The Mermaid Read online

  Praise for

  LOST BOY

  “Christina Henry shakes the fairy dust off a legend; this Peter Pan will give you chills.”

  —Genevieve Valentine, author of Persona

  “Multiple twists keep the reader guessing, and the fluid writing is enthralling . . . This is a fine addition to the shelves of any fan of children’s classics and their modern subversions.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “This wild, unrelenting tale, full to the brim with the freedom and violence of young boys who never want to grow up, will appeal to fans of dark fantasy.”

  —Booklist

  “Turns Neverland into a claustrophobic world where time is disturbingly nebulous and identity is chillingly manipulated . . . [A] deeply impactful, imaginative, and haunting story of loyalty, disillusionment, and self-discovery.”

  —RT Book Reviews (top pick)

  “Henry keeps the story fresh and energetic with diabolical twists and turns to keep us guessing. Dynamic characterization and narration bring the story to life . . . Once again, Henry takes readers on an adventure of epic and horrific proportions as she reinvents a childhood classic using our own fears and desires. Her smooth prose and firm writing hooked me up instantly and held me hostage to the very end.”

  —Smexy Books

  “We all have a soft spot for the classics that we read when we were growing up. But . . . this retelling will poke and jab at that soft spot until you can never look at it the same way again.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “An absolutely addicting read . . . Psychological, gripping, and entertaining, painting a picture of Peter Pan before we came to know him in the film: the darker side of his history. The writing is fabulous, the plot incredibly compelling, and the characters entirely enthralling.”

  —Utopia State of Mind

  Praise for

  ALICE

  “I loved falling down the rabbit hole with this dark, gritty tale. A unique spin on a classic and one wild ride!”

  —Gena Showalter, New York Times bestselling author of The Darkest Promise

  “Alice takes the darker elements of Lewis Carroll’s original, amplifies Tim Burton’s cinematic reimagining of the story, and adds a layer of grotesquery from [Henry’s] own alarmingly fecund imagination to produce a novel that reads like a Jacobean revenge drama crossed with a slasher movie.”

  —The Guardian (UK)

  “[A] psychotic journey through the bowels of magic and madness. I, for one, thoroughly enjoyed the ride.”

  —Brom, author of The Child Thief

  “[A] horrifying fantasy that will have you reexamining your love for this childhood favorite.”

  —RT Book Reviews (top pick)

  Praise for

  RED QUEEN

  “Henry takes the best elements from Carroll’s iconic world and mixes them with dark fantasy elements . . . [Her] writing is so seamless you won’t be able to stop reading.”

  —Pop Culture Uncovered

  “Alice’s ongoing struggle is to distinguish reality from illusion, and Henry excels in mingling the two for the reader as well as her characters. The darkness in this book is that of fairy tales, owing more to Grimm’s matter-of-fact violence than to the underworld of the first book.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  Titles by Christina Henry

  The Mermaid

  Lost Boy

  The Chronicles of Alice

  Alice

  Red Queen

  The Black Wings Novels

  Black Wings

  Black Night

  Black Howl

  Black Lament

  Black City

  Black Heart

  Black Spring

  BERKLEY

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  Copyright © 2018 by Tina Raffaele

  Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

  BERKLEY is a registered trademark and the B colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Henry, Christina, 1974– author.

  Title: The mermaid / Christina Henry.

  Description: First edition. | New York : Berkley, 2018.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017039581 | ISBN 9780399584046 | ISBN 9780399584053 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCSH: Sideshows—Fiction. | Mermaids—Fiction. | Circus—Fiction. | GSAFD: Fantasy fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3608.E568 M47 2018 | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017039581

  First Edition: June 2018

  Cover design by Genevieve Womack and Judith Lagerman

  Title page art: Rust texture © HK.Studio/Shutterstock.com; Grunge texture © Alted Studio/Shutterstock.com

  Title page design by Laura K. Corless

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  CONTENTS

  Praise for Christina Henry

  Titles by Christina Henry

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Part I: THE FISHERMAN & THE MERMAID Chapter 1

  Part II: THE MUSEUM Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Part III: THE TOUR Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  The End

  Afterword

  Readers Guide

  About the Author

  FOR CORA–ON LAND AND ON SEA

  Part I

  THE FISHERMAN & THE MERMAID

  CHAPTER 1

  Once there was a fisherman, a lonely man who lived on a cold and rocky coast and was never able to convince any woman to come away and live in that forbidding place with him. He loved the sea more than any person and so was never able to take a wife, for women see what is in men’s hearts more clearly than men would wish.

