Page 23 of Female Fantasy
Ryke sighs long and hard and turns to face me fully.
“This is where you come in, Merriah.” My name. He has called me by my given name. “When I escaped to shore, I was able to bring along something very valuable. An artifact that has been in my family since the first cinders of creation. An ancient conch rumored to have once belonged to the first mer king, Hippios. My greatest ancestor. When someone blowsthe conch, an alarm of sorts sounds—the primeval war cry of our people, calling all mer to battle. By blowing into that which you called a horn, my minnow, you accomplished three things. You instructed my troops to ready themselves for a fight. You alerted the sirens to my location. And you instilled hope in the hearts of Atlantians. You are both a hero and a curse. Though of course I cannot blame you. The conch creates a whistle of the highest frequency, one barely discernible to the human ear—which is why, I presume, you were unable to hear it.”
A shiver runs down my spine.
I can barely murmur the truth.
“But I did hear it,” I confess. “And what’s more, the instrument called out to me. It was as if we were shackled to each other by the bonds of fate.”
My entire body shakes as I ask my next question. “Why did the conch sing to me, Ryke?”
I watch as he clenches his fists, his knuckles turning white.
Fighting, it occurs to me.
Fighting the urge to burst through my air bubble.
“That, little minnow, is your very best question yet.”
Chapter Six
“Good morning, sunshine!”
I’m leaning against Tey’s truck, holding two cups of coffee, feeling chipper. The morning sun is beating down on the top of my head, causing my curls to expand. All around me, bells ring and keys jingle as businesses begin to open for the day. I love Mystic mornings. You can hear the water stir, the seagulls chatter away to each other. I’ve always been at my most calm right when I first wake up, before the rest of the world comes rushing in to invade my head.
Nico, on the other hand, looks like roadkill.
His clothes are wrinkled, and a golden shadow lines his chin, like he was in such a rush to get ready that he forgot to shave. His shirt is inside out with the tag showing, the fly of his jeans unzipped. He’s got an old Jansport backpack in one hand and a pair of aviator sunglasses in the other. WhenI speak, he shuts his eyes tightly, as if my voice grates on his eardrums.
“Still not a morning person, huh?” I ask, handing him a cup of coffee.
“Morning people are government plants,” he growls. He studies the coffee intently. “Did you poison this?”
I roll my eyes. “That depends on your sugar tolerance. I dumped, like, a year’s supply of Domino packets into these.”
He looks up at me, taking a long sip just as our gazes lock.
“I like sweet things,” he says.
I swallow. “Good to know. Out of character, but duly noted.”
“When are you going to get it through your head, kid?” He grabs the keys out of my hand and unlocks the doors. “I’m not a character. That means I’m going to go off script.”
I purse my lips. “If you think I’m going to let someone who barely managed to get dressed this morning drive a vehicle”—I throw my duffel in the back of the truck—“you are seriously deranged.”
The vein in Nico’s forehead pops. “Joonie. Give me a break. We both know you can barely drive.”
My hand flies to my mouth in mock horror. “Howdareyou! Must I remind you that of the two of us, only one actually owns a car?”
“Fine.” He opens the passenger door for me. “Never mind that forty-six thousand people die in car crashes every year. Have you ever even handled something this big?”
“That’s what she said.” It slips out, almost like a reflex. I feel my face instantly turn tomato red.
He smiles smugly. “That’s what I thought.”
“Fine. Shotgun,” I grumble. “And I’m controlling the music.”
Minutes later, we hit the road. Mystic Village shrinks from a bustling ecosystem to a tiny dot in our rearview mirror. A familiar wave of anxiety washes over me, the same panic I usually experience whenever I leave home and embark on a new adventure in the great unknown. But I shake off the uncertainty, choosing instead to focus on the changing leaves outside my window, the autumnal foliage our quaint New England enclave is known for. I close my eyes and belt out the lyrics to the road trip playlist I put together, full of bangers by my favorite pop girlies: Sabrina Carpenter, Chappell Roan, Charli xcx.
