Page 8 of Whispers of the Starlit Sea (Avalore Chronicles #1)

Chapter five

T he cold seeped through him, and Arick turned to hide beneath the covers. He rolled over and the mattress beneath him shifted. His pillow scratched his face, and his blanket was gone. Every muscle ached, and his head felt dull and thick. He fought his way from the depths and forced one eye open.

A stretch of sandy beach greeted him, littered by rocks, driftwood, and other debris.

Why was he asleep on a beach?

He’d been at Thomas’s birthday party, but surely he hadn’t consumed that much wine to end up here. Not even at his graduation at the naval academy had he been so foolish as to drink enough to lose control of his sensibilities.

Memories of the storm came crashing down, and he sat up in a panic.

His stomach and head both protested the movement, and he retched up the saltwater he had swallowed. He flopped back on the sand when he was done.

Where was Thomas? Was everyone okay?

He forced himself upright again. Black spots danced at the edge of his vision. He moved slowly, trying to clear them. He had to get up, had to go find Thomas.

A flicker of light drew his attention to the lighthouse, standing a lonely sentinel on the far clifftop in the gray morning.

The storm had cast him onto the far side of the harbor, and he looked with despair at the city in the distance. Exhaustion settled on him, exacerbating how far he would have to walk.

The sea still showed signs of the turmoil of the night. Pieces of the ship were scattered across the beach and caught on the rocks. He shuddered, not from the cold but from the dread of how anyone could have survived.

No one else was on the beach near him. Only smaller pieces of debris were this far from the water.

How had the storm pushed him so high up on the sand?

It had come up so suddenly — from a near perfect day with a cloudless sky to a storm that had ripped the ship apart.

Only magic could do something like that. He swallowed hard, his throat as rough as the sand.

Magic belonged in old legends, the stories that were told over firelight.

No magic users had been heard of in a hundred years.

But how else could he explain the suddenness of the storm?

The power and frequency of the tempests that had been plaguing the island of late could only have been caused by magic.

The thought made his head hurt. He let it fall to his hand, wincing as his fingers brushed a sore spot. Dry, crusted blood clung to his hair. Looking down, he could see a streak of it on his shirt. His jacket was gone, as were his boots.

He should care more, but he found he couldn’t summon the energy. Thomas needed him. That’s what he was supposed to do.

Get up. Walk to the city. Find out where Thomas was. Yes, he would do that. If only his head weren’t so fuzzy. He closed his eyes against the pain. What had he been trying to do?

He sank back onto the sand, the memory of the ocean singing to him lulling him back to sleep.

Everything ached.

S orcha sat up, shivering. She was wedged between two rocks, which had kept her from being washed out to sea while she slept. But being in the water had never made her cold before. The rocks had caught seaweed and other debris, but she didn’t push it off her, seeking what little warmth it provided.

“Sorcha!” a worried voice called.

“I’m over here!” she cried in relief, blinking at the reflection of the sun on the water.

A moment later, Aunt Maeve appeared around the rock, her face full of worry. When she saw Sorcha, her shoulders dropped, and she let out a deep sigh. “You’re alive.”

Sorcha nodded, her throat tight.

Aunt Maeve stopped some distance from her, the shallow water preventing her from drawing near. “What happened?” she asked softly.

“Ciara dragged me to the surface.” She couldn’t stop the hitch in her voice. “It…it was awful. I’ve never seen a storm that bad. It was unnatural.”

Maeve gave her a hard look. “Why do you say that?”

Sorcha flinched. “I don’t know. It just felt so wrong. Is that what storms are always like on the surface?”

“That’s a topic for another day,” Maeve said. She looked away, her face troubled.

“What is it?” Sorcha demanded. She wanted to go to her aunt, but moving brought pain, and she was so cold.

“Ciara was injured.”

Horror flooded her. “Is she okay? Did she…?”

“She’s fine now.” Her aunt looked like she wanted to say something more, but changed her mind. “How did you end up here, so far from the grotto? Everyone’s been looking for you.”

If everyone was looking for her, how had Maeve been the one to find her? Usually only the Watchers went so far from the grotto. And why wasn’t she helping Ciara?

“I got separated from Ciara when she and Cuan went to help the humans.” She lowered her eyes, not wanting to admit what she had done. She worked her jaw, trying to clear the odd sensation in her ears.

“And…?” Maeve prompted. Something in her voice told Sorcha she already knew the truth.

“I saved a human,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around herself.

“Oh, Sorcha.” Her voice was full of pity. “Why?”

The question jolted her. “Why? Because there was no one else!”

“It was the one you heard sing, wasn't it?” Maeve sighed, understanding filling her eyes.

“It’s not like that! He would have died!”

“You know what saving him means, don’t you?”

Sorcha nodded. At least, she thought she knew. Saving the life of a human bound them together. But none of the stories had explained what that meant.

“You can never return to the ocean, Sorcha. You’re bound to him forever.”

“Never?” she gasped. But how could she, a mermaid, live on land? She needed the sea to survive.

“Look down, my little guppy,” Maeve told her gently.

Sorcha obeyed. The seaweed had slid off her while they talked. Her beautiful sapphire tail and shimmering, iridescent scales were gone.

In their place was a pair of pale human legs and narrow feet.