Chapter 2

  I watched the water move with the ocean rhythm of life, and while doing so, heard Erik’s voice distinctly say, “Hey kid! You look like you’re going to burn a hole into the ocean with how you’re glaring at it.”

  “Oh,” was all I said. I didn’t even turn to look at him. I simply wanted to continue watching the water until something bit my line.

  “In other words, Stop day dreaming,” said Erik, who was rapidly flittering into my peripheral vision—a streak of light shining off of the ocean horizon.

  As he approached me with an audible ‘whoosh’, I glanced over at him, at the moment that he began hovering next to me. He had found me sitting on a cold, slick rock in the tidal zone. Erik sighed—something that he would never say out loud, but when he was irritated with me, he would do so dramatically.

  “I swear you will forget to breathe if I didn’t remind you to do so”, he said while pinching the bridge of his nose, exaggerated for someone so small. I scoffed, a small smile gracing my face.

  "It’s not that bad."

  He snorted, his wings twitching in annoyance. “You're supposed to catch the fish using the rod, not hypnotize it by staring into the water.”

  I muttered to him, “The fish aren’t biting.”

  Erik got close to the water and stared down into the depths, as if sheer will would cause a school of fish to appear. But the water remained calm, as it did every day.

  He smirked at me. “Maybe they’re just bored, and you’re just not interesting enough to the fish.”

  I gave him the stink-eye. “Maybe they just know that your attitude isn’t good for fishing!”

  His wings stopped beating in mid-air. He smiled back at me. “Touché.”

  We sat there like that—me with my fishing rod, him perched like a critical source of light above me—while the water rolled over our feet slowly on the beach. The comfortable silence with each other was broken now and then by the sound of my fishing rod clicking and waves lapping around the shoreline.

  Erik wasn’t always this nice. There was a time when he could barely look at me without anger, his voice had held more venom than humor. Now, even when he called me “kid,” the edge was softened. Worn down by centuries of shared routine.

  Even if he did still refused to give me a name.

  "You know," he said tapping his chin, whilst simultaneously breaking me out of my thoughts, "if you were truly serious about fishing, then you would have sung. Fish love music."

  I raised an eyebrow at that. "When did fish become attracted to music?"

  "Always, everyone knows that." He puffed out his chest as if sharing some secret, magical knowledge. "Why do you think Sirens exist?"

  "I thought Sirens sung to lure sailors, not fish."

  He hummed dismissively and began trudging in circles around me. He suddenly broke out in song with a thin, high-pitched metallic sound that wasn't quite in tune with anything I'd ever heard before; it actually sounded unnatural.

  "What is that?" I asked.

  "That is a fairy fishing song," he proclaimed, throwing both arms up as if he were a priest beseeching the sea to come alive. "It has been lost to history. It is very rare." He said smugly.

  I had a feeling he was making this up.

  At that moment, a cold wind rushed by me along the shore, feeling much colder than it had before, and began pulling at the damp fur on my body.

  "No offense, but I believe you have scared the fish away with your little show." I gestured towards the water.

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  Erik placed his hand on his chest, as if I had stabbed him. "You wound me, kid. How could you hurt me so, especially after everything I have done for you.” He fake sniffles. “You are extremely fortunate that I don't take offense from nameless children."

  I could feel the corner of my mouth twitching with irritation. “You realize you could give me a name, right?"

  "Not really," he said, leaning back in mid-air, using it as though it were a hammock. "Names come with responsibilities attached to them, so by keeping you nameless, I can just pretend you're some freaky creature I found."

  "Pretty sure by the time I am old enough to take care of myself you will be responsible for that," I said, rolling my eyes at him.

  He waved a dismissive hand, "semantics."

  The surf was crashing against the rocks below us—it was like the ocean was hungry and trying to pull the shore under. Between the two of us, the air hung heavy with anticipation—it wasn't overly aggressive or overly calm; just enough to let my mind wander back to all those annoying thoughts I hadn't thought about since Erik stopped talking.

  I squeezed the rod in my hands more tightly, the wood was colder than it should be.

  Before the silence of the moment could consume me, I noticed something moving at the very edge of my peripheral vision. A small spot on the water, that was clearly there and moving toward me.

  I blinked, squinting past the glare of the sun. The waves weren’t carrying driftwood; the current wasn’t right.

  My stomach tightened.

  As the figure became distinct through the distortion of the waves, the breath caught in my throat. The details of the wreck were already evident—disjointed wood and ripped canvas; none of the colors of the wreck matched the colors of the shoreline. At first, the shape did not define itself, it was simply a representation of decay flowing toward us from the distance; it was so alarming that I could sense it before I could see it.

  I felt my heart pounding against my chest.

  "Erik," I said, speaking softly while continuing to stare at the wreck; I was afraid that if I looked away, I would see something even worse.

