Authors: Naomi Fraser
“Don’t get what?” I murmur,
trying not to ogle him more than absolutely necessary. “That the police were
here?”
“Everyone around me dies, Ellie.
If you haven’t figured that out by now, you should. I’m dangerous. You look at
me and see this boy with regular clothes, a normal personality, but you don’t
want to get to know me. My parents died,” he chokes on the word, “my sister,
others in my guardian squad and now Ralph.”
His laughter sounds so incredibly
bitter, my heart aches for him. “But none of that’s your fault. Don’t blame
yourself.”
He looks at me like he doubts my
sanity. “It’s because of me you leapt off the cliff.”
“No,” I deny, certain now of how
to counter his argument.
How to calm him.
“Sirens are
to blame.”
He rubs either side of his eyes
in exasperation. “The sirens tried to kill me because I was decimating their
numbers. That’s my job as a finfolk guardian, plus I’m immune to their call. I
heard you singing on one of my patrols. I stayed and watched enough times,
thinking no one would know. Sirens followed me and took you. The same as they
took my mother, father and sister.” He leans over, gripping my arms; though
he’s trembling so hard I’m not sure how he stays on his feet. Not that he seems
to notice—his eyes don’t release mine. “You died and were transformed because
of me. You have to stay away. You need to get out of here.”
I stubbornly stand my ground.
“You didn’t kill them. You can’t take the blame and you know it, so stop
feeling sorry for yourself.”
“You think I can save you better
than Ralph could?” He shakes his head. “Ralph was an old hand, he knew what he
was doing out on the sea. They tore him apart. He washed up on shore shredded
to bits. They’re coming for me and if you stand in the way, you’ll die, too.
You’re not going to be here when they arrive.” He scoops me up in his arms and
cradles me against his rock hard chest before depositing me outside the gates.
He draws the chain through the loop and secures the lock.
“Really?”
I claw the fence in disbelief.
“Lakyn.”
Tears fill my
eyes. I wipe them away. “Wait, please.”
He stops, but doesn’t turn
around. “What?” he asks, voice stiff.
I try to control my emotions so
my voice stays steady. “When’s the funeral? Ralph was my friend, too.”
Lakyn sighs. “Twelve-thirty at
Mount Gravatt Crematorium, room fourteen, Friday. I’d prefer it if you didn’t
show up.” Then he stalks away, out of sight and seemingly out of my life.
I trudge the rest of the way home,
fighting back tears, though I give Mum a quick call to let her know I’m on my
way. I enter through the front door, hood up to hide my face and catch her
hurriedly sliding a drawer closed in the kitchen and locking it with a key.
“Mum?”
She jumps. “Oh hi, honey. Back so
soon?” She tucks the key in her pocket, turns, and grips the bench behind her,
leaning back to cover my sight of the drawer. Her gaze sweeps over me. “Looks
like you’ve worked hard. You’re very red in the face.”
I stride to the fridge to grab
some cold water. She doesn’t leave, just hangs around and the silence becomes
awkward. I rest the cold glass against my face, wondering why she’s acting so
odd and then my gaze flicks to the edge of the drawer.
She’s not going anywhere.
“I’m off to have a shower.”
“Fine.”
Her smile is a little too bright. She rinses off dishes at the sink that are
already clean, but whatever.
I want to drown my sorrows under
some hot water and then memorise the transformation sequence. I’ll also record
the steps on my phone and listen to them over and over as I fall asleep. The
affirmations can wait.
I SPEND THE next two days in a miserable funk. But I study
the books Ralph gave me, listening to the playback in my earphones and learn
more about finfolk magic. My study of the transformation sequence led me into
the most awesome detailed magic sections in both the
Guardian Training
Manual
and
Finfolk Lore & Transformations.
I’ve been eagerly
practicing spells every spare moment when I’m alone. Lakyn’s notes make it
clear how imperative sorcery is for the change to be successful.
