Dark Water: A Siren Novel (19 page)

“You don’t mind, do you? Taking a few orders in between
seating people? It’s just for today, I promise. As soon as I have a free second, I’ll call some of the waitstaff that quit a few weeks ago.” She leaned forward and kissed my cheek. “Thank you. You’re the best.”

I watched her take another pad and pen from her apron and dive into the sea of tables. Before she was a manager, Paige had been a waitress, and now she smiled and laughed, chatted and joked, instantly charming the customers. It wasn’t until she passed my admirer and he gave her an appraising look that I realized how many more customers were male than female. Of roughly thirty diners, only four had purses slung across the backs of their chairs. The rest were scruffy, weathered, hungry men. And not any men: fishermen. Who were fueling up before heading out.

Betty’s had been around forever, but in recent history, had been more of a tourist spot than one for locals. This crowd was definitely new—and needed. So despite my reservations, most of which had to do with Natalie offering giveaways without Paige’s official consent, I headed for one of the tables I’d just seated.

For the next twenty minutes, I didn’t stop. I barely breathed. Along with Paige and Natalie, I took orders, filled glasses, served dishes, cleared and wiped tables, and played hostess, over and over again. I also ignored compliments and dodged flirtation, which was even more challenging—and exhausting—than meeting my diners’ needs before they could realize they had any. Soon I was so hot, thirsty, and tired, I started ducking
behind the bar between tasks for quick sips of salt water.

I’d just snuck a drink and stood quickly when my cell buzzed with a new text from Simon.

On our way. Can’t wait to see you
.

The words were fuzzy. I blinked to clear my vision and brought one hand to my head, which spun. I closed the phone, squatted to drink more from the glass I kept beneath the counter, and stood again. This time, my body swayed to the left. I grabbed the cash register to steady myself.

“Ladies’ room’s out of TP,” Paige announced as she flew by en route to the kitchen. “Toss in a few rolls? Please? Thanks!”

Grateful for the excuse to leave the dining room, I took a spare saltshaker from under the bar and hurried toward the lobby, where both lavatories were located. My legs seemed to grow softer with every step; when the restaurant’s main entrance came into view, I lunged the remaining distance and burst through the ladies’ room door.

Inside, I made sure both stalls were empty before locking the door and turning on the water. As one of the sinks filled, I unscrewed the shaker’s metal top and dumped in the salt. Stirring the water with one hand, I checked my appearance in the mirror—and was glad I was alone so no one heard me gasp.

I’d looked fine, normal, after my regular routine of swimming and bathing earlier that morning. But now my skin was as white as the porcelain sink, even though I was so hot, sweat trickled down my face and neck, darkening the collar of my T-shirt. I’d blown my hair dry but now it was as wet as when
I’d stepped out of the ocean. The clear gloss I always wore had evaporated from my lips, which were light purple and chapped.

But the worst part was my eyes. They were usually hazel with the occasional blue tint. Every now and then, depending on the light, they appeared to be gray—silver, even. I’d been noticing the metallic sheen more frequently lately, which made my stomach turn, since silver eyes was a physical trait most sirens shared.

This, however, was worse.

It wasn’t just the color, which seemed to shift from slate blue to steel gray to blackish green, and reminded me of the ocean’s murky depths. It wasn’t even the mottled haze they seemed to hide behind. It was that they looked so much smaller … because my skin was softer, hanging lower. My eyebrows sunk, pushing down my lids. The inside and outside corners drooped. Beneath my bottom lashes, the normally smooth surface was creased.

I stepped back and stared.

What’s wrong with me?

Without meaning to, I directed this silent question at Charlotte and listened for her response. When none come, I dropped my head and began splashing water on my face, neck, and arms. I cupped both hands, dipped them into the sink, and drank. I did this until I could no longer taste salt and my face felt cooler. And then I looked up again.

Better. Not great—my eyes, though back to normal size,
were still too dark—but my skin was firmer and slowly turning pink.

