The Afterlife (Siren Suicides, Book 3)

Chapter 25. Burial Yacht

We begin to sink. The body of the yacht tilts ten degrees, twenty, thirty. I slide down the deck, toward the tail. Papa grabs the railing to get himself away from the gurgling water. It deafens me. He shouts for me to hold on to him, stretches out his arm and grabs one of my ankles, pulling me toward him. The rest of my body swings out so that my head dips into the advancing ocean. I drink oxygen through my gills, gulping it like mad. It gives me enough energy to bend, reach out, and clasp his hand. He trots along the railing, and I slither after him on my belly, then onto my knees, my left hand firmly in his hold, my right clasping the metal bars for support. Waves boil behind me, swallowing the boat foot by foot. There is no crew to man the pumps, not like it will help any. It's too late now.

I want to ignore this like a bad dream, as if it's not really happening. I want to pinch myself and wake up, as simple as that. It's gone too far. It's not fair. I just got my father back. He can't simply die in the middle of the ocean because I'm too weak to carry him to the shore. It would be the ultimate punishment, to watch him sink into unforgiving waves while I breathe water through my gills, floating, unable to help him.

We almost make it to the end of the deck, where it meets the cockpit. I don't know why I follow him, I just do, on autopilot, like I used to when I was a little girl. The floor tilts another ten degrees and the nose of the boat rises up a few feet at once. The fog thickens and evening dims the light. It will be dark soon.

"Hold on!" Papa shouts and let's go of my hand. "Life preserver. Right there. I just need to get far enough—"

I'm a siren, remember? I want to say, suddenly wondering if I'm damaged enough not to be able to swim.

I clutch the metal bars in fear and listen to his laborious breathing, to the squeaking of his shoes on the wet deck. He flings his leg over the rail and reaches out to the bright orange circle affixed with ropes to its outer edge. There is a crack and the gushing of the water intensifies. With a powerful sway, the boat dips back and starts dragging the rest of its steel body underwater. Papa loses his hold and slides down, hitting my chest with his back.

Too weak to hold him, I let go, and we both dip overboard. He curses and thrashes vigorously, to stay afloat. I bob up and down next to him, soaking in the moisture, my panic receding. I can swim, I'm all right. I will be all right. But what about Papa? I can't see him and can't hear his soul.

Everywhere I look, bubbling fountains erupt with a fizz. Wood creaks, metal parts clink and jingle. Together, it sounds like the felling of a tree—slow, deliberate, and imminent. Debris spills from the deck, pieces of cloth, black hats, shoes, several plastic containers. They dance on top of the foam and then sail off into the mist.

Papa, where are you? Panic pounds in my head.

The yacht is not as heavy or large as the trawler was, but it produces plenty of racket. With a final burp, it disappears into the whirlpool it created. It takes a few seconds for the ocean to swallow the last of the boat's fifty feet of length, ten tons of its weight, its teak paneling, custom upholstered seating, and diesel engine. I dive after it.

Life preserver. I need to get you a life preserver.

In the darkness, guided by my instincts alone, I manage to squirm fast enough after it to hook my arm into the gap and yank the orange ring off the ropes. For a moment, the current drags me down, but the life preserver's buoyancy helps me break out and surface. I spit out salty water and look around, feeling strength desert me after this short adventure.

Papa surfaces fifty feet away. He calls out my name feebly, waving his arm. I barely see him in the darkening murk, amidst all this fog. I sigh in relief, holding on to the orange ring and kicking with both legs, moving at a pathetically slow speed. It takes me a few minutes, but at last, I reach him. He grabs on to the opposite side. His hands are white, bloodless. The platinum of his Panerai watch glistens on his wrist.