Fish Out of Water Page 8

  Wennd gradually lost her nervousness and, as she talked with Thomas and even followed him outside to observe the grilling process, chatted amiably about her migratory habits, among other things.

  Fred watched them getting along like super swell pals, wishing she didn’t care and remembering wishing never helped anyone.

  I’ve got to put him out of my head, is all. If he really loved me, he wouldn’t keep chasing other mermaids. And if I really loved him, I wouldn’t tolerate it. Or, at least I’d tell him I loved him.

  But, oh, that felt like such a lie.

  One thing was certain. If she married Artur, she could focus on an entirely new life. A fresh start . . . and she’d see to it that Moon could visit whenever she wanted. Shit, she would visit Moon whenever Moon wanted. Marrying the prince of the Undersea Folk didn’t mean she had to turn her back on her life. It was just time for something new. That was all.

  And why did that feel like another lie?

  Twenty-five

  Fred dove off the dock, automatically shifted to her tail, and went in search of lunch.

  This was always accomplished quite easily. Although she was allergic to fish and shellfish, the ocean teemed with probably five times the plant life that dry land had. And she liked how quite a bit of it tasted. More than once she thought she should have gone into botany, because it would have been nice to know more about different underwater plants . . .

  Time to mull that over later. She wanted to eat, and then she wanted to find Artur and tell him yes.

  She found an underwater meadow and pulled up some stalks and leaves. They tasted mildly salty, almost bland (as opposed to some types of seaweed that fairly burst with flavor), and she ate until she felt about as svelte as a manatee.

  Artur, she had been told, was in yet another meeting with his father, King Mekkam. Having thousands of their subjects “come out,” so to speak, must require a lot of jawing back and forth between the king and his heir. But she knew he would head to her house when he finished and hoped to intercept him underwater, where they’d have a bit of privacy.

  And behold! As though the thought had conjured him like a genie out of a bottle, here he came, swimming steadily toward her, his expression fixed in a worried frown.

  Hi, Artur.

  He kept swimming. He was less than fifteen yards away. What on earth could he be thinking about? Not that she thought she was a raving beauty or a phenomenal intellect, but he had made it clear he wanted her for his wife and wasn’t interested in taking no for an answer.

  In fact, she was used to fending him off, not seeking him out. Could this week get any more fucked up?

  Artur! Hey!

  He blinked, saw her, and smiled. Ho, Little Rika. It pleases me to see you waiting for me.

  Eh, don’t flatter yourself, I was hungry and my house is full of uninvited guests. Also, I walked in on Jonas and Dr. Barb doing it on my living-room carpet this morning. What a way to wake up! I had to Clorox my eyes.

  Your life is difficult, Little Rika. The words were right, but she could feel he was only half listening.

  She turned as he passed her and they swam in silence, side by side, for a few seconds. Then:

  I wanted to let you know I’ve decided.

  Hmmmm?

  Oh, this was not happening. She’d been fretting and wondering and agonizing, practically, and now she was going to give him what she assumed was going to be the best news of his life (and yes, she was aware of how conceited that was) and he was barely paying attention.

  What had her father said? O irony, how she makes slaves of us all. Well, that was pretty damned close to the truth, wasn’t it? That’ll teach her to assume a man’s just hanging around waiting for her to deign to marry him.

  Artur, don’t take this the wrong way, but will you snap the hell out of it? I’m trying to have a conversation!

  He slowed and circled her, tail flexing powerfully, muscled arms behind his back. I beg your leave, my Rika. My father and I have a problem . . . we think.

  Well, lay it on me. Maybe I can help.

  He smiled at her. For one who professes anger and irritation much of the time, you do a fine job hiding your generous nature.

  Flattery will get you, et cetera. She reached out and snatched at the base of his tail and managed to hang on—just. God, he was strong! She shook it, trying to get his full attention. What’s wrong?

  He instantly spun away and started heading back out to open sea; she managed to hang on—barely—to his back fins. She felt like a water-skier being hauled behind a speedboat with a jet engine.

