Chapter 3 #2
It was an awkward ten or fifteen minutes before she felt like she was getting the hang of it.
“Better, right?” she asked, overcome with a strange, swirling sensation in her stomach that she knew from her books to call insecurity.
“You’re wobbling like kelp in a riptide, darling. But it’s … endearing.”
She wasn’t sure she believed him.
“Monty,” she said, shoulders sagging. “I hate everything about this.” She dropped back down onto the sand, pulling her knees into her chest, wrapping her arms around them, and lowering her head.
Monty exhaled hard before moving to stand beside her, his big wing wrapping around her back.
“I know none of this is your choice, my sweet sea fairy. But I am here for you. To teach you the ropes. Or to lend a listening ear. I’m just trying to make the best of things, since, right now, there is no changing them.”
He was right.
It was useless to keep bemoaning her fate.
She had to get through this part.
Then she could slowly and methodically dismantle her engagement.
“You’re right,” she said, exhaling hard.
“When am I not?” Monty asked.
“We should get going.”
They’d already wasted too much time. Her mother would not be happy if she was late for the meeting.
“Why is everyone looking at me?” Iris asked, brushing her sun-dried hair off of her neck.
They’d made their way off the beach and were heading toward the parking lot where their transportation was supposed to be waiting.
“Because you’re a mermaid, darling. Practically the stuff of legend.”
“What are you talking about? There are tons of us.”
“But never on land. And on land, you, my dear, are a ten out of ten.”
Iris had no idea what to say to that, so she turned her attention to the little glass box painted a vivid cerulean blue. “What is a ‘Modesty Box’?” she asked, reading the sign.
“That, my sweet sea fairy, is for the land shifters. They are full of cheap articles of clothing saved from landfills, washed, and stored inside for anyone who accidentally shifted and found themselves suddenly in desperate need of covering. Several shifter nonprofits set them up all around the city.”
There was so much Iris had to learn about the land, so many customs she was in the dark about. There was only so much she could learn from her textbooks, and she had almost no contact with any supernaturals outside of those who lived in the ocean.
“Princess?” a woman called, making Iris’s head whip over. She was tall and lithe, with a cat-like face and long golden-brown hair. Iris wasn’t entirely sure if she was human or another paranormal.
“Yes?” Iris called. A wave of uncertainty washed over her. She’d never really conversed with anyone except for fellow mermaids—and Monty, of course—before. She wasn’t sure how to interact with this stranger.
“My name is Maria. Your mother sent me to escort you. Who is this?” she asked, looking down at Monty.
“Montague Featherington,” Monty answered. “Head of Surface Affairs. It’s a very niche field. Highly specialized.”
If Maria thought a talking pelican was odd, she made no comment on it. Iris couldn’t help but wonder if talking animals were more common on the surface than she’d realized, if this woman seemed so unperturbed about Monty.
“Of course,” Maria said, opening the back door for the two of them to slide inside her car.
“Roomy,” Monty said, wiggling around on the seat.
Iris thought it was quite cramped, when she was used to the vastness of the ocean, but kept her opinions to herself.
Once the car started moving, she was too busy trying not to get sick to make any sort of conversation.
Not that Monty noticed. He kept a one-sided conversation going the whole drive.
Iris stopped trying to listen when he kept throwing out words she didn’t understand.
She watched out the window as more and more cars started to flood the streets. They crossed over a giant bridge, and she watched the water slipping away behind them, replaced by hard, cold, solid concrete.
Her heart sank as her very blood screamed for her to turn back, to go home.
But she couldn’t do that.
They drove over the bridge, and Monty declared—with his usual enthusiasm—that they’d entered The Big Apple!
Though, from what Iris could see, there weren’t any apples anywhere.
Her gills might have vanished, but the instinct remained. The air felt too sharp in her lungs, too dry. Her skin itched under her new clothing, too warm in the places it clung, yet too bare in the places it didn’t.
Outside the windows, the streets pulsed with magic and metal. Glamours flickered on paranormals and humans alike, just the barest shimmer giving them away.
There were no currents here, no bioluminescent coral towers.
Just concrete and strangers who didn’t even look at the cars as they passed by.
The noise had her shoulders creeping up near her ears.
The rumble of car engines, the shrieks of sirens, honks of horns, and the occasional thump of music.
She was so used to the quiet calm of the ocean, interrupted only by the occasional whale sound and the soft whooshing of the water.
Iris pressed her hand against the cool glass window, longing for home.
They quickly pulled up in front of a towering building. Though in this city, it seemed as if each of the buildings was in some sort of competition over which one got to be tallest.
There were humans and creatures everywhere, their shoulders brushing as they moved through the congested, noisy streets. There was a chorus of horns, conversation, sirens, and music that had Iris wincing as pressure built across her temples.
“We’ll be brunching at Four Stars with A-listers in no time,” Monty declared, waving a feather at a restaurant as they passed. “I do hope Drach and Violetta bring the twins …”
Iris had no idea who those people were, but Monty’s enthusiasm was starting to become contagious, despite her previous plans to hate everything about this city.
