I felt—something in my head. A weird longing... and an overwhelming sense of wanting to be back in La Jolla.

  No, that wasn’t it. The images in my head were of the house I grew up in outside San Diego, but I wasn’t thinking of the house specifically.

  I was thinking about home.

  I need to go home.

  That wasn’t me thinking that, even though the thought was in my head.

  After a minute, I realized it was the mermaid who wanted to go home.

  Fuck me.

  “How can I get you home?”

  You understand me? Finally, someone who understands me!

  “I guess I do, yeah.”

  Are you of the Aesir?

  I snorted. That was what Odin, Thor, Loki, and the other Norse gods liked to call themselves. “Sorta.”

  Their trickster kidnapped our sister once, and since then, the boundaries between the worlds have weakened. Sometimes we fall into this world and must find our way home to our sisters. I miss them so!

  She slithered toward me on the deck, and I saved her some trouble by moving toward her, and as I approached, she held up the glass ball.

  This talisman may return me home, but they do not function.

  “May I?”

  Of course.

  I took the ball, but I had no idea what it was, really, or what it did. And me holding it had no effect on it. Sometimes, when I touched something, it acted weird. But not this time. Have I mentioned I didn’t get an instruction manual?

  How-some-ever, I knew someone who could help.

  “My name is Cassie. I’m one of the Dísir. I’m—acquainted with the trickster who kidnapped your sister back in the day, and I can learn from him how to get you home. Can you meet me back here later tonight—say in six hours?”

  Very well. And thank you, Dís.

  “My pleasure.” I handed her the ball back.

  The mermaid—or, I guess, havsrå—took it and then dove back over the side of the boat. I ran down to the head, where the three women were just sitting there.

  “My husband’s back home in Philadelphia. I’ll never see him again.”

  “My daughter’s back home in Perth Amboy. I’ll never see her again.”

  “My wife’s back home in Tarrytown. I’ll never see her again.”

  I sighed. I knew I forgot to ask the havsrå something.

  That night, I went to Mayor Fred’s, where 1812 was playing with the full band, including Ginny on drums, which meant Loki was in the audience. I walked in, grabbed his ear, and dragged him out onto Greene Street.

  “Ow! What are you doing, little Dís?” He only called me that when he wanted to piss me off, but he’d already done that more than he realized.

  “In April, when it snowed and the world was almost destroyed, that was your fault. Last month when the ghosts on the island got super-active and everyone could see and hear them, and one of them killed people, that was your fault. And now havsrå are causing shipwrecks and have been for centuries. Guess what? Your fault again. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  “How is this my fault, exactly?” he asked archly.

  I told him what the havsrå told me.

  His voice much more subdued with all the high dudgeon gone, he said, “Ah, I see. Sadly, Cassie, I cannot help you. While the spell itself is rather simple, it takes great power to bridge the gap between worlds to send the havsrå home. I am but a shadow of my former self. Even when the peoples of northern Europe worshipped the Aesir as gods, and my power was at its absolute height, it was difficult for me to manage it. Now, there is no chance of it.”

  “She has two talismans—a glass ball and a multi-bladed knife of some kind.”

  “I know not what the knife would do, but the glass ball is likely an orb, which can focus magic very much the way a lens focuses light. That will merely direct the spell, not create it.”

  “Fine, you said the spell was simple. Teach it to me. I know I’ve got the mojo.” I grinned. “How do you think I stopped you?”

  Raising a blond eyebrow, he then asked, “And what reason do I have to do you this kindness?”

  I blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  “What boon shall you grant me in exchange for doing you this service?”

  For a moment, I just stared at him. “My parents have a word for what you just did. It’s chutzpah. And if you really want a boon, how about this? I won’t have to tell Ginny that you were a total douchenozzle when I asked you to help me out. On the other hand, if you do help me, I could tell the woman you’re trying to win back that you selflessly helped me get a havsrå back home.”

  He seemed to consider it, but I knew him well enough at this point to know damn well that he wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize his chances with softening Ginny toward him. “Very well. Shall we retire to your dwelling?”

