictures neatly and placed them in a new box labeled “KEEP.”

Memories of my grandmother drew my attention to her dresser. Its three expansive mirrors were now covered in dust. I picked my way across the cluttered floor and reached for a drawer. The handle detached when I pulled it, so I set it aside and pried the drawer open from beneath. It was filled with jewelry—an Aztec cuff, little bell earrings that looked like they were from India, and pearls of all different colors and sizes.

The beaded strands were tangled, and as I lifted their mass, I noticed something underneath—a small leather-bound book. “Diary” was embossed on the cover in gilded lettering.

Excitement clawed its way up my throat, but I pushed it down as I carefully retrieved the book. I flicked through the pages. There is writing!

There wasn’t much, though. I flicked further, but the diary was mostly unused. I opened it to the first entry. The handwriting was messy and childish, but legible.

July 3, 1970

Robbie is sweet, caring, and everything the women in town say I am supposed to marry. I know he feels guilty about what he did—I can see it in his eyes whenever I talk to him. But his love overpowers his guilt, and he will never be able to let me go.

I maintain my powers of intuition, even in human form. Sometimes, I still have predictions, which makes me happy and sad. These skills seem meaningless here. I don’t want to sense what time the mailman will be arriving or that the lady next door is having an affair. I want to feel the current change when a storm is brewing or know what Abalone is feeling so I can counsel her. I wonder if I will begin to miss it less, but I don’t think that will ever happen. The smell will always drift in through the windows, and the waves whisper in my ear as I sleep, calling me home. It’s been a year now, and I miss Abalone the most. Despite knowing it is unsafe for me to return, I have searched high and low for my skin, but Robbie has hidden it well, as I suspected he would.

I put the book down and stared at the dust swirling in the sliver of light from the window. What did she mean, “I suspected he would”? The diary’s soft leather was warm in my clammy hands, and I could remember my grandmother’s voice again. It was gentle yet musical, like the sighing of the sea.

July 7, 1970

Robbie gave me this book. He said humans use them to write what they feel or what has happened in their day. He said it would help with my English. I only seem to write memories; the things I do nowadays aren’t beautiful. They are dreary and not worth writing.

Without my skin, I am aging like a human—I notice fine lines under my eyes that weren’t there before.

Robbie taught me how to read and write and brought me beautiful books on the sea, but these gifts do not ease the pain.

When I think of what to write, Abalone comes to mind again. She was from the Kingdom of Thálassa—the smallest of the Mer clans and the closest descendants to ā? tlanticus. After the last of my family succumbed to the Shadow, they embraced me as one of their own. Abalone became like a daughter to me, so I accompanied her to the House of Neptūnus when she was sent to unite the kingdoms through marriage.

Today, I smell the salt in the air, and I remember . . . I can see Abalone so clearly. No mermaid could surpass her beauty. Her long purple hair billowed in the swell, and her tail was a glistening green, but it shined fuchsia as she moved in the emerald water.

Sometimes, Abalone and I would walk on land together. When she was with me, we ventured further than the shore. We hid in the hills, watching the women in town in their stifling dresses and pitying them. It’s funny and sad, because now I wear dresses like those women.

I enjoyed going ashore and taking my human form. Under the sea, I was a seal, but ashore, I was a seductive woman. I liked how men like Robbie stumbled when they saw me. The first day I met Robbie, he had a lust in his eyes that I knew he couldn’t control. This scared me until I needed to use it.

August 8, 1970

Today, I remember how Taranis, King Merrik Neptūnus V’s half-brother, used to watch Abalone. Taranis was always a timid merman. He had the Neptūnus family’s dark lashes and brows, but his hair was sandy. His tail was opal white, almost transparent. He was a fearsome and sickly beauty.

King Merrik’s father, Aalto Neptūnus, was slain in the Battle of Port Royal. Afterward, Queen Vaiana Neptūnus is said to have taken a lover—a knight from another kingdom—before succumbing to the Shadow.

With their mother gone, King Merrik never let Taranis forget he was only his half-brother. He constantly sent him off on errands, as if punishing him for his late mother’s indiscretions.

Then, King Merrik sent Taranis away on official business. When he returned, he was different. At times, he was still the timid man I remembered, but other times, a darkness clung to him. Whispers spread that he had learned powerful magic during his time away. Occasionally, he would watch Abalone like before, but other times, his gaze seemed filled with hatred.

On the day that Abalone set her wedding date with King Merrik, I found her crying. As she sobbed, flashes of Taranis kept appearing to me. It wasn’t just him wanting her. I saw a scene in which they embraced:

“Amor perdot nos,” he whispered as he held her. “Love destroys us.”

Abalone stroked his pale face and looked bravely into his red-rimmed eyes. “You will get through this,” she whispered.

I couldn’t read the thoughts of the other Mer; their magic shielded them from me. With Abalone, it was different—I could glimpse her thoughts when she let her guard down, likely because of how close we were.

A reverberating clang dragged me from my grandmother’s world. As the house jolted, I dropped the diary. An echo accompanied it, then silence. Dread pooled in my stomach.

Peering through the dusty window, I saw the sky was clear. But something wasn’t right; it was too loud, too close. I hesitated, looking at the unfinished diary, then scrambled down the attic’s narrow stairs and out the front door.

A few people had emerged on my grandparents’ street, drawn by the same sound, their faces etched with concern. They shielded their eyes, gazing toward the cliff where Bayside stood above the docks. Shit .

I started jogging toward Bayside, toward Skye and Finn. More people had come out from their houses and were standing there, staring. Cars with flashing sirens rushed past me. A stitch prodded my side.

Don’t stop. Keep going .