  But though he loved the freezing spray on his face and the sight of the rolling clouds on the horizon, he still wished for somebody to love. One evening after a long day, he pulled up his net and found a woman in it—something like a woman, anyway, with black hair and eyes as grey as a stormy sea and a gleaming fish’s tail.

  He was sorry that she was caught and told her so, though the storm in her eyes rolled into his heart. She stopped her thrashing and crashing at his voice, though she did not understand his words. The fisherman loosed her, and she dove back into the water the way a wild thing returns to a wild place, and he watched her go.

  But her eyes had seen ins
ide him the way that women’s eyes do, and his loneliness snaked into her, and she was sorry for it, for that loneliness caught her more surely than the net.

  She swam away from his boat as fast as she could, and she felt his loneliness trailing between them like a cord. She did not want his feelings to bind her, to pull her back to him, so her tail flashed silver in the water and her eyes looked straight before her and never behind.

  But though she didn’t look back, she felt him watching, and she remembered the shape of his boat and the rocky curve of the land not too far off and the lines around his eyes, eyes that were as dark as the deep sea under the moon. She remembered, and so she returned again to watch him.

  She was called a name that meant, in her own tongue, Breaking the Surface of the Sea. When she was born, she’d come in a great hurry, much sooner than all of her six older sisters and brothers. The attendant who’d aided her mother had been astonished when she tried to swim away before the cord that bound her to her mother was cut.

  Her mother and father and siblings spent most of her childhood trying to find her, for she was never where she ought to be. She was warned repeatedly of the dangers of the surface and of the men who cast nets there, and of their cruelty to the denizens of the ocean.

  They should never have told her, for in the telling she wanted to know more, and wanting to know more led her farther and farther afield.

  Her home was deep in the ocean, far away from the land that pushed up against the water on either side, and this was because her people feared the men with their hooks and their nets and the boats that floated on the surface of the waves as if by magic. The storytellers told of silver fins caught by cruel metal and dragged to the decks of ships, where blood ran red and spilled back into the water, calling things that swam the ocean in search of dying creatures.

  Sometimes there was a storm, and that storm would batter a ship to pieces and the men would fall into the water and sink, sink, sink to the bottom—the lucky ones, that is. The unlucky ones were devoured by roaming hunters with their silver-grey bodies and black eyes and white, white teeth.

  When the ships were sunk, the mermaid would go to the wreckage and explore, and pick up odd things that humans used, and wonder about them. And then one of her brothers or her parents would find her, and she would be chided for her foolishness and dragged home by her wrist, staring with longing over her shoulder all the while.

  One day she was swimming near the surface—far too near the surface, her family would have said—and saw a large, large ship of a sort she had never seen before. On the prow of the ship she saw a strange thing.

  It looked like her—like a mermaid, but frozen and sealed to the ship.

  She swam alongside the ship for a long time, trying to see how the sailors had bound this mermaid to their craft. It was not easy, for the proximity of the ship necessitated keeping out of sight of the sailors. She would break the surface to catch a glimpse of the other mermaid and then would be forced to plunge below the water again before she was spotted.

  There was a fine wind and all the sails were full, and so the ship clipped along the surface, and after a time the mermaid grew tired. But she wanted to see, she wanted to know, and so she followed and followed even when she could no longer stay alongside. Her tail started to drag, and her swimming slowed, and then suddenly the ship was far ahead of her, disappearing over the flat line of the horizon.

  And the mermaid was alone, and far from home, and did not know how to find her way back again.

  This ought to have made her sad, or frightened, or any number of other distressed feelings. But while she was sorry she might never see her family again, she wasn’t as upset as she should have been.

  Rather, she felt the freedom to go where she chose and do what she chose. Yes, there would be consequences (she was not so silly as to think there wouldn’t be), but they would be her choices and her consequences and not the ones laid out for her by someone else.

  Freedom was far more intoxicating than safety could ever be.

  She wanted to see and know more than she ever could at the bottom of the ocean. So she swam after the ship, because the ship would go to land, and the mermaid had never seen land before.

  And so she crossed the ocean and came to the place where there was land. The mermaid spent many days watching the people on shore and the ones who came out to the sea on boats. Always, always she was careful to avoid the hooks and lines and cages and nets, because she had found her freedom and she loved it, and she would not be bound to someone else’s will again.

