Chapter Two

Twelve hours later, and I still can’t get Bodin’s words out of my head. My entire family falling ill? Maybe even dying? What kind of tour guide tells his clients that?

Silly. I should be relishing this vacation, not obsessing over a passing comment. This superstitious mumbo jumbo is probably just part of the tourist adventure. Experience firsthand the mysticism of Thailand! Turn any natural animal behavior into an omen!

Well, no thank you. I have way better uses of my time.

It’s late afternoon now, and we’ve been sailing on the yacht for hours. Although…“yacht” might be too glamorous a word. Rather than sleek and modern, the massive boat is wooden, chipped, and weathered. Still, there are thick foam cushions for lounging, and even a hot tub that fills with seawater…and the views…

The water stretches as far as the eye can see. Heartbreak blue, I think. Because it’s the kind of bright, vivid color that makes your chest tight. That hurts the heart, that burns the skin, because we’re not meant to brush up against so much beauty.

Craggy islands rise out of the water—mostly rock, with little vegetation. They sure don’t look habitable, but here and there, I glimpse a crudely built shelter at the island’s peak. These must be the homes to which Bodin was referring. Beyond rustic, but alluring in their own way.

The sky is expansive. It’s the same one that touches down on my home in Washington, D.C.—and yet, here, the air feels fresher. More free. Devoid of the smoke and noise of the city.

“Think I’m too old to reenact the Kate-and-Leo scene?” Mama asks as she comes up behind me.

I turn. Her head is wrapped in a sunset-orange scarf that exactly matches her flowy sundress.

“Never. Didn’t the captain say we looked like sisters?”

She smiles. Eight. Mama’s wrinkle-free skin throws people off, and before chemo, she was constantly mistaken for my older sister. Since she got sick, though, the bald head—and a certain resignation in her eyes—add an age-appropriate wisdom to her face.

“Get up here.” I make room for Mama, and she squeezes between me and the bow.

“I’ve spent enough of my life being practical,” Mama muses. “It’s about time I live a little.”

“You’re the queen of the world!” I exclaim.

We both fling out our arms. This moment, with the wind in my hair and the blue of the ocean before me—I’ll remember it forever.

And then, the loudspeaker blares out “Party in the U.S.A.,” and Mama and I start jamming to the music, just like we used to when I was a kid at our pajama dance parties. I giggle as we throw our arms and hips every which way. Some of my uneasiness recedes.

When the song ends, I jump down to the deck. “I’m parched. Want me to get you something to drink?”

“A ginger beer, if they have it,” Mama says. The soda’s been her favorite since she started chemo ’cause the strong ginger taste stems her nausea.

“Are you sure I don’t need ID for that?” I tease. For the longest time, I thought ginger beer was alcoholic—because, you know, beer. Mama set me straight when I accused her of drinking too much alcohol during her recovery.

“Maybe just your school ID.” Mama’s lips twitch. “I’m going to find Papa on the sun deck. Don’t forget to put on a second coat of sunscreen.”

“I won’t,” I promise and ascend the stairs toward the indoor lounge. Mama herself never burns, but she quickly learned that her daughter’s fairer skin is much more susceptible to the sun’s UV rays. Even a few minutes in the sun can redden my cheeks.

Icy cool air engulfs me as I step inside. Only a few other passengers mill around the shaded lounge, with its rickety chairs and wooden tables. To my surprise, Bodin himself is manning the bar.

He’s taller than I remember, a pair of sunglasses on his head, his arms muscular and tanned in a form-fitting T-shirt bearing the yacht’s insignia.

I’ve been sneaking glances at him all day, while he was pulling up the line, fetching extra towels, gamely playing photographer…and flirting with the passengers. Can’t forget that. Every time I looked, he was charming another person, making them laugh or blush or peek at him through their eyelashes. All the more reason why I should keep my distance.

“Alaia. I’ve been thinking about you.” He flashes what I’m now learning is his trademark grin. “How are you?”

My heart bumps, even though I know it’s a line. I know I’m probably the tenth person he’s said this to.

“I’m good,” I say as casually as possible. “You bartend? I thought you were in charge of the equipment.”

“With a crew this small, I guess I’m boatswain and first stew,” he says. “Now, what can I get you?”

I give him our drink order, and as he retrieves them, I look out the floor-to-ceiling window at the sea.

Something glints in the water. A golden fin, smooth and slippery, like it might be attached to an eel. But that can’t be right. Eels don’t have fins. And the appendage is way too big to belong to any sea creature I’ve ever seen.

A trick of the light. Nothing more. The consequence of a sleepless night obsessing over a meaningless omen.

Except…the fin flashes again, fifty feet away. And then once more, fifty feet farther. Whatever this thing is, it sure travels fast.

“Do you see that?” I ask. “What is that thing?”