I can feel the spark of magic
growing inside me, a tentative power at first, but one that is increasing in
strength. Energy pulses through my veins during my practice, yet since I need
to be in mermaid form for the full power of my magic to take effect, I don’t
let the lack of truly amazing results bother me. It’s enough that the waves
follow my orders. I can make water into a wall and force the tides to recede
when I walk to the bus stop.
I normally sleep with a playback
of spells and techniques on my phone, until I wake up, able to recall things
more easily. Practicing magic and studying the books also helps get my mind off
Lakyn’s dismissal, and the power whets my appetite to study finfolk magic until
I memorise everything I can.
I’m still furious Lakyn doesn’t
want me to go to the funeral. Though I understand he’s hurting about Ralph,
it’s
little consolation that he found it so easy to get rid
of me. It hurts. But if he thinks I’m going to sit around and twiddle my thumbs
all day, he has another think coming.
Bethany and I traipse through the
Capalaba Central shopping centre on Thursday afternoon until my feet are one
giant ache.
My new black Converse
are
giving me blisters. Band-Aids are my friend. I buy a
packet and layer two across my peeling heel in the bathroom. Mum gave me some
early birthday money at the last second—two hundred dollars—although I did
protest, saying it’s too much, she refused to take it back with the order to
buy something nice for myself.
No need to tell me twice. After
combing through the information Ralph gave me, I have a better idea of what I
need to buy, but I have to get the items without Bethany growing too
suspicious. If I tell her what I’m planning, she might try to stop me, or even
worse, place herself in more danger. I mentally check off my list. I need a
shockproof and waterproof case for my phone, plus some Velcro and straps
because I have an idea of how to help Lakyn if anymore sirens venture toward the
hostel. I also need an outfit for the funeral tomorrow, which makes me feel
even more depressed. Not the buying part.
The saying goodbye
part.
I look through the pharmacies,
digging into the discount bins of lipsticks, hair sprays and eyeliners, finally
buying some more foundation. I don’t have anything worthy of Ralph’s funeral in
my closet. I do have black . . . but in general I prefer colour in my wardrobe,
and I’ll have to dig into the dregs at the bottom of my drawers to scrounge up
a decent outfit.
I will not embarrass anyone by
showing up in a small black skirt that I haven’t worn in five years.
“I need a new cover for my phone,
some Velcro, and I’ve got to stop at the hardware store. Plus, I have to find
something in black. Understated,” I say to Bethany after we finish up with our
shredded salad plates and collect our frozen Cokes. I push the straw around in
my mouth, hoping the action forestalls the questions I see in her eyes.
“Well, OK. I saw some cute black
dresses at one of clothes shops—they had them for sale last week on the
Internet. One of my friends posted a pic of her wearing it on
Instagram
. They should be in stock by now,” she says
quietly. “The bottom of the dress looks like those handkerchief shorts. They
look like those jumpsuits, but they’re not.”
I nod my approval and we head
off, dodging mothers with trolleys and laughing teenagers to get to the wide
walkway.
The shop displays try to be
appealing, but I look at them with barely-there interest. We stroll past a
cheap shoe store, a Rastafarian clothes shop and then continue on to the shiny,
silver mannequins out the front of a trendy clothes store. They’re dressed in
high-waisted denim shorts and multi-coloured bandeaus.
“In here.” Bethany ditches her
plastic take-away container in the bin,
then
rubs her
hands, a mischievous grin turning her eyes intensely green. “Let’s go.”
I laugh and glance back to the
brightly lit interior, scanning the store for something black and appropriate.
I hope I have enough money to buy new clothes and everything else. I try to
summon the enthusiasm this trip should be giving me, but I feel somewhat numb,
as though I’m coming from a great distance.
“Not there.” She hooks her hand
around my elbow and leads me around the many clothes racks to the rear of the
store. She knows exactly what to do, and slides the hangars over, then pulls
out a black dress. “Size eight, right?”