  Until the day she was busy trying to loose a fish caught on a hook, and it was shaking and fighting and she was trying to help, but it was too panicked to let her. She didn’t see the net come down from above, and then she was caught.

  She panicked then too, just like the fish she’d been trying to aid; she thrashed her tail, pulled with all her might, but all her thrashing entangled her more securely than before until she was hauled, furious and weeping, to the surface.

  His eyes were dark and full of surprise when they saw what was in his net. Surprise, and wonder, and then a little sadness that she almost missed. When he raised the knife, she was sure he would fillet her then, but he only spoke some words she did not understand and cut away that which bound her.

  She swam away and wondered about the man who’d let her go.

  That night, the fisherman watched the sea from his cottage, which was perched on the rocks above a small cove where he tied up his boat at night. It was cold, for it was coming on winter and it never really was warm in the North Atlantic anyhow. He buried his hands in the pockets of his coat and stared out at the churning mass of water and looked for her under the moon. But though he turned his head at the sound of every faint splash, he did not see that which his heart most longed for—the sight of her fin silhouetted against the moonlight.

  He’d likely been a fool to let her go. Nobody would believe the story if he told it, and he wasn’t about to make a fool of himself down at the tavern in the village. He was old enough to be past the bragging flush of youth, though not so old that he would have minded seeing the light of wonder in their eyes had he brought a mermaid home.

  He could never have done it. That he knew for certain. He could not have taken that wild thing that looked on him with such wild eyes and forced her to stay with him, to make her a prisoner, to profit by her hurt.

  She hadn’t looked as he expected her to, the way he’d been told since he was a boy listening to tales that a mermaid should look. Those stories spoke of pale bare-breasted women with long flowing hair, human women in every way except for their tail fin.

  What he’d caught in his net had been far more alien, a creature covered in silver scales all over, with webbing between its fingers and teeth much sharper than any human’s. But her eyes had been a woman’s, and they’d looked into his heart as a woman’s eyes do and seen all the loneliness there.

  He’d felt in that moment that his heart was visible outside his chest, that if she’d wanted, she could have grasped it in those long scaly fingers and taken it away with her.

  Then he’d come to his senses and loosed her because he knew he should and the state of his heart was no concern of the mermaid’s.

  But still he watched the water in hope, for the dearest wish of all fishermen is to see a mermaid, to brush up against something magical and hope some of that magic would stay with him for always.

  He watched and watched, but he did not see her.

  When finally the moon was past its zenith, he put away his dreams and went inside to sleep. He knew he would never see her again and in his own practical way thought at least he’d seen her one time. That was more than most fishermen. He’d touched magic, and he should not want for more.

  He did not see her, but she watched him from beneath the water near his cottage, and she knew he was looking for her. She couldn’t s
ay how she knew this except that his eyes had been a little sad when he let her go. His loneliness had burrowed into her heart, and the ache of it burned inside her.

  The mermaid had heard stories, spoken-under-the-breath-in-secret-places stories, about those of her kind who had left the deep and walked upon land.

  There was no special magic about this unless you considered that mermaids were magical in and of themselves; the mermaid did not consider herself anything special because she had always known her own kind.

  In those stories, those secret stories, the mermaid only had to touch dry land and her fin would be transformed into legs to walk about. If she touched the water of the sea again, her fin would return.

  The mermaid had never wished to walk upon land before, but suddenly she found she wanted this with all her heart. She could think only of all the things she’d never seen that were hidden past the shore: all the people and all the things for which she had no name and wanted to name so she could place them in her memory and keep them there.

  It was dark, even with the moon, and there was a stretch of sandy beach hidden in the rocks, a little cove where the fisherman tied up his boat at night.

  The mermaid thought she would swim to that place and touch the dry shore and see if the stories were true. Her heart was bursting with anticipation—how wonderful, how free, how perfect it would be if she could pass between the shore and the sea. Not like a man did, of course—men swimming in the water were awkward, flopping things with their limbs splashing out in all directions.

  No, she would be as lithe as a fish in water and graceful as a human on land and all the world would be open to her. All the world and its wonders, and she would see them, every one.

  She swam into the cove, and when her head rose above the water she saw the jagged rocks rising on either side and the boat nestled inside. Beside the boat was a small wooden pier and a short beach that connected to a set of steps leading up to the fisherman’s cottage.