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“Not staying for drinks, Baz?”
Dev is slouched across the table, an elbow perilously close to a pool of ale. Crowley, no. I can think of two dozen better things to do than knock back pints with half the Magickal History class. Not that I’ll be doing any of those.
“I’m going to the bunkhouse.” I say, “There’s school work I’d like to catch up on.”
Dev gives me a wink. No doubt he thinks I’m off to seduce Wellbelove. Niall sees Dev’s look and rolls his eyes on my behalf. At least Niall’s buying my story. It’s the closest either comes to acknowledging my absence at the start of term.
It’s impossible to leave the pub without passing Snow’s table, and I suspect he planned it as such. His head snaps up, peas spilling from his fork as he eyes me. Suspicious, but not outright hostile. Just one unexpected change since this truce of ours. I can’t say it’s better. Whenever he foregoes the snarl, I almost believe we could be friends, and then my mind wanders down even more hopeless roads. It makes me want to spit venom at him; stir up a familiar animosity. Instead I ignore him, heading out into the mild December night and towards the coast.
When I’d heard that the eighth-year Magickal History field trip would be in early December, I’d been elated. The long nights allow a quick evening hunt to be played off as a jaunt after dinner at the local pub. My spirits dampened considerably when we arrived. Do you know how many deer there are in West Cornwall? Fuck all, that’s how many. It’s hemmed in by sea in three directions with nothing but boggy, barren moor in-between, too open to corner rats and with no way to discreetly dump a dead cow over a cliff. Desperation drove me to drain one of the village’s cats; little has made me feel more like a monster than seeing the ‘lost’ poster for the friendly tabby.
What a wretched end to a thoroughly wretched term. Thank Crowley we’re leaving in the morning.
As I tramp the footworn path through bracken and heather, trying to stamp life into my leg (I worry the damage is permanent), I tell myself that I’m tracking wild goats on the headland. Perhaps I can make a meal of one of those arsy bastards. But I know I’m deluding myself even before I hear him.
I know he’s one of the merfolk. While the teachers had mostly been concerned that a student would stumble onto a fairy road never to be seen again, they mentioned the merfolk. Unlike fairy roads, merfolk are easy to avoid. Should you hear a familiar and unlikely voice singing, don’t follow it. Tell a teacher (for extra credit). And if you meet one, never, under any circumstances, kiss them. Simple.
All the same, it’s galling to be targeted. I’ve been marked as the hopeless sap most likely to trade everything for a kiss.
I absolutely will not be telling a bloody teacher.
He’s waiting for me, laid out like a crescent moon against the black rocks. I can make out the curl of his hair and the long, showy neck. When he sees me, his silver tail flicks in and out of the lapping water. He doesn’t sing. Smart thing knows Snow doesn’t sing, but knows he hums. I’d find this fascinating if I wasn’t aching at his slow, soft rendition of I Will by The Beatles, soft-hearted fool that I am.
I could resist the tug of his magic (knowing is half the battle), but I keep indulging myself. I sit on the same patch of coarse grass, gaze down the rocky slope and listen. No good can come of it. No kiss is worth whatever fate awaits those who acquiesce. But at least I can watch him. Not quite pretending but… No, pretending. That’s exactly what I’m doing. Pretending that that face, smudged in the darkness, is smiling fondly at me. That the blue eyes are not narrowed slits. That he smells like smoke and cinnamon buns.
I take a breath, pull my eyes away and stare across the bay. This is the last time I’ll see him. This version of him. Not the one that slams doors and throws dark looks. Not the one that knows I’m a monster and hates me for it. Not the one that knows even my mother would not abide what I am.
For Crowley’s sake. I tilt my head back further, urging the tears away. Through the blur I make out the smattering of stars. The Cornish night is so clear that wherever my eyes wander, new lights wink into view.
When Snow’s hands took mine, when I had access to the bottomless well of him, I used it to draw a veil of stars around us. How heady it had been, to hold his hands, feel his power thrumming through me, sparking across my tongue. One of the sweetest moments in my joke-of-a-life. Only fitting that it ended with him calling me a vampire.
“Twinkle, twinkle, little star…”
My breathing stops. As the merfolk sings his hands are held out, palms turned skyward.
It’s fine. I can take this. Surely I deserve some tenderness after this mess-of-a-term. I simply won’t kiss him.
I begin my careful descent, eyes averted from him. I want to be close enough to take him in whole. I want to see his fondness and pretend it’s real. That he’s real. When I do look up, he’s no more than ten feet from me.
He’s perfect. Thick, wet curls sticking to his forehead. Lips parted like the mouth-breather he is. Moles and white scars all across his arms and chest. So many scars. I want to run my fingers over them, soothe those old hurts. I want to break them open and lap at the blood.
“Baz.” He releases my name like a held breath. “Darling. I’m so glad you’re here.”