  My good father has noticed the disappearance of several of our people.

  Really? You mean, they were supposed to be here pretending this was HQ, and they never showed? Or—

  Yes. That, and my father has simply lost contact with some of our people.

  Fred mulled that one over, still hanging on to Artur’s tail for dear life. Fish flashed by so quickly she couldn’t identify the phylum, never mind the specific class.

  She had discovered last year that Mekkam, as king, was the most powerful telepath of his people (in fact, the greatest telepaths were all members of the royal family . . . and her father had tried his coup in part because he was extraordinarily gifted in that area as well).

  Mekkam could be in contact with any one of his subjects at any time. He could project his thoughts to all his subjects at any time. And, like all purebred Undersea Folk, his telepathy was just as powerful on land as it was beneath waves.

  So it made sense that, if Undersea Folk were disappearing, he would be the first to notice.

  Thus, all the frequent and secret meetings, she mused.

  Indeed, Artur thought soberly.

  Does he think they’re dead? she worried.

  We cannot be sure, which is why this matter is so troubling. Usually, when one of us dies, my father can feel their death throes. He has felt none. Only—only—a blank silence where once there was a vibrant mind.

  Jesus. She mulled that one over, troubled. That’s fairly sobering.

  Indeed.

  So what’s the plan?

  We do not know.

  That sucks. Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe your dad’s, uh . . . She coughed, sending up a stream of bubbles. . . . getting old.

  Our telepathy gets stronger as we age. Not weaker.

  That ruled out her theory of Undersea Folk Alzheimer’s.

  And her mind seized upon the fact he had so casually dropped: they get stronger? Stronger as they age? What other species on the planet got more powerful as they aged? She had to stifle the urge to kidnap Mekkam and do experiments on him.

  Then a nasty thought hit her. You don’t think my father’s up to his old tricks, do you?

  Silence.

  Well. Do you?

  Twenty-six

  It seemed a long, long time before his answer came, and when it did, it was full of reluctance. It has been suggested.

  Oh, that was subtle. Since Artur and Mekkam were the only ones in these super secret meetings, one of them had “suggested” it. Tricky, tricky, Artur.

  Well. I guess I can’t blame you. But he’s only been here for a couple of days. How long have people been disappearing?

  For half a year.

  There you go. My dad’s been too busy skulking in banishment to be disappearing unsuspecting Undersea Folk. Doncha think? Plus, he’s been on land for most of the last thirty years. Hardly in a position to be am-bushing unsuspecting mermaids.

  There is another theory. Now Artur’s reluctance was coming through so heavily, she could practically feel it crawling across her brain. Perhaps . . . perhaps soldiers of the planet’s land countries have been . . . doing things. Secret things.

  Okay. That’s not altogether implausible, she admitted. Hell, she’d warned them, hadn’t she? Her mother’s species, in their own way, were even more bloodthirsty than Undersea Folk. At least the UF only killed to feed themselves or defend themselves. The same, unfortunately,
could not be said for Homo sapiens.

  I am relieved my theory has given no offense.

  Tough to be offended by the truth . . . at least, this time. Frankly, it’s pretty plausible that, I dunno, some secret government agency has been stealing Undersea Folk and doing experiments on them. How can we check it out?

  I was hoping your friend Thomas might be of assistance.

  How could he— She trailed off. Because of his money? No. Artur had tons of it. Because of his education? No. Fred was technically Artur’s subject (though she’d eat a pound of sushi before bowing or referring to him as “my prince” or any of that other nonsense . . . she was an American, dammit!), and her background was as extensive as Thomas’s . . . He didn’t have to seek out a surface dweller. Then what—

  It hit her. His dad.

  Yes.

  Thomas had been a navy brat. His father was some high-up mucky-muck in the U.S. Navy.

  Do you think he would assist us?

  Let’s ask him.

  Artur abruptly stopped swimming, but Fred’s forward momentum shot her past his tail and into his arms.

