Authors: Ros Baxter
“I’m gonna find whoever hurt her.”
“Den what?”
“I’m gonna kick their ass.”
She let me go, and I almost sprinted the short distance to Filmore.
As I ran, I could feel eyes on me. My skin prickled and my radar pinged madly.
They’d been following me, she said. Watching.
I ran harder as thoughts filled my brain of how they tried to kill me, and how they killed her. The girl like moonlight. My lungs were screaming when I arrived.
A few blocks, but a whole world away.
Cleedaline’s building had a doorman, and good security. But despite the show, I was a cop, and I’m really freakin’ devious, so I was taking the stairs two at a time before the guy with the uniform on could even wonder whether I really did look like a realtor. I used my skeleton key on her door, and it popped like a champagne cork.
Some security
, I humphed in disgust.
Cleedaline’s place was beautiful. She’d done it in shades of blue and green and I realized with a sad jolt that she was desperately homesick. As I spun in an arc, taking in the walls and floors of the spare space, I could see that she was an artist as well as a song-maker, and that she’d filled the space with her own memories from home. Pieces of driftwood and shell. Whimsical sketches, watercolors, oils. All of home. Of Aegira.
And of Imogen.
I looked at the four or five images I could see of Imogen and wondered if maybe they were lovers, after all. There was something about the graceful, sloping lines Cleedaline had used to draw her face, and her body. There was love in them, and I stretched the boundaries of my intuition to try to pinpoint what manner of love it was. And then I decided it didn’t matter. She loved her, that was all. And she found out she was missing. But what else did she know?
Then I saw it. Against the wall on the south-facing side. Or maybe it’s more accurate to say I didn’t see it. It was just a square space, a fine imprint where the dust hadn’t settled. A hole in the room. And beside it, a tattered box of fish food, and other assorted paraphernalia.
For an aquarium.
The reef fish, back in Dirtwater. They
were
hers. So I was right, that’s how she did it. That’s how she hydroported to me. She used her fish. Her aquarium.
Incredible
. And she must have really been distracted, in a terrible hurry, because the aquarium came through the portal with her, like it can sometimes, when you do it wrong.
Suddenly I had a whole new level of respect for this girl. The aquarium was big, sure, but surely she didn’t actually fit inside it. I mean, the girl was seriously big. Amazonian. She was no teeny little Chinese contortionist. She must have stood in the tank. Stood in the water and sung. But why? It must have been so hard to do it like that, she must have been desperate.
There was an unsettled energy, a jarring note to the vibe of serenity with which Cleedaline had filled this place. The bastards followed her and hunted her down and… I felt sick at the thought. She came to me. But why? Why me? There had to be a reason.
I could feel it almost throbbing, calling out to me like a lost child.
Cleedaline’s secret.
Cleedaline’s Apartment, Williamstown
I looked around the beautiful room once more, at the blue-green sea of love and peace, and for the first time, I consciously tried to will myself into a vision.
I focused on her face.
I tried to see it as it would have been in life, mobile and beautiful, rather the cold mask I’d known. I tried to imagine her distress as she heard about Imogen. My eyes flashed open and settled again on the canvasses she had painted, the images of her beloved friend. I focused on one of them, a watercolor of Imogen, swimming naked amid a shimmering mass of tiny blue fish, her face half turned, the long sinews of her back and neck dominating the scene.
My, how Cleedaline had loved her.
Then the vision came. But this time it was different. I wasn’t overwhelmed and pulled under by it. It settled into the private places of my brain. I was in control, not swept away.
In the eye of my mind, I saw a book, leather-bound, with a note sticking out of it.
My mouth dropped open. Everyone knows the cardinal rule of watch-keeping. Keep no records. The vigil must be secret. No-one must know what we are, or from where we come.
For some reason, Cleedaline broke the rule.
I concentrated again, hoping like hell I wouldn’t have to tear this place apart to find that book. I turned my mind inward, focusing on it. The caramel leather was worn. I focused on the fuzzy edges of the picture I could see inside my head. What was near it? Where was it?
