Page 63 of Whispers of the Starlit Sea
Her fingers bled as she clawed at the rocks holding her prisoner. Dust from crushed stone clung to her tongue, gritty and sour. The wet grit bit into her palms, grinding into torn skin with each frantic shove. The bond had been lessening. He must have gone farther than the boat if it hurt this much. And it was getting worse.
At last the hole was large enough for her to scramble through. Her dress snagged, the skirt ripping, but she barely noticed as she struggled to her feet.
The shore was empty.
No merfolk bobbing in the turbulent waters. No Arick standing tall and strong against the wind. Only the rhythmic boom of waves and the moaning wind threading through the broken rocks.
She stumbled toward the water, following the pull in her heart that always pointed to him.
Lightning cut across the sky, blinding her.
But not before she saw what lay at the edge of the rocks, framed by the crashing waves.
Scrambling, slipping, crawling, Sorcha found herself beside him. At every step, the wind sought to shove her over, and the hungry hands of the waves clawed at her ankles.
He lay so still. Arm reaching for the open sea. Face turned to the water.
A dark streak leaching away from his head and onto the rocks.
He looked more like a statue than a man. Rain slid down his skin in rivulets, pooling in the hollow of his throat. His eyes didn’t flutter. His chest didn’t rise.
“Father!” The word was a sob.
She collapsed over him, her tears mingling with the driving rain.
What had she done?
She sought for a song, anything to heal him, but her sobs stole what breath she had left.
Where was Aunt Maeve? Even though she knew there was no saving her father now, Sorcha cried out for her aunt.
But her aunt was gone, and so was Arick.
The invisible bands around Sorcha’s heart pulled tighter with every breath. He was getting farther away, but where? And why?
She clung to her father’s hand, limp and heavy.
Alone. Abandoned. Strangled by the bond.
Sorcha bowed her head as her tears spilled, letting her sorrow mingle with the rain that washed over her.
The air around her charged, waiting for lightning that never came.
A faint glow pierced the edges of her vision, and beneath the thunder came another sound.
A voice.
Low and rhythmic. Chanting.
Not her aunt. Not Arick.
Sorcha lifted her head, blinking through rain and tears.
A yellow light pulsed in the storm, growing brighter with each word. The waves surged higher. The wind sang a broken harmony.
She turned, holding her arm up to shield from the bright yellow light in her sister’s hand as the mermaid rode high in the waves.
“Rona? What are you doing?”
