Fathom (Mermaids of Montana #3) - Elsa Jade Page 0,6
the balcony doors, and the light from her fist was tucked behind her, but somehow his blank white eyes still reminded her of the glow from the Himalayan blue salt lamps she used to sell in the hippie head shops before all the strangeness of the past year. Tarot readings and crystal healings and tantric chakra alignments all seemed so ordinary now compared to being half mermaid.
When he didn’t speak, she realized belatedly that he was probably waiting for an apology. “I’m sorry I almost killed you.”
“You didn’t.” His voice was low and rough, but with a strange, soft flow, like water over a rocky shore.
She furrowed her brow. “I’m sorry I blew you off the balcony then.”
“You didn’t.”
A thread of exasperation wove through her guilt. “I’m sorry you had to jump out of the way of my lightning bolt.”
“I frightened you.”
She waited a moment and then frowned when he didn’t offer an apology in return. Not that startling her was an excuse for nearly electrocuting him, but still. “What are you doing here?” Her fear raced back. “Are Ridley and Marisol okay? Are the Tritonesse going after them too?”
“They sent me to get you.”
She shook her head. “They wanted me to leave.” That wasn’t entirely true, she knew even as she said it. It was the Tritonesse who had reacted with such disgusted horror to her strange ability. Marisol and Ridley had tried to shield her, but they couldn’t start their new lives on Tritona when Lana was right there being a freaky fire-witch—a nul’ah-wys so hated and feared that even the war-hardened Tritonans had rejected her. She’d had a lifetime of not fitting in enough anywhere; she wasn’t going to trade down to a place that considered her an actual monster.
Fire-witch.
Sting just watched her, as if those eerie white eyes could see into her confused and hurting silence. “They sent me to get you,” he said again.
“Well, I can’t go back there.” She crossed her arms and tucked her hands under her armpits. Her fingers were cold, no longer sparky, and the wind that went through her caftan was colder yet.
But he just stood there in his battle skin, the stripped-down version of a dive suit that the Tritonyri warriors favored. Allegedly, the sparse, snug covering of straps and hydrodynamic cutouts of sleek fabric was meant to free their Tritonan senses of echolocation and electroreception.
Or maybe Sting just wanted to show off those thick muscles and the softer-looking padding of fat that was obviously keeping him so snuggly and warm in the Montana night…
“They sent me—”
“I am not going back there,” she said, the rising edge of her voice overtaking his to hide her wandering attention. “And you can’t force me.”
When he tilted his head the other direction, his eyes seemed to flash. In the other Tritonans she’d met, the protective eyelid only closed when they were feeling vulnerable or attacked. The few times she’d seen Sting, his eyes were always covered. Though his expression never changed, a chill went through her as she realized that he could indeed force her.
And then one of them would likely die.
Maybe he reached the same conclusion, because he settled back on his heels, making no attempt at another of those overly energetic leaps.
His white gaze was fixed on her, unblinking. “You are nul’ah-wys.”
Though there was no particular accusation to the words, her insides chilled even more than the bite of the wind could justify. “That’s what they said.” She lifted her chin. “I don’t even know what that is.”
Sure, she’d looked up the definition, but the exact translation wasn’t clear. Something like the pathway of the firestorm.
But if that was true, shouldn’t she at least feel like a firestorm? With her head up, the cold night wind wrapped around her throat, squeezing, but not tight enough to stop her teeth from chattering uncontrollably. “You… Do you know what it means?”
She’d told herself she wouldn’t ask, that it didn’t matter. If they wanted to think of her as a monster when she hadn’t even done anything, then nothing she could do would change their mind. She’d faced bullies before, but bigotry was their problem, not hers.
He rocked slowly across the soles of his feet. Not impatient, she sensed, or seeking to avoid the question. Just a self-soothing gesture, as if he missed the ocean. “In the hidden halls of the Tritonesse weapons conclave, where I was made, I heard them talk of nul’ah-wys.” He fell silent again.