Was this what Charlotte meant when she said Nenuphars required more energy more often than ordinary sirens? Would I look like I aged ten years every day if I didn’t constantly give it what it needed? And if I was capable of more than ordinary sirens, did that at least make it easier to acquire this energy?

The bathroom door rattled, making me jump. When she couldn’t get in, the person on the other side knocked.

“One second!” I yanked paper towels from the bin on the wall. After drying my face, I took the key ring from my shorts pocket and went to the small supply closet. I unlocked the closet door and reached for the extra toilet-paper rolls—which weren’t there. The shelf was empty.

I left the restroom, explained the situation to the woman waiting to get in, and said I’d be right back. I found Paige and asked where the extra supplies were, and she directed me to the main storage closet in the basement. On my way there, I caught another glimpse of my reflection in the mirror over the dining-room fireplace and saw that as quickly as it’d tightened, my skin was beginning to soften again. I also saw that my original admirer hadn’t left yet … and that he was watching me.

I checked my watch. According to his last text, Simon should be here any minute. What we saw driving back to Winter Harbor last night had been a huge reminder of everything I wanted him to forget, and if I had any chance of making up for lost time, he couldn’t see me looking like this. It wouldn’t
matter what I said after that—he’d be instantly, maybe even permanently, worried. The quickest, easiest solution would be jumping into the harbor, which was in Betty’s backyard, but there was no way to do that without someone noticing.

There was, however, one other option.

“Hi, there.” I stood inches from my middle-aged admirer, smiled. “How’s everything here?”

“Slow,” the other man grumbled. “But all right.”

Heart hammering, I rested one hip against the table and faced the younger man. “How are
you
?”

He sat back in his chair, gave me an appreciative once-over. “Still hungry.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. What else can I get you? Pancakes? French toast?”

His eyes narrowed slightly. We both knew he wasn’t talking about food. Which was why I leaned forward, put one hand on his arm, and brought my mouth close to his ear.

“What’s your name?”

Beneath my fingers, his muscles tensed. The release of energy shot from his skin directly into mine.

“Alex.”

I swallowed and tried again. “Where’re you from?”

He inhaled sharply. My legs strengthened.

“Portland.”

“Great town.” I brought my lips closer. “Or so they say, anyway.”

His head tilted in invitation. The surge in my legs
lengthened, reaching through my chest and up my neck.

“You should come down. I’ll make sure you have a good time.”

His voice wavered. I stood slightly and checked the results of this exchange in the mirror over the fireplace.

“Perfect,” I said.

I gave his arm a squeeze for good measure and crossed the room without looking back. In the kitchen, I was careful to avoid Louis’s verbal and physical firing range, which took up most of the room, thanks to the unexpected breakfast rush, and stayed close to the wall as I made my way to the rear stairwell.

The basement, I quickly learned, was perhaps the only part of the restaurant Paige had decided didn’t need a single paint stroke or lightbulb change during renovations. It was dark and damp, and smelled like mildew and French fries. Discarded furniture, linens, and appliances sat in tall, haphazard piles. The storage closet was at the back of the room, and it took several minutes to navigate the crooked narrow path that led there. I felt some small relief when the door opened easily and the overhead light worked, but that feeling faded when I spotted the extra toilet paper still in boxes on a shelf near the ceiling.

“Perfect,” I said again, less enthusiastically than I had moments before.

I picked my way back through the basement until I came to an old metal folding chair that didn’t break in two when I opened it. I brought it back to the closet, placed it before the wall of shelves, and stepped up. With the extra height, my
fingertips could just reach the bottom of the box. I inched it out slowly, until it was more than halfway out and beginning to tilt down. Then I grabbed it with both hands—and dropped it when the chair buckled beneath me.

I fell to the floor, landing hard on one knee. The box missed me as it tumbled down but it took out the ceiling light. As the fixture shattered and glass shards rained down, I covered my face and tried to duck under the lowest shelf.

“Vanessa?”

