Page 68 of Song of Lorelei

“I know.” It was half her family, too. Marci was on the phone with somebody, possibly the Coast Guard. Lorelei hugged Lila once, quick and fast, then pulled away, slinging her harpoon across her back.

She followed Nireed into the storm.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

KILLIAN

They should have left with the healthy merfolk when they had the chance.

Killian and his crew came down here to get equipment to patch the hull when Will raced down from mid-deck waving frantically and pressing his fingers to lips. Everyone got the message quick. Hands stilling, mouths shut tight.

“Merman,” Will mouthed.

As the crew all piled into the engine room, quiet as could be, Killian propped open the door to the freezer hold. Maybe the overbearing smell of fish and refrigerant would distract him, throw him off their scent. Killian filed in after his crew, where they all hunkered down on the floor, and locked and blocked the door.

“Rub grease on your skin,” he whispered as loud as he dared. “Mask your scent.”

They complied.

Claws scraped metal in a long discordant screech, dragging along walls from the flooded end of the hull. It must be him, the virus-ravaged merman, lurking in the hallway, just on the other side of the door. Sniffing. Hunting.

And now they were stuck inside this waterlogged death trap, pinched between two unsavory options. Stay here and meet the sailor’s gradual, then sudden demise. Or go up against a creature who could rip them all to shreds in seconds with its supernatural strength.

It didn’t matter that they outnumbered it seven to one. They had no weapons, save for some patching tools and a water pump too heavy to swing. The collateral damage it would take to overpower the feral merman was unconscionable, but they might not have a choice.

Staying put meant certain death. Drowning.

Where was Will’s fucking tranquilizer gun when they needed it? Pilothouse, that’s where, and no good to them here.

Killian swiped a greasy hand across his face, then around his neck, rubbing the stuff into his skin.

Those creatures hit the bow hard and fast, clawing their way in. One climbed up the side and tore through the pilothouse, McAdams barely making it out with his life. He was saved only by siren ex machina, the wave of healthy merfolk that spilled over the side to fend off their attackers, driving them back into the deep.

Thank Christ they did, or he and his crew would all be chum.

McAdams and too many of the others didn’t know the difference between the groups of merfolk. Killian saw a rescue. They saw murderous, territorial sea creatures fighting over prey, and flat out refused their rescuers’ help when the fighting stopped, even knowing the boat was slowly sinking, and that a patch may or may not hold them together long enough for the Coast Guard to arrive.

If the radios weren’t too damaged to call for help.

Killian leaned over and whispered the question in Will’s ear, “Radios?”

Will frowned, shaking his head. He’d gone up to check, which was why he was initially separated from the group. “Saw merman,” he whispered back, too afraid of making sound to use full sentences. “Snuck away to warn.” He gestured to the group.

It was uncharitable—they didn’t know what he knew about the merfolk—but fuck those guys. Not a goddamn one of them listened to a word he or Will or Walt had to say. So much for being the fucking captain of this boat. They held a goddamn vote like this was a fucking Democracy.

And his stupid, moral ass wouldn’t leave his hardheaded crew to die.

Killian leaned into his anger, letting it take the reins, because if he wasn’t pissed, he would be scared shitless about dying and weepy that he wouldn’t get to marry the love of his life.

Chapter Forty

LORELEI

She found Dawn Chaser thirty miles out, submerged bow pointed west; the crew had been heading home when the storm hit. It had passed now, ravaging the coast and inland towns instead.

With the engines cut, the boat sat eerily quiet and dark, dead in the water. Aft tilted above the surface by a water-laden fore, revealed a glimpse of the barnacle-encrusted underside, its propellors silent, still, and dripping seawater. The pilothouse was flooded, not completely underwater just yet, but all the electronics and radios would’ve been destroyed. She had no idea if the crew had gotten out the S.O.S. as intended, but Marci had called the Coast Guard.

No matter what, help would be coming.

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