40. Hook | Lyra
“Lyra …” Wilder’s voice called.
She stared and stared at the stone, willing it to show her the cottage or his face.
Sand from the seabed swirled between her and the stone as she slumped to the ground, her eyes never leaving the silver in front of her.
She waved an arm to disperse the silt. Her arm felt heavier than usual, like she were moving a limb that was not her own.
The scent evolved, too. It smelled warm. Like there was heat pulsating from the stone.
It was sunlight.
“I hear you. I’m here,” she replied, her voice cracking slightly as she pressed her forehead against the warm rock.
It felt the same as when she had sat on the shore beside the summer cottage. Memories of the rocks beneath her bare feet, warmed by hours spent beneath the sun.
It was solid, but soft in a way. There were no cracks or abrasions. It had been worn smooth over a millennium in the current.
I’m not giving up on you.
A flash of heat erupted under her ribs, followed by a spiraling pull—tugging her heart upward.
The heat blossomed, unfurling from her chest and encasing her arms. It surged down, enveloping her tail and fins.
A cracked, aching sound escaped her lips, and then another.
Almost like the opening notes of a song.
“Lyra,” Wilder’s voice called again.
It was so tangible. She didn’t think she was imagining it this time.
Hope like a wildfire surged through her veins.
He called her name like a plea, like a prayer.
She could practically feel the way his lips moved when he spoke.
Lyra’s fingers curled against her chest as if she could claw the organ out and offer it to him if it meant he’d really be standing there next to her.
The pulse intensified, becoming unbearable. The seabed trembled beneath her.
A glow radiated from her chest as her magic swelled in answer.
The current died as if it knew what she was about to do.
The light illuminated the garden around her, casting shadows from the coral. The shadows were fingers reaching for her.
They were trying to keep her here.
She needed to hear Wilder, to see him.
Something ancient around her stirred.
Lyra opened her mouth to speak the words, to command the magic to return her to him.
“Lyra,” Drystan’s voice cracked across the garden like a lightning strike.
It froze her in place.
He shot across a bed of seagrass, and the emerald leaves clung to his chest. Fear deepened the tight lines around his eyes, casting them in shadow.
“Lyra!” He reached for her.
The horror on his face was highlighted by the light swelling from her. It was so bright it bleached the color from the world.
Something latched onto Lyra.
She arched her back, exposing the full expanse of her chest to the surface.
Magic slid beneath her ribs like a vine. It wove itself between each gap, filling her completely with light.
It yanked, and she was powerless to withstand it.
They were hooks, not vines.
Her eyes slid closed as what felt like the entire sea rushed by.
Water pushed heavily and hard against her. It forced her eyes to remain closed and her tail behind her.
Her chest burned as she held her breath.
She was flying.
Flying through the water at a speed she never dreamed was possible.
It was as if she were a fish on a line, and something was reeling her in.