Breathless (27 page)

To my surprise, Bastin dropped his hands from my shoulders and backed away. “No. This can’t be happening. No. No. No.”

Desmar looked just as horrified. “You’ve been wearing it next to your skin? You have no idea what you’ve done, do you?”

I glanced at Bastin who was stil shaking his head. “I don’t understand.”

Granton hissed before answering. “The stone you hold in your hand is highly concentrated calcium carbonate. More powerful than anything your kind possess on land. By wearing it next to your skin, you’ve exposed your body to deadly levels of calcium carbonate.”

“Stupid Human,” Desmar growled. “Not only have you poisoned yourself, but you’ve drained our nicite.”

First the beating, then the stabbing, and now this? “Bastin?”

He stopped shaking his head and looked at me.

“What do I do?”

He said nothing, he didn’t have to. The grief written on his face told me what I needed to know.

There was nothing I could do. But that was okay. It made what I had to do next that much easier. “I’m dying,” I said, just to hear the words out loud.

“Damn it, Edith!” Bastin punched the water and sprayed the room in a mist of droplets. “The nicite craves water. Didn’t you notice anything unusual?”

Ah.
So that explained al the leaky faucets and faulty plumbing. The nicite had been cal ing to the water.

When I nodded, Bastin turned away, holding a single fist above his head. “This is al my fault.” When he turned back around his shoulders shook, either from rage or grief—I couldn’t be sure. He continued talking, spitting his words through his clenched teeth. “If only I’d left you alone—or told you about the dangers of keeping the stone close . . . I just never thought you’d
wear
it.” His head bowed.

With Bastin distracted, Granton swam toward me. “Maybe your skin didn’t absorb it al . There might be some calcium carbonate left.” His eyes locked on the stone in my hand. “Enough to flood half your land.”

Desmar stopped growling and snapped to attention. “Yesss,” she hissed. “Give us the stone, human.”

An inky darkness seeped into the corners of my vision. Whether it was from the blood loss or the poisoning final y taking effect, I couldn’t be sure.

The only thing I knew for certain was time was running out.

Granton was an arm’s length away. He licked his lips.

Slowly, I stretched my hand toward him. I knew if I gave it to them, mil ions of people would be kil ed. On one hand, I wouldn’t be around to see them die. On the other, I knew I wouldn’t be able to rest in peace if I al owed that to happen. There were people—good people like Morgan and my mother—who were worth saving. I wouldn’t be selfish. And, besides, I was already dead.

Granton reached for the stone. Such a pretty rock. Even in the dark I could see the flecks of gold glittering under its green surface. It was amazing how something so beautiful could bring about such suffering. Ironic, even. Bastin was just as pretty as the nicite and every bit as dangerous.

Granton’s fingers hovered above the stone.

I smiled. He was going to be pissed.

Before he could react, I closed my fist on the rock and brought it to my mouth. I made sure to give the shocked mers my best “Screw you” grin before placing the stone on my tongue and swal owing it whole.

“NO!”

Their screams surrounded me, bouncing off the stone wal s and mixing together, until the words were mangled and al that remained was a garbled roar of frustrated rage.

And then there was splashing. And more screaming. But I hardly noticed. I was already fal ing inside myself . . . or maybe it was outside. Dying was confusing like that. I could hear the fight as it raged around me. I even thought I heard Luna join in, but at the same time, I was someplace else.

As I floated along in a river of black velvet, I couldn’t help but take some comfort in the fact that Luna had found us. She’d keep Bastin safe. Death had a way of putting things in perspective like that. Because, despite everything that had happened, I loved Bastin.

And I told him so before I floated away, touching the stars with my fingertips along the way.

There wasn’t a whole lot I could remember about Wil iam. I’d only been four when he died. And Sir had tried so hard to make us forget. I guess that’s what a person does when they kil someone—pretend they never existed in the first place.

What Sir didn’t know was that Mom kept a secret photo album stashed away under the china cabinet between a tarnished serving tray and a ceramic gravy boat hand-painted with purple violets. That in itself would be enough to keep Sir away, but Mom had wrapped the scrapbook inside a rose-colored pil owcase as an extra security measure.

