Chapter 1

Chapter

One

Reid Kruetz didn't fear the ocean.

It was a brutal, deadly force to be reckoned with, yes, but no matter the danger, it had always called him to its cold, unforgiving embrace. Tonight was no different.

Helicopter blades whirled overhead, drowning out all sound, save for a steady stream of radio chatter inside the cockpit between Reid's aviation team and sector command. There was a fishing boat sinking sixty miles offshore, its emergency beacon pinging them with its location. Word, too, was that it was going down in hostile mermaid territory, and they should proceed with abundant caution.

Sharks, mermaids, whatever the danger, he had a damn job to do. Save lives if he could, recover those lost if he couldn't, and get the hell out of there.

Sky and ocean joined as one in their inky blackness as Reid and his team raced in the dead of night to rescue the boat's crew, their stark white and orange helicopter the only splotch of color in a canvas of nothingness.

The Jayhawk was a standard flight vehicle for U.S. Coast Guard search and rescue missions. It had a range of 300 nautical miles and could hold their aircrew of four, plus an additional six people, more if they pushed it. And they'd have to push it; the boat's registered crew numbered eight, including the captain.

Rescue swimmer gear triple-checked—helmet, mask, snorkel, fins, and safety harness—Reid threaded his fingers over the collar of his orange dry suit, overlain with silver reflective tape, ready to go at a moment's notice. He'd trained hard for this job, and surviving the grueling Coast Guard Aviation Technical Training program and its high attrition rate was step one. Serving out of Cape Cod and handling its high case volume, step two. That he'd been tapped for the brand-new aircrew detachment out of Haven Cove Airport was no small thing, and the brass were watching. They had a reputation to build.

Potential mermaid complications aside, everything tonight was normal.

Maybe not a piece of cake, but at least familiar.

"Kruetz," said Alejandra Perez, their pilot, over the radio. "Get ready to drop."

Activating the strobe light attached to his dry suit, Reid nodded to the dropmaster, who opened the door, salty sea wind buffeting them both. The strobe light blinked on and off in a steady rhythm, the only piece of equipment that'd keep him visible if he swam beyond the helicopter's spotlight and into the dark.

Hatcher, the dropmaster, crowded the open doorway and peered over the edge, instead of skirting to the side so Reid could get through. It was like the man had forgotten how to do his damn job. "You gotta get them out of there."

That was the whole point.

"Get back." Reid roughly pulled him out of the way, not waiting for compliance. Not when every second mattered. "Get your head on straight."

Below, the helicopter's spotlight illuminated five out of the eight fishermen, each frantically waving up at them. He hoped the other three were somewhere nearby, clinging to debris, and not trapped inside the sinking boat. There was nothing he could do for them then.

With a quick assessment of the water, Reid stepped over the edge, fifteen feet down into the choppy waves. A basket lift would be lowered next to hoist survivors.

As the dark ocean rose to meet him, the worst of its icy temperatures were warded off by the dry suit he wore. Bobbing to the surface, Reid swam for the nearest fisherman, who was already doggy paddling toward him. Shouts rang out, some muffled by the beating helicopter blades, others as clear as day. Most were a variation of help! and get me out of here!

Hoisting one survivor at a time was the best they could do, given their equipment's limitations, but patience was hard won when fear was involved.

As Reid cut through the water in quick, measured strokes, he hoped no one climbed on top of him in a panic. While he never enjoyed knocking folks out, he wouldn't be rescuing anyone if they accidentally drowned him first, and necessity and survival sometimes demanded the harsh tactics drilled into him from "A" school.

"Coast Guard rescue swimmer, I'm here to help!" he yelled, reaching for the first fisherman, but before he could make contact, the man suddenly vanished, body jerked violently beneath the waves. There one moment, gone the next.

Reid lurched back, hand going to his diver's knife.

Screams coming from behind had him whisking around.

Another fisherman blinked from sight, then another. Lithe, streamlined creatures darted beneath the water at startling speeds, illuminated only by their blue, green, and amber bioluminescence, glittering like fireflies. If it weren't for this distinctly dire situation, they'd be pretty. But Reid had seen the news, had read the papers and scientific articles published over the last three years. Only one thing could be snatching these men so swiftly.

Radio crackling, Alejandra's voice barked, "Kruetz, what's happening down there?"

"Something's yanking them under, fast."

"Hatcher, drop the winch," she ordered. "We're getting him out of there."

"Winch descending."

A fourth fisherman vanished into the abyss; his startled cry sharply cut off.

"Fuck." The word was out before Reid could censor himself for radio, but given the situation, a stern reprimand from his commanding officer was the least of his worries. "There's only one left that I can see."

Hatcher's panicked voice cut in. "Reid, you have to save him!"

"Hatcher," Perez barked. "Keep the radio clear." In a calmer voice, she added, "Kruetz, do what you can, then get ready to clip in."

Pumping his arms and legs as fast as they'd go, Reid booked it for the man. Even if he saved only one, it was worth it. It had to be. He'd punched a shark once. If tonight was the night he punched a mermaid, so be it.

Overhead, the helicopter followed, a cable swaying back and forth beneath. His lifeline.

"Help me!" The last fisherman flailed, eyes wide with panic. An old scar gouged the man's upper lip, running from the right-side corner of his mouth up the length of his cheek. This one would attempt to climb him, for sure, but Reid was ready.