The indistinct lines started to take shape, forming and re-forming as I concentrated on them with all I had. And then it was clear. The book was here, in her apartment.
So simple. Deceptively so.
Just where a woman would stash a treasured, private thing.
In the cookie jar.
Men never get how women feel about cookies. Even mermaids.
I dashed to her cupboards and started flipping doors and pushing tins and boxes aside, suddenly desperate to read what she had written. I found the cookie jar and there it was, nestled inside like a hidden treasure. The book. I gazed stupidly at its cover.
An Anthology of Mermaids.
So she had a sense of humor, too. Oh, Cleedaline. I would have liked you, I know it.
I extracted the note, and I could see how little text there was even before I began to read. My heart sank so far inside my chest I could hardly focus my eyes.
Just one page.
I started to read, my eyes flicking down the words. So few of them, so little to go on. I read again, slower, taking in Cleedaline’s full, deliberate script. It must have been hard for her to write. It’s not a skill Aegirans have, not being a paper people. My respect for her swelled.
I focused on her words. The note was dated, written four days ago. The day she came to me. The day she died. I skimmed it. There seemed to be two entries:
C came. Imogen. Gone ??? The second one
.
He thought I might know something
.
How could I not have known?
I had another vision. Rania of land and sea. The Warrior
.
I see her. She’s close, in Dirtwater
.
She can help me
.
The second entry:
They’re coming for me, I can feel it
.
What if they find me before I get to her?
I must find a way to bring her in. She will help me, I know it
.
2pm. Harry’s Tattoos
.
And that was it. All Cleedaline had to offer me. But at least it was something.
I pieced it together.
The first entry. Carragheen’s visit, telling her about Imogen. And she was having visions too. Is it possible? She saw me in her visions? Saw something that made her think I could help?
Then, the next entry. Somehow she knew they were coming for her. Was it the visions again? They must have found out she knew about Imogen, whoever they were. And the only way they could have known that was if they knew about Carragheen’s visit.
Which meant they also knew that Carragheen knew.
My heart froze inside my chest, and every instinct told me to hurl myself at the nearest body of water and sing my way back to him. To protect him. But what if he didn’t need protecting? What if he was somehow involved? Part of my mind wanted to reject the thought, like a failed donor kidney, but another part clung to it doggedly.
I turned back to the note. What else?
She was worried, worried about them getting to her before she could get to me. Looks like she stumbled upon the tattoo idea, thought if anything happened to her, I’d be tracked down. And tattooed on her skin, so it wouldn’t matter if they found her on earth or sea, they would still know to come looking for me. Clever girl. Clever, clever girl.
There was only one thing I didn’t get. The second one. Is this the second time something’s happened to Imogen? Then a darker thought occurred to me. Maybe it was the second person to go missing. And if Cleedaline had heard about Imogen from Carragheen, she must have heard about the second one from him too.
So had there been another abduction? And if there had, why didn’t he tell me? My mind skipped to Mom’s prevarication about Carragheen, her uncertainty about him. What was he hiding? What else hadn’t he told me?
I looked up from the little book and the apartment suddenly felt small and hot. I remembered The Link’s words, about them following me, and I decided this was really not such a great place to be hanging out while I pieced all this together.
I checked my watch. Fifteen minutes ’til I was due with Doug.
I moved quickly, hitting the busy street with ten minutes to rendezvous with Doug. I’d made it two blocks when I felt the presence coming towards me in the crowd.
My hand went to my Glock, tucked neatly in the front of my jeans. It felt good, a much more reliable security blanket than the bag with the fish scales.
I ducked swiftly into the next alley that came up, barely more than a hidey-hole on my right. I slammed my body against an exposed concrete wall and waited for the trouble,
whatever it was, to come to me. I looked down at the tangle of veins in my wrist, watched the alorha fish dart past like it was escaping from something. Trouble.
I waited two breaths, three.
All my senses were charged and I didn’t even need to see the street to know the next passing body was my target.
But who was pricking my psychic antennae?
