For some reason that made him laugh. “But I guess since you’re a mermaid that isn’t short for Lucille or anything?”

The question made Luce snort in annoyance. “It’s short for Lucette! I hate Lucille; it’s like the worst name ever.” He laughed harder. Now that he didn’t have his parka he was almost doubled up with tremors. “What’s so funny?”

“You . . . sound so human . . .”

“I . . .” Luce started, and then caught herself, dismayed at what she’d been about to say. I am human. How could she even think something like that?

While she was consumed by the disturbing implications of that thought, Dorian got up on his knees, leaned across the narrow span of sea between them, and kissed her again. The kiss was so soft that it could have been part of the night, a single drop of blue darkness spilled on her lips. Foggy heat gathered inside her, reminding her of her lost human body. This was what Catarina had felt, Luce thought, the reason she’d kept up her forbidden encounters with drowning boys . . .

“You’re going to come back?” It wasn’t really a question.

“Yes,” Luce told him, and instantly regretted it. She watched as he staggered to his feet, then realized that she didn’t want to see him leave. She slashed away fast into deepening waters, trying to obliterate her thoughts with movement.

6

A Glass of Water

The wave faced him, swaying slightly. It was enormously tall and hunched over so far that the foam dribbling like spittle from its crest dripped onto Dorian’s upturned face. Huge as it was, it leaned pathetically, stretching out its hands like a beggar. There was even something piteous in its roar. Dorian backed slowly away, pushing through a dense gray substance that was neither air nor water, but the wave shambled stubbornly after him, pressing closer and licking him with cold tentacles. Its breath stank of seal carcasses and weeds; it exhaled chill mist until Dorian’s moistened hair clung to his face. It wanted something, and if he didn’t find a way to placate it the wave would turn from fawning to savage in a heartbeat. It would lash down and crush him. The trouble was that he had no idea what to give it. A drawing? He groped through the pockets of his parka, searching for one, but somehow the fabric disintegrated at his touch and his hands kept reaching endlessly through cavernous space.

The wave stretched itself, its watery chest inches from Dorian’s eyes, and then he saw a little girl’s curled arm and hand suspended in its core. The hand was green with decay. Tiny fishes nibbled the loose skin from its fingertips, but as Dorian gaped the forefinger crooked twice, beckoning him inside.