Page 49 of Crashing Tides

I shake my head. “Not as far as I know.”

“Weird.”

The question haunts me late into the night. A reverse image search gets me nowhere. “Fae Google doesn’t exist, right?” I ask Aleo, who has just returned from the shower, his hair still dripping.

“Not really,” he says. “There are some host websites with a similar function, but they’re behind a paywall.”

“I’m guessing that’s not included in tuition,” I grumble, but then it occurs to me: there probably are academic websites and search engines that I have access to through the university. I just need to figure out what they are. But my ancient laptop doesn’t want to load the library’s website. Around midnight, I give up and flop back onto the mattress.

I dream of the sea.

I’m standing at the edge of the cliff, overlooking black waves capped with white foam, listening to the sound of the water crashing against the rock.

The sea is my home. I can feel it in my bones, an echoing cry that I cannot help but respond to. I’m meant to be in that dark water on this moonless night.

I leap without question, but I don’t transform when I hit the waves. Instead, I breach the surface with so much force that my bones threaten to shatter.

I flail against the current, but it’s sucking me, down, down, down and I can’t get free⁠—

I wake just after one a.m. Cold sweat soaks the back of my t-shirt, my boxers. My heart is racing.

There’s no good way to handle this, I decide, changing quickly and hurrying to the bathroom. I can’t forget the sensation of drowning. The agony in my lungs, the ache in my bones, the burning in the throat, the powerlessness.

What if I don’t transform whenever I’m submerged? What if it’s not automatic? What if it’s complicated?

I need to research merfolk. Shifters in general. It was stupid not to prioritize this.

Back in my room, I climb into bed and stare at the ceiling.

At four a.m., I text Duncan. I’m so tired I can barely see straight, which means that I’m in no position to talk myself out of anything.

Want to go stare at the ocean with me?

I press send and fall asleep as soon as my screen goes dark.

I do not want to go stare at the ocean with Duncan Stirling, but I can’t find a way to gracefully bow out.

All day, I think of his expression when he said, “I’ll always be there for you.” Sincere. Firm.

Who goes around saying shit like that? And why does my stomach flip whenever I think about it?

Sorry, I type. Too much homework tonight.

Then I delete it and put my phone in my pocket.

By lunchtime, I’m halfway convinced this is a good idea. Duncan is a shifter. Not the same type of shifter, obviously, but he’s got to have some insights, right?

And if I’m having nightmares about drowning, then it probably means that I’m anxious about the logistics of shifting. If I understand how to change, at least in theory, I’ll feel better. So this is a good idea.

My concussion has subsided enough for me to exercise again. My stomach aches, but I manage to go on a jog, anyway. By the time I return to my room, I’m exhausted.

It’s the weekend. Duncan is busy until late afternoon, so I spend the day with Jane in the library, finally able to access all the academic websites I should’ve known about in the first place.

She’s taken to hovering around me, watching me with wide eyes, a little too attentive. I try to ignore her. I know I’m a mess. But I can’t fault her for looking out for me, and the truth is, I don’t like being away from her for too long. Everything feels so much less intimidating when she’s around. Jane is more fae than I am, better studied, and levelheaded as hell. We balance each other out well enough. I’m probably a burden, but she always seems happy to see me, and I don’t know where I’d be without her.

Instead of getting caught up on my homework, I spend an hour combing through articles about maritime symbols in the Golden Age of Piracy, which doesn’t yield any helpful information, but is somewhat interesting. Then, I spend another hour poking around, looking for books about merfolk. Duncan was right; it seems like the library has been relieved of books about shifters. There’s only seven or eight total. The shelves around them are suspiciously empty.

I finally settle for a massive tome called Shifters A-Z, carrying it back to the table as nonchalantly as possible, considering it’s approximately the size of a small suitcase. Jane takes one look at me and rolls her eyes. Setting the book down with a table-quaking thump, I flip to the table of contents.