Fish Out of Water

  “It’s you! You’re that mermaid I saw on TV!”

  Stifling a groan, Fred turned. Several teenagers were standing behind her, all with gaping jaws and reeking of Stridex. “Hi,” she said.

  “Ohmigod! This is, like, rilly, rilly cool,” one of the girls said, chewing a piece of gum roughly the size of her fist. “Like, you’re a mermaid ’n’ stuff! Cool!”

  Fred mentally groaned. The girl sounded awfully like Madison, the twit intern at the New England Aquarium. An hour with Madison felt like a week; a week felt like a century. And Madison wore pink. Every day.

  Even if she hadn’t needed to spend her time as a press liaison, never having to lay eyes on Madison again would have been reason enough to quit her job.

  “Ohmigod, it’s really you!”

  “Yeah, it is, but I can’t really talk right—”

  They were getting closer, pattering her with inane questions, and she automatically backed up.

  “—how do you have sex with a tail?”

  “—true your mom isn’t a mermaid, so you’re, like, both?”

  “—howcum all the mermaids are rilly, rilly hot? It doesn’t make sense. You mean there’s not one fugly mermaid in the whole world? Not one?”

  “Apparently not,” one of the boys said, “and it’s awesome!”

  “Hey!” she snapped, feeling her thighs touch the rim at the top of the shark tank. “Back off, annoying adolescents, like that’s not redundant.”

  But just then, worse luck, a classroom of teeming third-graders (she guessed, given their height and general grubbiness) burst onto the floor, pushing into the teenagers, who in turn pushed into Fred.

  Who in turn toppled backward and fell into Shark Bay with a most undignified splash.

  Twenty-nine

  Getting oxygen was no problem, of course, but she couldn’t swim without her tail. She couldn’t even dog-paddle. She was as graceless in the water with legs as a penguin was on land.

  So she flailed and wriggled and found herself upside down and batted aside the sea turtle and in general thrashed about like a dying seal.

  She could see them.

  She could see them looking at her, their noses pressed against the glass, their mouths open as they jabbered excitedly.

  And damned if she was going to shift to her tail in front of a bunch of Florida tourists. She wasn’t a goddamned sideshow freak. She’d prefer the humiliation of graceless thrashing to giving the tourists a better show than Slappy the Seal.

  She heard the hollow boom of water being displaced several feet above her head—someone diving into the tank. Ah, the final humiliation . . . rescued by a staff member and then hustled off the property by security. Must be Tuesday.

  A strong hand seized her by the bicep and she felt herself being pulled toward the surface. She kicked, trying to help, and nearly got stung by a lionfish for her trouble. She had no idea if she was immune to their venom, so that was the end of the kicking.

  They broke the surface and her rescuer took a deep breath.

  “Hi, Thomas.” She wiped limp green hair out of her eyes. No, that was seaweed. Yech. She tossed it behind her. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

  He grinned at her and she noticed he hadn’t taken off any of his clothes, just jumped in after her. “You thought I was in the shark tank? Come on.”

  He climbed up the ladder, stretched down a hand, and hauled her out of the tank.

  Everyone was looking.

  “Please,” Fred said, and to her horror, she was near tears. “Please make them go away.”

  And she sank to the floor, miserable and drenched, and Thomas signaled someone and held her while the top of the tank was cleared of tourists.

  Thirty

  “Little Rika, what in the name of the king . . . ?”

  She was still huddled in Thomas’s arms like some pathetic romance-novel heroine, but the threatening tears had abated. Now all she wanted was a towel and a Cobb salad. Oh, and to pretend that the last five minutes hadn’t happened.

  Meanwhile, Artur was standing over them, hands on his hips, looking astonished and worried.

  “What did you do?” he asked again.

  “I fell in.”

  Artur squatted beside her and Thomas. “Clearly. But why in the world did you need Dr. Pearson to help you?”