  I sighed. The notion of Loki in my room did not appeal, but the havsrå needed to get home before somebody got hurt. So we went back to the Bottroff House and, over the strenuous objections of the captain, had a spellcasting tutoring session. The language of the spell was in the same unrecognizable tongue as the spell I used to stop Loki in April, which helped me pick up the cadence faster.

  Once we were done, and I was sure I had the spell’s words and proper pronunciation memorized, Loki said, “Excellent. Good luck, Cassie.”

  “Oh, I’m gonna have more than luck. You’re coming with me.”

  “But—”

  “But me no buts, butthead. I’m not taking any chances, and I need backup, even if it’s just—” I shook my head, laughing at the irony even as I said it. “For moral support.”

  Loki grinned. “Not my usual type of support, I must say.”

  We drove out to Stock Island. I had already convinced my bosses at Seaclipse to let me take one of the boats out on my own, on the condition that I’d pay for the gas used on the trip. Luckily, there were only enough evening-dive signups for one boat, so they had two to spare.

  Loki and I went out in Groucho. He looked really nauseated as we went, and by the time we reached the rendezvous spot, he was almost as green as the havsrå.

  Speaking of whom, she was waiting for us in the same place as planned. She once again flopped onto the deck.

  I am glad you returned, Dís. I was not sure you would. Our experiences with the Aesir are not ones that engender trust.

  She was looking right at Loki. So was I. “You know who this is?” True, I’d said that I’d be consulting Loki, but he was a shapechanger, and I doubt he looked the same now as he did when he kidnapped her sister in order to tweak Thor and Sif.

  We all are well aware of the trickster who ripped our sister from us.

  “My apologies, sweet lady.” Loki bowed and almost came close to sounding like he was trying to be sincere. “I was young and foolish, and was poor at thinking through the consequences of my actions.”

  “And you’re using the past tense, why, exactly?”

  Now Loki gave me a look. “Shall we begin?”

  The havsrå handed me the orb. You will need this.

  “Thank you.” I took the orb from her and then started to chant the familiar words in the unfamiliar language. As I spoke, I felt something tug at my heart, and the orb started to glow from within.

  The sky turned green, and a small whirlpool started forming in the water just off our port bow.

  Thank you, Cassie of the Dísir. You have the eternal gratitude of the havsrå for what you have done today.

  Then she turned to Loki and held up the knife that sea shanty writers had mistaken for a comb.

  And thank you also for allowing us to at last have our vengeance.

  With that, she slashed Loki’s throat with the blades. Blood started spurting all over the deck, and Loki fell to his knees, a look of total surprise on his face. I grabbed him and eased him down onto the deck.

  Turning to the havsrå, I cried, “What the fuck?”

  Since the day our sister was returned to us from Asgard after being wretchedly ill-treated by the Aesir, we have travelled with two items in our possession. These were to be used if we fell through one of the many portals between worlds that this trickster created for his sport and for our agony. The orb could be used to return us home, though it does not always function as it should. The blade was to be used to avenge our sister for her mistreatment at this foul creature’s hands, should we ever be fortunate enough to cross his path once again. Good-bye, Cassie of the Dísir. Fare you well. And good-bye Loki of the Aesir. Fare you poorly.

  And then she dove over the railing and into the whirlpool, which closed up behind her, the water becoming still once again.

  Loki stared upward. The sun was starting to set, painting the sky a spectacular orange and purple.

  His voice a gurgling croak, he said, “Sigyn is—is back in Key West. I’ll never see her beautiful face again.”

  Then he just faded away. Seriously, he went transparent and then disappeared. Even the blood he got all over Groucho’s deck was gone (which, if nothing else, meant I wouldn’t be stuck cleaning it up). Gods don’t die the way we do—if they even really die at all.

  But right now, Loki was gone. How the fuck was I gonna explain this to Ginny?

  I sat completely alone on the deck, the orb rolling around next to me as Groucho bounced with the tide.