  I was mightily pleased to see you waiting for me.

  And I was mightily pleased to have a fraction of your attention.

  Only my father’s displeasure and the welfare of my people could blot you from my mind for the merest instant!

  Daddy’s boy.

  Laughter. Laughter in her head. And with his arms around her, with that rollicking laughter echoing through her brain, she said before she could chicken out, I’ve been thinking about it. I’ll do it.

  Do what? he teased. Insult my mighty intelligence? Throw Jonas into the pool yet again? Be disrespectful to your people’s newsmakers?

  Reporters, she corrected automatically.

  More laughter in her head. Oh, no, you don’t, Little Rika! I have watched much television. When there is no news, your “reporters” make the news.

  Can we debate the merits of modern journalism any other time but now? And no, numb fins, none of the above. What I meant was, I’ll marry you. I’ll be your wife.

  Oh, Rika! He hugged her so hard that, if she’d had to breathe, she would have been in serious trouble. Truly, you have made me the happiest man in the seas! Now, without doubt, you are she-who-will-be-my-wife.

  She snuggled into his embrace, hoping he wasn’t cracking her ribs. You know, for a bunch of telepaths, you’ve got a remarkably bloated language. Try fiancée. Fee-on-say.

  It matters not, he said, and kissed her four miles out in the Gulf, forty feet below the waves, her green hair fanning out like an undeserved halo. Their hair was entwined, their arms were around each other, they were hungrily exploring each other’s mouths, and Fred could feel the kiss all the way to the bottom of her tail.

  There, she thought. That’s settled.

  Okay. Back to business.

  Twenty-seven

  “Awesome!” Jonas screamed, badly startling the saleswoman. “Princess Fred! Ohmigod! I can’t stand it!”

  “I can’t stand it, either. Stop yelling.” Fred, standing in front of the full-length mirror, scowled at her reflection. The dress was salmon-colored, had a mermaid skirt (doubtless Jonas’s idea of a subtle joke) and a low-cut bodice and beading on the sleeves, and it clashed horribly with her hair. Odd. Jonas usually had much better taste than this. “And I’ll bite your ears off if you make me buy this one.”

  “It wouldn’t be in that color. Be serious. I told you: apple red. Dr. Barb’s sister and cousin and you are all wearing apple red. Just like my tie and cummerbund are apple red—don’t you remember?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, look who I’m talking to.”

  She nodded in agreement. The small bridal shop was jammed with dresses of every size, shape, and color. An entire wall was devoted to white satin shoes. Another wall: clutch handbags in every style and color you could imagine. Playing over the speakers: Trumpet Voluntary. Well, that part wasn’t so bad.

  “So! When should I throw the party?”

  “Party?” She had disappeared back into the dressing room to try on dress number four. She couldn’t get dress number three off fast enough—she thought she heard a seam tear. Fuck it. “What party?”

  “Your engagement party, dumbass! Let’s see . . . we should probably have it at your rental house, since it’s the—”

  Fred groaned. Slipped number four over her head. Hmm. This one didn’t entirely suck.

  She stepped out. “Forget it. Artur and I have some Undersea Folk junk to look into. After the dust clears you can throw your stupid party.”

  “And don’t forget, I’m planning your wedding.”

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way,” she said with complete and total sincerity.

  “Now that’s not bad,” Jonas said, eyeing her up and down critically. She knew his taste was quite a bit better than hers and was happy to follow (fashion-wise) where he led. But she couldn’t help agreeing. Strapless, with a tight-fitting bodice. A-line, with the skirt falling straight to the floor, just past her ankles. And the color was right: apple red. It made her hair seem even greener, almost the color of pine trees. And her eyes—the color did wonderful things to her eyes!

  “We’re done,” Jonas told the saleslady. Then, to Fred, “See, see? Not even half an hour. You should trust me more often.”

  “I’m still digesting cake, you awful man. Never,” she vowed, popping back into the dressing room to get back into her shorts, ratty T-shirt, and flip-flops.