  Fred said nothing. She liked Artur fine, and was more than a little horny for him, and was looking forward to

  (running away)

  starting a new life in the Black Sea with him. But she couldn’t tell him. He would never, ever understand. No one would ever under—

  “Are you kidding?” Thomas snapped. “D’you think she wanted to nude up and shift to her tail in front of two hundred gaping tourists? Bad enough she can’t go anywhere without being bugged. She’s not a goddamned exhibit.”

  Aw, rats. Here came the tears again . . . tears of sheer gratitude.

  She would have done anything for him then.

  Anything at all.

  “You are wrong.” Artur’s face—his expression bothered her—annoyed and disbelieving and something else, something she could almost put her finger on, something like

  (shame)

  embarrassment. For him? Or for her?

  “You are wrong. My Rika cares not at all about what strangers think.”

  “He’s right,” she said quietly. “Thomas is, I mean. I didn’t want to do that. Change in front of everybody.”

  Artur’s brow furrowed. “But—but, Rika, why? Surely you’re not shamed by your beautiful breasts and tail. Although,” he added thoughtfully, “the nudity taboo surface dwellers insist on could be problematic, in addition to being quite silly. But you need not keep your hybrid nature a secret . . . Why, much of the country knows!”

  “Look, I’m not a circus act, okay? They were all staring. I hate being stared at.”

  “I do not understand,” he said flatly, mouth a grim slash. “It is not behavior that becomes one of the royal family.”

  “Well,” she said. “I guess you’re wrong about that one.”

  “Your behavior is senseless.”

  “Oh, shut your piehole, Artur!” she snapped, straightening. She realized that Thomas had been holding her the entire time Artur had been nagging her. The big lug didn’t mind that, oh, no. But her tail shyness, that was the big problem.

  For the first time, she truly understood the chasm that lay between her upbringing and his.

  “I do not know what that means,” he said flatly.

  “It means get off my back. You’re not the one being stopped on the street damned near every day. You’re not the one who has to talk to insipid reporters every week. You’re not the one on the cover of the National Enquirer with the so-flattering headline, ‘Freak Mermaid Pregnant with Alien Baby.’ ”

  “But you agreed to all this.”

  “I know! But sometimes it’s a little much, that’s all. You don’t have to act like I stuck a knife into the worldwide morale of Undersea Folk.”

  “Uh, guys?” Thomas cleared his throat. “Listen, sorry to interrupt, but why don’t we go somewhere a little more private? You said you needed to talk to me about a big problem with the Undersea Folk?”

  Artur and Fred glared at each other for a few more charged seconds, then Artur cut his glance away and said, “You are correct, Thomas. We require your help.”

  “Aw.” Thomas beamed. “The Team Supreme, together again.”

  “Let’s hope nobody gets shot this time,” Fred said sourly.

  Thirty-one

  “What do you mean, disappearing? They’re not showing up where they’re supposed to, or dead bodies are showing up, or what?”

  Thomas had asked, very politely, if he could introduce her to his colleagues at the aquarium, and she had agreed. They seemed pleasant and professional, if a little wide-eyed, and asked no weird or deeply personal questions. For marine biologists face-to-face with a mermaid, Fred admired their self-control. She doubted she wou
ld have been able to equal it.

  And then, after handshakes all around (and a formal presentation of a lifetime pass to the Florida Aquarium . . . Fred imagined it was their equivalent to the key to the city), they graciously withdrew, and the director said they could use her office, which is where they were now.

  Artur was answering Thomas’s question, and thank goodness, because Fred had forgotten what it was, so busy was she studying her lifetime aquarium pass (laminated!).

  “My father cannot find them. They have disappeared from his mind.”

  “Bummer,” Thomas commented. Fred knew he wasn’t being flip. At least, he didn’t mean to be flip. He just had no idea how to process the information at this time, but still felt he had to contribute to the conversation. “I know your dad’s a pretty powerful telepath—”

  “The most powerful,” Artur corrected, not without pride. “It is that to be king. I, the heir apparent, am second most powerful.”

  “Whoa, wait,” Fred interrupted. “So how come you didn’t notice any of this?”

  “Second powerful is still much less powerful than my good father,” Artur explained. “He is much, much older than I.”