  Whilst the raging seas do roar,

  And the lofty winds to blow,

  And we poor seamen do lie on the top

  Whilst the landmen lies below.

  On….The Mermaid

  Child lists six versions of Ballad 289 while the Roud Folksong Index lists two hundred and sixty-two versions of #124, The Mermaid. When the crew of a ship on the ocean spies a mermaid, they know they are in trouble—mermaids were a portent of disaster. Even seeing one with a mirror and comb didn’t forestall their troubles. In some versions, the Captain, Mate and Boatswain all mourn that soon their wives will be widows while the cabin boy bemoans his parents’ grief. Whether the ship goes around three times in some versions or was en route to Greenland in another, they all testify to how important shipping was and how futile it was to fight the power of the sea. (1)

  As shown on the YouTube uploads this is a popular ballad with amateur singers. Others such as Martain Carthy, Celtic Mayhem, The Pirates Of St. Piran, Celtic Stew, and The Sharecroppers have also recorded The Mermaid.

  1) Child, Francis James. The English and Scottish Popular Ballads Vol. V. Mineola: Dover, 2003.

  MAKING MUSIC

  By

  Kelley Armstrong

  Izzy sat in front of her computer, headphones on, eyes closed, listening to the latest top five rock songs, looping them over and over, struggling to find meaning in the lyrics. To find lyricism, poetry. Hell, at this point she’d settle for a clever rhyming couplet. She’d sampled the top country hits, but that wasn’t really her forte. She loved good old rock-and-roll, not surprising, given that if she’d been a boy, her father had planned to name her Ozzy. An old-school roadie for a father. And an English lit professor for a mom. That particular mix was partly what landed her in this very place, at this desk, so deeply engrossed in her task that sweat had broken out along her hairline.

  When the phone rang, she jumped, her headphones tumbling off, almost taking one dangling earring with them. She winced as she disentangled the earring with one hand and lifted her phone with the other.

  “I have news,” her agent trilled, somehow managing to get three syllables out of the last word.

  “Let me guess,” Izzy said. “There’s a newly formed punk group out of Nowhere, Missouri, that wants to give me amazing exposure by covering ‘The Unquiet Grave’ free of charge.” She paused. “No, wait. They’re asking me to pay them, right?”

  Monica sighed. “You are such a pessimist, Iz.”

  “No, I’ve just had that generous offer too many times. Sometimes brought to me by my agent, no less.”

  She swore she heard Monica’s lacquered pageboy crinkle as she bristled. “That was a successful punk rock group from Kansas City. It would have been good exposure . . . before Grave. You are now a bona fide songwriting star, my girl. I head them off at the pass if there isn’t money attached. Significant money.”

  Izzy eyed the bills stacked on her desk. “Actually, if there’s any money attached, I’d like to hear—”

  “Significant. Otherwise, you look desperate.”

  True, except for the fact that she was desperate. “The Unquiet Grave” was two years old now, and she was the writer, not the performer. It hadn’t exactly made her rich.

  “Do you want to hear my news?” One syllable for news now. Apparently, Izzy had not displayed the proper degree of gratitude.

  “Sure.”

  “A major recording artist heard the NPR retrospective of your work and has contacted me directly. Directly. Not through his agent. Not through his manager. He wishes to speak to you about writing a large amount of his next album.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  The line echoed in silence. Then Monica said, “Did you hear me, Iz?”

  “I did. That’s why I said ‘uh-huh.’ I’m just waiting for a name attached to that ‘major recording artist.’”

  “I’m not at liberty to say.”

  Izzy shifted the phone to her other ear. “What?”

  “He’d like me to keep his name out of it until you two meet in New York tomorrow—”

  “New York? I’m expected to meet someone in New York tomorrow, at my expense, I presume, without even getting a name? Hell, I wouldn’t drop everything and fly out for Bruce Springsteen.”

  “I should hope not. Have you seen the sales on his last album? I swear, girl, you are the oldest twenty-nine-year-old I have ever met. I’m actually glad I can’t give his name because you’d probably say ‘huh?’ despite the fact his last three albums went plat-i-num.”