I barely heard the male voice over the sound of breaking glass, but knew it had to be Simon. Thank goodness. Paige must’ve told him I was down here.

“Hi!” I pulled out from under the shelf, tried to feel my way through the darkness. “I’ll be right there!”

Using my cell phone as a flashlight, I found the box and turned it right side up. It was still sealed shut, so I held the phone between my teeth as I took my keys from my pocket. I put one hand on the box, ready to slice the tape, and reeled back when a stray piece of glass dug into my palm.

I cried out. The phone fell to the floor, and its dim light went out.

“Hey. What happened?”

I spun toward Simon. He sounded different. Concerned, but something else, too. Unfortunately, I couldn’t check his face for clues. The closet was so dark I could only feel, and not see, the blood dripping down my hand. “Nothing.” I said. “I just cut my hand. But it’s fine. I’m fine.”

I was actually in a good amount of pain, but I didn’t want him to know that. I closed my eyes when they watered and didn’t protest when he took my hand gently in his. I waited for the automatic concern, the insistence that my wound wasn’t nothing.

But he didn’t say anything. He cradled my hand for a moment, then slid his fingers up, around my wrist. He stepped toward me and reached one arm around my waist.

I froze, not sure what he was doing or how to respond. Was I so convincing yesterday that he believed me easily today? If so, should I go with it to keep him from questioning?

He pulled me toward him. I pressed my good hand to his chest.

“Hey,” I said gently. “I’m sure it’s fine, but I should probably get something on it, just in case.”

His face neared mine. I felt him nod.

“In a second,” he whispered.

My cell phone, still on the floor, buzzed. The tiny red light did nothing to illuminate the room, but it was bright enough to see the stained, brown work boots pressed against the toes of my sandals.

Simon didn’t wear work boots. He didn’t even own a pair. But Alex, the guy I’d just flirted with, did. I noticed them when I leaned forward to talk near his ear.

I opened my mouth to yell, pulled my arm back to thrust it forward again, as hard as I could. But then his other arm snaked around my waist, tightened. His chest flexed against my torso
as he moved, and I knew there was no way I’d win in a battle of strength—at least not using my regular muscles.

I forced my hands up, my arms around his neck, my voice to stay soft, steady. “Do you like the beach?” I asked.

He nodded again, against my neck.

“Why don’t we take a walk? It’s such a nice day. I’d love to spend it with you outside.”

“Yes,” he murmured. “Later.”

His lips grazed my collarbone. I swallowed a scream.

“How about now?” I managed.

He leaned into me, pushing my back against the shelf. His hands moved down my sides. When I tried to speak again, he silenced me with his mouth.

I tore my face away and squirmed beneath his weight. He didn’t say anything as he pushed harder, searched for my mouth with his. The struggle zapped my energy, and I knew I’d be defenseless in a matter of seconds.

So I screamed. As loudly as I could. Only the sound wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t shrill or alarming.

It was soft. Sweet.

Effective.

Alex released me, stumbled back. Stunned by the reaction—and what had caused it—it took me a second to move. Finally, I bolted for the door. Tearing through the basement and up the stairs, I was only vaguely aware of a bright light flashing behind me.

I fought to compose myself as I flew through the kitchen. I
didn’t want to alarm diners, but I needed Paige. Simon. Someone to help me make sense of what had just happened.

Fortunately, I didn’t have to go far. Simon and Caleb sat at the bar. Paige was pouring them coffee.

“Vanessa?” Simon jumped off his stool. Caleb followed close behind.

“Oh my God.” Paige dropped the coffeepot to the counter and grabbed a stack of clean dish towels.

“I’m okay,” I said, as they encircled me.

Which was a lie for three reasons.

My cut was so deep, blood trickled from my hand to the floor.

A wound like that should burn so badly, amputation would be an appealing alternative, but my body was completely drained. I felt nothing.

And most alarming of all, Alex the Portland fisherman wasn’t in the basement.

He was at the table where I’d left him, eating pancakes.

C
HAPTER 15