  Erik had been lazily circling around my shoulder making lazy patterns in the air with his wings because he was bored, but as soon as he saw what I saw, he immediately stopped moving. There was such fear in the fact that his wings stopped mid-beat that for the first time, the fear in Erik's voice scared me more than anything.

  "It can't be," he said in a whisper; it was not bolt from the blue sort of reaction. This frightened me even more.

  "Your spell," I said quietly. "You told me that nothing dangerous could penetrate it."

  He did not respond; he merely continued staring at the wreck.

  The wreck was moving toward us, as if it had an unnatural will of its own, through the way it moved from one wave to another. It seemed like each wave was giving off the same repetitive pulse, almost as if the wreck were in some sort of trance-like state. There was nothing preventing me from releasing my hold on the fishing rod—I dropped the rod onto the sand with a soft thud that was drowned out by the noise in my ears.

  Something in me cracked. Instinct, fear—whatever it was, it took over. I turned and ran.

  The sand slid under my feet as I sprinted toward the cabin, lungs squeezing tight like I’d swallowed the whole ocean. The familiar path felt warped, stretched, like the world was trying to pull me back toward the shore.

  Inside, I grasped desperately at anything with weight. My hand closed around a wooden shovel. Splinters bit into my palm, but holding it felt better than holding nothing.

  “Come on, kid,” Erik called from outside—sharp, urgent. Not the playful sharp he usually used. The other kind. “You need to see this.”

  I swallowed hard and stumbled back out, clutching the shovel like it meant something.

  And then I saw it up close.

  Not a monster. Not a relic. Something worse in its mundanity.

  A shattered row boat. Its ribs cracked open like a carcass. Seaweed tangled through the wreckage like it was trying to anchor it, keep it from leaving.

  A man lay slumped in the debris.

  My hands shook around the shovel’s handle.

  I looked at Erik. He wasn’t panicking, but he wasn’t calm either. His face was carved with something I’d only seen a handful of times—real concern.

  The man was alive, but hanging onto life by threads.

  Dragging him ashore took everything we had. Erik did most of the lifting, muttering curses under his breath the entire time, wings beating with strained effort. I stumbled ahead, clearing space, grabbing blankets, anything warm. His clothes were soaked through, heavy and cold enough to make me worry the sea had already begun claiming him.

  Before I could help strip away the wet layers, Erik slipped between us, blocking me with a firm hand.

  “I’ll handle this part, kid,” he said—no teasing, no heat, just quiet insistence. He shepherded me out of the room like I might break something if I stayed. The door shut behind me with a soft click that felt disturbingly final.

  I stood alone in the hallway, shovel still trembling in my hands, wondering what we had just pulled out of the sea—and what it meant that it got past Erik’s spell at all.

  When Erik finally allowed me back inside, the room felt different—warmer, quieter, like the air itself was holding its breath.

  The man lay on my bed, dressed in dry clothes that I wasn’t sure came from. The salt-crusted skin was gone, washed clean. The grime that had clung to him like a second shell had been scrubbed away. His hair—fiery red now that the muck was gone—had been brushed back with surprising care.

  What I noticed was this: Now that he's been cleaned up and looks as though he no longer belongs at the bottom of the ocean, he is undeniably attractive.

  I couldn't help but to look away, feeling embarrassed for how I was feeling. His looks are irrelevant; The questions remaining in the unknown are most important: Where did he come from? What happened to him? How did he break through Eric's protection?

  When he realizes he is trapped in a place that he never thought he would be… what will his reaction be? Panic? Rage? Fear?

  We won't know that until much later. All that was present then was the stillness surrounding him and quiet steady rhythm of his shallow breathing.

  He did not regain consciousness on day two.

  Or week two.

  It was almost one month before he even began to stir.

  In that time, I stayed near him more than I meant to. Not guarding—just… watching. Habits formed before I realized they were happening. I brought water to keep his lips from cracking, wiped away sweat when fever crept up his neck, adjusted blankets when his breathing stuttered. Erik said he’d survive. That was enough.

  When the light streamed into the room through the windows, I had no idea what was coming to me that day. I wasn’t prepared for it either.

  A twitch of his fingers, then a short, shallow breath, the first sound I had heard him make since he had washed onto the beach. He attempted to rise from his place on the ground, but his muscles quivered under the weight of his body.

  “Be careful about moving,” I told him, as I placed my hand on his shoulder to steady him.

  He fell back into his original position without hesitation, and it was odd to see a man so large collapse under the influence of his own gravity.

  “Where...,” he stumbled over his words, his voice sounded like coarse sandpaper from dehydration and lack of use, “Where am I?”

  He stared at me, bewildered and confused, with all of the expressions of fear and uncertainty clearly visible on his face.

  The language was foreign to me; I still had no idea what it was, so instead of attempting to interpret it, I offered him a smile.

  Then I stood, turned, and quietly left the room before my expression could betray the truth:

  I didn’t know how to answer him even if I’d wanted to.