Occasional y, while Sir worked and Mom ran errands, I’d pul the album out and thumb through the pictures. Even though I’ve seen the images a hundred times, I’m stil surprised by how much the little boy with the mess of curly brown hair—the same mocha color as my own—was a stranger to me.

I’d learned by reading books about death that people can repress memories of traumatic events. I did the opposite—I could only remember the tragedy. The pictures of us waving sparklers on a Fourth of July afternoon, swimming in a kiddie pool, and, stranger stil , sitting together on Sir’s lap with a picture book held between us, felt feel as familiar to me as looking through a Sears catalog. Happy faces without the stories to inspire the smiles.

The memory I’ve kept, however, had been burned into the grey unconsciousness that existed before the sun would pul me from sleep into sweat-soaked sheets.

Wil iam, chubby and tan, his shorts sagging slightly under the weight of a diaper that needed changing, smiled at me from the opposite side of the driveway. He’d just arrived around the corner of the house and hadn’t seen Sir climb inside his truck. In truth, we were forbidden to play in the front yard, but our game of chase had grown so intense I’d forgotten the rules.

Wil iam’s cherry lips opened and he spoke to me, but the years have erased the words from my memory. He squealed happily as he darted onto the driveway, throwing his arms wide.

I should have moved, should have screamed, should have done
something.
And because I hadn’t, Sir blamed me for the death of his only son.

I’d relived that moment in my mind every day when I covered myself in black. Only sometimes I cheated and tried to spare myself the pain I deserved. Sometimes I changed the ending to the story. And in that fantasy, there was no muscle-tightening paralysis of fear keeping me rooted where I stood. In that fantasy I scream, I run, I scoop Wil iam up and we continue our games in the backyard. In my dream, there is no baby boy, lifeless on the concrete with a fistful of dandelions scattered inches from his outstretched fingers.

Years later, I’d learn that on this particular morning Sir had been late for work. He hadn’t bothered to check his rearview mirror.

My first thought upon opening my eyes was that I’d gone back in time. Back to the moment when I’d woken up on the shore after the boating accident. The black eyes that stared down at me reinforced the feeling. Maybe instead of having my life flash before my eyes I was being given the opportunity to relive it. The question was, would I do anything differently?

“Edith, thank God.” Bastin exhaled loudly and bent over me, placing cool lips on my forehead.

I frowned. That wasn’t right. That wasn’t how our first meeting went. Where was Luna? Where was the ache in my shoulder? After blinking the grit and sand from my eyes, I glanced at my shoulder. There was no col arbone glittering in the moonlight. But there was a brand new shiny pink scar.

My frown deepened. That couldn’t be right, either. Did people have scars in heaven?

I pushed myself into a sitting position, surprised at how easy it was. Shouldn’t something hurt? Or maybe death had taken the pain.

Bastin’s hands slid around my shoulders. “Easy. Take it slow.”

I fel into his eyes al over again. “Are you dead, too? Not that I’m complaining. It wouldn’t be heaven without you.”

He looked startled. “What?”

The night sky behind him was fil ed with an endless scattering of stars. But, somehow, Bastin was stil brighter, more beautiful. “Where’s my brother?” I asked. “Shouldn’t he be here? I mean, I thought your loved ones came to get you when you died. I need to tel him something.”

Something passed through his eyes—a sadness I’d never seen before. He swal owed several times before answering. “Edith, you’re not dead.”

I frowned at him. That was impossible. Not only had my throat been slit, but I’d swal owed the nicite. I’d died. I’d felt myself slip away from my body. “No. I’m dead. How else do you explain my scar?” I gestured toward the pink line on my shoulder. “It had barely scabbed over before our trip to Disney, and now look at it. It looks like it’s years old.”

“You’re not dead,” he repeated.

I touched my neck, but there was no sign I’d been cut. “But I’m not hurt. What happened? Did you take me underwater with you?”

The sadness returned. “No, Edith. I swore to you I would never do that, and I meant it.”

I rotated my ankle and discovered no sign of the sprain from my fal . There was no way my shoulder, neck, and ankle could have healed in under a day. I ran every type of scenario through my mind, and stil , what had happened to me was impossible . . .

Oh God, no.

Suddenly, the memory of Morgan sitting in my back yard with her folded sheet of paper was fresh in my mind.

