Lost Souls

Chapter 1

"'Hello, Faye. We meet again.'" My eyes flew open as Zander's harsh voice floated through my mind. Even as my exhausted brain recognized my surroundings—the furnishings of our bedroom, the face of the merman sleeping soundly beside me with an arm wrapped around my abdomen—that didn't stop the rush of panic that flowed through me. It had been more than two years since that day, yet the memories and the nightmares hadn't eased; if anything, they'd worsened.

A glance out the open window indicated that it had only been a few hours since I'd finally fallen asleep. Between Wyatt and Zander—and given that we hadn't heard a whisper of the former in two years—it was a miracle that I could sleep at all these days. Neither had we heard from the latter, though instead of filling me with relief, the prospect filled me with dread.

Silently slipping out from underneath Jonah's arm, I swam into the bathing room and shut the door soundlessly behind me. There was enough light from the full moon to see, or rather cringe at, my expression. I looked like I hadn't slept a whole night in months. My eyes—ringed in dark circles and bloodshot—had a permanent haunted look in them that I knew would never entirely go away.

Despite my genuine smiles and laughter, anyone who knew what to look for could spot the subtle cracks in my expression and demeanor. The hypervigilance, startle reflex, and how I'd subconsciously grip Jonah's arm tightly were all due to memories that ambushed me out of nowhere.

Zander Marshal's face would resurface in my head, along with the words he'd spoken in those fateful moments after I'd brought him back to life. "'Hello, Faye. We meet again.'" As would the intense feeling of vertigo that had gripped me in the wake of his words, along with the realization I'd just made a terrible mistake.

The nightmares would result in one of two outcomes: jolting awake and rushing into the bathing room or startling awake to the rush of panic that flowed through my body. The latter had awakened me a few moments ago, but it hadn't been enough to wake Jonah. He still slept deeply in our bed, the sound of his steady and even breathing filling the silence. I let out a silent breath of relief, thankful that he remained asleep.

Thankfully, the nightmares weren't usually enough to wake him. He, unlike me, was a heavy and deep sleeper, a trait I wished I possessed. I took several slow, even breaths, calming my heartbeat and letting the panic gradually fade from my body. Zander hadn't been seen or heard from since that fateful encounter two years ago; there was no reason to assume he would pop up again out of nowhere.

As I looked at my wan expression in the bathing room mirror, I repeated that to myself several times. Zander hadn't been seen or heard from in two years; there was no reason to assume he would pop up again out of nowhere. Again and again, until I half-heartedly believed it. I leaned over the sink, splashing cold water on my face with trembling hands.

It wasn't just me who still struggled with memories of the past—Waverly did as well, though she was much better at masking her emotions than I was. Only those who knew what to look for would notice how she'd suddenly go pale if someone mentioned Zander or how she would suddenly break off during a conversation, her eyes going distant as a memory seized her. Laguna struggled as much—if not more so—than Waverly and I, but if Waverly was better than me at masking her emotions, Laguna was a pro.

Again, only those who knew what to look for would notice her hand curl into a fist or the slight tremor that shuddered through her body whenever someone mentioned Zander. At least Waverly had her mother to talk to, given that our relationship was civil at best. Every time we crossed paths, her blank expression had my unspoken apology bubbling up inside me. I exhaled heavily as I silently swam back into the bedroom.

When Jonah's eyes met mine, their concern and worry nearly broke me. He wordlessly rose from the bed and wrapped his arms around me as I closed my eyes, breathing him in. His voice was barely a whisper as he spoke, the words no more than a push of breath. "You dreamt of him again, didn't you." It wasn't a question. Neither was it the first time he'd awakened during the aftermath of one of these nightmares. Most nights, we didn't talk.