I flashed my hand out, grabbed a handful of clothing and dragged it into the hidey-hole.
But when I did, I was knocked off course. It was Zorax the Choirmaster.
One of Aegira’s leaders and the jolly little Santa Claus who perfected my voice. He was here. In Williamstown. Heading toward Cleedaline’s apartment. Why?
He was looking as surprised as me, but there was something else too. Something behind the Santa blush and the twinkly eyes. Something that was gone by the time I tried to pin it down.
“What are you doing here?” I was hissing rather than speaking. My adrenaline wa pumping and whether it was Zorax or Mother Teresa I was seconds away from unleashing a tidal wave of fear and fury. The scar on my arm felt itchy and I was no longer sure which way was up.
Could it really be Zorax? Was he the baddy?
What was he doing here in Williamstown if he wasn’t?
Zorax looked afraid, and I realized with a slick gearshift that he was afraid of me. I wondered if I had my crazy eyes on. That’s what my old boss used to call my game face, when I was out and sharp and on the trail of something mean. When I was much, much keener to hurt someone else than to be hurt. My crazy eyes.
I tuned in to Zorax. “I’m looking for Cleedaline, Rania. Do you know where she is?”
I studied his face, still holding on to a bunch of his clothes, a collar and some sweater, I think. But I wasn’t letting go, not yet. Was he playing me? Was he the one who’d taken Imogen, killed Cleedaline? I couldn’t tell. No matter how long I stared at a face which now seemed less Santa Claus and more Porky Pig. I wondered if I was so mixed up because I didn’t expect to see him here, because he’d messed with my sense of how the world works. I couldn’t have felt more surprised if I was walking down the street and got mugged by Santa himself.
You just don’t meet Aegirans walking down the street every day.
And no-one is supposed to come looking for a watch-keeper. Sure, Cleedaline was a song-maker, here to study song. But that in itself is no reason why The Choirmaster would pop in on her. He’d better have some really convincing story to tell.
I wasn’t getting much from his face, so I tried shock tactics.
“She’s dead,” I whispered, straight into his face. “Killed. What did you want with her?”
He looked surprised, his chin shaky, but I couldn’t tell if he was faking. And I wasn’t totally sure if he looked surprised enough. Aegirans are like babes in the wood when it comes to violence. It’s what Aegir and Ran were trying to take their people away from. So Zorax should be really shocked. Feel really sick. Did he seem shocked enough? I wasn’t sure.
He started to speak. “Oh, no. The dear girl. What happened to her?”
He looked sad, but something about his little cherubic face was starting to get to me. I remembered his odd behaviour at the wedding.
“I’m asking the questions here. And I have a gun.”
He looked surprised as I waved my Glock at him, and I felt a reassuring surge of relief.
Okay, so he gets guns
.
I let go of his clothing. “Okay, first question. Why were you looking for Cleedaline?”
He hesitated, and I motioned with my gun again. When he spoke, his face was inscrutable. “I just found out. Carragheen told me, about Imogen. He wanted to find out whether anyone in the leadership grouping knew.”
My brain rejected the story. I could not think of a single good reason Carragheen would have shared this with Zorax. Especially not after he had just found about what happened to Cleedaline. I knew that, whatever else he might be hiding, Carragheen was trying to get to the bottom of this, in his own way, and was also trying hard to keep anyone else out of it.
Zorax went on. “I still can’t believe it. Can’t believe that I could not have missed her. She is so brilliant. But no-one has. No-one’s noticed that she’s gone. How is that possible?”
He was working the whole confused thing quite well but my cop sense was screaming obscenities at me. No way did he just find out about Imogen.
“Okay, so question two. How did you know where to find Cleedaline? The information is secret, even from you. That old gossip Carragheen tell you that too?”
I was surprised by the force of the protective wave that welled up inside me, threatening to drown Zorax and me alike with its potency. I wanted to protect Carragheen, even with all the reasons I had to hate him racing around my subconscious. Zorax hesitated, and I considered using my Glock again to remind him to keep going.