  “Give me a try.”

  Monica snorted. “Not likely. I made a deal. As for flying your ass out there, he’s comping the ticket. First class. Have you ever even flown first class, Iz?”

  “Sure, I got an upgrade once.”

  “Pack your bag. Gather your portfolio. You are going to New York at the crack of dawn, and when you find out who brought you there, just remember, I like Bollinger. Cristal is for thugs.”

  Izzy sat on the bank of Bank Rock Bay in Central Park, listening to the pound of feet jogging across the Oak Bridge. She closed her eyes and imagined them as drumbeats. There was music there, as there was everywhere. One only had to find it. She knew that better than anyone.

  She fingered her portfolio of sheet music. Old-fashioned, Monica would sniff, but Izzy found music in the medium, in the crackle of paper, in the hand-scratched black lines. She’d brought an iPod, too, with recordings of her latest songs, but she preferred the sheets. An old-fashioned medium for an old-fashioned art. The crafting of music from poetry.

  Even in rock, there was a place for poetry. For beauty. For balladry. She created both—turning old ballads into rousing rock anthems. It was, as one might expect, a very narrow specialty. Despite this, critically acclaimed artists weren’t exactly clamoring to work with her. Even Whiskey Roar—who’d seen their first gold album based largely on the success of her re-imagining of “The Unquiet Grave”—had only contacted her once more for a song, buried deep on their second album, as if an act of charity.

  “’Tis down in yonder garden green,

  Love, where we used to walk.

  The finest flower that ere was seen ...”

  When Izzy heard the words, she thought she was still lost in her thoughts. Then she realized they were real and she jerked upright.

  “Just don’t ask me to recite more.” The man’s figure was almost hidden in the dark shade as he walked toward her. “That’s the only part I memorized and only to impress you.”

  “But that stanza isn’t in my song.”

  “Which makes it even more impressive, right?”

  He stepped into the sun. A slender man in his mid-thirties. Dark hair falling into his eyes. A boyish grin. Glittering blue eyes. He was dressed like any other park-goer—in jeans, a T-shirt, and old sneakers—but the moment she saw him, her jaw dropped.

  Shit. Holy fucking shit.

  She made a mental note to send Monica her Bollinger, whether this meeting panned out or not. For once, her agent had earned it.

  “Beau Wallace,” she said.

  “That’s what my driver’s license says. Or so I think. Haven’t used it in a few years.”

  Before she could stand, he plunked himself down on the bank beside her without so much as a fastidious glance at the grass and dirt.

  Beau Wallace. Monica might lament her client’s old-school tastes, but Izzy sure as hell knew who this was. Former boy-band crooner turned mega-selling solo star. If she was being perfectly honest, she might admit to a Beau Wallace poster in her bedroom when she was twelve. These days, he got a little too much airplay on light-rock stations, but she still had a few of his hits on her playlist.

  “I want to branch out,” he said, as if reading her mind. “As flattering as it is to top the easy-listening charts, after a while”—he lowered his voice conspiratorially—“it’s not so flattering, if you know what I mean. I want to go harder, roughen my edge. Maybe I’m kidding myself to think I have an edge to roughen but . . .” He shrugged. “I want to try.”

  “Sure.” A lame answer, but it was all she could manage, her inner adolescent shrieking, “I’m talking to Beau Wallace!”

  He glanced toward the path. A woman had appeared there. About Izzy’s age, pretty but unsmiling, with a dark ponytail and darker shades. Dressed, like Beau, in jeans and sneakers, but wearing a denim jacket despite the warm late spring day.

  “No, not a stalker fan,” Beau said, nodding to the woman. He raised his voice. “Not a fan at all, are you, Jill?”

  “I like your work just fine, sir.” She tilted her head. “Some of it anyway.”

  Beau laughed, and though the woman—Jill—didn’t crack a smile, Izzy got the feeling this was an old joke between them.