“Great. Almost finished.”
He’s hot, and he knows it. Messy blond hair with dark roots that’s long enough to tuck behind his ears but short enough that it constantly falls out. There’s something about the way he fixes it; seeing his tattooed hands brush his hair back makes my stomach warm. His eyes are a sharp gunmetal grey that somehow makes me like the color, even though I’ve alwaysdespised it. There’s a piercing in his nose, a thin silver hoop, and I think his nipples might be done too. Or they’re always hard. Not that I’m looking… okay, Idolook, but not in a creepy way. Is there a non-creepy way to look at someone’s nipples? He has this grungy, sort of feminine look about him, which probably doesn’t make sense, but I don’t know how else to describe him. He’s not overly masculine but is definitely a man—one that I maybe think about too much.
The worst thing about him is that he isn’t an asshole. He’s nice, funny as hell, down to earth, and nevereverhas an inkling of too much confidence. Which only makes him hotter… and so out of my league.
The shirts he wears are a size too small and show off his toned muscles and tattoos. A black and grey moth sits at his throat, the bottom of the wings dipping under the collar. Two full sleeves of roses, music notes, skulls, and words I’ve never gotten close enough to read fill his arms. Though, to be fair, I can’t read all that well anyway. I wonder how far they go past the edges of his shirt. Across his chest? Down his stomach? Over his shoulders? Along his spine? Fuck, that would be hot. The thoughts I have about this man are inappropriate; I know that. Thinking about tracing those tattoos with my tongue and fingers would probably make him uncomfortable, but I can’t help it. From the moment I saw him, there was a connection. Something intense. Lust, maybe. I can’t put it into words, but I am attracted to Leif in a way I am not attracted to anyone else.
I look down at my hands. Free of tattoos and a sickly pale blue color that won’t change no matter how much magic is put into the pendant around my neck. From kraken to human, I need my ring. From kraken to “stage” kraken, I need the pendant. Like this, I’m a weird mix of human and kraken that my family would consider an abomination. Humans don’t know any better, thankfully, and it’s not like my family has television or radiothousands of feet under the ocean to know what I’m up to. The humans have accepted what I’ve shown them.
“No rush,” I respond, my voice laced with this aquatic echo, like I’m speaking underwater. I hate it, but the fans love it. Not that I sing often, but I do backup vocals for a few of our songs. The more haunting ones, where my voice makes sense. It’s nothing compared to Kael’s orc throat singing that he does in a few of our songs.
Kraken don’t speak to each other with voices underwater. We don’t have vocal cords to have voices. But magic is strong and does the unimaginable, which is how I ended up like this.
As if it knows I’m thinking about it, the ocean-blue pendant thrums a warm sensation against my bare chest—a warning that the magic is running low and I’ll have to schedule a visit with Theorah to refill it. It’s never cheap, and each time I meet with her, the price hikes up a couple hundred dollars, but I can afford it. And if I couldn’t, I’d have to figure it out. This form is necessary to perform. This is what the fans know me as. My true form wouldn’t fit on the stage, never mind behind a drum kit. They couldn’t make one big enough for me when I’m like that.
The guys are all big too, roughly the same size as me. We all brush the seven-foot line, making us larger than most humans. And even the humans that are our height don’t come close to matching us in build.
When I think back on that first night I met them, it makes me laugh. None of them believed me when I said I was as big as a boat. They told me to prove it. So, I did, almost taking out an entire swing set at the small park they’d brought me to. I think it’s what broke the ice between us, but it didn’t take long for the unsettling insecurities to sink in like they always do. I don’t belong here with them. Where I belong is under the ocean with the other kraken. Only… I don’t fit in there either.
“I’ll be done in two minutes,” Leif says, playing a soft but steady beat on the bass.
“No worries,” I say, lifting one of my arms—a kraken arm—to gesture for him to do what he needs to do. I step back, leaning against one of the beams, letting all eight of my arms hang loose at my sides. I’ve got two that pass for almost human—just bigger. My legs are also mostly human-looking.
When I say I’m a mix of kraken and human, I mean it. Someone once told me I looked like the creature from the Black Lagoon. I had no idea what that was at the time, but when I looked it up, I was a little offended… until I took a better look at myself in the mirror.
They weren’t entirely wrong.
My hands aren’t webbed. There are no claws. No fish mouth. Those parts are human enough. But the skin? The shape of me?
Add a few extra arms. Some suckers.
Yeah, we could totally be related.
I’m broader. Heavier. Certainly built like I’m from the ocean; there’s no doubt about that. One thing that catches people’s attention is the fact that I have no hair on my body. Not one strand. The other thing people love are my suckers. I don’t see why they’re so fascinating. Maybe because they don’t have them.
I’ve lost count of the number of humans who’ve told me I have arms that are missing suckers. When I tell them it’s because I have twotentacles, they frown and tell me it’s the same thing… as if I don’t know my own anatomy.
The difference, you ask? My arms are lined with suckers from base to tip. The tentacles are longer, faster, with suckers only at the ends. Underwater, they’re what I use to hunt. Big difference.
I watch Leif as he adjusts a few things. Lifting drums half an inch, turning them just the slightest. His brow is furrowed in deep concentration, making sure everything is just right.
For me.
“I’m not that picky, am I?” I ask with a small laugh.
He glances at me with a smirk. “Just want to make sure I’m doing a good job.”
“You always do a good job,” I say.
“We’ve only just started the tour,” he says, hitting the crash cymbal then grabbing it to silence it.
“But all the practices…”
He starts playing something using the whole kit. I recognize the tune immediately because it’s one of ours.
Melody of the Heart.
“You play that almost better than I do,” I say.