  “Behold,” Jonas said mockingly as she stepped out. “The future queen of the Undersea Folk. At least they won’t care if you don’t wear a bra in the Black Sea.”

  “I hate bras,” she muttered and stomped toward the front of the store to pay for the damned dress.

  Twenty-eight

  Thomas had left a note saying he was meeting some colleagues at the Florida Aquarium in Tampa Bay. Fred suggested to Artur that she drive them there and he readily agreed.

  That was how she found out Artur hated being closed up in automobiles.

  “For God’s sake,” she said, amazed, “you’re perfectly safe.”

  Artur had his legs drawn up under his chin. His seat belt was tightened to the point of asphyxiation. He was trying not to huddle and failing. “All these metal boxes, hurtling by at ridiculous speeds. Madness, madness.”

  “You’ve never been in a car before?” She was dumbfounded. Then remembered this was a merman who lived at the bottom of the Black Sea. Okay. Not such a ridiculous idea, but still . . .

  “No. I was on a train, once . . . in Boston. There was more room on the train. I could walk around on the train, although the king of the train did not like that.”

  She managed not to groan. “Don’t tell me. You’re claustrophobic.”

  “I don’t know that term,” he said, and she didn’t think he’d ever been so white before.

  “It means that you don’t like small, enclosed spaces, um, mighty prince who conquers worlds and women with green hair.”

  He laughed hollowly, then cringed when a semi zipped by them, blaring its air horn. Fred flipped the driver the bird with both hands.

  “Keep your hands on the steering device!”

  “It’s fine, see? I’m steering with my knee.”

  “Please don’t,” he moaned.

  “Artur, for God’s sake. You’ve taken on pirates, great whites, survived a coup, and you’re marrying me. I can’t believe you’re scared of anything, much less being in a car.”

  “I am not scared! I am . . . cautious.”

  She snorted. “Look, here’s the exit. We’re almost there, so don’t pee your shorts just yet.”

  “You will show me the nearest body of water when we leave this place. I will swim back. You should join me.”

  “And abandon my rental car? Forget it. Think of the paperwork!”

  “Paperwork?”

  “I signed a contract,” she said solemnly, trying not to laugh at him. “It’s
a very serious thing among surface dwellers, you know. Rental car contracts.”

  “I know of contracts. I would not want you to break your word. That would not befit my princess.”

  “And it would wreck my credit rating, too.”

  They pulled into the parking lot, picked up their visitor passes from a ticket seller, and went looking for Thomas.

  Artur cheered up considerably once he was out of the compact car, and eyed the exhibits with great interest.

  “Cheer up, brothers,” he said softly, standing in front of an exhibit of manta rays. “You are safe here and well fed. Were you free, you would be meat.”

  “Stop talking to the rays,” Fred muttered, noticing the odd looks they were getting. She absolutely did not, did not, want to be recognized today. She and Artur had urgent business with Thomas. The business of her people.

  My people, she mused. Huh. Always before I’ve said my father’s people. But they’re just as much mine. Why didn’t I see that before? Too busy hiding from myself, I guess. Poor Artur has no idea he’s marrying a coward.

  “I could not help it,” he said, sounding wounded. “They spoke to me first. Besides, you cannot speak to them on land, so it seemed rude to indulge in an ability you do not share.”

  Fred raised her eyebrows. That had come up before, her lack of telepathy on land. Artur had been almost embarrassed when he’d realized it. Was that going to be a problem for them?

  She’d worry about it later, and for now led him away from the exhibit. She thought she heard someone say her name and she turned. But Thomas wasn’t there.

  They continued their search, separating so Artur could have a good long drink at the water fountain while Fred continued looking, eventually finding herself standing at the top of Shark Bay.

  She peered in and saw sand tiger sharks, blacktips, zebra sharks. An impressively large sea turtle. Lionfish—big-time poisonous. Triggerfish. Dragon moray eels. Jellies. It really was—