Tempest Rising
Page 2

“Tempest!” My father’s crazed shout.
“Come with me!” the water witch commanded, her long red hair flowing behind her like trails of lacy seaweed. “Come now.”
“Hold on, Tempest. I’m almost there!” My father again. The cold came back, alleviating the strange numbness she’d brought to me, and I knew that he was getting closer.
I tried to back away but instead of meeting the wall of water, I felt a sharp tug on my ankles—an inescapable force pulling me under. “You are mine!” the voice demanded as she pulled me deeper, and for the first time since I had wandered down the beach, fear overtook my curiosity.
“Dad!” I called.
“Tempest!” Strong hands grabbed my arms, yanked me toward shore, and for a moment I felt like the rope in a game of tug-of-war. But then the hold on my ankles gave way, sharp talons raking themselves down my calves as she tried—unsuccessfully—to hang on.
Finally I was free and on land, the storm vanishing as if it had never been, my father holding me tightly to his chest. My mother tried to tell me that the witch was my imagination, that my terror of the brewing storm had made getting trapped by seaweed seem so much worse, but even then I think I knew she was lying.
Fourteen days later my mother was gone, before I’d even begun to grasp what had happened to me. It would be years before I finally understood—even longer before I accepted that some things really were beyond mortal control.
Chapter 1
“Hey, Tempest, you need to book it!” Mark, my on-again, off-again, presently on-again boyfriend dug into the waves, hard. “We’re going to miss the party.”
“Don’t get your panties in a wad,” I yelled back, even as I paddled faster. “We’re almost there.”
My built-in wave radar was telling me we still had a couple of minutes before the wave crested, but, like Mark, I wanted to make sure I was in the best position to catch it. It was probably going to be the last one we had time for this morning. Already the sky had lightened, the pink and lavender streaks that had ushered in the dawn changing to the usual blues and ice grays of a February morning over the Southern California Pacific.
The waves kicked up spray—ice cold and salty sweet—as we crashed through them. A snapper hit in front of me but I ducked through it. I was angling for the bigger wave behind it, focusing on it like a shark on a blood trail. As I did, the simmering resentment I often felt toward the Pacific and its siren song drained away.
I was vaguely aware of Mark and some of my other friends laughing and joking as we worked our way around to catch the party wave, but then even that was gone and it was just me and my board and the vast and endless ocean.
The wave started to crest and I pushed up quickly, smiling as my board responded like it was just one more part of my body. But then, it had always been like that—from the first day my dad paddled me out to sea on his board when I was no more than four—the ocean, the board, and I were one.
“Looking good,” Mark called to me, and I threw my head back, laughing the way I never dared to on land. But out here it was hard to hold back, even harder to resist the pull of the water and the sheer joy of the roller-coaster ride.
The wave we were jumping in on wasn’t particularly big or particularly complicated—but surfing it was enough to send exhilaration rushing through me. More than enough to make me feel powerful and capable and, for a few short minutes, in control of a life that was rapidly spinning beyond my command.
The water surged beneath my feet and I shifted a little, searching for the sweet spot I knew was just a knee bend away. Laughed, again, as I found it. Braced for the downside—
I never caught it.
Instead, my legs turned to jelly beneath me.
Throwing my arms wide, I struggled to regain my footing. Seconds passed—one heartbeat, two—long, strung-out moments of utter astonishment. And then I was falling, tumbling into the waves with no more control than a rag doll.
Shocked—I couldn’t remember the last time I had actually wiped out—I kicked hard, tried to scissor my way back to the surface.
I didn’t move—couldn’t move.
My legs had gone completely boneless, flopping helplessly in the water no matter how hard I struggled to move them.
My heart pumping like a piston at full speed, I tried not to freak out. No big deal, I told myself, clawing at the water with curled fingers. It wasn’t the first time the ocean had tried to hold on to me. I knew what to do.
Using my hands to spin myself around, I kept my face turned toward the surface and started the long trek back up to air.
One foot, then two—it was hard going but I was rising. Relief filled me. See, Tempest, I told myself. You can do this. Just another day in the—
The undertow grabbed me.
I froze for a few crucial moments, my brain and body simply shutting down despite the adrenaline slamming through me.
The riptide swirled and danced around me.
Pulled at me with greedy fingers.
Tossed me around like I was nothing more than random driftwood.
And still I couldn’t move, couldn’t respond.
I was dragged deeper, into colder water, the ocean crushing in on me from every side while wave after wave plowed into me, over me.
Through me.
And that’s when it really hit me—I was trapped. One more victim caught in the brutal grasp of the Pacific at dawn.
Panic exploded inside of me, stealing what little breath I’d managed to grab before plunging beneath the icy water. My heart beat double time and my lungs ached like I’d run a marathon, straight up the Himalayas.
As I continued to sink, her eerily beautiful face floated in front of me. Her voice was in my head, her hands on my body. I didn’t know exactly who she was, but some primal part of me recognized her. Remembered her.
It was the wake-up call my sluggish mind needed.
Focus, I told myself fiercely.
Use your arms.
Paddle up!
But my body refused to do what I told it to. I was sinking fast and the harder I fought, the tighter the ocean’s hold on me became.
Currents battered me from every side, tumbled me head over heels—again and again—until up was the same as down and I had no idea which way to go. And still I fought, clawing my way through the water, determined to break free.
But it was too late. Things were going gray, my air running out.
For the first time in my life, I was truly afraid of the ocean.
Afraid of losing myself.
Afraid of dying out here, when I’d sworn, since I was eleven, that I would always make my way back to land.
Rage burned through me. I didn’t want to die—not here, not like this. I didn’t want to give my body to the greedy Pacific that had already taken so much from me.
I wouldn’t give in.
One more time I tried to kick.
One more time, my legs refused to respond.
Fear took over, clawing my insides like a crazed animal, stealing my concentration as surely as the ocean was stealing my life. Desperate, devastated, I began to cry—great, gulping sobs that turned the world ever darker as I sucked water into my starving lungs.
Daddy, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to leave you like this. Not again. Not like her.
The words echoed inside of me—a prayer, a plea, a cry for absolution as I gave myself up to the water and whatever it had planned for me.