Chapter 2

 

With her arms straining and tail churning up foam, Perdita lifted the human male out of the water and heaved him onto the rocky ledge. Backing away, she spit out the sea as air convulsed in her lungs. The man coughed. Water spewed from his mouth before he collapsed back into unconsciousness. Blood trickled down the rock and dripped into the water filling the cave that had been Perdita’s home for centuries.

Drip, drip, drip. Life spilled from the man, echoing an eerie cadence off the rock walls. She must do something or he would die. Swimming to the edge of the pool, she lifted herself upon the rocky sand that formed a ridge around the water and swung her tail up, waiting for its transformation. She ran her fingers over the smooth circular scales of turquoise edged in silvery glitter that spanned from her waist down to her tail in a lustrous mirage of turquoise, maroon, and green, shimmering like an abalone shell.

How could she hate something so beautiful?

That beauty began to fade. Melt would be a better word. An agonizing itch gripped her waist and traversed down her legs, spanning to her tail. She shifted uncomfortably, resisting the urge to scratch as scales melted away like ice before the sun. Bit by bit, the pearly skin of her legs appeared until finally her tail separated and transformed into feet. She wiggled her toes. Two beautiful feet.

Leaping up on those beautiful feet, she lit a lantern, made her way to a chest she’d salvaged from a shipwreck two hundred years ago, and began rummaging through the mementos that reminded her of home, of being human, of friendships and love and life: engraved silverware from a captain’s cabin, a golden locket, a hairbrush and mirror, a porcelain tea service, King Urdon of Tidor’s leather shoes—she smiled as she remembered stealing them from beneath his bed—tomes from an ancient library, and the hilt of a knight’s broken sword. She caressed the pouch containing Sir Ivan’s livery collar—the one he’d given her as a promise of his love. After three hundred years in a salty, moist cave, the velvet had shredded and flashes of the gold medallion winked at her from within its folds.

Sir Ivan of Morehead. She sighed. Her first love. The man who’d started it all, back when she had been human and so very young. Odd, she could hardly remember what he looked like. Only that he was deliciously handsome. The first one hurt the most. But what did it matter? He was long dead. And she was alone.

Still.

Beside the pouch, another larger sack bulged with precious tokens from other Ivans: Ivan two, Ivan three, Ivan four, and so on until the last one, Ivan twenty-nine. What was his name? Thankfully, the past ten years had wiped away the memory. It mattered naught. Ivan twenty-nine would be the final Ivan.

Thunder bellowed outside the cave, shaking the rocks, jarring her from her thoughts. The human male moaned. Shoving aside the sack, she grabbed some bandages, blankets, and a soft down pillow from the bottom of the chest—things she kept for such an emergency, for she had no use for these things herself. Holding them to her face, she snuggled her cheek into the soft fabric and sighed as vague memories of sleeping dry and cuddled in blankets teased her.

Slipping an over-sized shirt over her head in case the human male awoke, she added a jar of seaweed balm to her stack and made her way back to him. She would keep him warm and dry and tend his wounds. The same thing she’d done for hundreds before him. ’Twas the only thing that had kept her sane these past three hundred years—saving the lives of shipwrecked sailors. At least it had given her purpose, a reason to leave her cave, though recently even that had become meaningless.

After making a bed in the sand beside him, Perdita dragged him on top of the soft blankets, then removed his shirt, scarf, and boots. Cuts and scrapes marred his chest and arms. A deep hole bled from his shoulder. But it was the puncture on his head that worried her most. She pressed a cloth to it, hoping to stay the blood saturating her pillow. She would have to stitch the hole and hope infection didn’t set in. So frail, this human condition, she envied it. Still, she would not let him die. Nay, she would use her powers to heal him as she’d done with so many others, even though it meant she’d suffer the worst torture imaginable, along with the loss of all her strength for at least an hour.

Thank the stars the man had not struck Hades’ Gate head on, its barbed spikes only clipping him in passing. Though the evil rock had done plenty of damage, she shuddered to think what condition he’d be in otherwise.

The condition she would have been in if she hadn’t been so rudely interrupted—the sweet sleep of death..

She knew his type. Proud sailors with no respect for the power of the wind and wave—so bloated with their arrogance they actually believed they could outwit and conquer the sea. Perdita had rescued countless pompous imbeciles who had tried over the years, always depositing them safely ashore before they regained full consciousness, their minds assailed with vague memories of a mermaid who rescued them. Myths and fables from fever-delusioned minds, or so those who heard the tales claimed.