At my nod, she pulls it out
completely and holds up the dress, muttering, “They haven’t put them on display
yet. It’s new stock. They might have them out Saturday. What do you think?” She
holds it against me, tilting her head. “Oh, that looks great with your blonde
hair.”
“You don’t think it makes me look
too pale?” I flick back tendrils of hair at my nape and catch a side view of my
reflection in a mirror.
Her gaze rakes me up and down.
“Na.”
She sucks in her bottom lip, pondering. “Your skin
looks good, the co—”
“Can I help you?” a friendly
voice asks.
We both turn, startled at the
question, and I smile at the young sales assistant. “We’re fine,” I say
immediately.
Her smile widens, and her thick,
black lashes with eight coats of mascara flutter like crow’s wings. I wonder if
they annoy the heck out of her. They’re annoying me and they’re not even on my
face. “Are you looking for something in black?” Even though I haven’t given her
an answer, she forges ahead. “We have some new stock in over the other
side—pants, tops.”
“Thanks,” I say, unmoving.
She tries again. “Is it for a
special occasion?”
I freeze and Bethany looks at me
from the corner of her eyes. My mouth opens, but I can’t seem to say the word
funeral
.
That will bring too many questions. For Bethany and Cal’s safety, I can’t tell
them anymore.
Bethany steps forward, shifting
her body in front of mine, one hand on her hip. “It’s her birthday tomorrow.
She’s just having a look.”
Did I mention how much Bethany
rocks in general? And she’s right. My birthday is this Friday.
The same day as Ralph’s funeral.
I look at my feet and suck
in a mouthful of frozen Coke.
“Well,” the sales assistant—I
glance up and read her name tag “Melanie”—grins at me.
“Happy
birthday.
If you need any help, just let me know.” She turns around and
winds her way toward another couple of girls entering the store.
My exhale precedes Bethany’s
chuckle. If I didn’t need something in black, that performance will have forced
me to walk out.
“Pushy sales
people.”
She picks up on my thoughts. “If only they knew how many sales
they lose every time they did that. Try on the dress.”
I grasp the hangar, look at the
outfit, and take the closest change room, locking the door behind me. I swiftly
undress, pulling down my high-waisted jean shorts and off-white top and then
slide into the black dress. It’s short and feels cool and soft against my skin,
reaching high mid-thigh, but I can pull that off. The front hemline folds into
what looks like a slight handkerchief design and a thin gold belt emphasizes
the waist. It’s classy. The top has spaghetti straps in a singlet style, which
will be nice and cool to wear. I wonder if it’ll be too stylish for a funeral.
The low neckline is the main thing to worry me, but it scoops high enough to
cover my breasts. Honestly, the dress makes me look amazing.
“I’ll take it,” I say to Beth
from the dressing room.
≈≈≈
THE SUN SHINES on the day of Ralph’s funeral.
Far too brightly.
I travel by bus, skipping out of
school for the day. It’s my birthday, so I don’t feel too guilty. My phone is
off, just in case Mum’s tracking me through an app, but I miss having my music
to listen to—it helps me escape the crushing pain in my chest—too close to my
heart. My research last night on the Internet gave me the bus timetable, but I
still needed to leave early to get to the Mount Gravatt Crematorium on time.
I don’t have a private
invitation, and I sincerely hope I won’t be asked for one at the door. I arrive
with forty minutes to spare and walk into a graveyard, my footsteps steady past
hundreds of grey stones that mark people who have gone from this world.
I immediately tear up, thinking
of Ralph, but stroll around until I find room number fourteen, though it’s not
hard once I catch sight of people standing around the grounds—and a sudden
nervousness grips me. I use the skills I’ve learnt from
Dr.
Farrow to combat nerves skittering along my spine. I only know a few people
here and one told me not to come.
I’m here for Ralph.
