"We rise. But we don't approach. We let her see us, and we see how she reacts."
We rose. The water grew lighter as we ascended, the pressure easing, the world above becoming clearer. I could see the hull of the ship, dark against the golden sky. Could see the railing where she sat, her hair still loose and wild around her shoulders.
We broke the surface just enough for our heads to clear the water, staying low, staying cautious. Four sirens watching a human girl who had just finished crying. She saw us almost immediately. Her eyes went wide, her body going taut with surprise.
Not with fear. Even from this distance, I could see it—the same wonder Kaelan had described, the same awe that had stopped him from killing her that first day. She looked at four monsters in the water and didn't scream or flee or faint.
She smiled.
And then, impossibly, adorably, ridiculously—she waved. I couldn't help it. I smiled back. It was a sharp smile, I knew. Too many teeth, too much hunger lurking beneath the surface. She didn't flinch from it. She just kept smiling at me, at all of us, like we were the most wonderful thing she'd ever seen.
Thane raised his hand from the water and waved back at her. I heard her laugh, bright and startled and genuine and the sound hit me like a physical blow. When was the last time I'd made someone laugh? When was the last time someone had looked at me and felt joy instead of desire or fear?
Riven bared his teeth in something that might have been a grin or might have been a threat, but his golden eyes had gonesoft in a way I'd never seen before. Kaelan just watched her with those dark, fathomless eyes, and I knew that whatever walls he'd built around himself were crumbling, brick by brick. We stayed like that for a long moment, suspended between worlds. Her on the ship, us in the water, the sunset painting everything in shades of gold and rose.
Then Kaelan gave the signal, and we sank beneath the surface. I looked back as we descended into the blue. Looked up at the small figure on the ship, her hair like fire against the darkening sky. She was still watching the water, still searching for us, and something in her face made my chest ache.
She didn't want us to leave.
Good, I thought. Because I don't want to leave either.
That night, while the others discussed strategy, caution and next steps, I drifted apart and composed a song. Not a siren song, not the deadly kind that called humans to their doom. Something else. Something softer. A response to her lonely melody, a harmony to match her voice.
I didn't know if she'd ever hear it. Didn't know if it would mean anything if she did. Human ears weren't built for siren songs, they couldn't fully appreciate the nuances and layers we wove into our music. I wanted to sing for her anyway. Wanted to answer her call, let her know she wasn't alone, tell her in the only language I truly spoke that I had heard her.
That I would always hear her.
The melody came easily, flowing out of me like water, like breath, like something that had been waiting my whole life to be born. I shaped it carefully, pouring everything I felt into the notes—wonder and longing and the strange, fierce protectiveness that had taken root in my chest.
A song for a girl who sang to the sea. A song for someone who might, impossibly, want me for more than just my voice. It was a dangerous hope. A foolish hope. As I practiced the melody in thedarkness, feeling it settle into my bones, I couldn't bring myself to let it go.
Tomorrow, I promised myself. Tomorrow we'll let her see us again. Tomorrow we'll start to show her what we are, what we want, what we could be together.I held onto that thought as the night deepened around us, and for the first time in more years than I could count, I fell asleep looking forward to what morning would bring.
Chapter Five
LILY
They came back.
Every evening, as the sun started its descent toward the horizon, I would slip away to my spot at the stern and they would be there. Waiting. Watching. Four impossible creatures who'd decided, for reasons I couldn't fathom, that I was worth looking at.
The first evening after the singing, I'd crept to the railing with my heart in my throat, certain they wouldn't appear. Certain I'd imagined the whole thing—the four heads in the water, the wave, the sharp smile. As the sun touched the horizon, the water rippled, and they rose.
All four of them, surfacing in formation like they'd rehearsed it. The dark one in the center, his obsidian tail catching the fading light. The scarred one at his shoulder, massive and imposing, his crimson scales like dried blood against the golden water. The beautiful one slightly apart, silver hair floating around him like a halo. And the warm one hanging back, watching me with those gentle amber eyes.
I'd laughed, I couldn't help it, and waved like an idiot, and the warm one had waved back. That became our ritual. Every evening, I would escape from the ship and find my hidden spot. I would pull off my cap and let my hair tumble free, sighing with relief as the weight of it settled against my back instead of being coiled on top of my head. I would sit on my rope coil and watch the water, and they would appear.
Sometimes I sang to them. Old songs, sad songs, the kind of melodies that spilled out of me when I couldn't keep them inside anymore. They would float in the water and listen, utterly still, and I could almost imagine I saw something like wonder in their expressions.
Sometimes I just talked. Told them about my day, about Decker's latest cruelty, about the way Cort had looked at me that morning. They couldn't understand me, could they? In the end it didn't matter. It felt good to speak to someone who wasn't judging me, wasn't threatening me, wasn't trying to figure out what I was hiding. Sometimes I sat in silence, and they sat in silence with me, and somehow that was enough. I didn't understand it. Didn't understand why these four creatures would waste their time on a human girl leaning over a railing. They were creatures of legend, mermaids from sailors' tales, beings that shouldn't exist outside of stories and dreams.
And yet….
Yet they came back every evening. They listened when I sang…the warm one waved at me and the beautiful one smiled and the dark one watched me with those fathomless eyes like I was the most interesting thing he'd ever seen. I'd stopped questioning it. Stopped trying to make it make sense. For the first time in months, I had something to look forward to.
Then the gifts started. The first one appeared on my pillow three days after the singing, a shell, small and perfectly spiraled, polished to a shine that seemed almost unnatural. I'd pickedit up with trembling fingers, turning it over in my hands, marveling at the iridescent gleam of its surface.
It was wet. Fresh from the sea. Someone had placed it here while I slept, someone who moved silently enough to avoid waking anyone in the cramped sleeping quarters, someone who knew exactly where my hammock was. Someone who wasn't human. My heart had raced all that day. I'd kept the shell in my pocket, touching it constantly, reassuring myself that it was real. That they had given me something. That this strange, impossible connection went both ways.