I close my eyes. The voice is Snow’s, but the real Snow would never call me darling. I move close enough to kneel before him. He doesn’t move, just wriggles his fingers and beams at me. I place mine in his palms. He’s not warm like Snow, but the hands are confident, thumbs running over mine in whorls.
I shiver, briefly pulling my hands back to shift onto my stomach so my eyes are level with his. He is the scent of sea spray and kelp.
“I’ve waited for you.” He says. His smile turns sad as one of his hands leaves mine, guiding a strand of hair behind my ear. His touch is delicate — just a cold breath against my skin. “Merlin, you’re so beautiful.”
A single sob rips out of me, sudden and embarrassing. I squeeze my eyes closed and swipe at the tears. Ever so gently, he brushes my hands away and cups my face, gathering up tears with the soft rub of his thumbs. He smiles at me like I’m some sweet, foolish, treasured thing.
“It’s okay to cry, Baz. It’s been so hard for you. But I’m here now. You’re not alone anymore.”
“You’re not him.” But still, I nuzzle into one of those hands. The freckles and moles are right where they should be. His lips are wet, tongue just visible. His breath smells like things hidden at the bottom of the ocean.
His teeth worry at his bottom lip. “No.” His eyes drop, a thumb sweeping down to trace my mouth. It tastes of salt and nothing I’d want to eat. “But I would love you, if you let me.”
Why shouldn’t I claim a kiss? No one truly knows what happens to those who accept a merfolk’s kiss. All we know is they’re never seen again. But a kiss in exchange for this life wouldn’t be such a terrible thing. I gave up all claims on my life when I fell in love with Snow. Why not surrender it for a kiss from this half-made Snow, rather than for the blade of the real one? It’s the only real choice left to me.
“Please.” He whispers, “It will be a kiss to remember.”
I press my forehead to his. My hands are on his neck. He’s cold. He has no pulse.
He’s not Snow. He’s a monster. So am I.
My fingers glide up, tracing the line of his jaw. His blue eyes flutter, tongue touching his lips, just like when I showed him the stars. Slowly, shudderingly, I close the space between us.
Through the fog in my mind, I hear a shout. “Show your true colours!”
The face collapses beneath my hands, becomes jawless, lipless, mouth a gaping hole filled with churning teeth. Hair withers and skin sloughs away.
I curse, thrusting it away and scrambling backwards. Silver flashes through the night and the Sword of Mages pierces the merfolk’s flank. It lets out an inhuman shriek as it throws itself into the sea.
“Baz!” Simon bloody Snow to the rescue. I half-expect the fool to slip on the rocks, but instead he lands squarely before me and hauls me up. Once I’m on my feet I shake him off.
“Get off me, you blundering oaf!” Oh Crowley, tell me he didn’t see.
“What was that?” Snow’s eyes are wide, flicking from me to the ocean, “What were you talking to?”
“What, Snow? Here to accuse me of plotting with the denizens of the deep?”
He’s shaking his head, “That… It had my face!”
“You’re mad.” I want to scoff but it comes out as a hiss. Maybe he doesn’t know what it means. Maybe he didn’t listen to the teachers’ talk. Maybe I can spell him to forget this ever happened.
He grits his teeth. A hand comes up to his hair, worrying it, then tugging sharply. “Christ, Baz!” Snow eyes are wide, “You should have just said!”
“Said what, Snow?” I’m ready to drop my wand into my hand.
He steps towards me, hands on my shoulders. He’s warm. His eyes close slightly, lips parted, moving with a purpose I’ve never seen before.
I push him back. He nearly slips and I, callous creature, use the opportunity to put distance between us. Still, I’m relieved to see him stay firmly on his feet.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I hiss.
Snow looks at me like I’m something he’ll never understand, “Giving you what you want.”
A cruel, despairing laugh leaps out of me, “What, you think a kiss solves this? Solves any of this?” I settle into a snarl, “I don’t need your sympathy, Snow.”
“No, it’s not…” Then he growls, marching towards me. The set of his face makes me freeze. He grabs my wrist before I think to pull back, “What if I want to, Baz? What if I saw that and I…” He takes a breath, “What if I wanted it to really be me?”
Oh.
His lips are parted (mouth-breather). He smells of smoke, of bacon and cinnamon buns. The moles are in the right places. His pulse ripples through his hands.
I let him pull me to him. I let him kiss me.
His mouth is hungry and soft. His eyes are lidded, their blue hidden by his lashes. Fingers trace paths over my jaw, behind my ears, then weaving warmth into my hair –
“I thought you were, you know.” He says, breaking away.
“I was what?” I murmur. I’m not sure this isn’t a dream.
“Plotting with it.”
I snort. Yup, definitely not a dream.
“I was trying to sneak up on you, then I saw it’s face and tail and-”
I press his forehead to mine. “The only thing I’m plotting is how to make you stop talking and start kissing me again.”
He grins, “See, that’s alright. That’s a good kind of-”
I cut him off with a kiss.