"Please, I don't want to die!" The other man launched at him, grasping, pulling, his weight shoving him under. Reid tried pushing him away, but the fisherman continued clambering, an errant knee connecting with his gut and knocking precious air right out of him. Just as Reid aimed for a pressure point—he was not drowning tonight, dammit—amber lights streaked through the water below, the heft of the last survivor suddenly wrenched away.

Reid surfaced with a hard kick, sucking in deep breaths. Shit, fuck, damn.

Several yards ahead, an amber-eyed woman popped above the surface, her mouth filled with razor-sharp teeth and lips red with blood. "Get back into your sky boat."

It sounded more like a command than a threat, yet ice ran down his spine, chilling him to the marrow. It's really a…

She inhaled deep. Naked, pale white shoulders rose from the water, her eyes fluttering a moment before flaring and pinning him with a hard look. Three horizontal slits flanked each side of her neck, rippling slightly as if disturbed by the moderate sea wind. He couldn't make out any more of her form in the dark, murky water, but from the clusters of lights he'd seen—the bioluminescence—there was no doubt as to what she was.

The Coast Guard officially recognized their existence, and yet no one in the service had encountered one directly.

"Kruetz, talk to us," Alejandra radioed in. "What's going on down there?"

"He's gone." The failure weighed heavily on his chest, but there'd be plenty of time to berate himself later if he made it out alive. "What about the other three?"

"Don't got eyes. We'll start a grid once you're back up."

"No, no, no, no," Hatcher whimpered. "This can't be happening."

This time, Perez didn't berate the dropmaster for clogging the radio, allowing him a moment before gently, but firmly saying, "Hatcher, I need you to focus and operate the hoist. Kruetz is depending on us, okay?"

A hard, wet sniff followed, but Hatcher's voice steadied. "Yes, Ma'am."

Reid should've mentioned his unwelcome visitor, but the words clammed up in his throat, his sanity hanging on by a thread. He couldn't afford to lose his shit now too.

In a flash of silver scales and orange fins, the creature darted forward, closing the distance between them to roughly grab his chin, wicked claws pinching, but notably not piercing his skin. "Now, Surface Dweller," she demanded. "You don't want to be down here with that."

"With what?" he sputtered, baffled, terrified, and waffling between being certain and uncertain of his imminent death. Between instinct and training, he should have punched her already and slashed his way to freedom with his diver's knife, but the fact that he wasn't currently fighting for his life stayed his hand. They wouldn't be chatting right now if she meant to kill him.

Her lambent eyes dipped down, staring at something on his person.

With a shuddering inhale, he wrestled his fear under control, taking a mental assessment of his body. She was staring somewhere below center mass, so it couldn't be the diver's knife on his hip. Other than the slight lactic acid burn in his muscles from hard swimming, some residual terror, and…

Oh, for fuck's sakes. He was stiff as a board.

He'd read about panic boners but never had the misfortune of having one himself, until now of all times—on a case and face-to-face with a creature that should've stayed a myth.

Finally looking up from his crotch, she said, "There are some here who'd take that as an invitation." Disgust flickered across her features.

Fuck, was he getting harder? Shit, shit, shit, what was wrong with him? Shriveling up toward his body would've been far better for self-preservation, but before he could say or do anything to account for his unfortunate pants situation, she leaned in, wicked mouth inches from the column of his throat.

He swallowed thickly, unable to move.

Weeks of arduous training, years of hands-on experience, and he gulped, fucking gulped , when he should be swimming away, putting as much distance between himself and the unknown. What would his instructors say if they could see him now? In his defense, they hadn't exactly prepared him for this kind of encounter. Sharks bit first, chatted never.

"I can only hold them off for so long."

It was only when he heard a faint click that he realized she hadn't bitten a chunk out of his neck but had instead clipped him into the winch. And it was then that her words sunk in. I can only hold them off for so long. Was this creature protecting him from her kin?

"The fishermen are hunting us, you know," she said, almost too quietly to be heard. "There's a whole fleet of them. Don't know what they do with our bodies once they've killed us. My companions think you're one of them."

His mind whirred at the claim. There was a foolish part of him that wanted to believe her, but he'd just watched five grown men get pulled under, never to resurface.

He had to get out of here.

Muscle memory kicking back in, he signaled to the aircrew, and the slack cable connecting him to the hovering helicopter above pulled tight, lifting him away from the water. Away from her.

With eerie, glimmering eyes, she watched his ascent, her body's amber bioluminescence winking back at him, revealing a long, finned tail swaying languorously beneath black water. Hints of her skeletal structure glowed from within, an odd translucent quality to her skin and muscles.

He couldn't tear his eyes from her, as strangely beautiful as she was lethal.

It wasn't until Hatcher roughly shook his shoulders, repeating his name for probably the millionth time, that it registered he was flat on his ass inside the Jayhawk. Head a bit fuzzy, he blinked slowly, pushing off his mask with shaky, freckled white hands.

"Was that what I think it was?" Their aircrew's dropmaster looked about as shocked as he felt.

Reid sat heavily in his seat and strapped in. It was one thing to know such creatures existed, another entirely to meet one face-to-face and tread the razor-thin edge between life and death. "That was a goddamned mermaid."