Page 8 of Stolen Magic of the Deep

After a moment of indulgence, I lift my arms to wash my hair, reaching up to lather the shampoo. But as I move, something feels wrong. The water is not falling on me anymore.

A hitched breath escapes me, and my eyes snap open, the back of my neck prickling with an unfamiliar sensation. I blink through the steam and glance up.

The water has split, two perfect arcs on either side of me, missing my naked body entirely. The flow is steady, the pressure strong, but not enveloping me as it was a moment ago.

“What the hell . . .” I murmur under my breath. I step back instinctively, but the stream doesn’t touch me.

I shift to the left. The water moves with me.

Right. Same thing.

A chill runs down my spine, despite the steamy air. I raise a trembling hand higher, and the stream curves in reaction, bending away as if it’s being pushed by an invisible force.

No, it’s something I’m doing. My pulse quickens, air catching in my throat. I blink several times, thinking I am in some kind of nightmare.

This . . . This isn’t possible.

I stare at the space between my skin and the water. It feels impossible—like I’m holding the ocean in the palm of my hand—and I have no idea how.

I jerk my hands down to my sides. The water snaps back to its full flow, splashing onto the tile as if nothing happened, but the sensation of being connected to something deeper lingers, as if the sea isn’t quite done with me yet.

I step out of the shower and wrap a towel around my body, tucking it between my breasts to hold it in place—letting the water drip from me without bothering to dry every inch. My focus is fixed on the perplexing experience. The way the water obeyed me, avoided me, like I was more force than flesh.

Staring at the glass doors of the shower, half-expecting the water to rise on its own, to move unnaturally. But it just falls, steady and mundane.

I turn the shower off and exhale slowly as I pad across the bathroom floor. My reflection in the mirror stops me for a beat. Nothing obvious is different, but I feel like I am staring at someone who isn’t entirely human anymore.

I don’t bother drying my hair. I move on autopilot through the motions, brushing my teeth, pulling on a silk nightgown, and switching off the lights. I finally crawl into bed, the silk sheets soft against my skin. I lie on my back and stare at the ceiling. My body aches but is still. However, my thoughts are not.

And yet . . . sleep finds me quicker than I expect, even with my endless thoughts, but it isn’t restful.

I dream of being underwater, except this time, the water isn’t surrounding me. It’s flowing from me. Pouring from my hands like I am the source. My limbs are weightless, but I don’t float. I stand on the ocean floor.

The world around me is dark—deep sea darkness. Endless. Heavy.

Yet, I see a figure ahead. Shadowed and blurred. More silhouette than man.

I can’t make out his face. The edges of his form waver as if he’s made of ink drifting in water. Still, I know he’s watching me. I can feel it, like when a ghost invades your home. Despite the flow of water, I try to move toward him, but my feet stay rooted in place. The figure lifts a hand, reaching—no, warning.

And then, in a voice that rumbles like distant thunder and carries through the pressure of the deep, he speaks:

“He is coming.”

four

Sarah

My breath snags, dragging me awake in a sharp gasp. For a disoriented heartbeat, I can't move. Silk sheets cling to my legs, twisted so tightly around me they almost feel like restraints. I fumble free, shoving the tangled fabric aside as my pulse hammers against my ribs.

My skin is damp, a thin sheen of sweat cooling against my neck and back, as though I've just broken through the ocean's surface after holding my breath for far too long. The nightmare lingers at the edges of my mind—fragments already slipping away no matter how hard I try to grasp them. I squint against the sunlight pouring through my bedroom windows. The sun already hangs well above the horizon, its golden light stretching across the floorboards.

I've overslept.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

My attention shifts to my door.

“Sarah, you up?” Leo’s voice carries through the door, followed by another series of knocks, lighter this time. “Seriously, Fishy, if you’re still asleep, I’m breaking in with coffee and judgement.”