Bodin glances out the window and then back at me again. “The only thing I see is a vision of exquisite beauty,” he says jokingly.

I roll my eyes, although my stomach flips. I’ve never been called exquisite before, even as a joke. “Good one. Does your company give you a book of pickup lines to memorize?”

His smile spreads wider. “Nah. I bought the book myself.”

I giggle. He’s just so ridiculous. “Do the lines ever work?”

“Not yet,” he says, winking. “But I’m a guy with a lot of faith.”

The warmth begins in my core and radiates outward. He’s funny. I’ll give him that. But judging by those gleaming brown eyes, the dimple waving at me from the side of his mouth? The lines do work. Entirely too well. Although I’ll never admit it.

Bodin hands me the coconut water and ginger beer, his fingers grazing the back of my hand.

I recoil from his touch. I know it makes absolutely no sense, but I just don’t like it when people touch me—even if they’re as cute as Bodin.

He withdraws his hand. “Sorry, I…” He struggles to come up with an appropriate apology.

But there’s no need to say sorry because he did nothing wrong. It’s me.

I don’t know what to say. I rarely tell people about this part of myself. My aversion to touch feels deeply personal, and I sure as hell am not about to explain it to some stranger I just met.

That’s when I notice exactly how close he is to me. Twelve inches. The current of electricity that hums in that space feels almost tangible.

For a moment, I stare into his eyes, and the look he gives me, intense yet gentle, is one that I could swim in for hours.

I take a small step back.

I don’t know why. Actually, that’s a lie. I know exactly why. He was getting too close. Too close for comfort. But part of me wanted him even closer. And now all I can do is beat myself up for ruining the moment.

“I need to find my parents,” I say regretfully. This vacation is about spending time with Mama, not crushing on a guy I’ll never see again. Maybe Mama should’ve thought about that before she threw us together last night. “See you later?” Or not.

No doubt, he will be the same as every other cute guy I encounter: someone whom I avoid so that I don’t get hurt.

He clutches at his heart. “I’m counting down the minutes.”

I smile—because how can I not smile?—and descend the rickety stairs to the first level of the yacht. It’s a different route than the way that I came, but hopefully, it will take me closer to the sun deck, where my parents wait.

The yacht is larger—or at least more confusing—than I remember. I must make a wrong turn, because I end up not in the open-air sun deck but in a dark corridor that dead-ends in a small, dimly lit storage area.

Hesitantly, I walk toward the light.

The smell hits me first—seawater ripened with fish guts. That alone should’ve made me turn around. For some reason, I don’t.

The room is piled high with coolers and life vests, and a dozen slimy fish are laid out on a table in the center.

A white man stands at the table. He’s got a scruffy beard and a long, salt-and-pepper ponytail—the captain of the yacht, I suddenly realize. Xander.

But Captain Xander’s not just standing there. He’s holding one of the fish, and—oh dear lord, he’s inserting a hook straight through the eye.

My breath gets caught in my lungs, and I dart my gaze to the rest of the table. Sure enough, every fish has a hook through its eye.

“What are you doing?” I blurt. “Those poor fish.”

Xander looks up. The instant he sees me, his lips curve—but not in a smile. No, his expression is too bone-chilling, too evil to ever be called that.

“On the contrary, little girl,” he says. “The fish are already dead. I’m simply prepping them to be reincarnated as my twelve blind princesses.”

I have no idea what he’s talking about, but that doesn’t matter. Because Xander flips the fish over, plucks out an eye with his fingers, and—in the creepiest moment of my life—pops it straight into his mouth.

I can’t think. Instead, I just run. From the dimly lit room, down the darkened corridor. Pumping my arms, taxing my lungs. Up, up, up the stairs, so quickly that my foot slips on a step. So panicked that I grab the railing too hard and splinters shoot into my skin. Doesn’t matter. Anything to get away from Xander and the bloated bodies of the fish.

I smash into Bodin, right where I left him a few minutes ago.

“Alaia!” His eyes widen. “What’s wrong? Did you find your parents?”

I force myself to take a ragged breath, and then another. What did I just see?

BOOM.

An explosion rocks the boat, and I pitch forward. Bodin’s arms shoot forward to steady me. Just as quickly, they retreat.

The moment is so chaotic that I barely register the touch. My heart’s beating too hard. My breaths come too quickly.

What is happening?

A horn blares. Loud. Insistent. Repeating.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven…eight.

Nine, ten, eleven, my mind automatically fills in.

But in reality, only seven short blasts sounded, followed by one long one.

Crap. My panic has nothing to do with the fact that the numbers stopped too early. Because that’s not just a random horn sequence. It’s the yacht’s general alarm for an emergency, the one the captain told us about during the safety presentation this morning.

Oh, dear god, we’re sinking.