He took another step forward. Two. Luce could feel his thoughts as she sang: his mother was there smiling at him with such tenderness; the air ran with streaming colors, and his mind winged outward to feel the whole world beckoning him home . . . Maybe, Luce tried to tell herself, maybe it was better this way. Maybe this was the only way things between them could have ended all along. Dorian staggered as the first wave crashed across the top of his head.

I hope you will be the one . . . a voice suddenly murmured in Luce’s mind. Even in the trance of her singing Luce wanted to reach for that voice, to pull it closer. The death song swirled through her, trying to drive the voice back, but all at once she thought that maybe, just maybe drowning Dorian wasn’t the only possibility left for her. Dimly Luce felt herself make some terrible effort. Her body rocked, lunged . . .

. . . who discovers the strength . . .

Was she still singing? Luce couldn’t tell anymore. All she could recognize now was that voice, Nausicaa’s voice, and with it a burning, unbearable pain. Heat licked at her scales, and the sting pierced deep. Like knives of pure sun slashing into her.

. . . to make a different choice . . .

Luce wasn’t singing anymore. Instead she was screaming from horrifying pain, her body racked by icy fire. She was still lying at the edge of the beach, but she’d swung around far enough to throw her tail out of the water. Convulsions beat through her, her tail slapping so hard that rocks flew in all directions. Dorian was running toward her through the drag of the water, not enchanted at all anymore, his hands pressed tight over his ears. Luce felt him seize her spasming tail in both arms and then stagger sideways, pulling her with him.

Pulling her back into the sea.

Luce gasped and choked, tears streaming over her face, and Dorian stood drenched and trembling in the water nearby. He was gazing at her as she flailed, as that awful burning cooled. Luce wouldn’t look at him.

“Why did you stop?” Dorian whispered. Plaintively, childishly. Luce found his babyish tone utterly sickening. She was dishonored, humiliated, shattered. She’d let Nausicaa leave without her, she’d betrayed Dana and abandoned her father. For this?

Luce hated him then. Her pride flared, dark and scathing. Dorian wasn’t even worth killing. And as for everything she’d hoped might still be possible . . .

She’d imagined perfect, shared forgiveness, Luce thought with disgust. She’d wanted reconciliation, of all things, with humans. Now it seemed like the sickest joke she’d ever heard. And she’d even thought of risking death to turn into one of these creatures, who betrayed so readily, who never seemed to have more than half a heart . . .

Her body was already rippling without her having to consciously control it.

She was gone.

∗ ∗ ∗