I sprinted up the winding concrete path, its steep incline pulling at my breath as the pain in my side refused to relent. When I reached the center, I was breathless and heaving, wiping sweat from my brow.

The lane leading to the eateries was filled with people. The shop assistants must have rushed out to investigate the noise. I pushed my way through them, looking for Skye and Finn. The restaurant owned by Aranare’s family was closed, cordoned off by red-and-white tape. A dark-haired man stood beneath the carriage-less Ferris wheel, looking up at it. I recognized his khaki-colored jacket, black jeans, and lace-up boots. Finn .

What was he doing?

“Morgana!” I heard Skye’s squeal before I saw her.

I turned as she emerged from the crowd, teetering in knee-high black boots, arms open for an embrace.

“What happened?” I turned back to the wheel. Some men in yellow hard hats rushed past, and Finn was gone.

“No one knows. It was like a mini earthquake over there or something.” She let go of me. “Oh, Morgana. I thought you had gone back to America without saying goodbye. But Finn said you’d be back.” She took my hands in hers. Her nails were pearly acrylics with little diamantes on them.

Finn said I would be back, did he? A flicker of anger reignited inside me. It was time I stopped avoiding the situation.

“I miss having lunch with you.” Skye sighed. Her hair was still shiny and perfect, but I noticed a hint of purple under her right eye.

“Did you get hurt?” I reached out to touch the bruise.

“No one was hurt. The ground just trembled.” She brushed me away.

“But what happened to your face?” I pressed, realizing the bruise was old. She had tried to cover it with foundation.

“It hasn’t been easy living with Parker . . .” There was a heaviness behind her reflective eyes, and I sensed the sadness in her. I hadn’t noticed it before amid the heightened emotions of the many onlookers. “It’s nothing.” She picked at her nails, avoiding my gaze.

“Parker did this to you? That fucker!” I balled my fists, thinking of Rackham and Teachie.

“Don’t, Morgana . . .” She lifted her eyes to meet mine again.

“Do you want to come and stay at mine for a while?” My throat ached as her sadness washed over me.

“He was just stressed from work. It won’t happen again. I’d been out shopping all day and forgot to clean the house. It was my fault.” She hung her head.

“Oh, Skye.” I sighed, reaching for her hands again. “This was not your fault.” Although my bruises had faded, I knew what it was like to be bullied by someone stronger.

“Don’t start with me, please!” Skye’s voice broke; it was high-pitched and desperate. Once, I had sensed that she was unaware of her sadness. Now, it consumed her. It overpowered me, and I faltered under its weight.

“Are you okay?” She leaned forward and looked at me with sincerity.

I pulled myself together. “If you ever need a place to stay—”

“I’m fine.” She pulled her sweaty palm out of my grasp, her voice pleading with me to drop it. “I saw Aranare earlier—he was shirtless, fixing something on the roof. The muscles on that guy!” A flicker of happiness permeated her despair.

“Someone’s got a bit of a crush.”

“Speaking of love, you should try to catch Finn before he leaves.” She winked at me.

“What do you mean leaves? I just saw him.” I looked toward the wheel again, but there was no sign of him. Fluorescent-shirted workmen were checking it over like flies on a carcass, but its skeletal circle seemed unscathed by the tremor.

“He told me this morning he was returning home for a while. Something about his father. Honestly, the way that guy talks . . .”

“Oh.” My heart sank to the soles of my feet. That must have been what he was trying to tell me.

“Go.” She nudged me.

There was no one in the pawnshop, so I feigned browsing, running my finger across the nearest ornament on the dusty counter—a silver box with Celtic designs carved on the lid. It contained a variety of trinkets: green glass beads, heart-shaped lockets, and rings in multiple colors. Draped over the edge, necklaces jostled for space. One piece drew my attention—a silver chain featuring a detailed key pendant. Its head was embellished with raised spirals, caressing a heart crafted from a plain stone.

Voices were coming from the back room, and I let the key fall from my fingers.

“It couldn’t be done. I’m going to tell my father,” Finn’s voice said.

I battled the warmth that bloomed within me at hearing his familiar tone.

“Your uncle will know it was us, so stay vigilant,” Mr. Inegar growled.

“I am nothing if not vigilant.” Finn scoffed.

“The girl. I fear you’re getting reckless . . .” I could hear Mr. Inegar’s sneer.

I stiffened. Were they speaking about his fiancée?

“Watch yourself, old man.”

The voices went silent, and Mr. Inegar appeared behind the glass counter, Finn on his heels.

“Can I help you?” Mr. Inegar leered at me from under bushy brows.

“I—” I locked eyes with Finn, but his face fell into a mask colder than any I’d seen him wear.

Mr. Inegar glanced between us, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. I couldn’t sense his feelings. I never had. I just hadn’t noticed, because he made no effort to hide them.

“Can we talk?” I tried to smile at Finn, but his face remained stony.

Mr. Inegar continued to scowl.

“I can’t talk to you right now. I’m busy.” Finn’s words were flat and cutting. His expression didn’t falter as he turned away from me and marched out the back of the shop.

Mr. Inegar continued to glower at me, and I remembered the coins. I scanned the dusty counter, but the bowl had disappeared.

“Where are the coins that were here?” I searched the jumbled contents beneath the glass.

“Must have sold ’em.” The man’s sharp eyes were tracking my every movement.

“You told me they weren’t for sale!” I dragged my gaze across the shelves behind him, but they were nowhere to be seen.

“Well, that was you, wasn’t it?” Mr. Inegar began placing items under the glass as if worried I might reach for them next.

I turned on my heel and slammed the door in my wake, my hands curling into fists. I had pondered Finn’s possible reactions to our kiss, but this . . . this was worse than anything I had imagined.