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Mazu rests her hand on mine to get my attention. When I look her way, her eyes are on mine. Then she deliberately moves them away, drawing my attention to a large cage on the floor of the lair. The size of a small room, the cage is so rusted that it blends in with the coral around its base. But when I strain my eyes to focus on the coral, I see people lying on the cage floor. Something magenta floats gently in the water, creating a halo around the coral from my perspective.
I blink hard. Mazu feels the shift in me as I find my best friend’s wafting hair and grabs my hand hard to bring my attention back to her so I don’t rush off stupidly. I take one last long gaze into the cage. If that magenta haze is Eliza, then the other figure next to her must be Rory. I look back at Mazu.
We stare into each other’s eyes, trying to telepathically connect the dots and make some kind of rescue plan. I can’t focus on her well enough though, not with the incessant singing from Beatrice. I didn’t realize before, but her voice is familiar. It also has a husky quality I didn’t notice until now, scratchier and deeper than I would have expected. I look back at her, sitting at the vanity. The melody I hear has changed, and I don’t think the music is coming from her anymore. At least not right now. It’s hard to trace through the water, but I think it’s coming from the cage. But that voice doesn’t sound anything like Eliza, or Rory for that matter.
On the far side of the cage and in the shadow of the stone ledge hanging overhead, I can almost make out one more form, one more prisoner. This third person sits on the ground and leans against the bars. Wild curls tangle as their hair floats above their head.
So familiar, but the answer is just out of reach of my overloaded brain waves.
“Oh my gods, Guardian! You really must stop!” Beatrice’s voice is as smooth and rich as my favorite hot fudge, but I still jump when she addresses me. Was I thinking too loudly again? Did I really give myself away already?
But then she swims off her stool and hovers just above the ocean floor, toward the cage. Her body slams against the bars, creating such a clatter that when Eliza and Rory don’t even stir, I know they must be under a spell. The third figure, however, jumps away from the bars while turning to face Beatrice.
The siren’s hands grasp the bars so tightly I can see flakes of rust floating away in the water. She contorts her beautiful face with rage but keeps her voice eerily calm and controlled. “You need to stop, dear Guardian. I need to be able to listen for when your friend approaches, you know.”
The water around me turns to ice as Joanna’s voice drips with sarcasm. “Oh, I’m so sorry. Was I distracting you?”
Chapter 22
Jake
I’msnuggledonthecouch between a half-asleep Natalie, her eyelids drooping heavily, and a sound asleep Sammy. On the far side of Natalie, Phoebe sits with her knees pulled up to her chest, and she’s completely engrossed in a movie I can’t remember the name of, much less follow, when Jessie comes back from putting Tabitha down for the night.
I was worried that if I left her alone with her siblings, she would spill the beans about Miranda. Thank goodness she took Tabby’s responsibilities upon herself when Rory and Miranda left.
Our eyes meet as she walks over and collapses next to her sister, snuggling into her like she hasn’t in years. They used to be inseparable, two peas in a pod. The entire couch would be empty except for the two of them huddled under a blanket together, taking up half a cushion between the two of them. Miranda credited that to the fact that they had to spend the COVID year with only their siblings for friends.
But I credit Miranda. She’s the glue of this family. I meant what I said back in Vegas, when I told her it makes sense that she’s the Guardian. She’s the perfect balance of protective Mama Bear, guidance counselor, and Russian Olympic Gymnastics coach. She knows when to push the kids and when to hold them close. She knows what to say to move them forward in everything they do. She’s the one they’ve always gone to when they skinned their knees or needed advice or had a problem at school.
I silently wipe away the tears that have begun dripping down my cheeks and turn to Jessie. She’s staring at the movie, a movie made for tweens that she’s seen a hundred times, and her eyes also fill with tears. I reach around her sisters to pat her shoulder, but as soon as I make contact, she shrugs out from under my hand.
“Hey, Jessie?” It’s a little louder than a whisper, but not by much.
Her only response to me is the glare I get from the corner of her eyes.
“Can we go talk?” I know at her age she is going through life on the edge of a coin, not sure which way she’ll land on her opinions of us. I don’t want to lose her over this.
“Nope. I’m watching the movie.”
I want to yell at her to come talk to me, but I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and try to channel Miranda. What would she do in this moment. “Okay, well,I’mgoing to the kitchen for some snacks. Ifyouwant to talk about anything, you know where to find me.”
After twisting, wiggling, and extricating myself from my little ones and making sure they stay upright on their cushions, I feel Jessie’s eyes burning holes in my back as I walk to the kitchen and force myself not to look back. I grip the edge of the kitchen island and close my eyes. The cold marble counter top bites into my fingertips while my thumbs glide along the warm grain of the wooden cabinets below.
For a few minutes, I just breathe and focus on the way the oxygen fills my lungs. My heart beats stronger as I exhale. I remember my lie to get snacks and realize I need to deliver on that now, so I turn to the pantry to find a bag of microwave popcorn. As the kernels hit their mad popping stride and I’m nursing a tall glass of orange soda, the doorbell rings.
“What the fuck,” I murmur to myself while stealing a glance at the clock to see that it is ten thirty at night. I look toward the front door and consider if I really need to answer it. Then it rings again. Twice this time. I jump a little when I hear Jessie clear her throat.
“Dad, whoever that asshole is, they’re going to wake up Tabby.” She’s standing by the door to the family room, arms crossed, jaw jutted out, one eyebrow raised. She’s trying to be tough, but she widens her eyes and is bouncing one leg on her toes rapidly. I know that she is nervous that we have such a late-night visitor, especially given all that’s happened today.
I nod and walk to the door to prevent a third ring. I open it a crack, expecting some lost tourist—or some horrible beast. My eyes widen when I see our guest is a bit of both.
My tired voice cracks. “George, what are you doing here?”
Okay, it’s not fair to say that George is a horrible beast. But I still hate that he introduced our entire family to constant danger and haven’t completely shifted my gut reaction to his presence yet. I know, like Maria told me, George isn’t to blame. This kid is just as much a victim as we are. And we do need him. Hell, the fact that he drove all the way down here to help Miranda is pretty fucking decent of him. Damnit. I might start to like this kid. Maybe.
A second man shifts behind George, making his presence known. He is a couple inches shorter than George, and they appear to be opposites in every way. The new stranger is stocky instead of slight, and his hair and eyes are dark whereas George is so fair that he could easily play Rolf in a community production ofThe Sound of Music.
George holds up a book bound in cracked brown leather. The outer corners are plated in rusty metal, and the front has a metal coat of arms with a 3-D emblem of a sword running down the center. The blade is so realistic that I almost want to take it in my hand King-Arthur style, only pulling the sword from a book instead of a stone.