All save Damien Gund and his minions. But that was another story.

The man groaned and his lips twitched. Dabbing a cloth into the pool, Perdita began cleaning his wounds, then quickly stitched and bandaged him up as best she could. She hadn’t much time left before the curse would force her back into the water.

Finally done, she sat back to examine her patient. Light-brown hair streaked in gold tumbled about an angular face, strong bristly jaw, and aquiline nose. Sculpted muscles bulged on his arms and legs and rippled across his stomach. Aside from his powerful physique, he wasn’t a particularly attractive man—rather average-looking, if she had to admit. A typical sailor among so many.

She ran her fingers over a tattoo of a lion on his right bicep and huffed at the symbol of power and virility. Obviously her assessment had been correct. He was simply another man suffering from an overinflated ego.

She tugged on a rope around his neck and pulled a medallion from his hair. ’Twas heavy and thick, no doubt made of solid gold. The figure of a dove was etched on one side and a lamb on the other. A dove and lamb? Interesting symbols worn by a man with a lion tattoo. The word Nevaeh was carved in fancy letters above both gentle animals. Very curious. ’Twas the royal city that existed on the other side of the gulf.

She hadn’t time to ponder the meaning when pain seared from her toes up through her legs, growing in intensity as scales began to form on her skin. Her feet melded together. Her lungs collapsed. Gasping for air, she quickly covered the man with a blanket and dove into the pool.

 

Four hours later when she emerged again, the human was feverish, and just as she feared, his wound was turning green. She knew all too well what would happen next if she delayed. Laying her hands atop the cut, she closed her eyes and concentrated on the man, his torn flesh, his lifeblood draining. Scales formed on her hands, inviting the pain in, drawing out the agony, pulling the infection, from the man into her. Blood spilled from the gills at her side—his blood. Spasms of torment racked through her. Biting her lip, she tried not to cry out. The pain increased until she could hardly breathe. Every muscle, every cell screamed for release. Her arms trembled. Her legs shook. Her insides burned like fire. If she would only die! But then the pain diminished, like the retreating of a storm, slow at first but then draining from her until she collapsed and dragged herself back into the water.

Hours later, after she regained her strength and health, she pulled herself onto the ledge. He was well! At least the wound on his head was healed. But he was still hot and remained unconscious. Perdita yanked her tail from the water and waited for her feet to form. Now, she must keep him cool and ensure he drank water. A difficult feat when she could only emerge from the sea for twenty minutes every four hours. Yet during the next day, she spent every one of those precious minutes patting him down with moist cloths and dribbling fresh water into his mouth.

Now, as she sat beside the human, his skin blotchy and sweat-laden, watching him breathe heavily and fidget uncomfortably, she decided mayhap a song would soothe him. ’Twas said a mermaid’s song could send a man into a deep sleep of peace and comfort, even lure him beneath the water to his death. Such evil was not for Perdita. She leaned toward the man and sang softly.

 

“How fare thee, oh sailor boy

How fare thee on the sea

Doest thou want my beauty, boy

Doest thou have a plea

Whene’er the ships teeter so

Whene’er the waters rise

Thou wilt find me in the deep

Where thou wilt see me with thine eyes”

 

The tune echoed off the moist walls, magnifying her voice and making it sound sweet and alluring. Much more than when on land where she could hardly carry a tune. Or mayhap singing was another charm that came with being a mermaid.

She was about to start another chorus when the man tossed his head and began mumbling in his delirium. “The lion. The lion.”

Dipping a cloth in the cool seawater, Perdita dabbed his cheeks and neck, but it did naught to calm him.

“I’m sorry, Father,” he mumbled.

“Shhh. ’Tis all right.” Perdita drew close.

“The lion,” he breathed out. “The lion breaks the curse.”

What? What would this human know about a curse? Certainly he spoke not of her curse. Nay, he was feverish and rambled nonsensical as most humans did.

Her legs burned. Zost! She was running out of time. Grabbing the bowl of fresh water, she dipped the sponge in and gave him one last drink as scales formed on her legs. She had to leave. The human clutched her wrist. Tight. Pain sped up her arm. She struggled as her lungs collapsed, begging to be filled with water. She wouldn’t die, of course, but the pain of suffocation would be unbearable.

Her feet joined and then spread into a tail.

The human’s eyes shot open. He panted, turning to stare at her with the most golden eyes she’d ever seen. “Do not despair, the lamb will break Natas’s curse!” he rasped then fell back onto the pillow, eyes shut.

Suffocating and confused, Perdita shook from his grip and slipped into the water.