“The point is, after the girl eats the mermaid, she goes on to live a long healthy life.”

Her words echoed inside of my head, turning my blood to ice. Bastin wouldn’t—he couldn’t.

As if reading my thoughts, his hands slipped from my shoulders. “Edith, I—”

“No!” I screamed. I scuttled away from him, needing the distance, trying to think.

“I’m so sorry,” he said. “There was no other way.”

“That’s a lie.” My hands curled into fists. “There was another way. You could have let me die, Bastin.”

“How could I do that, Edith?” Bastin’s voice cracked with grief. “I held you in my arms, watching you slip away . . . I couldn’t let you go.”

“Don’t you get it?” I pounded the sand with my fists. “That wasn’t your choice to make. It was mine! I swal owed the nicite knowing I was infected, knowing I was going to die. I wanted to die, Bastin. If it meant saving the earth and saving you . . .” I choked on my words as I struggled to keep from crying.

He touched my shoulder but I shook his hand off. Bastin brought it to his chest like he’d been burned. “But I did what I did to save you. How is that different?”

I glared at him, shaking with anger. “Because you’re leaving out one very big detail, Bastin. What did you do to me?”

He looked away. Tears streamed down his cheeks, glittering like diamonds in the moonlight. Final y, he whispered, “You’re right. It was a selfish thing to do. I just hope,” he paused to suck in a breath, “you can someday forgive me.”

“What did you
do
?” I screamed, not caring if someone heard me.

His body tensed, and I wondered if he might try and make a run for the sea, rather than tel me. But instead, he looked at me. “I gave you my blood.”

I hugged my knees to my chest, scared to hear what would come next, but at the same time, desperate to know. “And what did that do?”

“It healed you.” He blinked. “It’s another one of our secrets. Like how fish oil is good for the human heart, mer blood can heal every human ailment. It’s one of the reasons we were once hunted to the brink of extinction by your kind. It’s also why we keep our existence a secret now.”

I waited for him to continue but he didn’t, which only angered me more. If Morgan hadn’t told me the story—would Bastin have left out the most crucial side-effect? “But there’s something you’re not tel ing me. Mer blood does something else to humans, doesn’t it?”

He jerked his head up, surprised, and quickly looked away. If I hadn’t already known, would he real y not have told me? Just left me to live my life, wondering why I wasn’t aging the same way as the people around me? “You extended my life, didn’t you?”

He nodded but didn’t say anything.

“For how long, Bastin?”

He shrugged. “I’m not sure. The average human slave lives roughly five hundred years. But I only gave you a few drops, so . . . hopeful y your life has only been extended three hundred years or so.”

My lungs fil ed with lead and I couldn’t breathe. I was drowning in fear.

“Edith.” Bastin moved to my side and held out a tentative hand, afraid it seemed, for the first time, to touch me. “I am so sorry.”

I couldn’t answer him. What do you say to someone you love but who has also cursed you? The time for words was gone. What was done was done and there was no going back. Burying my head into my knees, I broke into sobs. I wasn’t sure how long I’d cried, but at one point when my tears had run out but the pain lingered on, Bastin pul ed me into his arms. Only, for the first time since meeting him, I felt completely alone.

Final y, when the sobs stopped pouring from my throat, I asked, “If you knew we could never be together, what did it matter if I lived or died?”

He was quite for a moment before answering, “Because I could not live in a world without you in it.”

I tilted my head to look at him, to fal one last time into his endless eyes. “And how long is that? What is your average lifespan?”

He swal owed. “About eighty years.”

I nodded as if this was to be expected. Of course, Bastin would live to eighty while I would continue on for another two hundred or so years. “Can I end this?”

He shook his head. “If you can, I don’t know how. The tribes that keep humans as slaves can be pretty cruel—and stil the humans live on.”

I didn’t ask him to explain because I didn’t want to know.

I leaned my head against his chest and whispered into his neck. “I’m cursed.”

“
We’re
cursed,” he corrected. “Each second of each day that goes by without you, Edith, wil be torture. But I look forward to my suffering, I wil embrace it. I deserve it for what I’ve done for you. And I promise you something else—I wil search for a way to fix this. If there is a remedy for the effects of mermaid blood, I vow I’l find it for you.”