Steel-lined hulls had been torn to shreds. Whole sailing crews had been drowned, their bloated bodies tied to pylons with mer-crafted rope. On Demon’s Tooth, no less than five lighthouse keepers had been murdered. Several more simply disappeared one day, assumed murdered, including her direct predecessor. Before that, when desperate men crossed Grim’s Bay to harvest sea bird eggs from the craggy slopes of the Farallones, there were countless more deaths vaguely attributed to “accidents.”
Some days,she recalled reading,the shoreline looked like the floor of a slaughterhouse.
Clementine couldn’t help but imagine it as she stared into the circular opening of the moon pool. She sat on the cool, rubbery floor, legs crossed and a mug of tea in her hand. She felt considerably better about her failure to make contact after a telepathic chat with her sister, who relayed yet another story of her horrifically petty neighbor, who kept leaving awful, passive aggressive notes on her door.
At least my neighbor might only want to eat me,she’d joked.Yours thinks you don’t know how to clear a gutter.
Nelly had replied,That’s not funny, Em.She paused, and Clementine could picture her wrinkled nose with perfect clarity.He also thinks I need help chopping firewood.
It had been on the tip of her mental tongue to say,Well hey, no one would think that here. I’ve got a spare bedroom if you want to escape your annoying orcish neighbor.
She didn’t say it, though. It wasn’t fair of her to keep bringing up how much she wanted Nelly’s company. It tore her up inside to think she might make her sister feel guilty for just trying to live her life. As lonely and adrift as she often felt since their separation, Clementine didn’t begrudge her sister for her choice.
Instead of not-so-subtly begging her sister to join her on her deserted island, she’d changed the subject to tell her how the painting had gone. They’d brainstormed about new ways she could make the house cozier for a while, too, as Clementine assembled a snack and Nelly filled out some work-related paperwork. Something about crops and fallow seasons and fertilizer overusage.
The conversation with her bright, sometimes sardonic little sister refilled a well that had run dangerously low. By the time Nelly had to cut their connection to meet a friend for a movie night, Clementine had regained a little pep in her step.
Unfortunately, it also reminded her just how alone she was, which had brought to mind her visitor, and then inevitably led her to the far end of the house, where the moon pool opened up a portal to the deep.
They say Demon’s Tooth is haunted.She sipped her tea slowly, her eyes on the churning water lapping at the edges of the moon pool. Salt and ocean decay tickled her nose.I hope it is.
She didn’t believe in ghosts, but it would be nice to have some company. And who knew? Maybe a ghost would be the perfect friend.Telepathy wouldn’t work on the dead, right?
If Clementine had never experienced true silence before moving to the Farallones, she’d certainly never encountered a person whose thoughts were inaccessible to her. Sure, she had her barriers and her self-discipline, and of course many people had either a small amount of natural immunity to telepathy or intensive training to block someone, but she was an edge case — a super-powered telepath, as her mother liked to say. Technically, she was a gloriana, the most powerful designation a witch could claim, but one wouldn’t find that anywhere on her paperwork.
It made friendships difficult not only because all the effort was exhausting on her part and also not because very few people liked their most secret thoughts picked apart, but because she had been raised to keep it hidden.
There were a great many terrible things a person or government could do if they got their hands on an ability like hers, after all. No thoughts, no memories or desires, were inaccessible to her. She had an automatic telepathic range of twenty-five miles, but could reach a familiar mind over two thousand miles away. Perhaps more, though they hadn’t tested it beyond that.
Of course, it was illegal to compel someone into service in the UTA, but there were plenty of ways for people to get around — or outright ignore — the law. That wasn’t the only reason her parents had raised both of their daughters to keep their abilities under wraps, though. Much of their secrecy came from a deeply ingrained nonconformist streak.
The Ortegas didn’t want to be told how to raise their gifted children, let alone have those children constantly monitored by the government. When magical representatives began asking questions about Clementine and Nelly’s care, they’d packed up their two young daughters, abandoned their rising careers, and moved out of the Coven Collective. The sisters had grown up bouncing from campsite to campsite, lodge to lodge, as their parents took remote jobs in the wildest parts of the UTA.
In that sense, living on the island wasn’t too much of an adjustment for Clementine.
She was used to not going out to eat at restaurants. She didn’t require constant entertainment outside of crafts or cooking or hiking. She could weather harsh storms, had extensive knowledge of field medicine, and a healthy respect for the viciousness of nature. While her telepathic rangecouldspan thousands of miles, she’d discovered that roughly twenty-five was all that was required to mute the psychic noise from even the most bustling urban center.
Life on the Demon’s Tooth would have been astonishingly perfect for her needs, if only she could figure out how to make a friend or two.
Her job was to be the steward of the Farallones — a sentient marker denoting the Protectorate’s ownership over the island — and, to a lesser degree, an intermediary between the government and merfolk who claimed Grim’s Bay.
The only reason she thought of the second reason as lesser, of course, was because no one thought she’d survive a year, let alone succeed in forging a relationship with her aquatic neighbors.
She wasn’t terribly worried about the survival bit. Her main concern was that she had no idea how to make contact, let alone friendly relations, withanyone.
Clementine didn’t have friends. She never had.
Not that the rules of social engagement necessarily applied to her situation. There was a vast gulf of cultural differences between herself and the merfolk. Even if they didn’t perceive her living on the island as a trespass on their territory as they had in centuries past, there was only a slim chance that they would actuallywantto engage with her.
They were much more likely to snatch her for a quick snack than sidle up to the rocks for a conversation.
Scooting on her backside, Clementine edged closer to the moon pool. Pale green lights illuminated the inner ring of metal, allowing her to see a little farther into the water than normal. It was a particularly deep point clear of jagged rocks, which made it perfect for dropping the submersible.
When she looked down, all she saw was glowing green water flashing with flecks of sand. In the light, it seemed like normal water. Safer, somehow, than the foamy waves just outside.
Temptation prickled the skin along her spine.
Clementine glanced furtively around the empty room, as if Mr. Hauf might appear out of the shadows to scold her for sitting too close, let alone contemplating something as foolish as sticking her bare toes into the water.
