you. I wanted to ask him if there were records of other humanmerfolk children, but the house looked deserted.
“I went back a second time and still nothing, so I stopped trying. I figured he either died or went back to court.” She shakes the salt ten times into the pan. “Though if he is alive, I’m rather offended he wouldn’t see me. He was our teacher once. My sisters and me.”
“The vampire must have mentioned it for a reason,” Kurt says, drawing out “vampire” the way I say “homework.”
“Where is the house?” he asks.
“Under the bridge, obviously.” I smirk.
They ignore my sarcasm.
“It’s a brownstone under the Brooklyn Bridge. Water Street. I remember because I thought it was ironic. Number 33. There aren’t many houses on that street. Mostly factories.” She jots something down on a scrap of paper and gives it to me. “I’ll pack up some food. Landlocked or no, our people hate it when strangers show up without gifts.”
“What about your…other engagement?” Kurt says.
I down my breakfast like it’s my last meal and ignore my mother’s prying eyes. “That’s not ’til later. Let’s go see the merman under the bridge.”
Thanks for the ride, Dad.”
“Don’t mention it, kiddo.” He adjusts his mirror and pulls the top down. “Probably the only useful thing I can do for you.”
I know he’s joking, but when I look at him, I notice the dark circles under his glasses, the slightly green tint to his face. He turns up the volume when his favorite song comes on, something about a girl who’s a sweet little thing and his pride and joy. Then pats my shoulder reassuringly.
On any other day, my dad would start singing at the top of his lungs while giving me and my friends a ride, and I’d roll my eyes and groan. But today with the top down, music blaring, and my dad tapping his finger to the beat of the song on his steering wheel, I just smile at him and promise to always remember him this way.
Dad drops us off in front of a dilapidated brownstone. He hesitates as he drives away. The vintage surf-green Mustang is out of place on a street that’s seen better days.
This isn’t much of a neighborhood. Across the street is a parking lot with only three cars. One is missing all its tires and a bumper. Someone’s written “WASH ME” on all of the windshields.
Farther down is the river, murky and still. I shiver in the heat of the day when I see something sleek and shimmering undulate just above the surface. My first instinct is to go to it, but Kurt points at a wreath hanging on the door to #33. The wreath is a wide coil made of twigs, broken bits of coral, and seaweed.
“Spirula spirula,” Kurt says. “The symbol of the king.”
The front yard is dry, packed earth with weedy shoots lying at slanted angles, like a bad comb-over. Ivy has overrun the sides of the building. Underneath, the brick is broken where two other brownstones used to flank this one.
I press on the bell, but the sound is muted. My neighbor does that so when Halloween rolls around, he has no reason to come to the door. “Maybe Frederik’s wrong.”
Kurt hops off the front steps. “Perhaps there’s a way in through the back.”
“That’s trespassing. I’m impressed.” I knock a few times while Kurt goes around the back. The windows have a thick layer of dust that nearly hides very yellow blinds. I can’t tell if the shadow I see is a man or a lot of dirt.
I give up on the front door and follow the path of decaying leaves to a small backyard buried in withering branches and dry leaves, as if spring never happened here.
In the last couple of days I’ve learned to trust my gut more than ever, and right now I get a familiar coil, like when we went down the well. I pay attention to every twig we snap, the traffic nearby, the unsettling quiet from the house.
Kurt stands on a crate with his hands cupped against a window. It gives out under his weight, and he’s left kicking it off his foot.
There’s a marble water fountain in the center of the backyard beneath a big, fat tree. Fresh green leaves float in the basin that fills up with the spit of the chubby merbaby. His tail coils behind him, and he’s wrestling an equally fat fish with sharp teeth. “Talk about ugly babies.”
Then