She wanted to stop and take it all in, but Maria was in a hurry to get her to a room once they reached their first destination—the limestone and glass hotel.
“I will wait out here if you need anything,” Maria said, insisting on standing in the hallway as Iris and Monty made their way into the room a few moments later.
“Oooh, this is nice,” Monty declared. “Those better not be down pillows,” he said, waving a wing toward the bed.
“I mean, I’m not a fan of geese. They’re nasty little sky demons.
I once got mugged for my sandwich. I’m still in therapy about it.
If I wanted to be chased around and snapped at, I’d go visit my Aunt Cora again.
Still, we can’t support any bird-plucking industry.
” He gestured down at his own pristine feathers.
“Well, what are you waiting for? You need to bathe. You still have seaweed in your hair, for Triton’s sake. ”
“How do I turn on the water?” Iris asked.
With a long-suffering sigh, the pelican led her into the bathroom, turning on the tap, showing her how to adjust the temperature, demonstrating how soap and shampoo worked, then explaining she must dry herself with a towel afterward.
Iris ran the water while stripping out of her clothes.
As she slipped into the water, her legs fused, familiar magic stitching her back together. She let out a breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding.
The moment her legs vanished, she nearly wept with relief. The tight, uncomfortable awareness of them had made her feel like someone else entirely, foreign and exposed. But as her tail curled beneath her as it always had, she felt some of the tension slipping away.
She lingered longer than she should, soaking in the quiet. The hum of the water pipes was no ocean song, but it was better than nothing.
She had to admit, there was something quite nice about the citrus soap and the sudsy shampoo. Her only regret was having to drain the water and dry off, watching her beloved tail disappear, when Monty knocked at the door to remind her that this was real, that her time was up.
She combed her hair before opening the door to the other room and walking out to find Monty … wearing a crown. More precisely, her crown.
“Why, yes, I do look quite dashing,” he said, speaking to an invisible audience. “But that is no sur—oh …” He trailed off, seeing Iris.
“Having fun?” she asked. “That is a priceless family heirloom, you know.” She was a little surprised to find that Juna had packed it. They typically only wore their crowns for special occasions. “I feel like it might be too much for a meeting, though.”
“I operate under the belief that a crown is always a good idea. But the decision is yours. Even if it is the wrong one.”
After some fiddling, the two of them figured out how the gown was supposed to go on, and she slipped into it. It felt a bit like wearing a jellyfish—soft, clingy, and probably going to sting her if she moved wrong.
Once dressed, Iris moved in front of the mirror on the back of the closet door.
She didn’t recognize the girl in the glass—hair sleek, eyes wary, mouth set in a line that didn’t belong to someone free.
“Do I look … human?”
“Not even remotely. But that is not a bad thing. Come here. Let me smell you.”
“Smell me?” she asked. But the bird was already making his way over, ducking his giant beak down and sniffing her.
“Good. Not a hint of seaweed. You smell … citrusy. Like a very expensive cocktail. Or a scented candle named High Maintenance. Yes, I do believe you are presentable enough.”
“As always, your praise is truly humbling,” she quipped.
“I am a giver. Come on. Let’s go snag you a husband.”
“I’m not going to marry him, remember?”
“Sure, sure. Let’s go ruin your engagement with the devastatingly handsome, perfectly groomed politician with the award-winning smile. I stand with your right to terrible decision-making, Iris.”
She thought Monty was being dramatic, as usual, about her would-be fiancé’s appearance.
But after she convinced him he couldn’t come in the restaurant and mustered the nerve to do so herself—touching the coral charm she still wore under her dress, just once, quick, like the breath she suddenly couldn’t take—she followed the hostess’s directions down the back path to the last table.
Where Finn Westrock was waiting for her.
And, if anything, Monty had been underselling his good looks.
Merfolk were known for their beauty. And Iris was sure she’d seen the best of what male beauty had to offer.
She was incredibly, fully, monumentally wrong.
Because Finn Westrock was devastatingly handsome.
He had to be six-two, seemed fit beneath his stuffy blue suit, and had bone structure that seemed to be carved out of coral limestone—sharp, defined, not meant to yield.
And his cheekbones could cut like shale ledges—high, angular, beautiful.
And his eyes, well, they glowed green like algae at midnight.
She never expected to be seeing so much of her homeland in his face.
Surely, her surprise over that was to blame for how she lost her footing and literally tumbled into him.
His strong arms went around her as his scent enveloped her. He smelled dry and steady—like driftwood that’s been polished smooth by years of waves.
Interest washed through her—heady and familiar—but deeply unwelcome. She’d barely resisted the urge to turn her face into his neck and press her lips to the pulse of his heartbeat there.
Then he spoke, breaking the spell.
He had an appealing voice—smooth and clear like crisp fall waves, but with just a hint of gravel beneath it. It was the kind of voice that made you want to lean in. So, natur-ally, she stepped away.
No matter how handsome he was—or how good he smelled—she was determined not to be charmed by him.
He was just a man.
With a stupidly perfect face.
An easy target.
It was time to make him regret ever agreeing to the marriage contract.