My face crumples and tears prick
my eyes. I wipe them away, trying to catch my breath and suppress my emotions,
but my arms shake. The tears won’t stop. I turn from the crowd; at least I’m
far enough away so no one catches sight of me yet. I pull tissues from my bra
and wipe my eyes, breathing, taking my time. I don’t want to get there and
immediately be a total mess of tears.
Oh, Ralph.
The thought pushes something up
from my chest—all the emotions I’ve kept locked away, believing in the most
pathetic way that I can keep them hidden forever. I let them all out.
My nose blocks and tears stream unchecked down my face.
I
hold my hands over my face, sobbing my heart out. I can’t breathe and the salty
tears sting my nose.
After five minutes, I manage to
wipe my face, blow my nose and breathe out slowly. The grassy area shines
greener than before, the sky a ribbon of perfect blue, trees even more
beautiful. I sniff, turn back to the room, clench my jaw and stalk up to a long
table at the front of the room.
A friendly man dressed in black
slacks and a dark blue dress shirt greets me, hands over a folded card with a
smiling picture of Ralph on the front and then asks me to sign the register in
his memory.
I pick up the pen. My hand
shakes, and single fat tear rolls down my cheek, splashing onto the page. The
droplet moistens the white paper. I smear it off with my thumb.
Rest in Peace, Ralph. You’ve given
me a great gift, and I’ll miss your friendship, love forever, Ellie.
I drop the pen and the cylinder
clatters on the table. A stack of tissues rests on the table, and I grab a
small packet, then glance around, but don’t notice Lakyn anywhere. Maybe he’s
inside the room, organising things? I stride over to stand beneath the shade of
a paper bark tree, listening to the birds singing and enjoying the soft breeze
on my hot cheeks.
The perfect time to go through my
relaxation techniques again.
A man moves in to my line of
vision and steadily makes his way toward me. I look up from contemplating the
grass and his legs. His eyes make my heart stutter.
They’re deep brown, but the
colour shifts incredibly fast, going from burnt coffee to amber brown, then
yellow. I press back against the tree, fingers on the soft, peeling bark. A
shadow moves over us, a cloud, but he looks up with a grimace and then swings
his gaze back to me.
I swallow at the single-minded
determination on his face.
“It looks like it might rain.
You’re Eloise, aren’t you?” He holds out his hand suddenly. “Richard. I saw you
sign in at the register.”
I look at his hand and then lift
mine slowly. His grip is warm and firm. Non-personal and he doesn’t hold me
longer than is necessary. I breathe a little easier.
“Nice to
meet you.”
He smiles and steps closer until
he’s beside me. I shift a little to the left, escaping the brush of his
business shirt against my bare shoulder.
“Um.”
I
cough,
my voice croaky. “How did you know Ralph?”
Richard casts me a sidelong grin.
“You know.”
“Oh.” That shuts me up.
He gives me another appraising
glance, though it’s not in any way sexual. More like he’s measuring me up,
wondering if he can broach a certain subject. He adjusts his tie and then
clears his throat. “You know you’ve achieved what all of us have dreamed of
doing. No one else has done it in a thousand years.”
I look at him with horror. That’s
why he’s approached me? My head starts shaking out a negative automatically.
“No, listen. Have you thought
about letting others—I mean,” he smiles, then continues: “giving others some of
your blood to see why . . .”
My stomach churns violently and a
metallic flavour soaks into my mouth. A strange trembling overwhelms my jaw,
and I begin to walk away, afraid I’m about to be sick all over his
polishe
shoes. He grabs me in a fierce hold, and I jerk to
a standstill,
then
look at his hand on my upper arm.
I tug and his grip tightens.
I glare at him, fighting down
nausea. “If you don’t want me to vomit all over your pretty shoes, I suggest
you remove your hand.” My voice is louder than I like.
His fingers drop slowly, though
he doesn’t move away. “Don’t run away like a frightened rabbit.”
“A
rab
—bit.”
My mouth twists, emphasising the syllables in the word, and I tilt my head up
to look at him in distaste. My hair tumbles over one side of my face, offering
a curtain from onlookers.