Page 34 of Crashing Tides

My throat burns. My lungs ache. My arms are sore. Around me, my coat billows. I go to kick my legs and⁠—

Something’s horribly, horribly wrong.

I can’t feel my feet. Can’t feel my legs as I kick them out behind me.

I can sense something, but it’s not—not right. I can’t wriggle my toes. Can’t bend my knees. Can’t spread my legs.

Maybe something’s wrapped around me. Seaweed or rope, maybe even a scrap of fabric.

That’s got to be it. I’m just… mummified by a loose sail, or a giant plastic bag. The ocean is full of trash, and I’m trapped like a fish.

I thrash and propel forward.

Everything feels weird, unfamiliar.

Bile rises in my throat.

This isn’t right.

I think of tentacles and let out a horrified moan. Fuck. Oh fuck. What if my legs are just gone? What if I’m some kind of hideous squid monster now?

I look down at the dog, still clenched tight against me, limp and barely breathing. In the moonlight, I can just make out my hands. At first, I’m relieved, but then I realize that these aren’t my hands.

These aren’t even human hands.

At first, I’m not even sure what I’m looking at. The outline is the same, but my skin is too shiny, full of tiny ridges, and oh fuck, those are scales.

I hyperventilate. I raise a hand in front of me, stare in horror at black, curved talons, sharp enough to slice flesh with a single swipe.

I look down at the dog. I can smell the blood before I see it. That’s new and alarming. Hopefully it isn’t my fault.

I look at my talons and have the horrible, sinking feeling that it is.

I bend my arm. Something long and shiny trails after it. I squint.

That’s a fin. Holy shit. Fins and spines sprout from my arms, spilling through the tear in my coat, and they look so fucking natural, somehow.

OK, fuck, I was right. I am some kind of fish creature. Some kind of horrible, mutated⁠—

I reach up and very carefully drag the pads of my fingers across my face. My nose and lips feel normal, but my teeth are needle-thin and sharp. I flinch as one pierces my skin.

I move my hands from my face to my hair and give a groan of relief. It’s still there. OK, at least I’m not a baldheaded fish creature. I was half-afraid of finding fins on my scalp.

When I blink, I’m surprised to realize that I can see pretty well. But when I look up, the moon is almost entirely hidden behind clouds. It’s raining. The wind whips the waves around us into foam.

Whatever the fuck is wrong with me needs to wait, because I’m in danger out here. I don’t know how long I’ll stay in this form. I definitely can’t swim, and if I give up now, this dog dies, too.

And I don’t want that. Not when he’s probably the only reason I didn’t drown. (Unless I have gills, too. I’m afraid to check. Worse, I don’t even know where to look for them.)

With my free arm, I use the momentum of the water to spin in a slow circle. At first, there’s nothing but darkness. Water surrounds us. Then I spot the cliff, the waves crashing against it like they’re determined to break it down piece by piece. Following the line of the cliff, I locate the beach. It’s low, rocky, and further away than I’d like, but I think I can reach it.

I try to kick my legs like I’ve seen swimmers do on TV. It doesn’t work.

I don’t dare look behind me. There might be tentacles, and I’m not ready to deal with them right now.

Eventually, I manage something like a thrashing motion and start making some progress in the direction of land. Once I get going, it’s surprisingly easy to stay afloat, although I have to be careful to keep the dog’s head above water, pausing occasionally to make sure he’s still breathing. The stench of blood is strong, but the water keeps washing it away.

“Stay with me,” I say, and I’m hugely, horribly relieved to discover that my voice sounds much the same as usual, only a little richer, more melodic.