  Fred nodded. Artur, though he didn’t look it, was in his early fifties . . . fully two decades older than she was. Mekkam was over a hundred.

  “Okay, so that answers that. Is it possible a bunch of them got—I don’t know, the Undersea Folk equivalent of the bubonic plague and died all at once?”

  Artur was already shaking his head. “No, Thomas. Were they dying, my king would feel it. They are simply . . . vanishing from his mind. Where once he could sense a vibrant, living being, there is now only silence.”

  “How many?”

  “Four hundred seventy-eight.”

  Fred met Thomas’s dismayed gaze and felt a similar expression on her own face. Almost five hundred! In less than a year!

  “What—what do you want me to do? How can I help?”

  Artur smiled for the first time in a long, long day. “Thomas, my people have a saying: we are made stronger by the honor our opponents hold. And at this moment you have made me strong indeed. We do need your help. We were hoping you might get in touch with your sire.”

  “Dad?” Thomas frowned, and then his dark eyes lit up. “Right! Navy Intelligence. You think the government’s being sneaky, don’t you?”

  Artur looked at the floor, unwilling to offend a former opponent whom he had always respected. Fred had no such compunctions. “It’s happened before, Thomas. It’s been happening since there was a government.”

  Thomas ran a hand through his shaggy dark hair and nodded. “Yep, can’t deny that one. Well, Dad’s been retired, but he still holds the rank of captain. And he’s got a whole bunch of buddies still on active duty. I’ll call him right now.” Thomas laughed. “He’ll be thrilled his sissy son needs his help.”

  Fred’s mouth fell open. “Whaaaaat? The captain thinks Switchblade Pearson is a sissy?”

  “I didn’t go into the military,” he said simply.

  “I regret asking you to do anything that will put any strain on your relationship with your sire.”

  “Forget about it, Artur. This is a shitload more important than Dad and me.”

  “I thank you.”

  “But you’re a doctor,” Fred said, dumbfounded. “And a Ph.D.! And you’ve got street smarts and you designed the URV and you’re a bestselling author and—sissy?”

  Thomas grinned. “Bestselling romance author, don’t forget.”

  Fred made a mental note to slug Captain Pearson when she met him. Who wouldn’t want their kid to be so brilliant he could turn his back on medicine and study an entirely new field? And kick ass in both fields? Military-minded moron.

  “Well, thanks. Should we go to him, or will he come down here?”

  “I happen to know that since retirement he’s been bored out of his tits.”

  “Pardon?” Artur asked.

  “Never mind. He’ll come down here. He’ll pretend it’s a huge inconvenience, but he’ll be here. And then I guess we’ll try to get to the bottom of this.” Thomas lost his habitual wiseass expression and sobered. “I hope your people aren’t dead, Artur. I’ll do everything I can to help you find them.”

  They shook hands, surface-dweller style.

  Thirty-two

  Later, Fred was sitting thoughtfully by the pool. The sun had gone down about an hour ago and she had a lot to think about. Thank goodness she finally had a little bit of—

  “Okay, that’s enough sulking, Fish Face. What’s the matter?”

  Jonas. Of course. Her mouth said, “Die painfully, Jonas, and preferably quietly.” Her mind said, Thank God. I really need to talk to him. He’ll understand and he’ll tease me and he won’t judge and then I’ll feel better. God, if you’re paying any attention at all up there, thank you so much for dropping Jonas in my life when we were in elementary school.

  “C’mon,” he was coaxing. “Spill.”

  “Don’t you have bouquets to sniff or china to pick out?”

  “Done and done . . . Barb and I registered today. Feel free to buy us many grossly expensive gifts at Macy’s, Crate and Barrel, and Tar-jhay.”

  “It’s Target, numb wad, and I’ve got up until a year after the wedding to cough up a gift.”

  “You did read that copy of Miss Manners I left in your room!”

  “Shut up.” She sighed, cupping her chin in her hand. She was sitting on a lawn chair and staring into the pool. “Something bad happened today.”

  “You wore white after Labor Day?”

