“I’m not in love.”

“ ‘His hair is cute’? You never say anything nice about anyone. Coming from you, cute hair is a mating call.”

“I talked to the guy for thirty seconds. And then he waved at me while I was in the tank.”

“Holy fuck, you’re getting married, aren’t you!”

“Will you simmer? I certainly am not.”

Jonas tore through a claw, dunked the meat in butter, and slurped it like spaghetti. “You two were destined to be together. A marine biologist and a marine biologist. Meeting at an aquarium! What are the chances? It’s, like, fate. God, what do they put in this butter—nectar?”

Fred pushed her salad away and pointed to his bread. “You going to eat that?”

“And fill up on empty carbs? Go on, take it. You’ll swim it off anyway, you rotten bitch.”

She grinned and grabbed the bread.

Chapter Seven

Fred crept back to the tank a little after midnight, let herself in by on of the employee entrances, climbed the stairs to the top level of Main One, stripped, grabbed a bundle of smelt, and dove in. She shifted from legs to tail without conscious thought; it was like breathing.

And in her mermaid form, it was a lot easier to hear the fish, demanding buggers that they were.

A barracuda passed by. More fish more fish girl with fish more fish.

I’m here, aren’t I?

A sea turtle floated above. Pounding more pounding outside pounding.

Like hell. I’m not playing Pet Shop Boys for you guys anymore and that’s it.

As happened with sea creatures confined to the same space for long enough, the fish and turtles and eels and everything else in the tank reverted to a group-mind.

It was nearly deafening.

Not eat, not eat, NOT EAT!

You’ll eat.

NOT EAT NOT EAT NOT EAT!

Shut UP. You think I’ve got nothing better to do than come here at midnight and wave chum at you? You’ll eat what I give you and never mind what I play on the speakers. You can barely hear it in here, anyway.

With the exception of the barracuda and a single shark, the rest of the occupants ignored her fish offerings. And the pair of hunger strike scabs were so loudly shouted down, they swam behind a boulder to sulk together.

Fred knew the hunger strike meant trouble. If they didn’t eat, soon the larger fish wouldn’t be able to help themselves: they’d prey on the angelfish and sunnies and other small fish stuck in the tank with them. Which would raise questions. Which would get Fred into a lot of trouble with Dr. Barb.

She had to admit she admired their principled stance—especially the smaller fish, who had the most to lose. But like hundreds of little finned “Ghandis” moving in glimmering schools, they valued their dignity (or at least their musical taste) more highly than their own lives.

Morons.

Not to mention the larger problem: she freaking hated the Pet Shop Boys. Any band who relied more on a mixing board than actual talent wasn’t in her mind, a real band. And who was in charge here, anyway?