  “Hilarious. I fell into the shark tank at the aquarium.”

  Jonas coughed, except it sounded oddly like a muffled laugh. “Oh?” he managed.

  “Yeah, and never mind how it happened. The thing is, everybody was staring at me. And I didn’t—”

  “—want to shift to your tail in front of the whole damn aquarium, sure. I get it.”

  “Artur didn’t.”

  “Oh. You guys have a fight?”

  “Not really. It’s just—he didn’t get it at all. He was almost . . . I had the impression . . . I felt like he was sort of . . .”

  “Ashamed of you?” Jonas asked quietly, sitting cross-legged at her feet.

  “Well. Yeah.”

  “He’s under some pressure,” Jonas reminded her. “The missing mermaids and all, like you were telling me.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And he wants to marry you because you do weird-ass stuff like flailing around in a tank in your flip-flops instead of stripping to your birthday suit and growing a tail. You think you’re the only engaged couple who come from radically different backgrounds?”

  “I didn’t think about it like that,” she admitted.

  “ ’Cuz you’re stupid,” he informed her cheerfully.

  “Thanks so much.”

  “So what was Thomas doing while you guys were working out radical cultural differences?”

  “Uh. Holding me.”

  Jonas groaned and stretched out on the concrete. He lay there, corpse-like, for a few seconds, then propped himself up on an elbow and went into scold mode. “Fred, Fred, Fred! You’ve made your choice. You strung both of them along for . . . what? Two years? And now you’re engaged . . . to—are you listening?—Artur! Enough with the dancing! Ow, I think I just scraped all the skin off my elbow.”

  “I didn’t string them along,” she protested, stung. “They’re the ones who kept disappearing. At least Artur made it clear from day one that he wanted to marry me.”

  “Ahaaaaaa!” he yowled. “What you meant is, Thomas kept disappearing on you. So you picked Artur.”

  “Yes, and my choice had nothing to do with the fact that he loves me and will make me a princess and show me things I could never, ever have discovered on my own.”

  Jonas held up his hands, as if he were being robbed. “Fair enough. I’m not arguing any of that stuff. But my point is, you made your choice. So enough with
the wishy-washy bullshit.”

  “Artur was embarrassed. But Thomas pulled me out of the tank. He jumped right in and hauled me out. And he knew why I didn’t pop my tail.”

  “Big surprise, you were raised by surface dwellers and another surface dweller gets you. I get you. It doesn’t mean Artur’s embarrassed, or ashamed, or regretting anything. You’ve got years to work all this crap out. Why is it bothering you so much tonight?”

  “I don’t know. I absolutely don’t. It’s been a weird week.”

  Massive understatement.

  “And you’ve got another weird-ass mystery to solve. You’re the Daphne to their Shaggy and Fred.”

  “The hell! I’m Velma, dammit.”

  “And you’re on television and in papers and you hate the attention.”

  “So?”

  “So. Give Artur a break. You’re not exactly at your best right now. And he was still glad when you said yes.”

  “That’s true.”

  Jonas leaned over and gave her a friendly slap on the leg. “See? All is well when you listen to your uncle Jonas.”

  “Just when I thought you couldn’t get any creepier.”

  “You can’t imagine my levels of creepiness. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going upstairs to bone your boss.”

  Fred shut her eyes, but the awful images wouldn’t disappear.

  Thirty-three

  Fred didn’t dare go in the house, which was a shame, because the mosquitoes were a real bitch tonight. But Jonas and Dr. Barb could get pretty loud. She prayed they were at least doing it in their bedroom.

  “Fredrika?”

  She turned and looked. Her father had stepped out onto the patio. “Oh. Hi, Farrem. What’s up?”

  “Nothing is up. Only . . .” He hesitated. She had the odd feeling he was shy, or embarrassed. “I have not had the chance to speak with you in private. Do you mind?”

  “Mind? I’d love the distraction, believe me. Have a seat. Hope you brought a can of Off!”

  He chuckled. “You poor thing! Mosquitoes don’t like how Undersea Folk taste. What an awful heritage to inherit from your lady mother.”